At least someone got a happy ending.
She swung the telescope away from Dodge's ruggedly handsome face and started searching the other faces; the faces of people she had left Bermuda with so long ago. There had been thirty of them then; now just a handful remained. She hadn't recognized the pilot, Berlitz, in his disguise as Burton, which was unusual since she was usually very good at recognizing faces. Now, of course, she saw through the unkempt hair and beard. His co-pilot — she didn't know the man's real name — had been Stevens, the pilot lost in the Antarctic storm. It didn't look like any other members of the flight crew remained, but she gradually matched the haggard faces below to her memories of the people whose holiday had gone so horribly wrong.
Then she saw the one she was looking for; the one she didn't recognize.
The hardest part had been donning his disguise with a broken arm.
The pain didn't bother him. He had long ago learned the secret of controlling his body's responses to stimuli and pain was just another sensation that he could suppress at will. But crafting a convincing disguise with theatrical make-up — one that not only concealed his hideous skull head, but also looked real enough to pass the closest scrutiny — required fine motor skills. Difficult, with only one functional hand, but not impossible.
With his disguise complete, he slipped into the group. He didn't understand how they had slipped the shackles of his hypnotic command, but he knew that the priest was somehow responsible. Ah, well. They were just pawns, easily enough replaced. Perhaps he would take control of Dalton and his friends directly this time, simply to make them suffer for thwarting his plans.
For now, he was content to bide his time and let his enemies unknowingly tend to his many hurts. Ambulances and other hired cars were summoned from the city and in the space of about an hour, he was removed to the tiny hospital in Bhilsa along with everyone else.
In hindsight, his one regret was in excluding the agents of the Third Reich from the execution phase of his plan. He had been worried that they would attempt to betray him and steal the prize away for themselves and thus had held them at a distance. Even the agents he had set to minding the slaves from Flight 19 had been kept away from the nexus of his plan. Perhaps if he had trusted the Nazis with the location of the Outpost or if they had been waiting to seize the priest and the others as soon as the door to the ancient city was opened, perhaps then the outcome would have swung in his favor.
Merely a setback, he decided. Not a defeat. The world will become of place of skulls and I shall grind them all under my heel.
He lay impatiently in his hospital bed for what seemed like hours, enduring the attention of doctors and nurses who set his fractured arm and administered antibiotics and even offered morphine to ease his discomfort. He refused; he needed full command of his mental faculties in order to make his final escape. When at last the lights in the shared hospital ward were turned down, he slipped from his bed, stole past the night duty nurse's desk and found his way to the hospital's rear exit. After the odor of antiseptic, even the humid tropical air was refreshing; it smelled like freedom.
"You're one of the people from that aeroplane, aren't you?"
Child of Skulls and master of evil he might have been, but the woman's voice startled him so badly that he almost fell over backward. He reflexively flailed for balance and succeeded in slamming the cast on his arm into the door frame. The jolt tore through even his iron grip and his world blossomed into an inferno of pain.
"Oh, look what I've done," the woman cooed. "I've gone and scared the dickens out of you."
"It's fine," he hissed through clenched teeth. "Just help me back inside."
"Of course, love." She proffered her hand, but as he reached for it, she drew it back halfway. "The silliest thing just occurred to me. I was on that flight as well and I just don't remember seeing you at all. I'm usually very good with faces."
The pain melted away, replaced by icy dread and he looked up into a very familiar face. The blond flashed a dazzling, if insincere, smile.
Damn! His mind raced with possibilities of how to play this charade out, but it was obvious that she had found him out. There was nothing to be gained by trying to convince her otherwise. "I'm also very good with faces, Jocasta. And I most certainly was on the flight."
"Oh, yes. I remember you now. You're the bloke who hired me for a job and then tried to double-cross me. No, 'double-cross' is far too kind. You turned me into some kind of mindless drone and then left me to die at the bottom of the world. And need I mention, you refused to pay me what we agreed." She cocked her head sideways in mock thoughtfulness. "What's a good word to describe that?"
"You've got me dead to rights, my dear. But come, let's be professional about this. There's no reason that I can't honor our original agreement and perhaps compensate you for the additional troubles." He smiled, the cosmetic putty feeling strange against the withered skin of his face.
"Just like that? Name a price and all is forgiven?"
Her tone was coy, so he responded in kind. "I didn't ask for your forgiveness."
"Maybe you should have." Her smile melted into something less pleasant, but infinitely more sincere. "When we were at the Outpost, you asked me how I was able to slip your hypnotic leash. Nathan — Father Hobbs — did it, when he caught me in New York. And do you know what I did? I went looking for you. Not for my money and not for an apology."
She took a step closer and for the first time, it occurred to the Skull that maybe he should be afraid. "Jocasta, we can work something out. I can get you whatever you want."
Something metallic glinted in her hand. "Actually, there's only one thing I want from you."
Molly found sanctuary in the hotel garden, but peace continued to elude her.
She had seen terrible things in her short life, but her father had always been there to hold her hand and assure her that there were also good things in the world. If anyone knew about that, it was her father. He had witnessed firsthand the horrors of the Great War. How many times had he faced death? How many friends had died in his arms?
She had always known that he was haunted by the ghosts of his past, but he had found strength in his faith and had somehow been able to pass that strength along to her whenever the suffering she witnessed became too much to bear.
Now he was gone and she was alone.
"Molly?"
She raised her head and managed a wan smile. "Dodge. Is it the real you this time?"
"The one and only. May I?" He gestured to the empty space on the bench beside her and waited for her nod of assent. "In all the confusion, I never got a chance to…well, catch up."
"You should talk to Hurricane. He can tell you everything."
"Yeah, he told me a little bit." Dodge's voice was subdued. Hurricane had evidently told him a lot more than just a little bit.
"We didn't know if you were dead or alive." It wasn't what she wanted to tell him, but it was the first thing that she thought she could say without bursting into tears.
"He saved us all, Molly. He saved the whole world."
Her heart leaped into her throat and the tears came anyway. "Dodge, don't."
Cautiously, as if more afraid of being rejected than offending her, he put his arm around her. She did not push him away, but nevertheless remained aloof. If she accepted his embrace, she knew she wouldn’t be able to go through with her decision.