Impact (10 page)

The trail ascended through a grove of crooked jackfruit trees and climbed a heavily forested ridge. The heat was so intense Ford could feel it entering his lungs with every breath. After half an hour they came to a ruined wall of giant laterite blocks, tangled with lianas, with an ancient staircase leading up the side of a hill. The climbed it and at the top arrived at a grassy area littered with half-buried blocks; beyond, a quincunx of broken towers pushed up from the clinging jungle, each tower displaying the four faces of Vishnu gazing in the cardinal directions. An ancient Khmer temple.

In the middle of the ruins, in a grassy clearing, stood the bombed-out shell of a much more recent Buddhist monastery. Roofless, its ragged stone walls were silhouetted against the sky. Beyond, Ford could see the gilded towers of stupas, or tombs, rising above the foliage. Bees droned in the heavy air and there was the scent of burning sandalwood.

At the front of the monastery, standing in the doorless entryway, was a monk wrapped in saffron robes with a shaved head. Small and wizened, he peered at them with a lively face and a pair of sparkling black eyes tucked among a thousand wrinkles. Two tiny hands clutched the edges of his robe.

Khon bowed and the monk bowed. They spoke, but once again Ford couldn’t follow the dialect. The monk gestured Ford over. “You are welcome here,” he said in Khmer. “Come.”

They entered the roofless temple. The floor was of close-cut grass, as smooth and tended as a golf green. At one end stood a gilded statue of the Buddha, in the lotus position with half-closed eyes, almost buried under offerings of fresh flowers. Joss sticks burned in clusters around the statue, perfuming the air with sandalwood and merintane. A dozen robed monks stood behind the Buddha, almost defensively in a tight cluster, some hardly in their teens. The temple walls were made of stone recycled from the older ruin, and Ford could see pieces of sculpture peeking out of the broken, mortared blocks—a hand, a torso, half a face, the wildly gyrating limb of a dancing apsara. Along one wall ran two ragged lines of bullet pits made from a spray of automatic weapons fire. It looked to Ford like the site of an old execution.

“Please, sit down,” the monk said, gesturing at some reed mats spread on the grass. The afternoon sun slanted in the broken roof, painting the eastern wall gold, incense smoke drifting in and out of the bars of light. After some minutes of silence a monk came in with an old cast-iron pot of tea and some chipped cups, placed them on the mat, and poured. They drank the strong green tea. When they had finished, the abbot rose.

“Do you speak Khmer?” he asked Ford in a birdlike voice.

Ford nodded.

“What brings you to the end of the world?”

Ford dipped into his pocket and took out the fake honey stone. With a gasp, the abbot rose quickly and stepped back in one fluid motion, and the other monks shuffled away. “Get that devil stone out of here.”

“It’s a fake,” said Ford smoothly.

“You’re gem traders?”

“No,” said Ford. “We’re looking for the mine producing the honey stones.”

For the first time, a flicker of emotion passed across the monk’s face. He seemed to hesitate, running a hand over his dry, shaven scalp. His fingers made a slight bristling noise as they ran over the stubble. “Why?”

“I come from the U.S. government. We want to know where it is and shut it down.”

“There are many ex–Khmer Rouge soldiers there, armed with guns, mortars, and RPGs. Violent people. How do you expect to go there and survive?”

“Will you help us?”

The monk spoke without hesitation. “Yes.”

“What do you know about the mine?”

“There was a big explosion in the forest about a month ago. And then, a little while later, they came. They raided mountain villages to get people to mine the devil stones. They work them to death and then go out and capture more.”

“Can you tell us anything about the layout of the mine, the number of soldiers, who’s running the place?”

The abbot made a gesture and a monk on the other side of the room rose and went out. A moment later he came back leading a blind child of about ten in monk’s garb. His face and scalp were a web of shiny scars, his nose and one ear gone, his two eye sockets knots of fiery scar tissue. The body under his robes was small, thin, and crooked.

“This one escaped to us from the mine,” said the abbot.

Ford looked at the child more closely, and realized she was a girl, dressed as a boy.

The monk said, “If they knew we were hiding her, we would all die.” He turned to her. “Come here, my child, and tell the American everything you know, even the worst parts.”

The child spoke in a flat, emotionless voice, as if reciting in a schoolroom. She told of an explosion in the mountains, the coming of ex–Khmer Rouge soldiers; how they attacked her village, murdered her mother and father, and force-marched the survivors through the jungle to the mine. She described how she slowly went blind sorting through piles of broken rock for the gems. Then, in clear, precise language, she described in detail the layout of the mine, where the soldiers patrolled, where the boss man lived, and how the mine operated. When she was done, she bowed and stepped back.

Ford laid down his notebook and took a long breath. “Tell me about the explosion. What kind of explosion?”

“Like a bomb,” she said. “The cloud went way up into the sky and a dirty rain fell for days afterward. It knocked down many trees.”

Ford turned to the monk. “Did you see the explosion? What was it?”

The abbot looked at him with penetrating eyes. “A demon from the deepest regions of hell.”

19

Abbey jammed the pin into the anchor stay and came aft, hopping down into the wheel house. “We’re outta here,” she said, grabbing the wheel and revving the engine, swinging the prow away from Marsh Island, which they had just searched.

“That was a bust,” Jackie said crossly.

“Two down, three more to go,” said Abbey, trying to put a little cheer into her voice. “Don’t worry—we’ll find it.”

“We better. Crawling through that brush just about did me in. I feel like I was tied up in a sack full of wildcats. Look at all these scratches!” She stuck her arm in front of Abbey’s face.

“War wounds. You can brag to your grandchildren about them.” She guided the
Marea
around the northern end of Marsh Island. The sinking sun blazed blood-orange over the distant mainland, a soft haze drifting in the air. She checked the chartplotter and set a course for the next island on her list: Ripp. She could see it on the sea horizon, several miles beyond the old Earth Station complex on Crow. The station always looked so out of place, a huge white bubble rising from the rugged islands like a giant puffball mushroom. A small cluster of lights floated on the water, the Crow Island ferry heading for Tenants Harbor.

“Remember when we went out there on a field trip?” Jackie said, following her gaze. “Those three freaks living on the island, tending the station ’round the clock?”

“That was when they were using it to send signals to the Saturn probe.”

“You have to wonder what kind of crazy-ass person would take a job like that on an island in the middle of nowhere. Remember the guy with the buck teeth leering at us? Ew. What do you think they do all day long?”

“Maybe they’re busy calling E.T.”

“Yo, E, got any more of that Martian bud?” Jackie said.

Abbey laughed. “Speaking of mind-altering substances, I note the sun’s below the yardarm.” She held up a bottle of Jim Beam.

“Roger that.”

Abbey took a pull and handed the bottle over. Jackie took her own swig. The sun winked out on the horizon and a slow twilight spread across the glassy bay.

“Uh oh,” said Abbey, peering ahead. She picked up the binoculars from the dashboard and glassed the island ahead. “The lights are on in the house on Ripp. Looks like the admiral’s already up from Jersey for his summer vacation.”

“Shit.”

As they neared the island, a shingled mansion hove into view, all turrets and gables, lit up by exterior floods.

“That admiral, he’s one crazy motherfucker,” said Jackie. “They say he was in the Korean War, killed a bunch of women and children.”

“Urban legend.”

“What I’m saying is, maybe we should forget Ripp.”

“Jackie, the line runs right across the middle of the island. We’ll search it at night—tonight.”

Jackie groaned. “If the meteorite landed on Ripp, the admiral would have already found it.”

“He wasn’t around when it fell. And it’s a big island.”

“They say he has security guards.”

“Yeah, right, a couple of donut-eaters parked on their fat asses in the kitchen watching
American Idol
.”

Abbey scanned the harbor and house with the binoculars. The admiral’s launch, a Crownline outboard, was tied up to a floating dock while a large motor yacht was anchored in the cove. She could see activity in the windows of the house.

“We’ll anchor on the other side.”

“Watch out for the riptide running along the western side,” said Jackie. “It’s pretty vicious. The best approach is from the south-southwest at a bearing of twenty degrees.”

“All right.” Abbey turned the wheel, altering their course to approach the island from the far end. They halted about a hundred feet offshore and anchored. The stars were coming out. Dousing the anchor lights and electronics, she left the boat dark, while Jackie stuffed a small backpack with the essentials: Jim Beam in a metal flask, scuba knife, binoculars, canteen, matches, flashlights, batteries, and a can of Mace.

They climbed in the dinghy. The water lay glossy and dark, the island looming ahead, swallowed in blackness. Abbey rowed toward shore, feathering her oars to reduce the splash of water. The boat crunched on the sand and they hopped out. Through the trees Abbey could just see the glimmer of light from the house.

“Now what?” Jackie whispered.

“Follow me.” Abbey took a heading with her compass, crossed the beach, and bulled her way through a thicket of beach roses, finally breaking into the forest. She could hear Jackie’s breathing behind her. In the trees it was as black as a cave. Turning on her flashlight, she kept it hooded with her hand as they moved through the mossy woods, casting right and left with the light, looking for a crater. Once in a while Abbey stopped to check their bearing on the compass.

Ten minutes passed but they found nothing. Toward the far end of the island, they slogged through a swamp and waded across a sluggish stream, water up to their chests, Abbey holding the backpack over her head. The swamp gave way to an open field. Crouching in the trees, Abbey scouted it with the binoculars while Jackie took off her shoes and dumped out muddy water.

“I’m freezing.”

The field sloped up a hill to a manicured lawn and tennis court, beyond which stood the giant house. She saw a movement in one of the windows: a moving shadow.

“We’ve got to cross that field,” whispered Abbey. “Could be a crater there.”

“Maybe we should go around.”

“No way. We do this right.”

Neither one moved.

Abbey nudged her. “Scared?”

“Yes. And wet.”

Abbey slipped the hip flask out of her pack and handed it to her friend. Jackie took a shot and Abbey followed with a slug of her own.

“Fortified?”

“No.”

“Let’s get this over with.” Abbey could feel the warmth creeping through her belly and she headed into the field. The glow from the house was all the light they needed and she shoved her flashlight into the backpack. Moving slowly on hands and knees, keeping low, they crept across the dead, matted grass.

About halfway across, a dog barked in the distance. They both instinctively flattened themselves in the grass. The faint sound of Frank Sinatra came from the house and then faded—someone had opened and closed a door. They waited.

Another distant yelp. Abbey could feel icy water trickling down her back and she shivered.

“Abbey, please. Let’s get out of here.”

“Shhh.”

As Abbey was about to rise, she saw two fleet shadows come tearing around the corner of the house and hurtling across the top of the lawn, weaving back and forth, noses down.

“Dogs,” she said.

“Jesus, no.”

“We gotta get the fuck out of here. On three, we break for the stream.”

Jackie whimpered.

“One, two,
three
.” Abbey leapt up and tore across the field, Jackie following. A furious barking erupted behind them. They dove into the stream, the sluggish but powerful current pulling them along, swirling them toward the woods. Abbey immersed all but her face, trying to breathe through her pursed lips. The barking got closer, and now she could see flashlights bobbing at the top of the hill, two men running down the field toward them.

More barking sounded, now upstream, where they’d entered the water. Shouts from the approaching men, a gunshot.

The dark trees closed around her as the current swept her into the forest. She tried to look for Jackie but it was too dark. The current was getting swifter as the water ran between polished boulders and thick-rooted spruce trees. She heard a sound—the roar of water—as the current sucked her along, ever faster.

Waterfall
. She struck out for shore, grasped a boulder, but it was slippery with algae and she was pulled away. The roar got louder. Looking downstream, she saw a thin white line in the darkness. Scrabbling at another rock, she clung for a moment, but the current swung her body around and it, too, was torn from her grasp.

“Jackie!” she spluttered, and felt a sucking current, a sudden weightlessness, a white roar all about her, and then a sudden plunge into cold, tumbling darkness. For a moment she didn’t know which way was up, and she swam wildly, kicking and stroking, trying to establish equilibrium—and then her head broke the surface. Gasping for breath, flailing and trying to keep her head above the pounding rush of water, she cast around, stroked away from the turbulence, and a moment later found herself in a calm, sluggish pool. The night sky, the ocean—she was at the margin of the shore. The current carried her between bars of gravel and she kicked for the embankment, her feet digging into the loose shingle below. Hauling herself up the gravel bar, she coughed and spat water. She looked around but all was quiet. The men and dogs were nowhere to be seen.