|
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
ONE SHOT IS WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS It was twilight as they descended the hills into the outskirts of the capital. The lights of Athens were blinking on below them. Indy was tired, thirsty, and hungry, but most of all he was anxious to get to the palace. It was the one place he felt they would be safe. If they could get through the front gate. But Conrad interrupted his thoughts. "Take a look at what's ahead,' he said. Indy grimaced. "Swell. A roadblock." Nikos leaned forward. "I bet this is where it gets dangerous." Indy frowned at the impetuous kid. "At least one of the places." "Look," Conrad said. "Let's reason with them. Well explain that we have important information for the king." There was no time to argue. They were fifty yards short of the roadblock when one of the soldiers pointed. Several others raised their guns. They fired and the windshield shattered. "I don't think they're open to conversation," Indy said. "The bravest are surely those who have the clearest vision of what is before them, glory and danger alike, and yet notwithstanding go out to meet it." —Thucydides Prologue Delphi, Greece—1922 Indy hung in the darkness like a quarter moon, suspended by a rope that burned into his chest and armpits. He heard shouts above him, but couldn't make out the words. When he dropped his head back, the aperture high above him offered no more light than a twinkling star. "Dorian!" he yelled. "Send down another torch!" His voice bounced back and forth against the walls of the crevice; he didn't know if she had heard him or not. He rubbed his cheek against his shoulder and peered down. Blackness was everywhere, an inky veil that disoriented him, dizzied him. Nausea rolled through him. He squeezed his eyes shut and moved his hands a fraction of an inch upward on the rope, fearing that in the next second, it was going to snap and he'd follow his first torch into the fathomless darkness below him. There was no space, no time, only the pull of gravity, the suction of the void. He couldn't have dangled more than a few minutes, but it seemed he'd been hanging here for hours, waiting for light to redeem him. "Jones," Dorian shouted. His name reverberated in the pit. He glanced up and saw a flickering light dancing toward him. The rope that held it coiled and uncoiled, serpentine, its tongue hissing fire. Indy ducked as the torch darted past his head, then grabbed the rope and snared the end of the torch. He gripped it, his breath erupting from his chest like hiccups. He peered at the wall in front of him, no longer certain if it was the right wall. Maybe he was too far down. He tugged on his rope twice and Doumas, Dorian's assistant, lowered him another two feet. Then he was directly opposite the tablet. It jutted out from the stone wall like a tombstone in a graveyard, and was tilted slightly downward. He pulled a four pronged clamp from his knapsack and pounded it into the wall with a mallet. He was about to place the torch into it when something caught his eye. He held the torch in front of the tablet and leaned forward for a closer look. He'd been told the inscription would be caked with dirt and that it would have to be cleaned once the tablet was taken to the surface. But he was staring at parallel rows of glyphs that were not only clearly recognizable, but were written in ancient Greek, a language he could read. His eyes skipped over the words, devouring them. Excitement knotted in his gut. He put the torch back into the holder on the wall, and pulled a notepad from a side pocket of his knapsack. Quickly, he scrawled the translation. He couldn't believe it. They were right. The crazy bastards knew what they were talking about. He wanted to yell up to the top, but decided to conserve his energy. He stuffed the notebook back into the pack, pulled out the net, and carefully covered the tablet before fastening the drawstrings to a hook at the end of the rope. He was about to start chiseling at the wall to loosen the tablet when the rope suddenly jerked against his chest. He dropped several inches; the rope tightened under his arms. "Hey, what the hell is going on?" His voice ricocheted about the crevice. He was directly below the tablet now and saw pick marks under it. Someone had not only cleaned the inscription, but had tried to remove the tablet. But who? The rope jerked again. A weird creaking filled the crevice and he knew what it was. His rope was fraying. He pulled the torch from the wall and held it up. "Aw, Christ." Easy does it, he thought. He placed the torch in his mouth, and reached for the rope above the spot where it was unraveling. He heard a resounding snap, a sharp, terrible sound that echoed in the crevice. His fingers snagged the rope. He dangled by one hand, the frayed end rubbing against his wrist. The torch burned the hair on his arm. His face was contorted in a grimace as he stretched his other hand over his head. Sweat beaded on his brow, trickled into his eyes. He felt a hard yank from above, and the rope slipped through his fingers. He reached desperately with his other hand, but his fist closed on black air. He fell. 1 College Capers Chicago—two years earlier The night was still and tight as the two men lumbered down a narrow lane, limp bodies draped over their shoulders. Rain from a spring shower puddled in hidden depressions, shadowed by the tall buildings on either side. They were nearing a corner, and beyond it was the grassy mall, their destination. One of the men was tall and rangy and bobbed as he walked as if constantly readjusting the weight of the body he carted. The other one was sturdy and muscular. Coils of rope hung from both sides of his belt, and he moved with the nimbleness of a mountain climber. Suddenly, he stumbled in one of the ruts and lurched to the side, almost losing his balance. Nimble, yes, but also afflicted by occasional spasms of clumsiness. "Damn it," he sputtered as he recovered his footing. It was almost over, and he was edgy. "You okay?" the tall one asked. "Fine. Let's stop a minute. I've got a bad feeling about this." The tall one unceremoniously let the body slip from his shoulder, then pulled out a flask from inside his coat. He held it out, but his partner shook his head. "No?" The tall man shrugged, then took a long swallow. "Take it easy on that stuff," the rope man hissed. "It takes the edge off." "Fifteen more minutes and it'll be all over," the rope man said. He hugged the shadows of the building as he moved ahead, the body still draped over his husky shoulder. When he reached the corner, he looked both ways. In spite of his concern, he was determined to complete his mission, and he wanted every detail perfect. He turned to signal his partner, but the man was already standing behind him, the other body slung over his shoulder. They headed down a rain-slick sidewalk, the glow of street lamps reflecting off its surface. They stopped when they reached the first light, and slid the bodies onto the grass. Barely visible under a nearby hedge were two other bodies they'd left there half an hour earlier. "Call your tune," the tall one said. "Get Paine ready. I want him first. And make sure his hat is on straight." He loosened one of the ropes coiled on his belt. A hangman's noose was knotted at the end of the rope, and with a graceful swing of his arm, he tossed it over the arc of the lamp. The noose danced in the pale light. "Okay, slide it over his neck, and make sure his name tag doesn't come off." The tall man lifted the body and worked the noose over the head. When it was tight, he reached into Paine's vest, pulled out a three-cornered hat, and fit it firmly over his head. The other man, meanwhile, had scaled the lamppost, and now raised the body into place. He deftly tied the rope, then dropped to the ground. "Hey, he looks great. Now, just three more to go." The tall man tipped the flask to his mouth, once more and again, he gestured with it to his partner. "We'll do Georgie next," the rope man said in response. "God, I can't wait to see the reaction tomorrow morning." A headless figure wriggled beneath a dark gown like a magician struggling to free himself from chains and locks. Then the top of a head, a brow, and a face emerged from the dark cocoon. He straightened the gown over his bare legs, and gazed at himself in a full-length mirror. He ran a hand through his thick hair, which was parted in the center, then placed his mortarboard and tassel on top of his head. The intricate lithographic lettering on his diploma would say he was Henry Jones, Jr. But those who knew him called him Indy—short for Indiana, a name he'd used since his early teens. "Henry Jr." was consigned to use on official documents, and by his father, who still called him Junior. In fact, the only visible remainder of his childhood was a scar on his jaw, which he'd gotten in a scrap with thieves he'd stumbled on in a desert cavern as they uncovered a relic of the Spanish conquest. But even his father, if he were here, would see that he was no longer a kid. He was handsome in a rugged sort of way, with clear, determined hazel eyes and the broad shoulders and musculature of a halfback. But he wasn't a football player. Although he was well coordinated, he preferred horseback riding and skiing to sports like football or baseball. He was also proficient at the use of a whip, an odd skill he rarely talked much about. Not that any of that mattered today. "I'm a college graduate," he said to himself, and smiled at the image those words conjured, but his smile revealed more than a hint of irony. He was graduating in spite of everything. He'd missed so many classes last fall, his grades had nose-dived and he'd nearly been expelled. For several weeks, he'd simply lost interest in his formal education while he was attaining another sort on the street. He and Jack Shannon, his wily roommate, had spent their nights at barrelhouse piano saloons on the South Side, listening to musicians with names like Pine Top Smith, Cripple Clarence Lofton, Speckled Red, and Cow Cow Davenport pound the keys on their uprights. The music was called barrelhouse piano because the small bars where it was played served liquor directly out of kegs. At least, they had until Prohibition started a few months back. Most of the jazzmen had come up from New Orleans, the hometown of jazz, in the last five years, and more were arriving every week. Living conditions for Negroes were better in Chicago; there were jobs in clubs where they could make fifty dollars a week compared to a dollar a night in New Orleans. And Chicago was where the recording studios were making jazz records. When the bars closed, Indy and Shannon often headed to freewheeling rent parties where the music continued until dawn. Shannon would bring his cornet and play along with the likes of Johnny Dunn and Jabbo Smith. Not only was Shannon one of the few whites Indy had seen play jazz, but he was undoubtedly the only economics student playing the music. Most of the jazzmen in the barrelhouse saloons were uneducated. They didn't read music, didn't follow the rules, didn't know the rules, and didn't care. They didn't even know their music was unusual, and all of that contributed to its power and integrity. "Hey, you ready? You said you wanted to get there early, right?" He looked up, snapping out of his reverie. Shannon's red hair looked as wild as ever. His gown was draped over his arm, and he wore a coat and tie. The coat was too short in the sleeves, but he knew Shannon didn't give a damn about it. He had a habit of nodding his head when he was excited or nervous and he was doing it now. But Shannon always seemed a bit edgy, as though he weren't really made for this world. The only time he ever seemed perfectly at ease was when he was playing his cornet. Then his lanky body seemed ...
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pldoc.pisz.plpdf.pisz.plzolka.keep.pl
|
