The Bone Labyrinth Page 7

  “Hvala,” Gray said, thanking the man in his native tongue, which raised another wide smile from Dag.

  “Come then. Perhaps we drink a brandy, too. To keep the vještice away.”

  Gray had no objection. If Dag could put him in front of Fredrik quickly enough, he would buy the kid a whole bottle.

  Dag led them quickly through the rain and up the steps to the main entrance of the hotel. Inside, the lobby was equally whitewashed but warmed by wooden furniture that looked like antiques. They passed by the front desk, earning a curious look from the receptionist, but Dag waved to her.

  “Zdravo, Brigita!”

  She nodded back, but her curiosity hardened into wariness.

  “It seems everyone knows everyone in this town,” Gray said.

  “Also who doesn’t belong here,” Seichan added ominously.

  Gray glanced to Seichan. Her easy stroll changed imperceptibly, something anyone would easily miss. But Gray noted the slight narrowing of her eyes, how each step was taken with a measure more care.

  “What’s wrong?” he whispered as they headed toward the murmur of a crowded bar.

  “Did you see her reaction to us? It was hardly welcoming. I’m guessing we’re not the first strangers to appear here recently. Whoever they were, they certainly left a sour impression on that woman.”

  Gray glanced back to find the receptionist still glaring at them with her arms firmly crossed.

  “I think you may be right,” he said. “Makes me wonder. Whoever ambushed the French team likely had to come through this town. Maybe they even stayed here. It’s worth checking out and making a few discreet inquiries.”

  “And maybe they’re still here, trapped in this village by this storm as we are.” Seichan cocked an eyebrow toward him. “Could we be that lucky?”

  A spat of gunfire erupted ahead them, accompanied by screaming.

  It seems we are.

  4:24 P.M.

  Roland slid on his backside down a muddy slant of rock into the next cavern. Braking with his heels, he ground to a stop, and Commandant Gerard helped him to his feet. Roland joined Lena, who leaned an arm on a wall, her head slightly ducked from the low ceiling.

  “How much farther, do you think?” she asked, gasping slightly after the two hours of climbing, crawling, and shimmying through this subterranean world.

  Gerard had his map out again, splayed against a wall. They had already traversed beyond the British geologist’s cursory survey. They were literally in uncharted territory. The commandant had his compass out and marked on his map with a wax pencil, recording their progress to keep them from getting even more lost.

  “It can’t be much farther,” Roland said, though in truth he had no idea.

  “Listen,” Lena said, straightening.

  Roland tried to obey, quieting his ragged breath. Even Gerard lowered his map and cocked his head. Then he heard it: a distant rumbling, like thunder underground.

  “A river,” Gerard said.

  Up until now, their path had avoided the worst of the flooding. So far they had had to skirt and wade through only a few pools along the way. Even those had appeared to be permanent features of this world, not born of the recent storm.

  He offered a silent prayer that the river was passable.

  “Let’s go,” Gerard ordered dourly.

  They set off through the low cavern, led by the beams of their lamps. As they continued, the roof rose higher and higher. Its surface grew ever more festooned with fanciful horns of white helictites, interrupted by a protrusion of thick stalactites. All the while, the thunder of the river grew in volume, echoing across the vast space, drowning away their occasional whispers, leaving only the pounding of their hearts as accompaniment.

  “Roland.” Lena grasped his elbow and pointed. “Look. There’s another petroglyph.”

  He licked his dry lips, beyond really caring about such ancient paintings. Over the past hours, they had come across occasional bits of art, single depictions of various animals: a bison, a bear, an antelope, even a lonely spotted leopard. It seemed the artists who decorated the main cavern had also explored deeper into this system, leaving behind these prehistoric markers.

  “This one’s not an animal,” Lena said, stepping toward the wall to the right, drawing him with her.

  She shone her lamp upon the vast figure standing tall across the surface of the stone. Painted in shades of white, it climbed two stories tall. From the prominent bosom, it appeared to be the giant ghostly representation of a woman. Her eyes, painted in circles of crimson, seemed to be staring down at them. Upon her brow, blue dots formed the shape of a six-pointed star, very much like those symbols found in the graves.

  “Do you think this could be a depiction of the Neanderthal woman whose bones were removed from that other cavern?” Lena asked.

  Stolen by Father Kircher centuries ago.

  “This is the first painting of a person we’ve seen down here,” Lena added, glancing back at him. “All the other petroglyphs were animals.”

  Except for the shadow images cast by the carved stalagmites, he added silently, depicting some great enemy of these people.

  “And look at this,” she said.

  She dropped the beam of her lamp, centering it between the white ankles of the petroglyph, where the dark mouth of a low tunnel opened. He moved closer, shining his own light inside, revealing that the tunnel was actually an arched doorway leading into a side cave.

  “Leave it,” Gerard warned them both. “We don’t have time to waste exploring.”

  The thunderous rumble of rushing waters amplified his warning.

  Still . . .

  Lena made the decision for them both. She ducked and crawled on her hands and knees across the threshold. As curious as she, Roland followed, ignoring the mumbled complaint from the French soldier.

  The next chamber was small, no more than five meters across. Here there were no bones on the floor, just flat rock with a charred spot in the center that marked some ancient hearth. Lena stood and slowly turned, splashing her light across the walls. She let out a small gasp of surprise.

  Instead of paintings, the cave walls had been carved into rows of niches. Each cubby held sculpted figures, all animals—a veritable stone menagerie. In one niche, a small mammoth raised a curled trunk. Another held a lion, with the beast reared up on its hind legs. Roland added his light, revealing sculptures of wolves, bears, and bison, along with all manner of deer and antelope. The higher shelves held birds of every feather, from hunting hawks to waterfowl.

  If there was any question as to this collection’s age, the crusts and runnels of calcite that caked everything in place removed any doubt of its prehistoric origin. It would have taken millennia to accrue this much buildup.

  “These must be tribal totems,” Lena said, reaching toward the figure of a hunched leopard, then lowering her arm. “If these were carved by Neanderthals, it would change our fundamental understanding of them.”

  Roland nodded and stepped over to the largest of the cubbies. It lay directly across from the cave opening. Small markings drew his attention. A single palm print flanked each side of the niche, again painted in blood-red.

  Lena joined him. “This one on the left has the same crooked pinkie, like we saw in the older ransacked grave.” She hovered a finger over the image to the right. “And this one . . . I bet it would match the collection of palm prints above the bones of the Neanderthal male.”

  He glanced to her, furrowing his brow. “Signs of the same two figures again.”

  “Clearly they were important to this tribe. Maybe leaders. Or, judging from this collection of totems, perhaps revered shamans.”

  He shifted his light to illuminate the depths of the dark niche. Unlike the others, this cubby held no stone figure. Instead, something lay on the bottom, wrapped tightly.

  He reached for it.

  “Careful,” Lena warned, but she didn’t attempt further to dissuade him.

  He took
out the object, seeing that it was folded in layers of stiff cloth. Flakes of old wax crumbled from his fingertips. “This isn’t from prehistoric times.”

  She pressed closer. “What is it?”

  He licked his lips and peeled away the layers of old cloth, shedding more wax. Finally he revealed a leather-bound book inside. Its surface was embossed with a symbol, a design of convoluted loops forming a pattern.

  “It almost looks like a cross-section of a brain,” Lena said, awed.

  He smiled. She was a geneticist, so of course that was what she saw. “I think it’s a labyrinth,” he corrected her. “Such mazes have been carved and painted since man first started to produce art.”

  “But what does it mean?”

  “I don’t know. But look at the initials along the bottom.”

  At his shoulder, she read them aloud. “A.K . . . and S.J.”

  He let some of his own reverence show in his voice. “Athanasius Kircher . . . the Society of Jesus.”

  His hands trembled as he realized he was holding a book that once belonged to the Jesuit father whose history was the center of his life’s work. Unable to resist, he gently used a finger to pull back the cover. Something fell free and struck the cavern floor with a metallic clang.

  Lena bent down and retrieved it. “It’s a key.”

  She held it up to the light. It was as long as his palm, with an intricate head showing a cherub surmounted by an arch of skulls.

  He could not help but picture the skull and bones stolen from the grave in the other cavern. What did this all mean?

  He turned to the book for answers, but the pages between the leather covers had not fared the passage of time as well. Over the centuries, moisture must have seeped through the layers of waxed cloth, turning the paper to a wad of pulp. The impression of the key still remained, but whatever had once been written here had been obliterated long ago by time and dampness.

  “We must go!” Gerard ordered them, his tone brooking no argument.

  Lena dawdled long enough to search within the cubby, probing with her fingertips. “I can feel broken pieces of calcite, like something was once embedded here but was broken free and taken.”

  Roland looked to the rows of totems, equally glued in place by the seeping of calcite over the millennia. “Kircher must have taken whatever lay in this place of prominence, leaving this book behind, perhaps as some clue to what he found, to where he took it.”

  He looked down at the sorry state of the old journal.

  “Maybe something could be recovered,” Lena offered. “If we can get the book into the hands of an expert restorer . . .”

  He doubted anything could be salvaged, but he nodded and waved toward the exit. “Before that can happen, we need to escape these damnable tunnels.”

  They rejoined Gerard. Roland immediately understood the Frenchman’s demand to get moving. Out here in the main cavern, the thunderous rumble of rushing water echoed much louder now.

  Lena glanced at him, the fear raw in her face.

  They were out of time.

  4:48 P.M.

  The gunfire echoed from the bar ahead.

  A clog of people burst through the doorway at the end of the hall and rushed toward Gray and Seichan. Gray grabbed Dag and shoved him back toward the hotel lobby.

  “Go call the police.”

  As the stampede swept past them, Gray flattened against the wall. He slipped a black SIG Sauer from a shoulder holster under his wet jacket. Against the opposite wall, Seichan drew forth a long tactical dagger in one hand and held her own pistol in the other. Once the way was clear, the two set off toward the bar, keeping low and to either side of the hallway.

  Before they could reach the door, footsteps pounded up behind Gray. Dag had returned, huffing, his eyes wide on the weapon in Gray’s hand.

  Gray shoved the kid hard against the wall. Seichan scowled, dropping to a knee, keeping a bead on the bar’s door. The gunfire had ended inside, but yelling still rang out, sounding like demands shouted in Croatian. It appeared the assailants—whoever they were—had hostages in there.

  What the hell is going on?

  Dag had the answer. “I heard from the others,” he gasped out, still wide-eyed with terror. “Bunch of razbojnici . . . bandits burst into the pub. Demanded that Fredrik show himself. They fire at the roof. Shoot one man in the leg.”

  Gray glanced at Dag, then to Seichan. So the gunmen must be after the same mountaineer. This attack must be connected to the assault in the mountains. Was someone cleaning house here, covering up their tracks, making sure anyone in town with knowledge of that secret site was eliminated?

  “And Fredrik?” Gray asked.

  Dag pointed to the bar.

  “So he’s still in there.”

  The young man nodded. “In the bathroom at the back. Only his friend knows he is there, I think.”

  “Is there a window? A way to climb out?”

  “Window, yes. But too small.”

  So the guy is trapped in there.

  Gray doubted Fredrik’s hiding place would remain secret for very much longer. He eyed Seichan, knowing she had heard everything. She nodded, already understanding what he needed. This wasn’t their first dance together. She dashed to his side and grabbed Dag by the collar.

  “You’re coming with me,” she said coldly.

  As she dragged him down the hall, Gray rushed to the doorway of the pub and hid to one side of the opening. From low to the ground, he took a fast glance into the bar, then slid back out of sight. With a snapshot fixed in his head, he assessed the threat: four armed men, wearing knit masks, all with pistols, no assault weapons. Two guarded a trio of patrons stuck in a red-cushioned booth. Another loomed over a man clenched in a ball on the floor. Blood seeped across the polished wood floor. The fourth maintained a wary watch, but luckily the mahogany bar had helped screen Gray’s low peek into the room.

  Gray had also noted one other detail: one of the patrons in the booth had been pointing toward the back of the bar, likely toward the restrooms.

  Time was up.

  As if on cue, fresh gunfire erupted, accompanied by the shatter of glass. The noise rose from the rear of the pub, from the one of the restrooms. It was his signal to move. He rolled across the threshold, keeping somewhat shielded by the bar. The four gunmen had all turned toward the bathrooms, responding to the gunfire by aiming their weapons back there.

  Gray squeezed off two rounds, both head shots. As the pair of men dropped, he aimed for the leg of the third, taking out his knee and sending him crashing next to the patron on the ground, who had been similarly wounded.

  Karma’s a bitch.

  The fourth gunman, the one farthest to the back, lunged for the only shelter available. He charged through the door into the women’s restroom, likely believing the gunshots came from his target, Fredrik, in the other bathroom. The attacker must have hoped the women’s restroom had a window through which he could make his escape.

  But Gray remembered Dag’s earlier words.

  Window, yes. But too small.

  A single gunshot rang out from there, again accompanied by a shatter of glass.

  The fleeing assailant came falling back into the bar, crashing to his side, the back of his skull a cratered ruin.

  Wanting answers, Gray quickly closed on the only man still alive on the floor, the one he had shot in the leg, but before he could reach him, the masked man raised a pistol to his own head—and fired. The blast was loud, drowning out Gray’s own curse.

  Biting back his disappointment, Gray hurried to the men’s room and barged inside. He found Fredrik huddled in one of the stalls, his face ashen, his lanky salt-and-pepper hair disheveled. Despite the man’s raw fear, he glared at Gray, ready to face what was to come.

  A voice rose from the shattered window on the far wall. “Fredrik!” Standing in the rain outside, Dag leaned his face near the broken glass, speaking rapidly in Croatian, his voice full of reassurance.

  Gra
y also sought to calm the man, attempting the little bit of Croatian he had memorized en route here. “Zovem se Gray,” he introduced himself, holstering his pistol and lifting his palms.

  Seichan pushed Dag aside and called to him through the window. “Everything’s clear out here.”

  Gray pictured Seichan hightailing it around the hotel’s exterior and shooting through this window, creating the initial distraction. She must have also heard that last gunman crash into the neighboring bathroom, and from her position outside, eliminated that threat, too.

  Fredrik gained his composure, revealing his fluency in English. “Wh-what is going on?”

  Gray waved to the door. “Let’s discuss this somewhere more private. We can’t trust that these four didn’t have companions nearby.”

  Fredrik needed little convincing to vacate the restroom. Gray led him through the pub and out a side exit of the hotel, avoiding the lobby. He met Seichan and Dag back out on the streets. They hurried to the parked BMW and climbed inside.

  Before he could urge Dag to get moving, Gray’s satellite phone vibrated in his pocket. He answered it, immediately recognizing Kat’s voice.

  “Gray, we’ve just picked up a ping off Dr. Crandall’s cell phone. It’s weak and intermittent. Not enough to connect a call, but we were able to roughly triangulate its location—but it makes no sense.”

  “Where is it coming from?”

  “I’ll transmit the GPS location to you.”

  He lowered the phone and studied a map that appeared on his screen. The village was laid out in the shape of a horseshoe, as its streets and homes hugged around a deep river gorge which split halfway through the place, ending at a deep chasm that the neighboring castle overlooked.

  A blinking dot marked the location of the detected ping on the map.

  Frowning, Gray raised his head and stared toward the dark chasm at the end of the street. The signal seemed to come from down there.

  That can’t be good.

  6

  April 29, 11:03 A.M. EDT

  Lawrenceville, Georgia