Fortune Favors

by Sean Ellis

  “The hair. And the beard? I don’t...” He took a breath. “I can’t believe Joseph King would have laid him to rest in such a state.”

  Kismet looked more closely, studying not only Fontaneda’s face, but also his hands. The fingernails were long, unnaturally so, like the talons of a raptor. It was a popular misconception that hair and fingernails continued to grow after death; what actually happened was that, as the skin gradually became desiccated, it shrank and pulled back, which created the illusion of longer hair and nails. But nothing like that could account for what he was looking at. The dead man's beard and fingernails would have had to be growing for several months, years perhaps, to achieve the length and density it now possessed.

  “He really found it,” Kismet said, almost in a whisper. “The Fountain of Youth. Maybe whatever kept him young, kept these cells alive long after the rest of him died...”

  Morbid curiosity prompted him to check the lid of the casket. He half-expected to discover claw marks, but the silk headliner was intact. Fontaneda had evidently been very dead when his body had been placed inside. What had actually killed him was anyone’s guess.

  “You said there was a map?”

  Joe took a deep breath, then leaned over the cadaver and tore open the dead man’s shirt. The action took Kismet by surprise, and it took a moment for him to realize what he was seeing. Etched into the pale skin, partially obscured by a tangle of chest hair, was an intaglio of lines and symbols. Fontaneda’s map to the Fountain of Youth was tattooed on his chest.

  It was not a map in the traditional sense. It more closely resembled a childishly drawn landscape, with triangles that might have been mountains and rounded, irregular shapes that Kismet took to be lakes. There were other markings as well, animals shapes, similar in form to petroglyphs found all across the Americans, and perhaps most distinctive, a small Christian cross. The image was marred by what looked like a jagged white scar, almost directly over the Spaniard’s sternum, but the blemish didn’t significantly alter the picture. There were no names or orienting marks, but vertical lines stretched various points—the centers of the “lakes,” the heads of the animal shapes, the peaks of the “mountains,” all at very deliberate angles, like the rays of a web, to converged on the head of another animal shape, a long squirming snake outline that almost completely bisected the image. The tip of its tail was in the center of the man’s chest, a few inches above the scar, and its head was just above his navel.

  “This is meaningless,” Kismet growled. “There aren't any mountains like that in Florida.”

  He drew his kukri and began scraping the edge of the long blade across the exposed skin, shaving away the hair to more completely reveal the image. The snake shape was unquestionably the focus of the reference lines, the requisite “x” to mark the spot. That suggested something, a landmark of some kind that would provide the final clue when they arrived there. He looked more closely at the mountains, and decided they were not mountains at all, but rather resembled squat pyramids.

  “Pyramids in Florida?” he muttered. Something about that seemed familiar, too.

  “That mean something to you?” Joe asked.

  Kismet frowned. He wasn't sure he wanted to share this revelation. “I don’t know. I’ll have to do some more research. I need some paper to copy this.”

  “I don’t have any,” Joe said. “I think there’s only one way to take this map with you.”

  Kismet immediately grasped what Joe was saying, and tried just as quickly to dismiss the idea. There had to be a better way to record this image. Maybe Higgins or Annie had a scrap of paper he could use...He could take a picture of it with his phone...

  But if he took a reproduction of the map with him, he’d need to destroy the original in order to prevent Leeds finding it. As revolting as the idea was, given the circumstances and the very short list of alternatives, Joe’s suggestion had merit.

  “All right,” he growled, not meeting the young man’s gaze. “Might as well get this over with.”

  He laid a hand on Fontaneda’s chest, feeling the dead man’s skin for the first time. It was cool to the touch, but supple like the leather of his bomber jacket. Thinking about it in those terms helped him dissociate from what he was about to do. It was just a piece of hide, no different than the calf-skin used to make vellum parchment or driving gloves.

  He placed the tip the kukri above his hand, and cut a straight line across the Spaniard’s torso.

  The skin parted and immediately spread open to reveal purple-blue viscera beneath. There was no blood, but the cut did release an invisible cloud of formaldehyde vapor that stung Kismet’s eyes and nostrils. Blinking away the effect, he turned the blade for another cut, this time down Fontaneda’s right side. Two more such cuts outlined the map in a square. With each cut, the skin had spread apart as if under tension, and now the map—he tried to think of it only as such, ignoring the grisly reality of what he was doing—was outlined by a dark square.

  He inserted the tip the kukri underneath the epidermis, working at it until he succeeded in peeling a corner away from the underlying dermis. Then, gripping that corner between a thumb and forefinger, he began to pull, as if trying to peel a piece of wallpaper away from a wall without tearing it. The skin was tougher than he expected, and tearing it wasn’t a problem, but separating the layers of tissue was not as easy as he’d hoped. Finally, after several minutes of tugging at the corner of the map, worrying the blade further and further under the skin, he succeeded, and it came away with a hideous sucking sound.

  He laid the map back on the cadaver’s chest and meticulously wiped the kukri clean before sheathing it. Only then did he inspect his handiwork.

  The map was intact, but separated from its human frame, the canvas of skin had shrunk considerably, condensing the tattooed lines and pictures into a dark but still legible image. The obverse side was covered with a grotesque gray film, thankfully dry to the touch. Suppressing one last shudder of revulsion, Kismet rolled the map up and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

  Joe had watched the whole process without speaking, and now he simply nodded and lowered the lid of the casket, returning the Spaniard to his final rest. “Now you know what he knew,” he said simply, without a trace of judgment.

  Kismet gestured to the door of the crypt. “That’s our way out?”

  The young man nodded. “There’s a good chance they’re still out there.”

  Kismet was sure of it. Leeds and his white robed goons were probably already digging up the cemetery trying to find the tunnel exit. Getting back to the rented Explorer didn’t seem like a viable option; what did that leave?

  “You said this tunnel was used by runaway slaves? Where did they go from here?”

  “There was a trail leading to Charleston harbor. It’s several miles, an all night walk. From there, they’d travel north in the holds of merchant ships owned by Northern Abolitionists. But that was a long time ago. Everything has changed. There’s a few acres of woods, but beyond that it’s mostly neighborhoods now.”

  Change wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, Kismet thought. They didn’t need to walk all the way to the port; they only needed to find a place where they could hide out and maybe call a taxi.

  Of course, Leeds would know that. His new allies would be watching the roads.

  “There’s a rail line about a mile to the east,” Joe continued. “You get to that, and you can follow it north into the city.”

  The way Joe said “you” set off alarm bells. “You’re coming with us, right?”

  A strange smile touched Joe’s lips. “I think Candace and I will just stay put. You’re gonna need to move fast if you want to get away, and Candace...well, her runnin’ days are long gone.”

  “Will you be safe? What if Leeds discovers this crypt?”

  “We can take care of ourselves,” Joe answered confidently. “An’ no offense, but the sooner you’re gone, the better off we’ll be.”

  Kismet wa
sn’t so sure about that, and he didn’t relish the idea of abandoning the pair to such an uncertain fate, but the young man seemed to have made up his mind. “Then there’s something I need to know.”

  Joe cocked his head sideways. “Somethin’ more?”

  “You knew about all this. You had the diaries, you knew about the Fountain and even the map. So why are you here?”

  “Well...” Joe let the word hang in the air for several seconds. “The truth is, I'm kind of scared of that Fountain. It don't seem natural, somehow.”

  “And old age and death are natural?”

  “Everybody gets old and everybody dies. Ain't nobody that never died, not even him.” He gestured to the casket. “What did he accomplish with all those extra years?”

  Joe frowned, as if he had meant to say something else but couldn’t find the words. “Living like that...how is it any different than getting addicted to a drug? You live for the next fix, you keep it a secret and don’t share because you’re afraid that if you do, it won’t be special no more.”

  “So, eternal life just leads to misery?” Kismet didn’t mean for the question to sound rhetorical, and quickly added: “What about Candace? Wouldn’t you like to spend a few more years with her? And not just as an old woman, but young and full of energy? Wouldn’t the world be a better place if the oldest and wisest of us had a few more years?”

  “Mr. Kismet, I think that if folks learn about the Fountain, there's going to be plenty of misery for everyone. Powerful people will control it. And poor folks...black folks...they’ll just be in the way in a world where everyone lives forever.”

  The argument surprised Kismet, not in the least because of how difficult it was to refute. “Everyone has something to give, Joe, something worth preserving.”

  “I don't think so. If you want to go find it, that's you business. Me and Candace are going to stay where we belong.”

  Kismet looked at King thoughtfully. “And this is where you really belong? Are you sure of that?”

  “More than you might think, Mr. Kismet.” Joe smiled sadly. “If I could talk you out of looking for it I would. I think when you find it, we’ll all be in a world of hurt.”

  TWELVE

  Annie Crane hugged her arms around her chest and squeezed her eyes shut, but try as she might, she could not convince herself that she was somewhere else. Somewhere she wasn’t buried under tons of earth.

  Claustrophobia, she thought. An irrational fear of being trapped in an enclosed space, and I’ve got it. How am I only learning this now?

  Right up to the moment when she had plunged into that dark hole, Annie would have believed that she wasn’t afraid of anything. She was Al Higgins’ girl. She could shoot as well as any man she knew, was an expert rock-climber, flew paragliders and jumped out of airplanes...oh, there were still a lot of things on her bucket list—scary things—but not a one of them filled her with the kind of overwhelming primal terror she felt now.

  Of course, now that she thought about it, there were a few things that had never held much appeal. Her dad had invited her to go caving once or twice, but the timing had never been good. Or had she just found excuses to avoid doing something that scared her more than she realized?

  “Annie!” Her father’s voice was a welcome intrusion on her private hell. “Let’s go, girl. Time to get moving.”

  If ‘moving’ meant getting out of this living tomb, she was all for it.

  With the eagerness of someone trying to escape a snake pit, she scrambled up the ladder. Just knowing that she wasn’t underground anymore was a marginal relief, but the cramped little cube of cut stone in which she found herself wasn’t much better, particularly when she realized what function it served.

  Kismet stood with his face pressed to the door of the crypt, a door which she now saw was open just a crack. He turned back to the rest of them after a moment. “Let’s go.”

  Annie didn’t resist as her father bustled her forward, through the door which Kismet threw open to the night. If anything, she fairly ran to get through it.

  The transition from tomb to open air was like a resurrection, but her euphoria was fleeting. She caught a whiff of smoke on the wind, and spied flashes of light—the beams of electric torches—crisscrossing the air above the endless sea of grave markers, and realized that, while they had escaped her underground nightmare, the danger which had prompted them to seek refuge in the tunnel was far from past. Leeds’ white robed goons were still looking for them.

  Kismet tugged on her arm, pointing toward a maze of larger vaults that were clustered together near the crypt they had just exited. “This way.”

  As she started to run behind him, a backward glance revealed that the crypt door was closed again, and the couple from the house—Joe and Candace—weren’t with them. She wanted to ask about this, but it was clear from their haste that questions and explanations would have to wait.

  * * *

  Joe descended the ladder and found Candace waiting patiently at the end of the tunnel.

  “So you just sent them on their way?” she asked, a faintly accusatory tone in her voice.

  “Didn’t seem like they’d have it any other way,” he answered. “Sooner they’re gone, the sooner we can get back to normal.”

  “Normal,” Candace scoffed. “It’s done, Joe. There ain’t no going back to what was, and you know it.”

  Joe leaned against the ladder and hung his head. She was right, of course. Oh, they could wait down here as long as it took; the hooligans in white robes—whether they were Klansmen or just a few rowdies using the sheets to misdirect suspicion, he didn’t know—probably wouldn’t linger until sunrise, especially if they caught the scent of Kismet and his companions. But what then? Their home was destroyed, and with it, the life they had so carefully constructed for themselves.

  Candace moved to stand next to him, but said nothing. Joe intuited that something more was troubling her, and he thought he knew what it was. “You think I should have told them everything, don't you?”

  “They saved us,” she replied, without directly answering him.

  “I told them where to find what they’re looking for.”

  “Yes.”

  He could tell from her tone that she was holding back. “Then what's the matter? That Kismet fellow knows what he's doing. They'll be fine.”

  “They need to know the truth.”

  Joe sighed. Maybe she was right; maybe Kismet did deserve to know everything. But the Fountain had a way of keeping its own secret; who was he to interfere?

  * * *

  They managed to get as far as the edge of the cemetery before they were noticed.

  As they clambered over the fence that marked the border, Kismet heard distant shouts and saw flashlight beams playing along the tree line, seeking them out, and knew that now it would be a race.

  He’d briefed Higgins and Annie on the plan as they had darted between the headstones. If they got separated in the darkness, they would find each other again at the rail line Joe had told him about. Now, as they started running headlong, no longer making an effort to conceal their movements, he would have to trust them to make that rendezvous.

  The sparse woods offered some concealment, but there was little doubt that Leeds’ men were giving chase. When he glanced back, he could see their flashlights through the boughs. They had a good lead, maybe it would be enough. But as the minutes passed, ticked out by the pounding of his heart and the rhythm of his breathing, he heard an ominous sound in the distance and knew that fate had thrown a monkey wrench into the gears of his plan. A low rumble and the squeal and clatter of steel wheels on iron rails...there was a train on the line.

  At least it will be easy to find, he thought.

  As he broke out of the woods, he caught his first glimpse of the train. He could make out the squared-off silhouettes of box cars, or maybe shipping containers, as well as tankers, and flatbed cars with unusual shapes secured to them. It stretched in both directions as far a
s he could see, at least a mile long, moving south, away from the heart of the city at what seemed like a glacial pace. They could still follow the rail line back to the city, but if their pursuers caught up to them, there would be nowhere to go, not while that serpentine behemoth blocked the way.

  Maybe...

  He glimpsed Annie emerging from the woods behind him. She seemed rejuvenated after her paralyzing and unexpected bout of claustrophobia in the tunnel. Her breathing was steady, as if the desperate flight through the woods had been no more challenging than a jog to the corner store. Her father trotted out a few seconds later, panting just a little, but clearly still in fighting shape. Kismet noted with some satisfaction that the old Gurkha still had his Kimber rifle, now slung across his back. He waved, urging them to join him as he started running again, slower now so they could catch up, and headed straight for the train.

  He paused at the edge of the raised gravel rail bed and beckoned them close. The ground rumbled beneath his feet as thousands of tons of steel rolled by just a few yards away.

  He pointed up at the line of cars. Higgins seemed to grasp what he was silently suggesting, for a look of disbelief twisted his visage. “Mate, you are not bloody serious.”

  Annie’s gaze switched between them until she too seemed to understand. “Oh.”

  “I think we can do this,” he shouted back. “It’s not going that fast; maybe only twenty miles an hour.”

  It was a guess, but a good one. Out in open country, a train might cruise along at fifty or sixty miles per hour, but here, close to populated areas with a lot of road crossings, trains had to observe speed limits just like automobiles.

  Okay, it might be more like thirty miles per hour, he decided, but didn’t voice this aloud. “We can do this,” he repeated. “It’s our best chance. We hop this train and get off a few miles down the line. They won’t have a clue where we are.”

  Higgins glanced at his daughter, and then nodded with only the barest hint of reservation. Annie was a little more reticent with her assent, but Kismet was pleased and a little surprised at how quickly they accepted his crazy plan. He realized it was probably because they had no idea just how dangerous what they were about to do really was.