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“Up in the mountains,” Manchester said vaguely. “But there are no roads near them. And it’s treacherous terrain. I’m not sure I’d ever get bored enough to try to explore the caves. Too much other stimulation available. Diving, fishing . . .”
When they’d said their good-nights and were driving back to the hotel, Sam turned to Remi as they passed the waterfront.
“He didn’t seem impressed by Tom’s yarn, did he?”
“No. But there’s something off about him. Don’t ask me what.”
“You got that, too? I thought it was only me.”
CHAPTER 11
A utility truck rolled along the coastal road, and its engine labored to climb a grade on the dogleg leading away from the shore toward the mountains. The driver hummed along with the radio while his companion dozed in the passenger seat, khaki shirt soiled from a long workday.
The two Australians had been on Guadalcanal for six months, part of the ongoing aid effort since the 2006 riots. Now a much smaller group than during the upheaval, their duty was almost boring, with none of the danger of the previous years. The island had settled into a peaceful truce after much of Honiara had been destroyed during the unrest, and the focus was now on building a better future rather than fostering the cultural differences that had led to so much dissention.
The driver made his way around the curves with caution, alert to the possibility of coming head-on with a slow-moving vehicle without lights in the evening gloom. On the road, automobiles with questionable brakes and nonexistent safety equipment were only one of the many hazards. Domestic animals, fallen trees, broken-down cars—any and all could appear out of nowhere, and the driver was taking no chances.
“Crap. What’s this all about, then?” he muttered to himself as he came around a particularly sharp curve. A van was stopped in the middle of the road, its emergency lights flashing. “Alfred. Wake up.”
The passenger sat up straight and rubbed a hand over his face as they slowed. The road was blocked, so they couldn’t go around the vehicle.
“Bloody great, Simon. So much for getting back at a reasonable hour.”
The truck coasted to a stop and Simon peered at the rear of the van. “I hope the driver’s here. If he went walkabout to get help, we’re screwed.”
“Only one way to find out.”
Both men opened their doors and stepped out of the truck, leaving the engine running and their headlights illuminating the rusting van’s rear end. Simon walked to the driver’s door and peered inside and was turning to tell Alfred that it was empty when four dark forms ran from the bush at the side of the road, machete blades flashing in the dim light.
Simon held his arms up instinctively to block the blows, but his flesh and bone were no match for steel honed to a razor’s edge. Alfred went down in a heap as a blade severed his carotid artery, and the attackers continued to hack at him even when it was obvious he was dead.
Simon fell soundlessly from a sharp blow to his skull and crumpled lifelessly to the ground as his killer stood over him with a demented grin twisting his face. A voice called from the brush and the men stopped in their tracks.
“Enough. Get the truck off the road and drag the bodies into the bush so they aren’t discovered. The animals will take care of the rest.”
The men exchanged glances, their tattered clothes sprayed with blood that was already congealing in the warm night air. They sprang into action and within five minutes had cleared the scene, leaving no evidence of the massacre other than glistening black stains on the road.
“Go on, now. Get out of here. Stop at the shore and clean yourselves off, and take care to get all the blood off your weapons. And remember—not a word to anyone. I hear anything, I’ll cut your tongues out and have you staked over an anthill.”
The men shuddered. Nobody doubted the speaker’s sincerity. They nodded and climbed into the van, which started with a sputtering puff of blue exhaust, and were out of sight before the motor’s roar faded. The speaker walked to the bloody smudges on the road, considered them, and smiled. Everything was going according to plan, and the only thing that remained was to contact the papers and plant a statement saying that the rebel militia had kidnapped two aid workers and were demanding all foreign companies invested in the island relinquish their claims and leave—before lives were lost.
The surrounding jungle was quiet, the only sound the scurrying of nocturnal creatures moving toward the easy meal that awaited them. A black SUV pulled out from behind a thicket twenty yards down the road and headed for Honiara, leaving the Australians’ truck and their mutilated corpses at the bottom of a nameless ravine, two more casualties on an island whose soil ran red from battles fought for its control.
CHAPTER 12
The next morning, Sam and Remi headed for the hospital. Dr. Vanya was there and this time allowed them into the depths of the building to see Benji, who thanked them profusely for their help in barely understandable English. It quickly became obvious that there wasn’t anything further to talk about, and after a few minutes of assurances that Leonid would help out with the hospital bills they moved back to the patient lounge with Vanya.
“What do you have planned for today?” she asked.
“We’re going to interview some locals about Guadalcanal legends and then maybe go see the mine,” Remi said.
“Oh, well, be careful. Once you get outside the city, the roads can be treacherous. And you’ve already seen what the jungle can hold. The crocodile
s are only one of the dangers.”
“Yes, Manchester told us all about the giants,” Sam said.
Vanya slowed and smiled, but her expression seemed brittle. “There are some colorful beliefs here, that’s for sure.”