"But both of them? What were they doing out of camp?"
"That's what I'd like to know," said Chalmers, standing well back from the camp fire, with a captured automatic rifle braced against one hip.
"I thought…" Professor Stockwell hesitated, shook his head. "No, it's ridiculous."
"What is it, Doctor?"
"Well, there was a moment," he told Sandakan, "right in the thick of things, when I was almost certain I saw Dr. Ward. He seemed to come out of the jungle over there and run across the camp and out the other side. I must have been mistaken, though. You surely would have seen him, Chalmers."
"I'd have seen him right enough," the hulking Brit replied. "And all I saw were bloody wogs with Rooshian weapons, like this here." He brandished the Kalashnikov for emphasis. "I dropped one of them over there," he boasted, "and may have hit a couple more, besides."
"Of course you did your best," said Stockwell, "but I still can't fathom why they ran away. One gun against so many, and they simply vanished."
"All depends on who's behind the gun," said Chalmers, puffing out his chest. "I'd say they understood they'd met their match."
"But where is Audrey, then?" asked Stockwell in a woeful voice. "I could swear I heard her voice."
"A scream," said Sibu Sandakan. "I heard it, too."
"Outside the camp, it was, just like you said," Pike Chalmers told them. "She had no good reason to go traipsing through the woods that way. The neither of them did."
"My God, what if she was abducted by those men?" Professor Stockwell blurted out.
"Then you can kiss her pretty arse goodbye," said Chalmers.
"We must try to get her back!"
"And follow them, the three of us? Don't make me laugh." The big man caught himself and rushed to qualify the comment. "I could track 'em down, o' course, and try to take 'em by myself, but that's a sucker's game. The two of you would only slow me down, and as for fighting, well… "
His sneer left no doubt as to Pike's assessment of the value his companions would contribute in a killing situation. Neither Sibu Sandakan nor Dr. Stockwell rushed to contradict him, each man conscious of his limitations when it came to playing soldier in the wild.
"But if she's still alive—"
Their guide returned as Dr. Stockwell groped for something more to say. Kuching Kangar had gone to make a rapid circuit of the area, find out if he could pick up any trace of Audrey or the missing herpetologist. A tattered, muddy scarf was dangling from his left hand as he stepped into the firelight, moving closer to the fire.
"That's Audrey's!" Stockwell blurted, pointing with a shaking hand. "Where did you find it?"
"I find in quicksand, that way." As he spoke, Kuching Kangar inclined his head back to the north and east, the general direction of the nearby stream.
"Quicksand?" On Stockwell's lips, the word came close to sounding like a curse.
"No bottom," said the guide. "Sink down, too late."
"Dear God!"
"And what about the other one?" asked Chalmers.
"Nothing," said the guide. "Too many footprints. Dead men all around. Count seven, plus the one you shoot."
"God's truth! I must've hit more than I thought," said Chalmers.
"Only one more shot," Kuching Kangar replied. "The others killed by hand. Find one, back there, up on a tree, with his own rifle sticking through."
"What does it mean?" asked Sibu Sandakan.
"It's rubbish," Chalmers said. "If they were killed that way, it means the bloody wogs were killing one another. Can you make sense out of that?"
"But if he says they were not shot—"
"So, what the hell does he know, looking at a lot of bodies in the dark? He's not a bloody coroner, for Christ's sake."
"Well, there can't be much mistake about a rifle sticking through a man," said Dr. Stockwell.
"I'll believe it when I see it for myself."
"Eight dead men altogether," the professor said. "How many bullets does your rifle hold?"
Chalmers scowled as he said, "I have the Colt, as well."
"Did you fire it?"
Angry color rushed into the big man's cheeks. "All right by me, if you prefer to take this bloody wog's word over mine," he said. "But don't come asking my advice on anything, while you've got Mr. Answers over there."
"Now, see here, Chalmers—"
"We must certainly turn back," said Sibu Sandakan, his firm voice breaking Stockwell's train of thought.
"Turn back?" The very notion seemed to boggle Stockwell's mind. "But why? We're almost there!"
"We've been attacked by rebels, Doctor, and they may come back at any time. Two of our group are missing, one of them apparently without hope of return. It is enough."
"For you, perhaps!" It was the first time Stockwell's tone had risen to this pitch or taken on such grim determination. "I, for one, have not come to this godforsaken place and sacrificed so much to simply turn around and slink home with my tail between my legs. If there is something to be found here, I intend to find it. Audrey would expect no less."
"But surely, Doctor—"
"Mr. Chalmers, if you will continue with the expedition, I can promise you a fee of half again what we agreed."
"You'll double it, or there's no deal," said Chalmers.
Stockwell didn't even have to think about it. "Done," he said, and turned to face Kuching Kangar. "Will you continue as our guide?"
"I paid to find Nagaq," the little Malay said. "Not finished yet, unless you say go back."
"It's settled, then. We're pressing on."
"I really can't allow—"
"Excuse me, Mr. Deputy," Professor Stockwell said, "but if you feel like turning back, it seems you'll have to go alone. You're free to take a fair share of the food, of course. We're not barbarians."
"My duty is to stay with you and guarantee your safety."
"I suppose you'd better get some sleep, then," Stockwell told him, hollow eyed and grim. "It's morning now, and we'll be moving out at dawn."
Chapter Thirteen
Remo was in no great hurry to rejoin the expedition once he reached the clearing where the tents were pitched. Pike Chalmers was pulling sentry duty with his growing stash of weapons. Like Tom Sawyer at his funeral, in the Mark Twain novel, Remo understood that there were certain definite advantages to being dead.
The first time he had "died," in the New Jersey State electric chair, it opened up a whole new life for Remo. There was Dr. Harold Smith. His work with CURE. Chiun, of course, and the endless hours of his instruction in Sinanju. There had been understandable resistance on Remo's part in the beginning, but today, all things considered, Remo knew that he wouldn't have turned the clock back and resumed his first life for a million dollars in cold, hard cash.
This time across the River Styx, he calculated that the gains would be more modest. Still, it never hurt to learn what people said about you when you left the room, especially when they reckoned you were gone forever. Failing a disclosure from loose lips, he was content to watch and wait, convinced the ringer would be revealed before much longer, now that they had voted to proceed with the expedition despite the apparent losses sustained.
The vote surprised him in a way. He understood that Dr. Stockwell was a focused man, where old bones were concerned, but Remo had suspected that his grief for Audrey Moreland and the lurking threat of danger in the jungle would persuade him to retreat. Instead, he showed amazing—even foolish—courage, seasoned, Remo told himself, with just a dash of stubborn pride. The way he found the key to Chalmers's heart with cash, then silenced Sibu Sandakan, had been impressive for a man of Stockwell's seeming Milquetoast disposition. There was still the guide, though, and his bland acceptance of continued danger troubled Remo most of all.