The Solomon Curse (11 page)

When Sam called Selma, she sounded excited. “I'm glad you called. You must be psychic. I was just getting ready to touch base. I've got some research I want to send you, but I wanted to tell you about it before I did—give you the background.”

“Well, I'm here. Shoot.”

“I dug around, as you requested, and quickly discovered that there's almost no information online about the Solomon Islands that doesn't relate to World War Two, mineral rights, or tourism. So there isn't exactly a wealth of data to sift through.”

“That never stopped you before, Selma.”

“Of course not. Anyway, once I exhausted the Internet, I switched to making calls to people who might know something about Guadalcanal history. Turns out most of those are in Australia and New Zealand, which isn't surprising since those are the nearest developed countries.”

“Right . . .” Sam said, his tone mildly impatient. If Selma noticed, she gave no indication.

“I contacted some friends in Sydney and it turns out that one of the foremost experts on the islands is actually in Adelaide. An anthropology professor at the university there, Dr. Sylvester Rose. Anyway, I called him and we had a long chat. Very nice man.”

“I'm glad you got along,” Sam said, hoping she would cut to the chase.

“Turns out he spent years summering in the islands, collecting data about the cultures, documenting their habits, recording their lore. I asked him about anything that might be relevant to cursed bays or sunken ruins and he said it rang a bell but that he needed to go back through his logs and review his notes—nothing immediately came to mind. That was yesterday. Today he called me back and said he'd located the section he was looking for and that he'd send it over.”

“That's great, Selma. So you have it?”

“Yes. I wanted to read it to you.”

He closed his eyes. “There's never been a better time.”

“Okay, here goes. ‘One particularly obscure legend appears to have been taboo to discuss, but as with most forbidden stories, the prohibition made it all the more alluring for those wishing to buck the status quo. Thus it survives, albeit with the taboo intact. It was recounted to me by a medicine man, a healer in the highlands of Guadalcanal who lived a hermetic life away from the surrounding tribes. I was introduced to him by the tribal chieftain of the neighboring village, who held him in enormous regard. Our initial meeting became an annual one until he passed away in 1997. He told me the legend on our last night together the prior year.'”

Selma paused to clear her throat. “‘Many generations before the white man appeared when the island was only our people, a great king arose to lead us. This king was a sorcerer who could command the gods
of sea, sky, fire, and earth to do his bidding. He rallied the disparate tribes and created a powerful island nation. He was both feared for his prowess in battle and beloved for his benevolence and wisdom in deciding difficult social and moral questions. His name was Loc, and during his lifetime his name became the most revered in the kingdom.'”

“Interesting. First I've heard of it,” Sam said.

“Here's where it gets good. ‘In a time of plenty, King Loc announced that he would build a royal complex the likes of which had never been seen. For many years his subjects labored to fulfill his ambition, quarrying limestone and dragging enormous blocks over rollers from the mountains to the sea. On the eve of its completion, King Loc took a wife—the most beautiful woman in the islands, daughter of a powerful chieftain from Malaita. It was said that to see her face was akin to gazing at the sun, so great was her beauty, and the king forbid anyone from looking directly at her. It is thought that this is where the cultural taboo against looking at females came from.'”

“I just thought that was shyness,” Sam said.

“Apparently not. ‘The following morning, the heads of all the island tribes were to gather at the site of the new complex for a weeklong celebration. For months the king had been collecting tribute from traders and his tribes and adding it to the vast treasure secreted in the royal palace. The celebrants came heavily laden with gold, jewels, and other tribute. When the column arrived at the site, the king was parading his riches in the sun, his high priests and wife nearby. The gods were so offended by this display of arrogance from a mere human that the earth shook as never before, destroying the compound as though it were made of sand, and then the sea god sent a wave the size of an island to erase any trace of the site. Most of the visiting dignitaries were lost in the destruction, only a handful survived. Those who did agreed that the gods had made their will known and that the survivors' atonement would be to live as they had before the king came to power. As
punishment for the king's sins, his name was never to be spoken again and his palace and temples were to be forgotten, the site damned as a cursed place.' That's the end of his entry.”

“So the Solomon Islands' primitive culture is a direct result of that event? All progress erased in one fell swoop?”

“That's how I read it. But one thing that struck me was that a treasure is mentioned as though the amassing of riches was a big part of the affront to the gods, the clear message being that wealth is also to be avoided since it brought calamity with it.”

“A treasure. Well, I've never been one to shy away from a challenge. I wonder how much of the legend is real and how much invention?”

“The professor had no way of knowing. Because it was forbidden knowledge, he had no secure way of corroborating it, and the medicine man swore him to secrecy. He couldn't very well go asking around after giving his word or nobody would have trusted him ever again. He'd spent a decade building his standing in the community with his regular trips and he didn't want to destroy that trust, so he kept quiet about it.” Selma paused. “But no secret lasts if more than one person knows about it. There has to be someone else the medicine man told—or, more obviously, someone told him originally—and that someone may well have told others. If you haven't heard anything after turning over rocks there, it might be pretty obscure, especially as generations die off and the new ones aren't interested in the past.”

Sam nodded to himself. “Yes, the islands have undergone a big change since the war. Our other problem is that such a small fraction of the population speaks English, so we're limited to the few that do. That's mainly the residents of the capital.”

“Well, now you know everything I do. The professor said he'd be more than happy to speak to you by phone if you wanted to pick his brain. I'll forward his number when I send the scans.”

“Do you think it would do any good?”

“I got the impression he told me everything he knew. He wasn't at all evasive. To him, this is all just academic interest. I didn't tell him you'd found the likely site of the king's palace.”

“As always, Selma, you're the real treasure in this story.”

“It's all part of the job, right? The professor's account will be in your e-mail in-box in a few minutes. Call me if you need anything else.” She hesitated. “I'm glad to hear you're having a less eventful time than on one of your usual forays into the wilds.”

Sam debated not telling her about the recent attack but decided that it might prove useful for self-preservation if more people knew. “Up until today, I would have agreed with you.”

“What now?”

“We were run off the road and someone shot at us. Other than that, it's a lovely place.”

Selma's voice grew quiet. “You're joking.”

“Truth is stranger than fiction, as always.”

“Who's after you?”

“Don't know.”

“Well, that certainly narrows it down. What can I do to help?”

“Nothing I can think of. Maybe let the State Department know in case we disappear forever?”

“A cheerful thought.”

“Thanks, Selma. Don't worry about us—we'll manage, as always. I'll call as soon as we know something more.”

Remi eyed him as he punched the call off. “Selma came through?”

“Doesn't she always?”

“Come on. Give.”

He told her about the medicine man's legend. When he was done, she studied her reflection in the mirror and shook her head. “Even when we're just helping a friend, we manage to trip over treasure. The Fargo luck cuts both ways, doesn't it?”

“There's no telling whether it's true or not, Remi. And, frankly,
what might have been riches thousands of years ago could be trash nowadays.”

“You mentioned gold and jewels. Last I heard, those were still in demand. In fact,” Remi said, looking pointedly at the back of one hand, “I haven't seen a nice rock in a while. I say we officially consider this a treasure hunt now that there's at least a mention of one.”

Sam ignored her facetious fishing for jewelry. “Of course we tell Leonid.”

“Absolutely. And, as always, we'll turn over whatever we find to the local government.” Remi turned toward the window and winced as her hand flew to her neck. “Ow!”

“Let's get a doctor to look at that. I know just the place.”

“I don't need to go to the hospital.”

“You just flipped over in a truck and took a tumble down a river. I'm afraid you're overruled on this one, Mrs. Fargo,” Sam said sternly.

Remi shrugged and winced again. “Fine. You win. But no shots. Promise me, no shots.”

“All I can do is relay your wishes to the powers that be.”

“Traitor.”

Dr. Vanya stepped back from where Remi was lying on the hospital exam bed. “I don't think it's anything more than some strained ligaments. Your vision is fine, you're showing no signs of serious trauma, and your neuro workup was normal.”

“That's all good news,” Sam said.

“You should avoid sudden movements or strain. Anything that would jar your head and neck are likely to be painful. I can get you a whiplash collar, if you like. It might help.”

Remi frowned. “I hate those.”

“Nobody likes them. It's up to you. It's not like you'll die if you don't wear one. Just be careful, and if you have to ask yourself whether something's a bad idea, it probably is.” Vanya regarded her. “You're extremely lucky given the circumstances. The swelling on your face will subside within a few days, and you'll have a slight bruise.
Unbelievable you survived a rollover with only a few scrapes.” She eyed Sam. “And you look like you walked away without a scratch.”

“The air bags did their job,” Sam said.

“I'll say. Did the police give you any indication of what they intend to do about this?”

Sam shook his head. “Doesn't sound like much.”

“Don't be too frustrated. Our islands have their charm, but nobody expects high efficiency. I tell newcomers who are thinking about starting businesses that if you just answer your phone and open on the days you're supposed to, you're ahead of ninety percent of the competition.” Vanya shrugged. “A relaxed island pace comes at a price. You're seeing the downside. It's nothing personal.”

“I just don't understand why we were targeted,” Remi said as she sat up.

“There's no way of knowing. There have been rumors of armed rebel groups in the mountains. Maybe you stumbled across something or disrupted their plans? Or saw something you weren't supposed to?”

“Like what?” Sam asked.

“I have no idea. I'm just grasping at straws here. I've never heard of this kind of an attack, so I'm speculating. Who knows why crazy people do violent things?” She hesitated. “I treated someone whose husband attacked her with a machete. For no reason. The best she could guess was that she'd said something that set him off. It was by the grace of God she didn't die. The husband disappeared into the hills and has never been found. Could be it's he who attacked you. You never know.”

“How many of the islanders have vehicles?” Remi asked.

“I can't say. The total population of the island is less than a hundred thousand, depending on which numbers you believe, and the vast majority live here in Honiara. My guess is there might be five thousand cars, if that,” she said doubtfully.

“Then finding the truck that did this shouldn't be too complicated.”

“In theory, no. But if many of the trucks are in rural areas where the roads are basically goat tracks, you're asking whether the police will spend weeks trying to track down every one in the middle of nowhere. I suppose anything's possible, but did you get the impression they were champing at the bit?”

Sam laughed drily. “Not exactly.”

“Then there's your answer. I'm sorry, but living here you quickly learn to have no expectations. Works better that way.”

Remi joined Sam at the door. “Thanks for seeing me,” she said, and Dr. Vanya smiled.

“I'd hoped it would be under better circumstances.” She scribbled a note on a chart and put it under her arm. “You've both been through considerable trauma. I'd take it easy for a few days. What do you have planned?”

“Other than explaining to the rental car place that one of their vehicles is now a piece of modern art? Not much,” Sam said.

“Well, try to relax. That's the allure of the Solomons, isn't it? Lounging on a beautiful beach, not a care in the world?”

“Other than the crocodiles.”

“Hardly, in town. I'd have a cocktail on the veranda and watch the sunset. Leave the strenuous activity for someone else.”

—

The walk to
the rental car lot was grueling in the humid heat and by the time they got there they were soaked through. The owner's eyes widened to the size of moons when Sam explained what had happened and he looked like he was ready to cry at the loss of his Nissan. Neither Sam nor Remi wanted to push their luck and ask about renting another vehicle, and after giving the dejected man all the police information as well as a copy of the report, they made their way back to their hotel.

As they rounded a corner onto the main road two blocks from the
waterfront, Sam leaned in to Remi and murmured to her, “Don't look back, but I think we're being followed.”

“I don't think I can look back with my neck like this. Who is it?”

“Unknown. One man in a sedan. I noticed it because it's crawling along.”

“Why is it that every damned time we go anywhere we wind up attracting the wrong kind of attention? Are you sure about this?”

“We'll know in a minute.”

They walked along at a leisurely pace, waiting for the sedan to materialize, but it never did. At the end of the long block Sam shrugged. “Maybe I'm a little paranoid.”

“A little?”

“Comes from being shot at and run off the road.”

“No question. Thankfully, this time you're wrong.”

They stopped at the intersection and Sam looked back. Only a few slow-moving pedestrians were shuffling down the sidewalk, moving from shady spot to shady spot in an effort to stave off the worst of the sun's effects. No questionable sedans were prowling the street, no furtive figures with earbuds were spinning suddenly to shield their faces from view.

When they returned to the hotel, Leonid met them in the lobby and they went to the pool bar overlooking the ocean. He walked like an old man and grumbled the entire way about the scuba school killing him slowly with their demands.

“They had me swimming laps—twenty of them, with no break—as my endurance testing. I was winded after two and thought I was hemorrhaging after ten,” he griped.

“But you made it,” Remi said brightly.

“What happened to your face?” Leonid asked, finally noticing something other than his own misery. “It's swollen.”

“Oh, didn't we mention it? Someone pushed our car off a cliff and shot at us,” Sam said with a nonchalant wave of the hand. “Remi
bumped her head when we were swimming the rapids, trying to escape.”

Leonid regarded them as if they were mad. “No, really. What happened?”

Remi smiled. “I mouthed off and Sam let me have it.”

The Russian shook his head. “I don't know what to make of you two.”

Sam leaned forward. “We really did get run off the road, Leonid. We don't know by whom, or why, but it's what happened. This morning.”

Leonid held his gaze, eyes searching for some sign of mockery, and, when he saw none, his face grew even more somber than usual. “I can't believe it.”

“I know. We just finished up at the hospital and the police. To say it's worrisome is the understatement of the year,” Sam admitted. “But we have some good news, too. Or, at least, some interesting news. There may be a treasure somewhere in the ruins.”

“What are you talking about? How do you know?”

Sam gave him the rundown. When he finished, Leonid looked even more upset than before. “Wait. So this is the king's compound and, in addition to a curse, there's a buried treasure?”

“You're acting like that's bad news.”

“It complicates matters. And it makes me wonder if that's why you were attacked. Maybe the medicine man wasn't the only one who knew about the treasure. It's possible that word's spread and someone else wants a chance at it. The divers could have talked, or the captains, and anyone who knew the legend would have gone into high gear.”

Remi glanced at Sam. “He's right. Most people here are barely surviving. The prospect of unimagined wealth can do strange things.”

“Right. But we don't actually know whether there's even a treasure, much less where it might be. And let's not forget it's in eighty feet of water. In a cursed bay teeming with sharks and crocodiles. Wouldn't it
make more sense to wait until we located it before trying to knock us out of the picture?” Sam said.

Remi shook her head. “You're assuming whoever did it is rational and logical. And we're also assuming this has to do with treasure. It could be that we intruded on something we weren't meant to see, even if we have no idea what it was, and they took action. It could be smuggling, drugs, anything. We shouldn't assume we have all the puzzle pieces because after only a few days here the odds say we don't.”

Sam nodded. “She's right, as usual.”

Leonid grunted. “So where does that leave us? What should we do now?”

Sam's brow furrowed. “I'm not sure we do anything different except keep our eyes open. We can't really dive the ruins properly until the boat arrives anyway, so it's a moot point.”

“I don't like unknowns. Particularly when they shoot at you,” Leonid said.

“Agreed, my friend. But that's all we have. I think a better question than trying to figure out the unknowable is how we treat our new knowledge of a possible treasure,” Sam said. “If we're going to do anything more than catalog the site, we may want to consider bringing in some specialized talent. Because if we're going to conduct a more thorough search, the ship's divers aren't going to do the trick—we'll want a large pro team with related experience.”

Leonid nodded. “I gather you have someone in mind?”

Sam grinned. “Not someone specific, because many of those we've worked with in the past are busy with their own projects. But we have the resources to get whatever we need. Let's put Selma on it and see who she can find. She can coordinate with the research vessel. Anything they don't have she can get flown in.”

Remi took Sam's hand. “He may look like just another pretty face, but every now and then he comes up with a good idea. I agree. Let's get some serious talent here as soon as possible.”

“When is the boat supposed to be here?” Leonid asked.

“Tomorrow evening.”

The Russian rubbed his face and studied Sam and Remi. The dark circles and bags under his eyes lent him the appearance of an unhappy raccoon. “Then all you need to do is keep from getting killed for twenty-four hours or so while I endure the final tortures of the damned scuba instruction.”

Remi smiled. “Sounds like a good plan.”

“Particularly the avoiding being murdered part,” Sam agreed.

“No more driving around in the boonies,” Remi warned.

“My appetite for adventure is completely sated at the moment. One brush with death per day is more than enough.”

“The problem is tomorrow's another day.”

“Right, but technically we had two brushes today: going off the cliff and being shot at. So that takes care of tomorrow, too.”

“I'll believe it when I see it,” Remi said, her tone skeptical.

Sam smiled. “I'm a changed man.”

“Sure you are, Fargo. Sure you are.”