Hornsby nodded. His eyes flashed a look of agreement. Gretchen stood close by, her mouth flung open, a look of fear in her eyes. Rio Reinhart–with Interpol jurisdiction to pursue the fugitive–sprinted the last few yards down the pier and stopped in front of them.
Looking around, Rio grumbled. He said to Lois, “Where is he?” Lois said nothing. “You’re in very serious trouble.” He looked at Lois then glanced at Gretchen and Hornsby. “In my mind, you’re all criminals.” He turned his eyes back on Lois.
She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “What’s this about?” she asked finally, as if annoyed by the intrusion.
“The big guy. Where is he?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Where is he?”
“Who?” Lois snapped at him, and she looked angry.
“Are you blind? You know who I’m talking about.”
She shrugged her shoulders and looked confused.
“Don’t play games.” Rio said.
Lois took out her cell phone. She punched in some numbers and switched on her speaker phone. Wes Lockett’s voice came over the other end. “We’re here in Long Begun, Daddy. Yes, yes, we’re fine, all of us. This cop is giving us a hard time. I don’t know what to do?”
“Tell me,” Lockett’s voice sprang over the phone, “is he the cop who held a briefing on the five o’clock news here in Jakarta?”
“Yes.”
“A real Glory Hound. Let me talk to him.”
Lois held the phone to Rio’s ear, so they could all hear the conversation.
“Hello, Wes Lockett here. I don’t know what’s going on. My daughter Lois is upset. When she’s upset, that also upsets me. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
Surprised by the abrupt tone, Rio jerked his ear back from the receiver. His jaw clamped shut. He bristled and said, “I’m conducting a murder—”
“I don’t care what you’re conducting,” Lockett seethed over the phone, cutting him off. “My daughters had nothing to do with it. You need to back off now. I know who you are. I know your supervisor, Police Chief Daniel Sarwano. We golf together on weekends at the Blue Diamond Country Club. If you don’t back off now, I swear I’ll call him, and you’ll have a new job directing traffic here in Jakarta. Do I make myself clear?”
“You’re interfering in a police investigation.”
“Not when it concerns my daughters, I’m not.” Lockett’s authoritative tone shot back at the cop.
Rio listened for a few minutes. His eyes enraged, his face shriveled in anger. Then, he turned on his heel and stormed off in a huff down the pier. Naomi Ellen and the two other cops followed him.
At the window, Seabury watched the cop and his team tramp down the pier back toward the chopper. A minute later, they were airborne. The Sicilian was gone, too. Seabury had seen his car drive off toward town. Ten minutes later, a woman entered the shack followed by two children. She had rice and fish in a small wooden bowl–enough for the old man. Seeing Seabury there, she offered him some of the old man’s food, but Seabury declined, thanking her.
The old man and the woman spoke a few words of Dayak—the rural people’s language—and the old man showed her the money Seabury had given him. She nodded her head with stoic reserve and said nothing.
A while later, the river turned dark. Lights shone brightly over the pier. Night crept in on tiny cat’s paws, and the sky took on the ebony glow of black marble. Seabury thanked the woman and the old man, and he left the shack.
Moving quickly up a steep incline off the river, he kept hidden among a stand of coconut trees and palm fronds. He walked a half mile into town and located the guest house where Lois and the others were booked for the night. He could see lights glittering among the trees as he made his way up the road. Children saw him, an old man with a cane eyed him suspiciously, but he kept going. Dry now, his skin was raw and chafing from his swim in the river. He needed to change clothes and hide out. He had to figure out some way to get back on the boat tomorrow without the cops or the Sicilian spotting him.
Chapter Seventeen
Seabury stayed close to the road, hidden among the trees. He had entered Dayak Country —a place with ancient customs dating back to the Stone Age. It left him captivated, breathless, almost spellbound in its starkness and simplicity.
In contrast to the modern world, Long Begun thrived on mystery and seclusion. As ancient as the sun, as dark and mystifying as the night time sky, the town glittered along the river now like a dark, velvety shroud. He had studied and learned about the people here. Their village stood bordered on one side by the river. A dense, tropical forest spread out on the other side behind the town. He knew that the native farming population of Kalimantan numbered about four million people. Seven main groups of Dayak people lived on the island. In Long Begun, the Utu Dayak tribe occupied villages along the river south of the Muller Mountain Range. The northern part of Borneo was owned by Malaysia. The southern half claimed by Indonesia.
Here in this remote region, the Utu’s were famous for their long houses. Rectangular wooden structures spanned the distance, and long houses sometimes numbered as high as fifty rooms. The Utu were also known for their skill in rattan, bamboo, and palm leaf plaiting. Rice was the staple food. Fishing, hunting, and the cultivation of field crops comprised their daily activities. Guns, now widely used for hunting, replaced the traditional use of the spear and blowpipe.
Always inquisitive, Seabury enjoyed learning about the people living here in this remote part of the world. He thought about them now, concealed among the trees. They were a simple, kind, and unassuming people, deeply immersed in animism—the belief in the existence of individual spirits inhabiting natural objects, like trees, mountains, rocks, and streams. Very little had changed here over the centuries.
Hearing a noise, Seabury stepped back further into the trees. Two men on motorbikes gunned up the road near the guesthouse. They were young men with round, black hats and home-carved knife sheaths in their belts. They parked the bikes near a cluster of totem poles. The grim, silver-gray faces of ancient Borneo warriors sprang out from the wood. The men ran off excitedly down to the road below.
All of a sudden, the air exploded with sound. At the bottom of the hill, a large crowd formed and then started marching up the hill toward the guesthouse. Young boys banged out a steady rhythm on long drums. Bright, golden gongs clanged in the air, and they kept coming. Above him now, the front door to the guesthouse burst open. People filed out onto the front porch. Some stayed, others tramped down the steps into the parking lot below.
Under a halo of bright light, the drums and the gongs continued beating. Seabury saw Lois out on the front porch , Gretchen and Hornsby behind her.
“Let’s go down,” Gretchen said. “I want to see what’s happening.”
“I’m told it has something to do with the rice planting season,” Lois told her sister.
Hornsby confirmed with a nod of his head and added, “It’s called the Hudoq Kawit ceremony. They hold it once a year, honoring the planting season.”
Down below, the parking space filled, and Lois, Gretchen, and Hornsby went down. Suddenly, Dayak men from everywhere sprang up around them, dancing. They wore costumes made from banana and pandanus leaves. On their heads sat wooden helmets and notches from which hung ornamental beads, pig tooth, and shoots of brightly colored bamboo. Children nearby stared at the dancers’ painted faces and looked scared.
“There’s more,” Hornsby told them, nestling among the crowd. “Watch the dance. Notice how they turn left and then right. The purpose of the dance movement is to get rid of vices. They turn to the left to get rid of the vice and turn to the right to gain favor.”
“Interesting,” said Lois as she scanned the group of dancers in front of her. The men were joined by a group of women in yellow skirts and black tops. They continued to dance, turning side-to-side as the drums pounded and the gongs clanged in back of them.
&
nbsp; “I like it, I like it,” Gretchen said excitedly. “Wish Seabury was here to see this.”
Just then, at the side of the guesthouse, Lois caught the movement inside the trees. The wave of a hand caught her attention. Her head snapped back. Startled for a moment, she stood by, unsure of what she saw. The hand flew up again, waving back and forth. At the edge of the crowd, she took another look and then stepped across inside the trees next to Seabury.
“What’s the room number?” he asked. “I’m soaking wet and freezing.”
“A dumb thing you did,” she said. “You could have drowned in that river.”
“I had no other choice.” He shrugged. “Anyway, it worked out fine.”
Lois looked at him, still shaking her head. “We’re on the second floor…Room 214 at the end of the hall. Your room and Hornsby’s are next door.”
She crossed back over and nudged Hornsby. Hornsby stared across, his eyes going wide and a look of astonishment on his face. He dug into his pants pocket and came out with a key. Lois came over and handed it to Seabury.
Scooting around to the back of the guesthouse, Seabury sprang up the steps to the main lobby. An assortment of dark wooden chairs and pastel sofas faced a registration desk. The place stood empty save for a desk clerk half-asleep behind the counter. He took the stairs to his right, found the room on second floor, and went inside.
The room looked sparse. A tiny closet with an oval mirror, a writing desk, two chairs, stood next to two small wooden beds. A door opened to a bathroom in back. Seabury found his bag in the closet, undressed, and took a shower. He came out just as the door to the room opened, and Lois and Hornsby entered.
“I hope we haven’t caught you naked,” Lois yelled out, laughing slightly. Hornsby went and sat down on one of the wooden chairs near the bed. Seabury came out dressed in jeans, a plaid shirt, and hiking boots.
“Feels great.” He smiled. “It’s like I’ve returned to the land of the living.” He glanced back and forth at them. “What time did the dancing stop?”
“A few minutes ago,” Lois said. “I’m told they’ll continue to march through town for another couple of hours…it’s part of the festivities.”
“Good. That gives me time,” he said.
“Time for what?” Lois and Hornsby asked, almost in unison.
“Time to escape. I’m going to get lost in that crowd so no one knows I’m here.”
He turned, facing Lois. “You know that bridge over the river going out of town.” She looked dumbfounded, confused. “Lois, the police are after me. I know that little ploy you used calling your father was clever, but Reinhart isn’t going to stop searching until he finds me.”
“How do you know I called Daddy?”
“I was hiding in a shack down river. I saw you on the phone. It wasn’t difficult to figure out.” He purposely held off mentioning the Sicilian. No use upsetting her further. “There are a lot of trees on the other side of the bridge.” He came out with a wad of cash. “I want you to pay off our guide tomorrow. Here’s the plan.”
He took a deep breath, let the air out slowly, and continued, “Tomorrow at about seven o’clock, I’ll be waiting in the trees on the other side of the bridge. I want you to get the guide to pretend he has engine trouble and head for shore. Tell him to pull up tight into the trees, so no one sees me getting on. Have a black tarp or something that I can crawl under. The guide swings back away from shore, pounds the outboard engine, like he’s angry and frustrated. He pulls the cord a final time in desperation and presto, the engine turns over. He can now continue up river. That’s the plan. What do you think?” asked Seabury.
“Why don’t you just turn yourself in,” said Lois. “It might be easier.”
Hornsby pulled out his pipe and looked at Seabury. He paused a minute, as if mulling over the plan. “I like it,” he said at last, annoying Lois. “I think it can work. We’ll just have to wait and see. If the helicopter doesn’t follow us like it did earlier, then the plan worked.”
Lois said nothing. She looked tired, morose. Seabury thought she seemed more upset by Hornsby’s support of his plan than by what he’d told her.
“Where’s Gretchen?” he asked, switching topics.
“Downstairs talking to some friends she met. That one! I swear she should enter politics, she likes to talk so much. I think she’d have a promising career.”
Seabury crossed the room. At the door, he called back, “See you tomorrow.” He stopped and turned to Lois, who had followed him across. “Oh, one more thing,” he said. “Could you bring along a couple of sandwiches? I’m gonna be starved by morning.”
“Anything else?” She gave him a finger-tipped salute.
“Maybe a six-pack of beer.” He saw a frown stitch her forehead. “Naw, just kidding,” he said.
She watched him disappear into the hall.
* * * *
Seabury moved from the trees at the bottom of the hill. A crowd of more than 200 people stood along a parade route going up to the center of town. Disguised with dark reading glasses, his fake moustache and lumpy hat, he wove a path through the crowd along a dirt path facing a paved street. He pulled the hat close to his eyes and turned up the collar of his jacket. At this time of night, nearly eight o’clock, attention focused on the Dayak dancing, not on him. Drums pounded and gongs clanged along the parade route. Music blared from several loud speakers in the back of pickup trucks parked along the street.
Seabury moved past shops, restaurants, hotels, and guest houses going up to the end of the block. With a break in the action along the parade route, he took a chance and crossed the street then angled back toward the river. He’d slipped a bottle of water into his pocket before he left the room in the guesthouse. Now, he wished he’d eaten some of the old man’s food when it was offered to him earlier. His stomach growled and knotted with hunger. He opened the bottle of water, took a long pull, and sighed as a gush of air expelled from his lungs. His stomach stopped growling. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled and kept going. He had no idea that he’d just been spotted as he crossed the street at the edge of town.
* * * *
Money talks, as the saying goes. The Sicilian knew the old adage as surely as he knew his own name. The scene played out inside his head like a scene from a movie. The car pulled up to a hotel in the middle of Long Begun. The Sicilian got out, checked in, showered, changed into fresh clothes and went below into the bar. It wasn’t long before money exchanged hands, and he was in business.
At 9:00 p.m., inside the hotel bar, a scrawny, dark-haired Dayak emerged from the shadows. A bright smile lit up his dark face. He spoke briefly in English. “He’s camped down near the River Bridge.”
“Confirmed?”
The guy was puzzled by the word. The Sicilian grinned. “Is…he…there? Understand?”
The guy nodded in the affirmative.
“Good.”
The guy gave directions to the river site then vanished out the back door of the bar. Sipping scotch and soda, the Sicilian waited until the parade ended and the town settled down to a quiet whisper, and then he went to kill Seabury.
Chapter Eighteen
The Sicilian left his room and went downstairs, through the hotel lobby and out the front door. The car waited along the curb out front. The driver—a thick, muscular Dayak with a ring strung in his left earlobe—sat behind the wheel and waited.
The Sicilian got into the backseat and told the driver to drive down to the river. “Drop me off. Then, get lost. Don’t hang around. Just drive away,” he told the driver.
The Dayak nodded and drove through town and then turned off onto a deserted road along the river. In the backseat, the Sicilian adjusted the spy camera on his shirt collar. He was obsessed by it. He liked the new technology. Liked to think he was as smart technologically as the newest computer geek on the block. He turned on the switch and sat up in the backseat. He leaned over and caught the bright lights and digital clocks on the instrument panel. He saw them t
hrough the tiny window on the camera.
“Good,” he told himself, “everything’s set.”
A quarter mile away, Seabury heard the car as it sped along the road. His makeshift campsite stood in a remote spot, a half mile down from the bridge. Not a likely spot for a car to travel to, not this late at night. Seabury hurried into the underbrush. He hauled back sticks, twigs, leaves, and parts of tree branches. He found some tangled vine in the brush and brought that back, too. He wound the vine around everything and extended the brush pile out into the shape of a body and covered it with his blanket.
Then, he slipped back into the woods and waited. Back on the road, he heard the car stop. A cloud of yellow dust billowed up in the headlights. The back door on the driver’s side eased open. Then, it shut with the noise of a tiny thunk. The Sicilian scurried back across the road into the underbrush. The car reversed gears, swung around in a cloud of dust and smoke, and headed back in the opposite direction.
Seabury waited. Not long. Just long enough for the man to creep along with panther paws and stop at the edge of the clearing. Through a sliver of moonlight that slanted between the trees, a gun came out. A sleek, dark-barreled Beretta with a long suppressor. The man stepped from the edge of the forest into the clearing, a few feet closer. His shoulders hunched, his elbow locked at a forty-five degree angle. The gun pointed straight down, not shaking, not jittery, but steady in his hand. Pfft…Pfft…Pfft. The gun fired in a quiet, almost muted sound.
In a burst of anger, Seabury shot back through the trees toward the smaller man. He’d been around men like the Sicilian before. Small, compact, athletic men. Men with fast hands, agile head movements, and tap dancer’s feet. In a fight, their speed and foot movement made them more dangerous than much larger men with slow, lumbering blows and stiff, plodding feet.
Lunging from the trees, Seabury grabbed the Sicilian high on his right shoulder. Startled, the smaller man spun away from his grasp, hunched and stiffened his shoulders until they felt to Seabury like stems of twisted rebar. The Sicilian pulled away, but Seabury’s left hand came around like the face of a cast iron frying pan and cuffed the side of his head with the sound of a loud crack. The other hand raked down the front of his shirt. Buttons flew off. The fabric ripped open. Seabury was left with a tiny filament of dark rubber and a tiny camera attached to it in his hand. The Sicilian ripped free of his grasp, pulled back, and turned around. Before Seabury realized it, he had sprinted back into the forest, leaving him staring down at the tiny camera.
Eden Two Page 13
