Eviskar Island (29 page)

              He’d done it!  Help was on the way.  Spencer jumped up and did a little dance.  He allowed himself this brief celebratory moment before settling down and thinking once more about Marcie, Debbie and the peril they faced.

              Sending the message changed everything.  Taking supplies back up the ridge was no longer of primary importance; now the task was getting his friends to the beach and hoping a rescue squad came before Endicott showed up.  Spencer appreciated that attempting to defend the women against Endicott carried with it much lower probability of success than the alternative of running away, of simply fleeing to the beach.  It would be hard on Debbie, really hard; it might even exacerbate her condition to the point it would kill her.  But it had to be done.  And there was no time to lose.

              He removed a long-sleeved shirt from his rucksack and put it on.  Outside the caldera it was cold, with a biting wind-chill.  His face hurt where Endicott had slugged him, his foot was killing him.  The cuts he’d suffered during his Tarzan swing into the tree felt like they were burning in the salty air blowing in from the sea.  Pushing all thoughts of discomfort aside, he dumped the contents of his own rucksack into the sand and began re-packing it with the limited supplies he’d take back up to the camp.  The tablet computer and satellite communicator went in first followed by several items of warm clothing.  Not wanting to carry too much weight, he only packed two cans of food—peaches and pears in heavy syrup—near the bottom where they wouldn’t rub against his computer.  If at all possible he didn’t want to spend the night on the other side of the ridge, but one never knew.  The women were starving—a days’ worth of food was necessary.

              Spencer hesitated before rifling through Marcie’s rucksack.  He felt guilty invading her privacy this way, but he also knew how well prepared she was for emergencies such as this.  Among the outer pockets he found bandages, more aspirin, more para-cord, a small mylar emergency blanket and a folding knife.  Tossing all of it into his pack along with a few items of warm clothing, he closed it up and hefted it.  The weight was about right, twenty pounds maybe.  It wouldn’t slow him down too much.

              He shouldered it and surveyed the rugged field of boulders and scree that lay along the slope up to the ridge.  The trips he’d made up and down thus far had followed the south edge of the boulder field.  He wondered if there were an easier route, and scanned the area to the north as he began the long walk uphill.  It didn’t look promising.  The rocks in that direction were larger, the going there would be tough.

              Before Spencer veered back to his left, to retrace his earlier path up the mountain, something caught his eye.  At first, panic shot through him; whatever it was, it was moving.  Was it Endicott, come to destroy their boat and supplies after murdering his friends?  A second glance set him at ease.  It was something small near the steep rock face, and it was flapping in the wind.  He noticed it because it was yellow, a splash of color out of place in this muted black and white beachscape.

              He needed to return.  The compelling urge to be on his way conflicted with curiosity about the foreign object he’d spotted.  In the end, curiosity won out, but only because the thing was so close.  He would investigate and be on his way in less than a minute.

              If his small party was the only group to have visited this desolate area in over a year, where had this apparently man-made object come from?  Was it simply detritus that had washed up onto shore during a storm?  If so, it must have been quite a storm; the yellow thing lay well above the high water mark.

              When he reached the object, Spencer regarded it quizzically.  It was an inflatable vest, the kind stewardesses on aircraft show you how to put on in case of a “water landing.”  Water “
landing
” my butt, he thought with a smile.  The vest lay under a rock as if someone had put it there, anchoring it so it wouldn’t blow away.  That was strange.  When he looked up, though, what else he saw astounded him.  Wedged into a vertical fissure in the rock face was an inflatable raft.  This was no zodiac like the one they’d taken from the dig site.  It was an emergency type, the kind you inflate just prior to use.  It was small, meant for two or three people.

              He moved in for a closer look.  Only when he was a few feet away did Spencer then notice that the fissure extended well into the mountainside.  Powerful volcanic forces had ripped an ugly gash into the wall of the volcano.

              Water trickled from the entrance.  He bent down and tasted it.  Fresh.  In back of the dinghy there was more stuff.  A small outboard motor was propped against a rock.  Beside it sat a gas can.  Further into the rift several water-tight containers were neatly stacked together.  Set atop the pile was an expensive, waterproof lantern.  The reason for its presence became obvious as Spencer made his way further into the cleft.  Very little sunlight penetrated into the narrow steep-sided passage, but it clearly ran much deeper into the rock.

              The urge to explore clashed with Spencer’s need for a speedy return.  He looked back at their zodiac lying upside down in the sand by the surf, then ran his gaze across the rugged field of rocks that disappeared high up into slate-grey mist and cloud.  His heart willed him to hurry as fast as possible to the ridge, but an unexplainable force held him back.  Thoughts tumbled and whirred in his mind as Spencer agonized over what to do.  As much as he hated to admit it, in a battle against Endicott he’d be of little use.  Without superior weaponry of some sort, Spencer knew he couldn’t hope to save Marcie and Debbie.

              “Time for a change in plans,” he said out loud, trying to sound convincing.  He’d warned Marcie.  She would simply have to hide from their enemy until help arrived.  Besides, he had a hunch about this cut in the mountainside.

              Grabbing the lantern, he flipped it on.  A powerful beam shot out, illuminating the passage in surreal artificial light.  The batteries were fresh.  Someone had made recent use of this place, and Spencer had a good idea of who it was.  What he saw on the ground purged all residual doubt from his mind about his course of action.  Footprints in the wet sand down by his feet led back into the abyss.  Without further hesitation, the young man marched forward into the narrow cut in the mountain.

XVI.

              While Endicott rambled on about the riches he had collected, Jocelyn had been communicating with Jack.  In moments, their adversary would tire of talking and would again focus on slitting her throat.  She had to break free, and soon, but to do it she and Jack had to launch a coordinated attack.  Success would come only if she began to struggle at the same instant Jack were to rush him.  They had to confuse Endicott, force him to hesitate before making a difficult choice.  Should he try to kill Jocelyn and leave his back vulnerable to attack by Jack, or should he repel Jack’s advance and allow Jocelyn to run free?  Their timing had to be perfect.

              Jocelyn mouthed the words, “on three.”  Simultaneously she extended three fingers on her left hand, just like a catcher signaling to a pitcher what to throw.  Jack looked her in the eye and nodded almost imperceptibly.  Jocelyn mouthed the count:

              “One, two…”

              On three, Jocelyn grabbed Endicott’s spear just behind the blade.  Jack rushed in and struck at the man, forcing him to let go of Jocelyn.  The plan worked; Jocelyn was now free, but Endicott was enraged.  He’d been fooled by two inferior intellects, mere children, and he was as mad as a tormented bull at a bullfight.

              The two men faced off and Endicott threw a vicious punch at Jack’s head.  The younger man ducked, then dove at his enemy, catching him in the solar plexus, driving him to the ground.  Fists and kicks flew as the two grappled in the dirt, each trying desperately to land a disabling blow.  Endicott raked his fingers across Jack’s face in savage attempt to gouge his eyes.  Jack countered by pushing the Doctor away and landing a punch to his jaw.  Endicott rolled to one side and howled in pain.  Jack had gotten lucky.  His punch had hit the same tooth Jocelyn had broken only hours earlier.

              Jocelyn had retrieved Endicott’s spear and had been hovering while the men fought, waiting anxiously for an opening.  The one thing she absolutely could not afford to do was to accidentally injure Jack.  Fleeting chances came and went.  No clear shot at the bastard presented itself—until Jack struck the damaged tooth.  When Endicott reeled back clutching his jaw, Jocelyn sensed her opportunity had arrived.  She screamed for all she was worth and lunged, aiming her weapon straight at his heart.

              Endicott reacted like a cat.  With blinding speed he reached out and caught the spear by the blade.  Jocelyn tried to pull it back, but Endicott held firm.  Their eyes met, and for the first time that day, Jocelyn’s courage faltered.  True fear consumed her.  Endicott’s expression was that of a deranged man.  Blood streamed from his hand but he seemed not to notice.  Grinning sadistically, he yanked the pike from her hands and jumped to his feet.  With a crazed laugh he then swung the weapon in a vicious arc.  A sixth sense had somehow warned the Doctor of Jack’s rapid approach behind him, and the move caught the young man completely off guard.

              Jack couldn’t get out of the way.  He had barely turned to the side when the blood-covered spear point ripped across his back and right shoulder, opening a long, deep cut.  Endicott then savagely drove the haft of the spear into Jocelyn’s abdomen, propelling her to the ground.

              A sudden quiet engulfed the small clearing.  Endicott stood triumphant, breathing heavily but smiling broadly as he looked upon his victims.  Jack was on his feet, but stood stunned and in obvious distress.  He gripped his injured shoulder with his good hand, blood oozing between his fingers, dripping to the ground at his feet.  Hatred contorted his features, but reason held his emotion at bay as Endicott pointed the spear menacingly in his direction.

              Jocelyn lay in a fetal position, gasping.  The blow had knocked every bit of air from her lungs; she was fighting for breath.

              “I must say that was an ill-advised plan,” Endicott gloated.  He looked at Jack.  “You, young man, are as good as dead.  That’s quite a wound you’ve suffered.  There’s enough blood there to attract every lizard wolf in the valley.”  Turning to Jocelyn he sneered, “And you, you will suffer the same fate.  I’m afraid I’ll have to lacerate you in similar fashion, but first,” his tone hardened and he spat the words, “I’m going to rearrange your dental work.  Consider this retribution for what you did to me earlier.”

              He grabbed Jocelyn by the hair and yanked her to her feet.  Balling his fist he prepared to deliver a cruel blow to her face.  Jocelyn braced for the punch, but it never came.  Endicott unexpectedly let go of her hair and stumbled to his right.

              A small arrow had mysteriously appeared and was embedded in Endicott’s right leg.  The crudely fletched shaft protruded from his hamstring, just above the knee, and the stone point, which had passed clean through, now projected from his thigh.  Endicott staggered and caught himself against a large rock at the far end of the clearing.  Clutching his leg with both hands, he turned to face the others.  The bushes behind Jack rustled and a strange, bearded figure emerged.

              The man walked with a noticeable limp.  Superficially he resembled Endicott.  His face was nearly hidden by a mass of tangled hair and beard.  He was clad in a sort of leather kilt and wore crudely-fashioned leather shoes that reminded Jocelyn of cowboy boots.  In one hand he carried a small bow.

              Jocelyn and Jack stared at the man uncomprehendingly, but Endicott’s reaction was one of both recognition and disbelief.  “You!” he bellowed.  The two bearded adversaries eyed one another for several seconds before Endicott spoke again.  When he did, his speech was indistinguishable to the students.  Even Jocelyn, who prided herself on her skills as a linguist, had no idea what Endicott was saying or even what language he spoke.

              But the ‘cave man’ did.  The language was Kalaallisut, the native tongue of most western Greenlanders.

              “I should have finished the job rather than leaving you to die,” Endicott growled.

              “Put down your weapon, Loren.  You’re wounded, bleeding.  You know you’re in great danger.”

              By way of response, an angry Loren Endicott flashed withering, hateful looks at all three of his enemies.  He grasped his spear tightly and hobbled into the bush, heading in the general direction of the river.  Their rescuer made no attempt to pursue his wounded victim; he simply watched for a moment and shook his head before turning to face the students.

              “Who are you?” Jocelyn asked.

              The man didn’t speak.  He went to Jack and carefully examined the wound.  With an air of great urgency he tore Jack’s shirt apart and used it as a bandage.  When he’d finished dressing Jack’s arm, he waved off further attempt by Jocelyn to communicate and beckoned them to follow him, his insistent gestures demanding that they hurry.

              It was then that they heard it.  Through the stagnant air from the valley came the distinctive grunts of numerous excited lizard wolves.  “You run!” the man exclaimed.  He pointed, needlessly, in the direction opposite to where the animal noises were coming from.  The three of them scrambled up the trail, driven by primal fear of the growing assemblage of excited carnivorous cynodonts.

              It was amazing how quickly the lizard wolves came.  Grunts and squeals filled the air.  So many predators, perhaps as many as a dozen, had miraculously converged towards the scent of blood.

              They ran hard.  The effects of injury and fatigue were forgotten.  Only the need to put distance between themselves and those crazed beasts mattered.  Suddenly, above the din of the predators, they heard a loud, pitiful human scream.  Seconds later the grunting ceased.  Jack, Jocelyn and their new-found friend stopped and exchanged grim looks.  The lizard wolves weren’t chasing them anymore.  They’d stopped grunting because they’d made their kill.  Now…they were feeding.

* * *

              An hour later the small party stopped to rest.  After taking a long, well-deserved swig from her water bottle, Jocelyn turned to the bearded stranger.  He was inspecting Jack’s injured arm, but he stopped and smiled when she spoke.

              “What’s your name,” she asked.

              “I name Aage Randrup.  You name?”

              “Jocelyn Delaney.”  She held out her hand.  “Thank you.  You saved our lives.”  She could tell he understood the gist of what she said, but he didn’t speak much English.

              “I English…little bit,” he replied sheepishly, holding his thumb and forefinger a half inch apart.  “You, Danish?”

              “Nope.”

              “Czy pan mówi polsku?” Jack asked.

              “What?” said Jocelyn.

              “He doesn’t speak Polish,” Jack replied, “...and apparently neither do you.”

              She rolled her eyes and laughed.  Addressing Randrup, she asked, “Se habla Espanol?  Parlez-vous Français?”

              “Mais, oui!” came the enthusiastic reply.  Est-ce que vous le parlez?”

              The discovery of a common language threw the two of them into intense conversation.  Jack listened patiently, comprehending just enough to follow the flow of what they were saying but not much of the detail.  At one point, Jocelyn enquired about Spencer.  Randrup’s response caused her to let out a loud wail and bury her face in her hands.  She began to sob uncontrollably.

              Jack’s shoulders slumped.  Apparently, Spencer hadn’t made it.  Jocelyn had been right about Endicott all along.  He chastised himself for not trusting her intuition; if he’d supported her arguments to persuade Spencer to go with them, the kid would be alive now.  In large measure Jack felt responsible for Spencer’s death.

              It was Randrup who sensed Jack’s confusion.  Patting Jack’s good shoulder, he smiled and said, “Spencer, le jeune homme avec un pied mal, il vit.”

              “Spencer’s alive,” Jocelyn choked out the translation.  “Sorry, Jack, I guess I kind of freaked when I found out.  It’s such great news.”
 

              The pronouncement that Spencer was alive had an enormous uplifting effect on Jack as well.  He too came close to tears once he understood what had happened.  His immediate reaction was to find the young man, make certain he was out of danger.  “So, where is he?  Jack insisted, “If he’s still back in the valley we have to help him.”

              “Maintenant, Spencer marche a l’endroit de votre professeur,” Randrup volunteered.  He explained what had happened back at Endicott’s camp and what he'd told Spencer to do.

              Jocelyn pondered what he said and then turned to Jack.  “Dr. Randrup says Spencer is making his way back to Marcie and Debbie by way of the coastal mountains.  He’s suggested we should head that way as well.  Spencer should get there before we do, but if he isn’t there when we arrive, he’ll go look for him.”

              “Randrup and
I will go after him right now.  I’m not leaving Spencer out there alone,” Jack said with conviction.  “Now that we know he’s alive we’ve got to help him.”

              “And what about Debbie?  For that matter, what about you?  You need medical help too, Jack.  I vote we just stay calm and see what the situation is back at the ridge.”

              Jack looked at her and nodded soberly.  “All right,” he admitted.  Awkwardly shouldering his pack with his good arm, he added, “But we aren’t doing anyone any good by sitting here.  Let’s move out.”

* * *

              Untold years of erosion had covered the floor of the crevice with a layer of sand and gravel.  A small trickle of water ran through it, every so often crossing the path so that Spencer had to hop from one side to the other.  But progress was good.  He was climbing.  The trail was gradually taking him up through the wall of basalt that formed the rim of the volcano.  Water seeped from outcrops all along the way, lending a sheen to the rock when hit by the flashlight beam.  At the base of the fissure, down where he was walking, the air was thick and stagnant, but up where the crack opened into the clouds, he could hear the moan of wind sweeping past.

              Half an hour after leaving the beach, he came to a waterfall.  A jumble of large boulders, thrown down by a massive rock slide had at some point blocked the trail, but some resourceful person or persons had expended significant effort to create a staircase of stone that ran along the north wall of the chasm.  Small rocks had been expertly fitted together to make the structure, and Spencer stopped briefly to admire the handiwork.  This was a job that had been carefully planned and executed.  Here, in the middle of nowhere, half-way up the side of a slab of basalt, someone had gone to a lot of trouble to clear a path.  As he climbed the rock staircase, Spencer pondered its significance.  There were two things of which he was now certain: this trail definitely led to somewhere important, and it wasn’t Endicott who had made it.

              The cave-in that created the waterfall had also dammed the rivulet that flowed through it.  A crystal-clear pool of water lay beside a beach of fine black sand—silt carried down by past floods.  Depressions in the sand, human footprints, caught Spencer’s eye.  Someone had passed this way recently.  He bent down to study them.  Whoever it was hadn’t worn modern shoes, but the lack of individual toe impressions suggested some form of foot covering.  That fit with the notion that it was Endicott who’d made them.  Still, Spencer had to keep an open mind.  Whoever it was had been heading towards the back of the crevasse, not in the direction of the beach.  There were no return footprints.  That made Spencer nervous.  If this were a one way trip, if this trail had no other exit, he would undoubtedly run into his predecessor.  How long ago had the person been here?  It was almost impossible to tell.  Hours? Days? A month perhaps?  Deep imprints such as these wouldn’t survive the freeze-thaw cycles likely to have occurred during late spring.  Snow melt and spring floods would likewise have washed them away.  Spencer concluded that they had to be less than about two weeks old.  Beyond that he couldn’t tell.