The Phantom (5 page)

Quill made an animal sound. “All right! Styles, why didn’t ya say something? Are all the baskets—”

“Yup. You got it. They’re all stuffed with jewels. We’re rich, Quill. Really rich. So maybe you can put a word in for me with Drax, see, because I need the protection.”

“Yeah, I think I could . . .”

What the . . . !
A pair of cold hands clasped Styles by the neck and squeezed hard. At first he thought it was Breen or Morgan trying to scare him. But when he reached up to pull off the hands, he grabbed bony arms and bony fingers. He jerked wildly at the arms, gagging, gasping for air. But the corpse had him.

Quill took a step back, stunned by the animated corpse. He hesitated, then dropped the skull and tried to pry off the fingers, but they tightened around Styles’s neck. He pulled out his gun and fired several times into the corpse. It didn’t do any good.

Styles’s struggling was futile. His life was slipping away, and his past unreeled in the shadows dancing on the cave walls. He saw himself as an altar boy in Philadelphia, getting caught stealing candy from a store, breaking into houses as a teenager, going to war, coming home, and killing a bank teller and two cops in a robbery. He’d been on the run when he’d met Morgan and Breen, who were also in big trouble. Then Quill came along and promised them all a good life in a faraway paradise working for the Sengh Brotherhood, whoever they were.

Some paradise. Apes and insects, snakes and crocodiles, even lions. The jungle was more dangerous than death row. And he still didn’t know anything about the Sengh Brotherhood, except that the jungle held their deadly secrets. That thought hung in front of him like a solid thing, then it faded and Styles didn’t think anymore about anything.

Morgan and Breen rushed over at the sound of gunfire, but there was nothing they could do. The corpse released Styles and he slumped forward.

“He’s dead,” Quill said flatly, and scooped up the silver skull. He turned it over and over again in his hands, and rubbed his fingers over it, checking it for nicks, chips, damage. But it seemed to be okay.

He clutched it to his chest and backed away from the grotesque corpse.

“What happened?” Morgan hissed.

“The corpse came alive! Choked him to death.” Quill kept an eye on the corpse as he spoke.

“That’s not possible,” Morgan replied, his voice betraying the uncertainty he felt—the fear.

“Tell Styles.”

“C’mon,” Morgan said softly, his voice quavering now. “Let’s get out of here and fast.”

“Look at the jewels!” Breen said. One of the baskets had fallen over and jewels had spilled out onto the floor of the cave. “There’s a lot of valuable junk in here.”

Quill just wanted to get out. He wasn’t taking any chances. He stuffed the silver skull into his leather pouch. “Take it. Go ahead. Take it all! Nobody’s gonna miss it.”

Morgan’s greed overcame his fear. He tugged on his battered Panama hat and joined Breen in looting the crypt, filling burlap sacks with booty.

Quill moved toward the entrance of the cave. He was so concerned with avoiding the corpses that he walked into a spider web. He swatted at it, peeling the sticky stuff away from his face. His heart pounded in tandem with the sound of distant drumming that was seeping into the cave.

Morgan’s head snapped up. “What’s that noise?”

“Drums,” Breen said.

“I know that. But . . . what’s it mean?”

“Nuthin’,” Quill hissed. “Doesn’t mean nuthin’.” He looked over at Styles lying facedown and the corpse resting in its niche, its empty black eye sockets staring ahead. “But hurry up, c’mon, let’s get outta here.”

SIX

T
he pounding of the drums grew in intensity and echoed through the rain forest. The thunderous beat reached into a hidden cavern decorated with a distinctive skull motif. The drum’s message alerted its sole inhabitant, beckoning him from his hidden lair. But the man remained seated on his throne. His eyes were closed as if he were asleep, but he was awake and aware.

He was seeing, hearing, feeling the jungle’s reactions to the drums. Flocks of birds took flight as the beat intensified. Monkeys screeched and swung in packs from tree to tree. A lion lifted its head to listen. Crocodiles basking on the banks of a river, skidded into the water and drifted through the sunlight. The wind howled through the trees and seemed to cry out,
Phan-tom, Phantom
. . . He heard and saw all of it and more.

He followed the message inscribed in the beat of the drums and listened to the guidance of forest spirits. Intruders were pillaging a sacred burial place. In his mind’s eye, he saw the cliff and the secret entrance to the cave. He knew exactly where it was. He felt a sense of urgency and blinked open his eyes.

He stepped away from the Skull Throne and slipped from the shadowy depths of the cavern. His sharp eyes were masked. Like another layer of skin, a purple bodysuit fit his powerful form, rising up over his head in a tight hood. At his waist was a double-holster gunbelt with a skull insignia on the front, and on his feet were black riding boots. The skull ring on his right hand completed the distinctive ensemble.

“Devil, our help is needed again,” the Phantom’s deep voice resonated.

A gray Bangallan mountain wolf rose to its feet and lumbered after its master into the forest. There the Phantom whistled softly and a white stallion pranced over to him. He leaped onto its back, slipping his feet into the silver stirrups. A gentle tap at the stallion’s sides sent the horse galloping down the trail, the wolf loping gracefully in his wake.

The Phantom rode with the wind at his back and breathed in the warm, humid air. It smelled rich, familiar, with all the odors he associated with home. He enjoyed riding Hero, enjoyed the freedom of the outdoors, but at the same time he steeled himself for the confrontation with the grave robbers.

He had no idea who they were, but he would find out soon enough. He urged his mount on, and they dashed through Whispering Grove en route to the sacred crypt.

The Phantom arrived at his destination just in time. He watched from a sheltered place as three grizzled men emerged from the cave. One held a black leather satchel close to his chest. The other two carried cloth sacks that looked as if they were heavy with loot from the cave.

The sight of intruders desecrating any burial site usually enraged the Phantom to action. But this place was special to him, literally a part of his heritage. Among the ancestors resting within the crypt was Buli, the great shaman-priest of the Touganda, who long ago had initiated an outsider into the tribe’s ancient lineage of power.

“I never thought I’d be glad to see this jungle again, but that place gives me the creeps,” said a man wearing a battered Panama hat.

“At least that crazed drumming has stopped,” said one with a skull tattoo on his cheek. He took out a cigar and bit off the end of it. “I never cared much for restless natives.”

At that moment, the Phantom urged Hero forward and the white horse thrashed through the underbrush, hoofs thundering against the turf. Just as the men turned to see what the commotion was about, the majestic stallion reared up on its hind legs and pawed the air several feet over their head. They threw up their arms and scrambled back, panicked and confused.

“What the heck is that?” Panama Hat yelled, staring up at the purple being.

“Shoot him!” shouted Skull Tattoo as the cigar fell from his mouth.

The short stocky man pulled a machine gun from the sack and fired wildly. The Phantom ducked, and with blinding speed drew both of his pistols and fired back. The machine gun flew from the man’s hands.

“Oh, no!” shouted Panama Hat.

“Run!” Skull Tattoo yelled.

The three men darted into the jungle. Hero bolted after them, but the underbrush slowed the horse and gave the men an edge. But not for long. The Phantom found a narrow trail and sent the stallion charging down it toward the man who had fired the machine gun. The gap quickly closed. The man looked back at the horse and dropped his sack of booty to lighten his load. But he was still no match for Hero.

Without breaking stride, the Phantom reached down, grabbed the man by the back of the collar and jerked him a foot off the ground. The man’s short legs pumped uselessly in the air as the Phantom carried him forward and he screamed in terror.

“Ahhhhhh!”

Then he saw what the Phantom had in mind as a huge tree trunk loomed ahead. “Noooo!”

The Phantom slammed the man’s head into the trunk so hard he would be seeing stars for years to come. He dropped the looter and turned to the wolf. “Watch him, Devil. If he moves, eat him.”

Devil remained behind as the Phantom galloped onward in pursuit of the other two.

Quill and Morgan, gasping for breath, burst out of a tangle of jungle and onto the road where the truck was parked. They clambered into the cab; Quill cranked the engine and slapped the accelerator to the floor. The engine promptly flooded. “C’mon, start, you sonuva . . .” The engine popped and rumbled to a start.

Morgan’s head snapped this way and that, looking for the weirdo on the horse. “What about Breen, man? We can’t leave him back there.”

“Tough luck. Forget ’im.”

“What kind of Bangallaman was that back there?” Quill ignored him. He knew exactly what they had just run into, but he didn’t want to think about it right now. It just didn’t make sense. No way could he accept what he’d seen. He’d already killed Ghost Who Walks. The Phantom was dead.

The truck groaned as he spun the steering wheel and swung into a U-turn. Finally they roared away and Quill patted the leather pouch, feeling the skull inside. It wasn’t exactly a perfect operation, but it was a successful one as far as he was concerned. Mr. Drax would be very pleased. Maybe he’d even get a second skull tattoo to match the one he already had.

The Phantom knew the jungle—its darkest places, its secrets, its rivers, and the spots where roads intersected. He took the shortest route to the road in order to head off the grave robbers before they reached the rope bridge.

He rode hard, but Hero was tireless. When he finally emerged on the road, he spurred his mount and galloped ahead, knowing he had outdistanced the truck.

As he passed underneath a tree, the Phantom stood up in his stirrups and grabbed the lowest branch. He flipped himself over it with the agility of a gymnast and disappeared into the tree’s foliage. Hero raced on down the road.

Quill gripped the wheel tightly, shifted gears, and stomped on the gas pedal. The truck bounced hard on its bad springs. He’d forgotten all about the rope bridge, but he’d deal with that when the time came. For now he was content to put as much distance as he could between himself and that purple nightmare.

Morgan was finally catching his breath. He wiped his face and neck with his bandanna, then tossed the sack of gemstones through the opening behind him, into the cargo area. It landed next to Zak, the young native guide, who was still bound and gagged.

“You know something about that guy back there, don’t you, Quill? What’s going on? Who is he?”

Quill took out a new cigar and stuck it in his mouth. “He’s somebody I already killed.”

“What?”

“It was years go, before your time. I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

“He didn’t look very dead to me.” Morgan glanced back uneasily, making sure the purple rider wasn’t gaining on them.

Quill mulled over his last encounter with the Phantom. He’d bled like anyone else, and he’d died. No doubt about it.

“You may have thought you killed him,” Morgan said, interrupting the silence, “but you must’ve only wounded him, Quill.”

“I killed him. Period.”

“Well, guess what—he’s back!”

“He’s behind us, don’t worry about it.”

The Phantom crouched low on the branch as the truck approached and waited until the last moment. He timed his leap perfectly and landed on the truck’s hood with a loud thump. He looked straight through the cracked windshield at the two men.

“Hey, Quill!” Panama Hat shouted. “He’s right in front of us!”

The cigar dropped from Quill’s mouth. “Holy . . . Shoot him, Morgan! Hurry! Shoot him!”

Morgan pulled out his gun and fired. The windshield shattered and the Phantom tumbled off the right side of the hood.

Morgan knocked the jagged slivers of glass from the windshield with the handle of his gun. “Did I get him? You see him anywhere?”

“I don’t see him. You musta hit him. Unless he fell off. He’s done for, anyhow.”

“Maybe we should go back and be sure. We’ll finish him off if he’s still breathing.”

Quill thought about it, but not for long. “Forget it. Let’s just get out of here.”

The Phantom squatted on the passenger-side fender. Then, staying low, he sidled onto the running board. Suddenly, he sprang up and slammed his fist through the glass, striking Morgan in the side of the face and knocking him senseless.

In a single swift, fluid motion, the Phantom opened the door, grabbed Morgan’s limp body, and hurled him into the jungle. Then he took Morgan’s place in the passenger seat.

“Sorry about the window,” the Phantom said. “It couldn’t be helped.” He jerked his thumb toward the smashed side window.

Surprised but unfazed, Quill swung his shoulder pouch at the Phantom. It struck him against the face. Whatever was inside was hard and heavy. The Phantom shook off the blow and grabbed the satchel by its strap. He jerked on it; Quill jerked back. A brief tug-of-war ensued, and that was when the Phantom spotted a spider-web tattoo on Quill’s forearm.

Quill twisted and pulled on the pouch, trying to steer the truck at the same time. As he did so, the silver skull rolled out and across the seat.

The Phantom, already stunned by the sight of the tattoo, was briefly distracted by the skull. In the instant that the Phantom lost his concentration, Quill’s hand slipped into the pouch. He pulled a knife and slashed at the Phantom, stabbing him in the side.

The pain was sharp, bright, excruciating. The Phantom grabbed the wound and Quill slammed his elbow into the Phantom’s jaw. He was flung backward through the open passenger door and nearly tumbled out. Just in time, he grabbed the door frame, pulling himself part way back into the truck.