by Davis Bunn
The little man reached the front doors and turned. His startled expression was captured by her bouncing headlights, a wide-eyed viper trapped between the entrance and oblivion. Which was good enough for her to yell, “Hi there, Leon!”
He flung open the door and leapt through.
Emma didn’t have any choice, really. She followed Leon right through the doors.
The glass shattered and the wooden door frame came to rest on the car’s splintered windshield. She thought she saw Leon lying inert in front of the car, but her vision was marred by dust and the windshield’s hairline fractures.
Then the building erupted a second time.
She imagined a near strike from a shoulder-fired missile would feel about the same. A distant whump, then the building sort of lifted on its foundations. One solid jolt, then nothing.
Somewhere ahead of her, an alarm started clanging.
Emma coughed through the dust and said to no one in particular, “Gee, ya think?”
Taking the alarm as her cue, she slapped the car into reverse. The tires spun, sending up a spray of glass and debris. The car rocked but did not move. She lifted her foot off the gas and tried drive. The glass tinkled as it flew like spray off a speedboat. She tried reverse again, and this time just let the tires scream and smoke. Abruptly the car broke free, bouncing over the door frame. Emma launched into a gut-swooping ride backward down the front steps.
Straight into the side of the military vehicle.
She heard a loud bang, which she took as the only starting gun she would ever need.
Emma rammed the car into drive. In her rearview mirror, she saw the military vehicle cant steeply toward her as she wrenched away. She realized she had blown one of its tires. Inside the cab a single head flopped and slumped forward. She turned her attention to the road and smoked her way into a sharp left.
And came within a hairsbreadth of slamming into a dump truck that came roaring around the side of the building.
The yellow behemoth was almost buried beneath its load of debris. A massive dust cloud billowed in its wake. And there on top of the bricks and mortar and rubble, gripping the cab’s railing with one hand and waving the other over his head, rode Harry Bennett.
Emma would have laughed out loud if her throat hadn’t chosen that moment to throttle off her breath.
FORTY-SEVEN
THE TRUCK DRILLED THROUGH THE empty roads like a locomotive. A spume of dust blew off the back, blanketing Emma’s vision. Even so, Emma remained grimly attached to the truck’s bumper. Every now and then she flicked the windshield wipers. Only the one on her side worked. Occasionally a rock rattled across her roof. Three miles outside town, she watched as Harry leaned over the side and shouted in Storm’s window. The truck shuddered to a halt. Storm leapt down from the cab and hurried over to Emma’s car. Harry grinned and blew Emma a very dusty kiss as he slipped behind the truck’s wheel.
Storm slid into the passenger seat and pointed ahead. “Harry says get in front and head for the Kyrenia road. He’s got an idea.”
As they started off, Storm stuck her head out the window. “I don’t hear any sirens.”
“They’ll be coming.” Emma kept accelerating so long as the truck remained a looming, roaring beast in her rearview mirror. When the distance grew to where she could see the dust boiling off the truck, she eased off.
Storm said, “Where did you go back there?”
“I spotted our friend Leon. He was going after Harry. I chased him into the building.” She caught Storm’s look. “What?”
“You entered the police station.”
“Courthouse. But yeah.”
“In your car. This from the lady who couldn’t commit a felony.”
“I was in hot pursuit.”
“Oh. Is that what you call it. And what happened to your rear end?”
“That was an accident. Sort of. I did a number on the commandant’s car.”
Storm grinned. “I know what Harry would say. This just keeps getting better.”
The road entered the hills and narrowed. When the hills closed tightly, Harry flashed the truck’s lights and gave his horn a blast. When Emma stopped, he came trotting up and said, “Pull around the next hairpin and wait for me.”
Three hundred yards later, Emma rounded a bend so tight she feared Harry’s truck wouldn’t make it. He blinked his lights and stopped the truck where the road jinked back on itself. She turned and watched the truck rumble and grind. The rear began to rise, dumping its load of municipal rubble. The debris completely blocked the road from cliff face to drop-off.
He left the dump truck as it was, climbed down from the cab, and flung the keys into the crevasse. He ran back, climbed into the rear seat, and said, “I’m hoping I’ll find the right words to thank you ladies once we’re truly out of this.”
FORTY-EIGHT
HARRY?”
He swam up through impossible depths. A hand took hold of his shoulder and shook him gently. “It’s time, Harry. You need to wake up.”
The words warmed like sunlight, caressing from his ears to his heart. He murmured, “I could lie here forever.”
“You were the one who said we had to make an early start.” Emma helped him sit upright. “You also said no fire, so all we’ve got is water and energy bars.”
Harry rose to his feet, taking it in careful stages. He was whipped, bruised, battered, and about as tired as he’d ever been in his life. So were the ladies. More than the flashlight’s glimmer carved new caverns into Emma’s cheeks and around her eyes. He chewed the energy bar and willed his body to shake off the fatigue. He needed to be totally ready for what lay ahead. “What’s the matter with Storm?”
Emma glanced over to where Storm stood between the Jet Skis, silhouetted by the night. She searched for words and settled on “We missed out on Boucaud.”
Harry nodded. He had almost forgotten the guy. His brain only had room for one clear thought. He finished his breakfast, drained the mug of water. “Thanks, Emma. For everything. Most especially for right now. Thanks.”
It was a futile clump of words, for she merely gripped his arm, then handed him a flashlight and said, “I’ll start packing up.”
They had dumped the car outside the resort’s perimeter fence and sauntered through arm in arm, just three weary tourists returning from a night of revelry. They smiled and laughed for the guard. Harry made himself into a drunken clown, pantomiming a roll in the sand. The guard made a pretense of checking their names on his clipboard. But he spoke no English, and the three of them kept up a good-natured banter as he waved them through. They held to the smiles and light chatter, walking hand in hand down to the shore.
Harry broke the lock on the lifeguard’s shed with his boot. They loaded the sleds and pulled the Jet Skis into waist-deep water, out past the reach of the shoreline lights, then motored out, taking it slow. They spent what was left of the night on the same beach as before.
Harry filled his mug from the water canister and walked over to where Storm stood. The tight sliver of moon revealed features etched by fear, excitement, apprehension, loss, and sheer exhaustion. Harry thought she had never looked more beautiful. “I’m really sorry about messing up your rendezvous.”
She jerked at that final word. “What?”
“With Boucaud.”
Her look was beyond despondent. “We did what we had to, Harry. That’s all that keeps me going.”
“We won’t let him get away with this.”
“He already has.”
“No, Storm. You’re wrong.” He gave it as long as he felt he could, then said, “I need to say this. The words aren’t much, but they’re all I have. Thanks, Storm. You are one amazing woman.”
He could see her struggle, as though searching for words that had been lost to the night. Harry knew exactly how she felt. He drained his mug and called, “Let’s saddle up.”
THEY PASSED THE LAST HEADLANDS between their seafront campsite and the islands just as dawn’
s first faint wash illuminated their world. Harry had not wanted to navigate the rock-strewn waters in the dark. Everything but the three sleeping bags and what food and water Harry could carry in his backpack had been left behind, in a small cave.
When they approached the first cluster of islets, he signaled for the women to hold well back. Emma cut her throttle. Harry leaned over and puttered forward at a walking pace.
The islands started close to shore, then rose to their highest point a mile and a half to sea. Their destination was in the outermost group, neither the highest nor the most readily accessible. The island cluster stank of seaweed and guano. Harry saw no sign of human presence. The water remained clear of fog, perhaps due to the heavy clouds gathering overhead.
From a distance of five hundred yards, the island looked like an ice cream cone that had been mashed hard into the rocky base. The pedestal was a flat rock about a hundred yards to a side, canted slightly so that the morning waves lapped over the low end.
Harry ran aground twice during his final approach. Both times he put the Jet Ski into neutral, found footing on the underwater rock, and shoved himself free.
When he finally arrived, he pulled the machine up onto the ledge, then turned and waved. Storm kept her face close to the water’s surface, calling soft warnings. Emma made the approach without once becoming stuck.
There was a rhythm to it now, a sense of shared commitment so strong that words were unnecessary. Storm hunted about the base on her hands and knees, searching as much by feel as with her eyes. Emma took one hammer and worked higher up, moving counterclockwise around the base. There was no need for Harry to tell either woman to take great care walking on the water-slick rock. He started climbing, his ascent timed to plinks from Emma’s hammer.
The cone was canted slightly to the north and ringed by ridges at semiregular stations, like a fossilized beehive. Harry reckoned it was two hundred feet in diameter and twice as high. He decided to climb the north face, the most difficult angle, for the simple reason that nothing about this search had been easy. This side was the position least likely to be found by accident. The slant wasn’t critical, just enough to make his climb a little tougher.
His plan was simple. Scale the summit, hammer in a pair of hooks, set his rope in place, then work his way back down, swinging around the entire peak before descending the next step.
That is, unless he got it lucky on the ascent.
Which was exactly what happened.
The rock was so blackened by salt and seawater, Harry was actually past the sign before his mental alarm started clanging.
He eased back a notch, wiped one hand over the rock’s surface. Then he used the same hand to swipe at his eyes. Making sure it wasn’t a figment or an illusion or a dream to balance out his nightmares in the cage.
The sign stayed right where it was. A stone fish rudely carved into the face, about two-thirds of the way up.
“Emma!”
“Yo.”
“Come give me a hand.”
“I’m not done.”
Harry took a deep breath. Filled his lungs with the iodine stench of rotting seaweed and the strong flavor of sea. And the special taste of gold.
He called down, “Yes, you are.”
FORTY-NINE
HARRY ATTACKED THE ROCK FACE with all his might. Emma worked one side of the fish, he the other. He tried to keep the carving intact, though as his frustration grew he was tempted to batter it into oblivion. They kept firm grips upon the rock face, because Harry had serious doubts that the hooks holding his support line would hold. He had not found any pitons in Kyrenia. So he had bought the longest nails he could find, hammered them partway in, then bent them so he had something to knot the rope around. It was there for an emergency only. And to hold him when his fingers cramped and he had to take a moment’s break. Like now.
He said, “I think maybe I’ve found a seam.”
Emma shifted over a notch. “Like a natural rock seam, or one between stones?”
“I can’t tell yet. If it’s our spot, the stones were wedged in there supertight.” He ran his hand over the face. “Of course, there’s a real good chance we’ve got it totally wrong and we’re wearing ourselves out for nothing.”
“This is the right island and this is the right place. I took aim through the sights, the same as you.” She patted the fish, now framed by raw chip marks. “And this baby is set into the only flat space on the whole hill.”
Storm called up from below, “Why don’t you two go get a room and let a girl do some real work?”
Harry hammered until his shoulder threatened to fall off, then shifted to his other hand. Overhead, the morning never got a solid start. Clouds rolled in with the sunrise. The longer he worked, the thicker and gloomier grew the overcast. A stiff wind pushed in from the northeast, jamming the covering ever closer to earth.
Then it happened.
One minute he was pounding solid rock. His neck and shoulder and arm and fingers all shrieked for him to stop. The next, the rock just fell away. Into nothing.
Harry’s pain vanished instantly. He levered his hammer into the hole, wrenched with all his might, and another stone fell away. “Got your flashlight?”
Emma was already sliding her hammer into her belt. She flicked on the light and shined it through the widening hole.
“Will somebody up there tell me what’s going on?”
Harry drew his head back out of the hole, looked down, and said, “We’re in.”
STORM REMAINED AT THE BASE. The line she held was cinched around a Jet Ski’s steering console. Emma sat on the opening’s ledge, ready to pull up the line and drop whatever Harry found down to Storm.
Harry slid his other leg over, ready to descend. “I should have brought another rope.”
“Shoulda, woulda, coulda. Ready?”
“I’ve been ready for this all my life.”
Even so, Harry took his time, raking his light over the interior walls, mapping his way down. “Okay, here we go.”
Emma kept tension on the rope now lashed to his waist. But her position was too precarious for him to use her as a mainstay unless there was an emergency. Thankfully the interior wall was uneven enough to offer a multitude of handholds.
About midway down, Harry jerked at a low booming sound. “What was that?”
Emma’s voice rolled about the stone interior. “Thunder.”
The first flecks of rain struck his upturned face. “You okay?”
“Don’t worry about me, Harry.”
Another dozen handholds into his descent, the rain was steady and drenching. The rocks he held grew increasingly slick. He took as firm a hold as he could manage, pulled the flashlight from his pocket, and took a long look down. “Emma!”
“Here!”
“I’m about twenty feet from the bottom. The interior face is slick like glass. There looks to be a sandy bottom. I’m going to jump.”
“Is it safe?”
“Better than falling. Give me slack.”
When the rope loosened, Harry released his grip and dropped.
The bottom was fine as silt. Harry rolled and came up on the rock wall.
“Harry!”
“I broke my light.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, except I can’t see anything.”
Emma’s light flashed on. “Here’s mine. Ready?”
“Go.”
The light fell, illuminating what Harry had seen up top. The chamber was shaped like a pipe about fifteen feet wide. He caught the light and studied the cave more closely. No shelves, no markings, nothing except the soft sand bottom.
He searched and searched, plowing furrows into the sand with his pick. The rain fell so heavy it filled the chamber with a constant sibilant rush.
Emma called, “Storm wants to know what’s happening.”
Harry lowered himself to his haunches. The weariness and the cold and the utter futility left him hollow.
It
happened all the time in this game. Searching and hunting and coming agonizingly close. Finally finding the key, the last remaining clue. Opening the door, expecting the big one, the lifetime find. Only to discover he’d been beaten out. By a century, by an hour. The result was the same. Harry shaped the words with his mouth, it’s empty. But he didn’t have the strength to make a sound.
Then he realized, “Something’s not right.”
“Harry?”
He stepped around the perimeter. Water kept falling. And water kept moving out. None was collecting in the bottom. The ground was muddy, but nothing more.
Harry dropped to his hands and knees and started chipping his way around the base. He plinked the stone over and over and over and…
Hit air.
This time he could use both hands to grip. He swung the pick so wildly he shouted through each chop.
The entire wall crumbled. One moment he was hitting immovable stone. The next he faced a narrow opening about three feet high. Harry crouched and shined his light through. And cried out loud.
“Harry!”
His light did a crazy dance over the glittering gold, the temple painting on the opposite wall. The golden pipe folded into a trunk-sized unit.
A woman kept shrieking his name.
Harry turned his face to the rain. Some of the drops on his face were frigid, others so hot they burned.
He said, “Get ready to haul up treasure!”
FIFTY
THEY SLIPPED THE TREASURE INTO the three sleeping bags and lashed them onto the sleds. Every time one sled or the other became stuck on the return journey, all three of them gathered and coaxed the sled over the obstacle. The rain fell and fell. Harry’s vision was down to a few feet. The water’s surface was clouded by dimples, another reason they got stuck so often. Harry forced himself to take it slow, even when his mind screamed with the urge to get away, get clear, get gone.
