“Well?” Remi asked.
“We’ve never been closer,” Sam assured her. “Rubo thinks it’s to the left.”
Sam put the transmission in gear and, with a skeptical glance in the rearview mirror, gave the big vehicle gas. Water splashed high into the air as they crossed the stream, and then they were climbing again, the thick canopy nearly blocking the sunlight as they crawled up the slope.
They stopped again five minutes later when the trail became barely wide enough for a bicycle. Sam regarded Rubo in the rearview mirror, keeping his voice even and his face impassive.
“Still think it’s up ahead?”
“Keep going. Should be over this hill.”
They continued on. Branches and vines rustled and scraped along the exterior of the SUV. Remi jerked when a particularly aggressive branch swatted her side window, and she gritted her teeth as she whispered to Sam, “How is this a good idea again?”
Sam was preparing to answer when they broke through into a clearing, where a scattering of huts was arranged around a central fire pit. Rubo smacked his gums in satisfaction as they coasted to a stop on the grass.
“See? Rubo right,” he said. Sam and Remi exchanged a relieved glance and then peered through the windshield at the humble thatched structures climbing the rise into the rain forest on the other side of the clearing.
“Should we stop here?” Sam asked the old man.
Rubo nodded, his expression as peaceful as an angel. “We walk now.”
The muggy heat enveloped them once they were out of the air-conditioning. Sam waited with Remi by the hood as Rubo hobbled to them, and they walked as a group toward the nearest huts, where curious eyes peered from the interiors.
A man in his sixties, wearing ancient shorts and a T-shirt faded by the elements to an indeterminate color, stepped from one of the huts and smiled when he saw Rubo. They exchanged a greeting that neither Sam or Remi understood, and the man gestured to one of the far huts. After another few words, Rubo turned to Sam and Remi.
“He very sick. Up there,” Rubo said, waving a limp hand at the hill.
“Sick? Can we talk to him?”
Rubo shrugged. “We try.”
Rubo shambled up the faint path to the next cluster of dwellings and hesitated at the entry of the one farthest up the hill. The villagers in the lower tier watched Sam and Remi with curiosity. The adults lingered by their huts, joined by their children, as the village turned out for the unexpected excitement.
Sam said to Remi, “Everyone seems friendly enough. If the rebels are hoping to recruit from rural villages like this one, they’re not going to do very well. I’m not getting a lot of anger and resentment, are you?”
“Let’s hope our luck holds, at least until we’re back in Honiara.”
“So far, so good.”
An elderly man with skin the color of tobacco stepped down from the nearest entryway and eyed Sam and Remi distrustfully from his position on the raised wooden porch. Rubo stepped forward and nodded to the man, who descended to the path.
A quiet discussion ensued. Rubo pointed at the Toyota parked at the clearing’s edge and then made a sweeping gesture with his hands. The man appeared to consider whatever Rubo had said and then shook his head. More back-and-forth finally elicited a cautious nod, and Rubo gave Remi a sly smile that was all gums.
“He the holy man. Says Nauru very sick for a while. Will be in spirit world soon. Not sure he able to talk much,” Rubo explained.
“But it’s okay if we ask him some questions?”
“I had to promise holy man some American dollars.”
“How many?” Remi asked.
“Twenty.”
Sam eyed Rubo skeptically. “Fine.”
“But we only have little time. Nauru close now.”
Neither Sam nor Remi needed to ask what he was close to.
Rubo took a long look at the hut’s porch and then stepped aside. “You go inside and sit. I follow and talk to him.”
Remi nodded and cautiously stepped up the wooden stairs to the small porch. She peered into the dark interior of the hut, Sam by her side, and then they entered the small room.
CHAPTER 28
Dust motes hovered in the beam of sunlight shining from a slit in the roof as they made their way past a crude rustic table crafted from rough-hewn tree trunks to a cot near the far window, which was nothing more than a rectangular opening in the woven-leaf wall, a thinner woven shade hanging over it.
The interior smelled of death. It was all they could do to breathe without gagging as they neared the makeshift bed upon which lay a small man. He was naked, except for a pair of ratty shorts, and withered like a prune, the years having sucked the juice of life from him, leaving only a barely animated husk.
A pair of eyes squinted at them through the darkness, and the man’s labored breathing rasped ominously as they approached. Sam looked at Rubo, who took tentative steps until he was by the bedside.
Rubo bent toward the dying man and murmured for a few moments. He then straightened, awaiting a response. The air was still, heavy with humidity, the sunbeam on the far side like a dagger of light through the gloom around them. The only sound was the rattle of the sick man’s lungs as he struggled for breath. Rubo stood motionless, and after a few minutes the man muttered a few words.
Rubo nodded and indicated a bench along one wall. Sam and Remi sat while Rubo moved closer to the cot.
“This is Nauru. He said he would try to talk.” Rubo paused. “What you want to know?”
Sam sat forward. “Ask him about the Japanese colonel. The slave labor. Ask him to tell you everything he remembers about it—and the massacre.”
Rubo stared at Nauru, seeming to contemplate the best way to frame his questions, and then began speaking, the words alien to Sam and Remi’s ears. When he was done, Nauru grunted and mumbled for half a minute. Rubo sat back once Nauru finished and turned to Sam.
“He say it was long time ago. Nobody care about it for many years. Most people he know from back then die that day. He the only one left. Other man who live die maybe twenty years back. Kotu. A cousin.”
“Yes, but we’re interested in the story. We’re studying that time on the island and this is the first we’ve heard of any forced labor or mass murder by the Japanese on Guadalcanal. Ask him to start at the beginning. What did the Japanese forces have the islanders doing? What was their job?”
Rubo returned his attention to Nauru and spoke softly. Nauru’s chest rose and fell, and he raised a leathery hand to his face, trembling as he rubbed his cheek before dropping it back onto the mat, his energy spent. When he began talking, it sounded to the Fargos almost like a chant, like some primitive death song as old as time itself.
Rubo listened and nodded until Nauru’s voice trailed off like a motor running out of fuel, sputtering to a halt as he wheezed sporadically. Rubo looked at Remi, and then his gaze drifted to the entry as he began to speak.
“The man who came for the male villagers was the commander of this side of Guadalcanal—an officer—colonel—who they call the dragon. He like a devil, an evil man, and he kill islanders for nothing. Most the Japanese leave us alone, but he different.”
Rubo described a monster of a man who dragged children from their beds and tore men from their wives, forcing every able-bodied male to work from first light to nightfall as slaves while their sisters, spouses, and children disappeared. Rumors circulated about experiments in the caves, horrors too dark to imagine, whole families dying in unspeakable agony, their bodies carted away by their relatives at gunpoint and thrown into the ocean for the sharks to feed upon once their usefulness was over.
Toward the end of the occupation, a group of about a hundred of the most able islanders were forced to cart what Nauru described as many dozens of extremely heavy crates, made from crude planks cut from the local tre
es, into the mountains. The trip took days in the extreme heat with the impossible loads and only survival rations of water.
At the end of their journey they deposited the crates deep in a cave, a forbidden cleft in the earth that was avoided by the locals because it was believed to be one of the entrances to the land of the giants. Once the trove was hidden, the Japanese devil ordered his men to slaughter all the workers, and it was only through stealth and luck that Nauru and his cousin escaped undetected back into the system of caves, where they hid for days before daring to venture out. When they did, they came upon the rotting bodies of their kinsmen, every man murdered where he stood, the corpses bloated in the heat—those that hadn’t already fallen prey to local scavengers.
They stayed in the mountains, hiding from the Japanese, for weeks, afraid to go anywhere near their old village, wandering the jungle and living off the land. When they finally made it back to their home, they found it deserted, the population eradicated down to the last baby. None of the villagers was ever heard from again, and the village was gradually reclaimed by the jungle. Eventually, the Allies controlled the island, and Nauru and his cousin went to work for them, and when the war ended, they settled down with girls in nearby villages—living in simplicity until called to the afterlife, as Nauru was even now.
Sam and Remi tried to keep their expressions calm as Rubo ended his monologue. Remi cleared her throat.
“That’s so sad. He’s lucky to be alive.” She hesitated, trying to figure out how to frame the question delicately. “Does he know what was in the crates?”
Rubo asked Nauru the question in a gentle voice and the ancient islander grunted in a way that required no translation. Sam shifted and fixed Nauru with a steady gaze.
“Where is the cave?”
Another exchange with Nauru produced a few sentences, and then more rasping as he struggled to fill his collapsing lungs.
“He no know. Up in the mountains. Bad place.”
“Can he be any more specific? Anything you can get that would help us locate the cave would be . . . important. Please. Ask again.”
Rubo did as requested, and this time there was no answer but the wheezing. After a time, Rubo shook his head. “Best leave him find way to his reward. He tell you everything he ever will.”
The swelter in the confined space seemed to intensify as Sam and Remi stood. If Nauru knew anything more, it was clear that he’d be taking that knowledge with him.
Remi moved to the front entrance and Sam trailed her. Rubo stood by the cot, whispering words in his native tongue, perhaps a prayer, possibly a blessing, while Sam and Remi waited by the threshold. After a few contemplative moments, the old islander nodded to himself and followed them into the near-blinding sunlight. The air smelled sweet and pure after the hut, and even Rubo was obviously relieved to be out of it.
Sam felt in his pocket for his wallet and extracted a fifty-dollar bill and handed it to Rubo. “For the holy man.”
Rubo pocketed it. “I see him around,” he said, giving the holy man’s dwelling a sidelong glance, and tottered down the path to the lower huts.
“Rubo is quite the entrepreneur,” Remi commented as Sam took her hand.
“Well, he has been around for a long time. Probably knows a thing or two.”
Remi dragged her feet as they slowly followed Rubo back to the vehicle. “Sam, what if Nauru did tell him where the cave is located and he’s holding out on us?”
“I don’t get the idea that Rubo is at an age where he’s particularly adventurous. Even if he was, he seems genuine in his dislike of the caves. I have a hard time believing that he’d be all that interested in trying to find the mysterious crates on his own, and my bet is there aren’t a ton of locals who don’t share his sentiment about the caves—not to mention that the rebels are roaming the mountains, along with giants and who knows what else.”
“Well, he seems to appreciate the value of a dollar. What if he sells the information?”
“Anything’s possible, but to whom? I mean, look at the island. Who could mount an expedition, or would even want to, based on some third-hand account from a delirious villager?”
They trudged along in silence, and Sam turned to her and whispered conspiratorially, “So we let him live? You sure?”
Remi sighed as they neared the SUV, Rubo off to the side, glancing furtively in the direction of the huts. “Sam Fargo, what in the world am I going to do with you?”
“Are you looking for suggestions?”
Remi ignored the innuendo. “We need to talk about Nauru’s story.”
“Maybe once we’ve dropped Rubo off. It can wait,” Sam cautioned as he neared the vehicle, and then he raised his voice as he called to the islander, “Rubo? Ready to guide us back to civilization?”
Rubo nodded, obviously anxious to get in the car. “We go now.”
Sam grinned. “We do indeed. Hop in.”
The police roadblock a few miles outside Honiara waved them through after a cursory inspection, and by the time they dropped Rubo off at his shack it was midafternoon. Remi had tried to make light conversation with the old islander several times, but his interest was nonexistent, and he seemed to have aged several years since his visit to the village.
They watched him shuffle to his porch as though carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and Remi sighed. “Looks like a rough day for everyone.”
“That can’t have been pleasant for him.”
“All right. Now that you’ve had some time to think about it, what do you make of the story of the commander and the crates?” she asked.
“Sounds promising, you have to admit. Of course there’s the small problem that the mountains are covered in jungle, the caves are unmapped, the entire area may be crawling with hostiles, the crates might have been moved again after the massacre, it’s possible that the crates have nothing to do with the sunken complex, and we have no idea where to even begin. Other than that, I’d say we have the treasure in our hands.”
“So we’re almost done here?”
Sam grinned and put the car in gear. The Land Cruiser’s suspension groaned in protest as they returned down the mud road as though it, too, had had enough of the outing and was ready to return to civilization. “Compared to some of our other adventures? Piece of cake.”
“Why do I get the impression you’re actually enjoying this?”
“I do like a challenge.”
Remi looked at the brown river racing past and recalled their brush with death on the mine road and then tilted her head back and closed her eyes as the Toyota lurched and bounced. “Make it stop.”
“That’s the spirit.”
CHAPTER 29
Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands
Lilly, her faded summer dress a hand-me-down from her sister, coughed as she made her way to the stream that ran along the southern side of her village. Only just turned fourteen, she’d been sick for weeks, and while the new medicine she was taking was supposed to make her better, it seemed to have the opposite effect. It was only on good days over the last week that she felt well enough to emerge from her family’s shack and help with the chores.
Lilly had always been slim, but since the illness she was a wraith, having shed twelve pounds that she couldn’t afford to lose. Her high cheekbones jutted beneath ebony skin stretched like rice paper over bones, and now that her baby fat had dropped away, she was all coltish knobby knees and elbows, caught somewhere midway between adolescence and womanhood.
She was almost to the stream when she heard the crack of a branch somewhere nearby—possibly behind her, although when she spun to see who was there, the trail was empty. Puzzled, she called out.
“Who’s there?”
Silence answered her, the only sound the rustle of leaves in the canopy overhead as a bird hopped from branch to branch.
Lilly continued o
n her way, ignoring the rising sense of anxiety in the pit of her stomach as she heard the unmistakable crunch of footsteps on twigs. She turned, hands on her hips, chin high in defiance. It was probably one of the annoying boys from the village who’d been showing an interest in her since she’d begun to bloom last summer. They were persistent but harmless, and she’d successfully rejected their clumsy advances just as her mother, a God-fearing woman who’d warned her more than enough about the devil’s presence in boys’ hearts, had advised her.
But the track was deserted.
“I hear you, you know, so you’re not fooling anyone,” she said, her voice sounding stronger than she felt. She waited a few moments, and when there was no response, she called out again. “You best run back to the village or I’ll crack you on the head when you show yourself.”
Nothing.
“This isn’t funny. Just stop it,” she said, and this time her voice broke on the last word. If this was that Jimmy boy who’d been dropping off little gifts anonymously, she hoped he’d either show himself or lose interest in the game. One of her friends had told her she’d seen him skulking around the shack, and she wasn’t entirely displeased with the attention.
When she didn’t see or hear anything more, she continued to the water’s edge, the burbling of the current as it washed over large smooth rocks in the middle of the stream musical. She was kneeling to rinse her hands off when a pair of powerful hands clamped over her mouth and around her waist, and her scream of alarm was muffled. Lilly struggled for all she was worth until a blow landed on the side of her head and a spike of pain shrieked through her skull, and then everything faded as the viselike grip of her attacker cut off her air.
—
The drive back was slow going. For much of the way, Sam and Remi were stuck behind an overloaded truck that had been around since the war, black exhaust belching from its hopelessly eroded tailpipe in toxic clouds as it occupied the middle of the road without regard for the faded yellow line marking the two lanes. The few times Sam tried to pass on the narrow strip of pavement, he had to duck back in order to miss an oncoming car. He quickly tired of the island version of chicken and resolved to accept the trip taking as long as it took.