The Fifth Profession (17 page)

This much he knew, but it didn't console him. Rhineia was small: five square miles. Few people lived here. Tourists seldom visited. The sole attraction was the island's reputation for having been a cemetery in antiquity, but the many sarcophagi, ancient tombs, and funerary altars couldn't compare to the size and splendor of the ruins on Delos.

The men in the chopper will see the villagers and find the wreckage, Savage thought, racing. They'll send for help and search the island. But the island's so small it won't take them long to cover it!

He glanced at Rachel to make sure her pace matched his.

But what if her concussion makes her faint?

And where the hell are we going to hide?

4

When Rachel stumbled, Savage whirled and grabbed her before she fell.

Her breasts heaved against him. “I'm fine. I just snagged my foot.”

“The truth?”

“Even
you
tripped a while ago.” Sweat streamed down her bruised face. She glanced behind her, terrified.
“Let's go”

The chopper's whumping roar had stopped five minutes ago, the whine of its rotors echoing above the crest of the hill near the shore. The pilot must have found a level spot near the wreckage, Savage thought. Boats and other choppers will soon bring reinforcements.

The sun angled higher, blazing. Hills stretched before him.

Rachel sprawled.

Jesus.

Savage scrambled back to her.

She'd thrust her hands out, breaking her fall. Even so, she gasped from exhaustion. “You were right.”

“You didn't just trip a while ago?”

“Dizzy.”

“It might not be the concussion. A few minutes’ rest might—”

“No. So dizzy.”

Shit, Savage thought.

“I want to throw up.”

“You're sick from fear. You have to trust me.
Depend
on me. I'll get you out of this.”

“How I hope.”

“Catch your breath. They'll need time to organize. They won't start searching for a while.”

“But after that?”

Savage wished he had an answer.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“For falling? Hey, it happens.”

“No. For getting you into this.”

“You
didn't get me into this. No one forced me. I knew the risks.” Savage helped her to stand. “Just don't give up. Your husband hasn't won yet.”

Rachel grinned, encouraged, her bruised face pathetic.

Savage glanced ahead.

What are you going to do?

Chest heaving, he scanned the terrain for somewhere to hide.

Small ruins dotted the granite hills. They were circular, made of flat stones. Their roofs had collapsed, but the shapes of surviving walls suggested that the structures had once looked like beehives.

Tombs.

Maybe we can hide in …

No, they're obvious! That's the first place someone would look!

But we can't just stand here!

Rachel squeezed his hand. “I'm ready.”

Supporting her, Savage stepped forward.

5

Abruptly the ground heaved. His feet slid out from under him. His hip struck granite. He plummeted.

The shock of landing was so unexpected he didn't have a chance to roll and absorb the impact. He lay on his back in darkness, gasping for breath. Rachel struck next to him, groaning. Dust settled, coating Savage's lips, stinging his eyes. He focused his vision.

They were in a pit.

Six feet above them, sunlight gleamed through a slanted opening.

Savage coughed and leaned toward Rachel. “Are you all right?”

“I think so. Wait till I try …” She managed to sit. “Yes. I … What happened?”

“We're in a shaft grave.”

“What?”

He paused for breath, explaining. The ancient Greeks had used various types of burial. The ruins above were called
tholos
tombs, the adjective describing their beehive shape. But sometimes a pit was used, its walls supported by rocks, the opening covered by a granite slab. The corpse sat with its knees up and its head down in a marble container at the bottom of the shaft. Weapons, food, jewelry, and clothing were placed around the sarcophagus. When possible, the morticians filled the shaft with earth. However, Rhineia was mostly stone, and the shaft had not been filled. As Savage studied it, he sensed that the gravesite had been chosen because of a cleft in the granite surface. Only near the top, where the fissure widened, had flat stones been wedged to support the slab that covered the pit.

Or
once
had covered it.

“Grave robbers,” Savage said. “They must have raised the slab, stolen the valuables, and replaced the lid so no one would suspect what they'd done. But it looks like they hurried and did a poor job. The corner we stepped on wasn't supported.”

Savage pointed toward the lid slanting downward.

“Our weight made it tilt. Its edge gripped the sides of the pit. When it swung, it opened like a trapdoor.”

Rachel crouched nervously. “It might have tilted farther. If its edge had slipped …”

“The lid would have dropped down the shaft and crushed us.” Savage glanced around, his vision adjusting to the murky shaft, helped by a narrow beam of sunlight. “Or maybe the sarcophagus would have stopped it.”

They'd landed next to a marble container. Its base obscured by dirt, it was three feet square and tall, set in the middle of the shaft with room around it for mourners to set the corpse's valuables. Chiseled images of soldiers and horses decorated the sides.

Savage peered again toward the shaft's slanted lid. “I think we've found our hiding place.”

“Hiding place?
It's more like a
trap.
They'll notice the opening and see us down here.”

“But what if there isn't an opening?”

Savage stood and tested the lid.

It moved, as if on hinges.

“Be
careful.”
Rachel stumbled back.

Crouching beneath it, Savage lifted the lower end. The lid began to close, the beam of sunlight getting smaller. Heart cramping, he heard a helicopter through the gap. Then the lid scraped shut, and in darkness, the only sound was Rachel's strained breathing.

6

“I hope you're not claustrophobic.” Savage's whisper echoed.

“After everything I've been through, you think it bothers me to be sealed in a tomb?”

Savage had to grin. “At least you can rest now. Sit beside me.” He put his arm around her. “Still dizzy?”

“No.” Rachel rested her head on his shoulder.

“Still sick to your stomach?”

“Yes. But I think … Maybe the reason I'm queasy is I haven't eaten.”

“That I can fix.”

He unzipped a pocket on the thigh of his pants and took out a packet sealed in plastic.

“What is it?” Rachel asked.

“Beef jerky. Dehydrated fruit.”

She bit off a piece of the jerky. “I
must
be hungry. It tastes wonderful. Not at all what I expected.”

“You've never eaten jerky before?”

“I'm rich and spoiled.”

He laughed and chewed on his own piece of jerky. “I'm sure you're thirsty, but there's nothing we can do about that.”

“How long can we go without water?”

“No exertion? A couple of days. That isn't to say you won't feel parched. But we'll be out of here by tonight.”

He lied to reassure her. With no ventilation, the shaft felt warm. Sweat trickled down his cheeks. They might soon need water badly.

The air smelled close and stale.

“I have to …”

“What?”

“Have to pee,” Rachel said.

“You're not the only one.”

“But I'm embarrassed.”

“No need. Crawl over beyond the sarcophagus. By the time this is over, we'll have no secrets.”

She hesitated, then crawled away.

In the dark, Savage made himself ignore the intimate sounds she made. Chest cramping, he analyzed the problems ahead.

Papadropolis's men would have to stop searching at nightfall. Unless they used flashlights and flares to guide them. Or spotlights from helicopters.

But even before night, they'd have managed to cover an island this small. They'll either decide they missed us, suspect we drowned, or fear we escaped.

So what do you expect? Savage thought.

They're afraid of Papadropolis.
They won't give up.

And Akira?

If he
was
Akira.

But Savage had no doubt that he
was.

Akira—

Who'd stared with sadness and shock toward Savage escaping in the yacht—

Who'd shouted Savage's name on the dock—

Whose severed head had rolled to a stop in front of Savage six months ago—

And blinked.

Akira would come. He'd never stop hunting.

Because I've got the feeling this means more to him than retrieving Rachel.

He died. Now he's chasing me.

Something happened six months ago. But Jesus,
what?

7

Sweating, Savage glanced at the luminous hands on his diver's watch. Nine forty-seven. The sun would have set by now. The searchers would have regrouped to discuss their options. His mouth felt dry, his brain clouded by the foul air in the shaft. Nudging Rachel, he stood, wavered, then steadied himself. “It's time.”

Except for their brief conversation after he'd closed the lid on the shaft, they'd maintained almost constant silence, exchanging hushed comments only when he needed to know if she continued to feel all right. Even those few remarks had been risky, since he had no way of telling whether the shaft would amplify sounds that might filter out to warn someone searching nearby.

Mostly they'd drowsed. Now Rachel didn't want to wake up.

Savage nudged her again, less gently, reassured when she responded, though her movements were listless. It worried him that her concussion might be getting worse.

“Come on,” he said. “You'll feel better when you breathe fresh air.”

That prospect encouraged her. She managed to stand.

Savage groped beneath the lid, reached the far end, and pushed upward.

The lid wouldn't budge.

He pushed harder, straining.

A fist seemed to squeeze his heart.

What if the lid slipped when I closed it? What if it isn't balanced anymore?

Christ, if it shifted so it's flat, even both of us can't lift that much weight! We'll suffocate!

Arms trembling, Savage pushed up with all his strength.

Sweat gushed from his pores. Frantic, he said a silent prayer of thanks when he heard a scrape.

The lid moved a quarter-inch, its edge pivoting on the sides of the shaft.

He kept thrusting, and at once the lid tilted with the same forceful rush that had dropped them into the tomb.

A three-foot gap showed him moonlight and stars. More important, a breeze swept through the opening, cooling his face. He inhaled greedily.

Rachel pressed next to him, filling her lungs. “That feels so—”

Savage capped a hand across her mouth, stared toward the night, and listened intensely.

Had anyone heard?

The night remained silent. No urgent whispers, no furtive footsteps.

Savage reached along the rim, found a rock, and wedged it against the lid so the slab wouldn't fall back onto them as they squirmed out. He boosted Rachel through the opening, waited till she was free, and watched to make sure she stayed low. Then he grabbed the rim of the shaft and pulled himself out, worming past the heavy slab tilted over him.

Flat on his stomach, he scanned his surroundings. No unnatural silhouettes. No shadows moving.

With a nod of satisfaction, he withdrew the rock he'd used to prop the lid above the shaft and pushed the slab back into place. If the searchers came back tomorrow, there was no point in showing them that their quarry had been here all along and weren't far ahead of them.

If
we get ahead of them.

Turning to Rachel, he pointed toward the route they'd followed yesterday. They were going to backtrack. She nodded, understanding.

He didn't crawl far before he stopped. His hand groped ahead and felt water that yesterday's storm had left in a basin of granite. When he licked his fingers, the water tasted tepid but fit to drink. He signaled Rachel by dipping his fingers back in the pool and touching her lips.

Her head jerked away. At once she realized what she'd tasted, and as quickly as she'd recoiled, her lips sought his fingers. She sucked them, stiffened, understood where the water had come from, and scurried past him to dip her face in the pool.

When Savage feared she'd drink so much she'd get sick, he gentry pulled her away. She frowned, then complied. He took his turn, lapping gritty water. Wiping his mouth, he scanned the dark hills and urged her forward.

8

A half hour later, they stopped on a crest that revealed the sea. Moonlight reflected off waves. The shore, where the yacht had foundered and the fishermen had gathered, was now deserted.

Savage edged to the right. Yesterday, the villagers had come from that direction. Their homes, he assumed, were also in that direction. A short while later, he discovered his assumption was correct.

Lights glinted from windows in a clump of a few dozen rock-walled huts. To Savage's right, two helicopters rested on a level stretch of shore, safely above the waves. Muscular men, wearing nylon jackets, holding automatic weapons, strode from building to building, patrolling. Some raised walkie-talkies, speaking insistently.

Savage kept scanning the village. On its left, a primitive dock was flanked by six powerboats, each large enough to carry a dozen men.
Farther
left, eight single-masted fishing boats rested on a pebbly beach. Those fishing boats are tempting, Savage thought.

And that's the point, he decided.

The choppers have guards.

The fishing boats don't.

The fishing boats are the trap.

Then how do we get off the island?

Five minutes later, he decided. Using gestures, he tried to tell Rachel what to do, but she didn't understand. After several attempts, he was forced to risk the softest of whispers.

“Follow this bluff toward the right. When you're past the village—fifty yards—wait for me. I might be quite a while. You'll hear shooting. Don't panic.”