The Adventures Of Indiana Jones

by Campbell Black

  “Out!” Henry snapped at his son without even turning to look at him.

  “But this is really important!”

  Henry continued with his work. “Then wait. Count to twenty.”

  “No, listen . . .”

  “Junior,” Henry warned, his voice low and threatening and stern.

  Indy gulped, nodded, and took a deferential step back. He knew his father was annoyed with him. There was little he could do. He started counting in a faint voice and, as he did, looked over his father’s shoulder.

  He saw that the top page of the parchment revealed an illustration of what looked like a stained glass window containing several Roman numerals. His father was busy copying the drawing in his notebook.

  “This is also important . . . and it can’t be hurried . . . it’s taken nine hundred years to find its way from a forgotten box of parchment in the Sepulchre of Saint Sophia in Constantinople to the desk of the one man left in the world who might make sense of it.”

  “. . . nineteen . . . twenty.” This is really important. Pay attention to me.

  Indy pulled the Cross of Coronado out of his shirt and started talking fast and loud again. “I was in the cave with the scout troop and . . .”

  “Now do it in Greek,” Henry commanded, still not turning from his work or listening to his son.

  He never listens to me.

  Indy hated him for that.

  In a louder, angry voice, Indy began counting in Greek. He imagined each number was a curse word that he hurled at his obstinate father.

  He heard a car stop in front of the house. He backed out of the study, still counting, and spotted a police car.

  Now what should I do? He realized that if his father saw the police there, he’d think Indy had gotten into trouble again. He wouldn’t even give him a chance to explain. He knew that from experience.

  He glanced back into the study at his father, who was still working on his sketch. He listened as his father spoke softly to himself.

  “May he who illuminated this, illuminate me.”

  Indy held his breath as he carefully closed the study door and stepped into the hall. He jammed the cross back under his shirt as the front door swung open, and Herman stumbled, out of breath, into the living room.

  “I brought him, Indy! I brought him!”

  The door opened again, and the sheriff entered the house and looked around.

  “Sheriff, sir! There were five or six of them! They almost got me, but . . .”

  “All right, son.” The sheriff held up a hand. “Do you still have it?”

  “Yes, sir. Right here.”

  Indy pulled out the cross again and handed it to the sheriff, who casually took it without even bothering to look closely at it. As the cross left his hand, Indy sensed something was wrong about the way the sheriff was acting. If he only knew what he had gone through.

  “That’s good, boy. That’s good . . . because the rightful owner of this cross said he wouldn’t press charges against you if you cooperated.”

  Indy did a double take. His jaw dropped. His fingers curled into fists. “Press charges . . . What are you talking about?”

  Fedora walked into the house and removed his hat. He nodded to Indy in a friendly manner and patted Herman on the head.

  “Theft,” the sheriff said. “He’s got witnesses, five or six of them.”

  The sheriff and Fedora were in cahoots. What else could it be? The lawman wasn’t even going to listen to him. He didn’t care about what really had happened.

  “And we wouldn’t want your mama turning in her grave, would we now?”

  The sheriff handed the cross to Fedora, who put it into the leather pouch that hung from his hip. As the sheriff walked away, Indy glanced through the screen door and saw a cream-colored sedan, the one that had chased him through the desert. It was parked behind the sheriff’s vehicle and was coated with a thin layer of desert dust. Behind the wheel, waiting patiently, was the man in the Panama hat.

  Fedora lingered behind after the sheriff was gone. When he spoke, it was in a man-to-man tone that was laced with irony. “Well, you lost today, kid, but that doesn’t mean you have to like it.”

  He took off his fedora, held it a moment by the crown. Then he took a step forward and extended it as it he were about to place it on Indy’s head as a show of respect and admiration. But he checked himself as Indy spoke up.

  “The Cross of Coronado is four hundred years old, and it still has a long way to go. I aim to be around. You can count on it.”

  Fedora grinned, dropped the hat on Indy’s head, and turned away. “I’ll tell the boss,” he said, and laughed.

  He stopped a moment at the door and looked back at Indy. “You were good with that whip today, kid. I like your spunk.”

  Indy kicked the door, slamming it behind Fedora.

  He heard Fedora chuckling as he walked down the sidewalk.

  He ran to the window and saw Fedora slide into the cream-colored sedan, the cross in his hand. He saw him pass the precious artifact to the man behind the wheel and watched them drive away.

  He would get that cross back, he swore to himself as he touched the brim of the felt hat. He would do it no matter how long it took.

  FOUR

  Atlantic Crossing

  THIRTY-FOOT WAVES CRASHED across the deck of the old cargo ship, washing away everything that wasn’t tied down. Rain whipped it from every side. Wind howled. The old cargo boat’s wood shrieked as though it were being yanked apart at the seams. It was a hideous sound, the sound of a thing in pain, and Indy couldn’t block it out.

  He clung to the edge of his bunk, certain that in the next second, or the one after that, a wave would slam through the wood, crushing it, and sweep him away. He squeezed his eyes shut as the storm hurled the ship to the right, the left, the right again. Now it was slammed down at the stern. Now it was flung backward. Now it rolled, it rocked, it rose and fell.

  I’m going to puke.

  But when his eyes flew open, the press of the dark against his porthole took his breath away. Then a wall of water crashed against the side of the ship, smeared against the glass, and the impact threw him out of his bunk. He smacked the floor and for a second or two just lay there groaning.

  Get up, man. Make your move now.

  Right. His plan. He had a plan, didn’t he?

  He lifted himself up on his hands, shook his head to clear it, and grappled for a hold on anything that wasn’t moving. On your feet, mate. Now. Make your move now while the captain’s on the bridge.

  Yeah, the captain. The captain and the cross. Got it.

  He gripped the edge of his bunk and pulled himself to his feet. He buttoned his leather jacket with one hand, tugged his fedora down tightly over his head, made sure his bullwhip was secure at his waist, and reeled toward the door.

  Forward, mate.

  Right foot, left, right foot again. Good, real good. He was going to make it to the door and then outside onto the deck and then down the deck to the captain’s quarters. Where the cross was.

  Indy had booked passage on this cargo ship after receiving a tip on the location of the Cross of Coronado. A man had called his office at the university and told him that if he was interested in the cross, he should meet him in Lisbon, Portugal. When he had questioned the caller, he had accurately described the man Indy had seen only once when he was a child—the man who had taken possession of the cross, the man he had pursued for years.

  When Indy asked what he wanted for the information, the caller had said he was only after revenge. The man with the cross was his boss, and only recently he had found out the man was having an affair with his wife. The tip—and the justification—seemed reasonable to Indy, and he had a few days available. He had followed leads that were far less substantial, and this one sounded like the break he needed. He had narrowly missed catching the man whose trademark was his Panama hat several times, but he hadn’t had a lead for a couple of years.

  When he
arrived in Lisbon, his informant told him the cross had been moved and that he should wait until further notice. Eight days passed, and he was ready to give up and return to the States. He was already late for the new semester of classes. That day his informant contacted him and told him the cross was being sent on a cargo ship to the United States the next day, and the captain of the vessel had been entrusted with it.

  Now Indy was on the ship, and this was the first chance he’d had to search the captain’s quarters. With weather like this, he was certain the captain would be on the bridge.

  First and maybe the only chance, mate.

  He flung the door open, and the wind lashed him. He moved against it, one hand holding the fedora down on his head, the other gripping the doorjamb.

  The ship rolled to the left; Indy rolled with it and nearly lost his footing. He had to let go of the fedora to grab on to the other jamb, and the wind whipped up under the hat’s brim and swept it off his head, back into his room. He left it. He leaned into the wind, into the thickness of it, and made his way out onto the deck, slamming his door shut behind him.

  The ship lifted onto the crest of a wave, its tired wood moaning and screeching, and Indy grabbed on to the railing, waiting for the boat to slam down. When it did, water rushed across the deck, almost jerking his hands from the railing. It was over in seconds, and he thrust himself forward, hand over hand, pulling himself through the violence. The wind howled around him. The taste of salt coated his lips and stung his eyes until they were barely slits.

  The captain’s on the bridge, and it’s now or never.

  He kept moving. The storm tossed the ship around like a piece of driftwood. He thought of the cross. The cross burned through his mind, brighter than mercury, hotter than the sun. After a while he no longer felt the wind or the storm or the rolling of the sea. He moved as the ship moved, as though he were a part of it, one with it. His legs seemed sturdier, more certain. He found new strength. The image of the cross in his head burned and burned.

  By the time he made it to the captain’s quarters, he was soaked to the bone. Water ran in rivulets down the sides of his face. Salt was thick against his lips, his tongue. He took out a long, slender tool, like an ice pick but made of a more malleable metal. It was a tool used by thieves, not archaeologists. He gripped the doorknob and held his hand as steadily as possible. He pushed the tip of the tool toward the lock, but the boat swayed, and his arm lurched about like a symphony conductor waving a baton. He tried again, and this time stabbed himself in the wrist.

  Damn it. He shook his hand. Steady. Steady.

  He made two more efforts before finally inserting the tool in the keyhole. He eased it into the lock, gingerly prodding and jiggling it until it was fully inserted. He took a deep breath and carefully turned the doorknob. He smiled as it opened.

  The moment he was inside, the door slammed shut, blocking the din of the storm. He looked around, making sure he was alone. Then he headed straight for the captain’s bunk. The lamp on the wall flickered, blinked out, on, and the ship rolled onto its side. He grabbed on to the edge of the bunk and held on until the vessel righted itself again.

  His informant had assured him that the captain would keep the cross in the ship’s safe. He had not only told him where the safe was located but had even handed him a scrap of paper with the safe’s combination. When Indy asked him how he’d gotten it, the man smiled and told him not to question his good fortune.

  He was wary about the guy. He didn’t like him. But this was the best lead he’d had in years, and who said you had to like everyone you work with?

  Now he would see just how good his fortune was. Maybe the whole thing was a hoax.

  He dug his hands under the mattress and lifted it. The safe was there, all right, built into the floor, beneath the bed. He grasped the bed frame and shoved it aside.

  So far, so good.

  The next question was whether he could open it. If the combination didn’t work, he wouldn’t be any closer to the cross than if he’d stayed home. He twitched the dial back and forth, getting the feel of it. He had memorized the combination—he turned to the first number, then followed the sequence of five more numbers.

  He paused a moment when he was finished, then slowly turned the arm. The safe opened. It was dark inside. He reached blindly into it. He felt a couple of boxes, jewelry boxes no doubt. His fingers ran across a packet of papers. He reached beneath them and felt an object wrapped in cloth—in the shape of a cross.

  He pulled it out, growing increasingly excited. He untied the knot in the string that bound it, then unraveled the cloth. It was the Cross of Coronado. He hadn’t forgotten its beauty, but the sight of the precious artifact still stunned him.

  It felt cool and heavy in his hands. It felt right. He tucked it under his jacket, inside his belt, in almost the exact same spot where he had hidden it twenty-six years ago.

  He closed the safe, spun the dial, and pushed the bed back into place. Once he was outside again, the place where the cross rested against his wet shirt seemed warm, thick, protected. He was giddy with relief and fatigue and a sense of triumph. Twenty-six years, you bastard, he thought. Twenty-six years.

  Something gnawed at the back of his mind, something he couldn’t focus on, something important. He tried to seize it, to scrutinize it, but he was so tired and the wind was so loud and . . . later, it’ll come to you later.

  Then he looked up and saw a burly sailor staring sullenly at him from the end of the corridor. He turned and saw another at the other end. Suddenly he understood.

  A setup. No wonder it was so damn easy. No wonder the informant had the combination. It was all too easy. That’s what had bothered him.

  The sailors rushed forward from either side. He was about to throw a punch, but the boat swayed, and he stumbled back right into the arms of the second sailor. They pinned his arms behind him and dragged him to the end of the corridor and onto the deck. Then a third figure stepped out of the wet shadows and punched him in the gut.

  Indy gasped. He felt his legs crumpling. One of the sailors held him up and jerked him to the right, under an awning that offered some protection from the storm. And that was when Indy saw him, the bastard who had punched him. It was a man clutching a Panama hat to his head, the same man behind the original theft, and the one no doubt behind the setup. He was older, but even in the dark Indy could see his icy blue eyes glowing like twin moons.

  “Small world, Dr. Jones.”

  “Too small for both of us. I see you haven’t changed your style a bit,” he commented, glancing up at the Panama hat.

  “How observant. I seem to have seen your favorite attire somewhere myself. But let’s get down to business.”

  The man grabbed his jacket with such force that Indy thought the leather would rip. He reached into Indy’s belt and removed the cross. “As you know, this is the second time I’ve had to reclaim my property from you, but it’s no coincidence that we meet here tonight.”

  “I know. You set me up.”

  “You’re the fall guy, Dr. Jones.”

  He told Indy that he was well aware of his persistent search for the cross, the prize of his collection. Ever since the Depression had weakened his financial base, he had been attempting to sell it. Finally he had been offered a sizable sum that would end his economic woes. The catch: the arrangement included a stipulation that the pesky Dr. Indiana Jones must be disposed of before the transaction was completed.

  “So I decided to arrange for you to come to me. I played fair. I even gave you one more chance to steal the cross.” He grinned at Indy. “Too bad you were caught again.”

  “That cross belongs in a museum.”

  “So do you.” He glanced at the sailors. “Throw him over the side.”

  Indy was propelled across the rolling deck toward the rail. As they passed a bundle of fuel drums, he saw his chance to take advantage of the storm. Using the sailors as leverage, he kicked up his feet and broke the clamp on the metal
bands that held the drums together.

  Suddenly the drums were loose and careened wildly across the deck. Indy jabbed his elbows into the stomachs of the startled sailors and rushed toward his nemesis.

  Panama Hat saw him coming and lurched toward a ladder that led up to the bridge. But before he could reach it, a huge fuel drum crashed against the ladder, blocking his path. The drum started to roll back toward him. He leaped to the side, and as he did, the cross flew out of his grasp and skittered across the deck.

  Indy pitched forward toward the cross, but one of the sailors blocked his way, then swung a crowbar at his head. He ducked just in time, then let loose a powerful uppercut that caught the sailor under the jaw. The man reeled backward just as a wave slammed against the deck.

  Indy looked around frantically for the cross, and spotted it several feet away. He threw himself at it and slid across the deck on his stomach, arms extended like wings. He snatched up the cross just as another wave crashed against the deck, burying him in water.

  He slid a few more feet and saw a giant fuel drum rolling toward him. He pushed off from the deck, but lost his footing. An instant before he would have been crushed, he dived and rolled, and the drum thundered past.

  He looked up to see several more drums rolling his way. He leapt to his feet and sidestepped them all. That was close. Just then, he turned and saw another sailor brandishing a stevedore’s hook and moving his way.

  He unhitched the bullwhip from his hip and flung his arm forward. The whip cracked. It struck its mark, wrapping around the sailor’s ankle. He jerked on the whip, and the rolling ship did the rest: the sailor crashed to the deck.

  Indy paused to admire his nifty work. At that moment a net dropped over his head, and Panama Hat pummeled him with his fists. The man took pleasure in his work, beating him hard and fast, again and again. Indy tried to dodge the punches, to ward them off with his arms, and to escape the net, but it was no use.

  All the drams that Indy had dodged when they rolled from port to starboard changed direction as the ship began to list the other way. Now they trundled back in his direction, and this time they were also headed for a large stack of crates near him marked TNT—DANGEROUS.