Blue Gold (NUMA Files 2)

There was a tremendous boom, and the lower half of the Dutchman’s face disappeared in an explosion of crimson from the point-blank shot. The monocle popped from his unbelieving eye, and his body toppled over backward like a tree felled by a chainsaw.

The Frenchman turned the smoking gun on Paul. “As for you, I don’t know if you are telling the truth or not. My instinct tells me that you are. It’s very unfortunate that you happened to visit this pig. Nothing personal, but I can’t let you carry away news of what has been going on.” He shook his head sadly. “I assure you, I will make it quick for your beautiful wife.”

Paul was light-years ahead of the Frenchman. He’d been shocked by Dieter’s summary execution, but he knew immediately what Arnaud’s move meant for Gamay and him. No witnesses. Trout’s lanky body and normally languorous movements were deceptive. He could move quickly when he had to. He tensed his arms, ready to grab Arnaud’s wrist and twist him to the ground. He knew that at the best he would take the bullet, but Gamay might get away in the confusion. At the worst, they would both be killed.

As Arnaud’s finger tightened on the trigger and Trout prepared to make his last-ditch move, there was a sound, half grunt, half cough, from the Indian wearing the Yankees baseball cap. He had dropped the shotgun, and now he looked down in terror at the brown wooden sha

ft of an oversized arrow that protruded at least two feet from the front of his chest. Its barbed point glistened with red. He made a motion to grab onto the arrow, but the tremendous hemorrhaging from the projectile took its toll, and he crumpled to the ground near Dieter’s body.

Another Indian cried out. “Chulo!” A giant arrow cut him down as soon as the shout left his lips.

His companions took up the horrified chant.

“Chulo! Chulo!”

There was a strange ululating cry, and a ghastly blue-and-white face appeared in the bushes. Then another, and within seconds the masklike faces seemed to be everywhere. More arrows filled the air. More Indians fell. Torches dropped or were thrown to the ground in panic.

In the darkness and confusion Paul’s long arm reached over and grabbed Gamay by the wrist, shocking her out of her trance. Ducking low, they ran toward the river with the same thought. Get to the boat. In their frantic haste they almost bowled over the slender figure who stepped out of the shadows and stood in their way.

“Stop!” she said firmly.

It was Dieter’s wife, Tessa.

“We’re going to the boat,” Gamay said. “Come with us.”

“No,” she said, and pointed to the river. “Look!”

In the light of the torches they carried, dozens of blue-faced men could be seen swarming ashore from large canoes.

The woman tugged at Gamay’s arm. “This way is safer.”

She led the Trouts out of the clearing, and they plunged into the dark forest. Bushes and thorns whipped at their legs and faces. The ululation grew fainter. They could have been at the center of the earth as far as they knew. It was just as hot and dark.

“Where are you taking us?” Gamay said, stopping to catch her breath.

“Can’t stop now. Chulo come soon.”

Sure enough, the strange war cry began to increase in strength. They kept moving until Dieter’s wife stopped after several minutes. They were in a grove of trees, dwarfed by the huge, misshapen trunks that soared for more than a hundred feet. Tessa was barely visible in the moonlight streaming down from openings in the tree canopy. She had raised her hand. The Trouts lifted their eyes to the treetops. They saw only darkness broken here and there by the silver-gray night sky.

The woman detected their confusion, and like a teacher working with blind children, she opened their hands and placed something in them that felt like dead snakes. Thick nylon ropes. Paul remembered the belts Arnaud and his pal wore and Dieter’s comment about the zeppelin. He quickly fashioned a loop around Gamay’s thin waist. She hauled on the other end of the line and began to rise above the ground. Paul looked around. Dieter’s wife had vanished. They were on their own.

“Keep going,” he said. “I’m right behind you.” He rigged another rope around his own waist and with several strong pulls was yards off the ground. By the hard sound of breathing, Gamay was just ahead.

From below came a burst of the strange warbling cry. The torches of the Chulos appeared. The Indians threw the torches into the air, where they arced and fell like exhausted comets. Gamay and Paul expected to be skewered by oversized arrows that could easily reach them, but they kept pulling.

Just as they thought they were out of range they looked down and saw two of the Indians lift off the ground. Of course, Paul thought. If there were two hauling ropes, there would be others as well.

Gamay yelled from above his head. “I’m at the top!”

Paul kept climbing and felt his wife’s hand reach down to help him clamber onto a branch thicker than a man’s waist. Grunting with effort, he pulled himself onto the limb and reached for another branch. His hand touched a smooth, rubbery surface. The pewter light from a half moon was diffused by a mist that hung over the trees, but he could see a large platform of mesh and tubing draped like a giant spider’s web over the canopy. It was an ingenious working platform, Trout thought, but he would have to save his admiration for later. Heavy breathing was coming from under their feet. Paul grabbed for his hunting knife and remembered that one of the Indians had taken it from him at the same time he was relieved of the Colt.

Gamay yelled and pointed at the rotund silhouette of a small blimp floating above their heads. There was a crack of twigs from just under their feet. The Chulos were seconds away. Paul detached himself from the lifting line and walked with some difficulty across the spongy mesh until he reached a mooring rope. He gripped the line and used his weight to pull the blimp down to where Gamay could clamber into the seat hanging under the gas bag. With her weight holding the blimp down, he climbed in next to her.

“Do you know how to operate one of these things?” Gamay said.

“Can’t be too hard. Think of it as a boat. First thing you do is cast off.”

Gamay had sailed the Great Lakes as a child, so the comparison was reassuring even if she didn’t believe it. They quickly untied the other mooring lines. The blimp hesitated, then made up its mind and rose slowly above the trees. They looked down and saw shadows leaping to grab the dangling lines, but the blimp was safely out of reach.