pdouglas.thecodex-第58部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


o　the　south；　so　he　went　to　the　right；　following　the　trail　that　skirted　the　cliffs。　In　another　ten　minutes　he　recognized　the　terrace　and　walls　above　the　necropolis　and　found　the　hidden　trail。　He　scurried　down；　listening　at　each　switchback　in　case　Hauser　was　still　there；　but　he　had　long　gone。　A　moment　later　he　came　to　the　dark　opening　to　his　father's　tomb。
　Their　backpacks　still　lay　in　a　pile　on　the　ground　where　they　had　dropped　them。　Tom　picked　up　his　machete　and　resheathed　it　and　then　kneeled；　rifling　through　the　packs；　taking　out　some　reed　bundles　and　a　pack　of　matches。　He　lit　one　of　the　bundles　and　stepped　into　the　tomb。
　The　air　was　pestilential。　He　breathed　through　his　nose　and　ventured　deeper　inside。　A　tingle　of　horror　crawled　up　his　spine　as　he　realized　this　was　where　his　father　spent　the　last　month；　locked　up　in　pitch　darkness。　The　flickering　light　illuminated　a　raised　funeral　slab　of　dark　stone；　carved　with　skulls；　monsters；　and　other　strange　motifs；　surrounded　by　stacked　boxes　and　crates　banded　with　stainless　steel　and　bolted　shut。　This　was　no　King　Tut's　tomb。　It　looked　more　like　a　crowded；　filthy　warehouse。
　Tom　stepped　closer；　overing　his　sense　of　revulsion。　Behind　the　boxes　his　father　had　set　up　a　crude　living　space。　It　looked　as　if　he　had　scraped　together　some　dry　straw　and　dust　to　form　a　kind　of　bed。　Along　the　back　wall　stood　a　row　of　clay　pots；　which　evidently　contained　food　and　water；　the　stench　of　rot　rose　from　them。　Rats　came　leaping　out　of　the　pots　and　fled　before　the　light。　Sick　with　fascination　and　pity；　Tom　peered　into　one　and　found　a　scattering　of　dried　plantains　at　the　bottom；　the　food　was　crawling　with　greasy　black　cockroaches；　which　bumped　and　chittered　in　a　panic　from　the　torchlight。　Dead　rats　and　mice　floated　in　the　water　jugs。　Against　one　wall　was　a　pile　of　rotting　rats…obviously　killed　by　his　father　in　what　must　have　been　the　daily　petition　for　food。　In　the　back　of　the　tomb　Tom　could　see　the　gleaming　eyes　of　live　rats；　waiting　for　him　to　leave。
　What　his　father　had　endured　in　here；　waiting　in　the　pitch…dark　for　his　sons　who　might　not　ever　e　。。。　It　was　far　more　horrifying　than　he　could　possibly　imagine。　That　Maxwell　Broadbent　had　endured　and　lived…and　even　hoped…told　Tom　something　about　his　father　that　he　had　not　known　before。
　He　wiped　his　face。　He　needed　to　get　the　Codex　and　get　out。
　The　boxes　were　stenciled　and　labeled；　and　it　took　Tom　only　a　few　minutes　to　find　the　crate　containing　the　Codex。
　He　dragged　the　heavy　crate　outside　into　the　light　and　rested；　gulping　in　the　fresh　mountain　air。　The　box　itself　weighed　eighty　pounds；　and　it　contained　other　books　besides　the　Codex。　Tom　examined　the　quarter…inch　bolts　and　wing　nuts　holding　together　the　steel　bands　that　clamped　down　the　fiberglass…wrapped　wood　sides　of　the　box。　The　wing　nuts　were　tight　and　hard。　It　would　take　a　wrench　to　unscrew　them。
　He　found　a　rock　and　gave　one　of　the　nuts　a　sharp　blow；　loosening　it。　He　repeated　the　process　and　in　a　few　minutes　had　removed　all　the　wing　nuts。　He　pulled　off　the　steel　bands。　A　few　more　massive　blows　cracked　the　fiberglass　covering；　and　Tom　was　able　to　wrench　it　free。　A　half　dozen　precious　books　spilled　out；　all　carefully　wrapped　in　acid…free　paper…a　Gutenberg　Bible；　illuminated　manuscripts；　a　book　of　hours。　He　shoved　aside　the　books　and　reached　in；　grasped　the　buckskin…covered　Codex；　and　pulled　it　out。
　For　a　moment　he　stared　at　it。　He　remembered　so　clearly　how　it　had　sat　in　a　little　glass　case　in　the　living　room。　His　father　used　to　unlock　the　case　every　month　or　so　and　turn　a　page。　The　pages　had　pretty　little　drawings　of　plants；　flowers；　and　insects；　surrounded　by　glyphs。　He　remembered　staring　at　those　strange　Mayan　glyphs；　the　dots　and　thick　lines　and　grinning　faces；　all　wrapped　and　tangled　around　each　other。　He　hadn't　even　realized　it　was　a　kind　of　writing。
　Tom　emptied　one　of　their　abandoned　backpacks　and　shoved　the　book　in。　He　shouldered　the　pack　and　started　back　up　the　trail。　He　decided　to　head　southwest；　keeping　an　eye　out　for　Hauser。
　He　entered　the　ruined　city。
　
　76
　
　Hauser　followed　the　trail　more　carefully　now；　all　his　senses　alert。　He　felt　a　tingling　of　excitement　and　fear。　The　Indian　had　been　able　to　rig　up　a　trap　like　that　in　less　than　fifteen　minutes。　Amazing。　The　Indian　was　still　out　there　somewhere；　no　doubt　readying　another　ambush　for　him。　Hauser　wondered　at　the　rather　interesting　loyalty　shown　by　this　Indian　guide　to　the　Broadbents。　Hauser　never　underestimated　native　skills　in　forestcraft；　ambush；　and　killing。　The　Viet　Cong　had　taught　him　respect。　As　he　followed　the　Broadbents'　trail　he　took　every　precaution　against　ambush；　by　walking　off　to　one　side　and　pausing　every　few　minutes　to　examine　the　ground　and　undergrowth　ahead；　even　smelling　the　air　for　human　scent。　No　Indian　up　in　a　tree　was　going　to　surprise　him　with　a　poison　dart。
　He　saw　that　the　Broadbents　were　headed　toward　the　center　of　the　plateau；　where　the　jungle　was　thickest。　No　doubt　they　hoped　to　hole　up　there　and　wait　for　nightfall。　They　would　not　succeed：　Hauser　had　almost　never　encountered　a　trail　he　couldn't　follow；　particularly　one　made　by　a　panicked　group　of　people；　one　of　whom　was　bleeding　heavily。　And　he　and　his　men　had　already　thoroughly　explored　the　entire　plateau。
　Soon　the　rainforest　ahead　became　choked　by　a　wild　overgrowth　of　creepers　and　lianas。　At　first　glance　it　looked　impenetrable。　He　approached　cautiously　and　peered　down。　There　were　small　animal　trails　running　every　which　way…mostly　coatimundi　trails。　Fat；　pendulous　drops　of　water　hung　off　every　leaf；　vine；　and　flower；　waiting　for　the　slightest　vibration　to　fall。　No　one　could　walk　through　such　a　minefield　without　leaving　evidence　of　his　passage　in　the　form　of　leaves　brushed　clean　of　their　dew。　Hauser　could　see　exactly　where　they　had　gone。　He　followed　their　trail　into　the　dense　overgrowth；　where　it　seemed　to　vanish。
　Hauser　scrutinized　the　ground。　There；　in　the　damp　litter　of　the　forest　floor；　were　two　almost　invisible　indentations；　formed　by　a　pair　of　human　knees。　Interesting。　They　had　crawled　into　the　heart　of　the　creeper　colony　along　the　animal　trails。　He　squatted　and　peered　into　the　green　darkness。　He　sampled　the　air　with　his　nose。　He　examined　the　ground。　Which　trail　had　they　taken？　There；　three　feet　in；　was　a　tiny　crushed　mushroom；　no　bigger　than　a　dime；　and　a　scraped　leaf。　They　had　gone　to　earth　in　this　mass　of　vegetation；　waiting　for　nightfall。　Without　a　doubt；　Hauser　thought；　the　Indian　had　set　up　his　ambush　in　here。　It　was　a　perfect　place。　He　stood　back　up　and　examined　the　layers　of　rainforest。　Yes；　the　Indian　would　be　hiding　somewhere　on　a　branch　above　this　warren　of　trails；　poison　dart　at　the　ready；　waiting　for　him　to　crawl　past　below。
　What　he　had　to　do　was　to　ambush　the　ambusher。
　Hauser　thought　for　a　moment。　The　Indian　was　smart。　He　would　already　have　anticipated　this。　He　would　know　that　Hauser　would　be　expecting　an　ambush　on　this　trail。　Therefore；　the　Indian　was　not　waiting　in　ambush　on　this　trail。　No。　Rather；　he　expected　Hauser　to　circle　in　and　e　around　from　the　other　side。　Therefore；　the　Indian　was　waiting　on　the　other　side　of　the　gigantic　mass　of　growth　to　ambush　Hauser。
　Hauser　slowly　began　circling　the　edge　of　the　creeper　colony；　moving　as　silently　and　smoothly　as　an　Indian　himself。　If　his　assumptions　were　correct；　the　Indian　would　be　found　on　the　far　side；　probably　up　high；　waiting　for　him　to　pass　below。　He　would　finish　the　Indian　first…who　was　by　far　the　greater　danger…and　then　he　would　flush　out　the　others　and　drive　them　toward　the　bridge；　where　they　would　be　easily　trapped　and　killed。
　Hauser　circled　at　a　distance；　stopping　every　few　moments　to　scan　the　middle　story　of　the　jungle。　If　the　Indian　had　done　as　he　anticipated；　he　would　be　somewhere　to　his　right。　He　moved　with　great　caution。　It　took　time；　but　time　at　least　was　on　his　side。　He　had　at　least　seven　hours　until　dark。
　He　moved　forward；　scanned　again。　There　was　something　in　a　tree。　He　paused；　moved　a　little；　looked　again。　Just　the　corner　of　the　Indian's　red　shirt　was　visible；　on　a　limb　about　fifty　yards　to　his　right；　and　there…he　could　just　see　it…was　the　tip　of　a　little　reed　blowgun　aiming　downward；　waiting　to　nail　Hauser　as　he　came　through。
　Hauser　moved　sideways　until　he　had　more　of　the　Indian's　shirt　in　sight　to　make　a　target。　He　raised　his　rifle；　took　careful　aim；　and　fired　a　single　round。
　Nothing。　And　yet　he　knew　he　had　hit　it。　A　sudden　panic　seized　him：　It　was　another　trap。　He　flung　himself　sideways　at　the　very　moment　the　Indian　came　dropping　down　on　him　like　a　cat；　sharpened　stick　in　hand。　Using　a　jujitsu　move；　Hauser　threw　himself　forward　and　to　the　side；　turning　the　Indian's　own　momentum　against　him；　neatly　throwing　him　off…and　then　he　was　up　and　placing　an　arc　of　automatic…weapon　fire　across　where　the　Indian　had　been。
　The　Indian　was　gone；　vanished。
　He　reconnoitered。　The　Indian　had　still　been　one　step　ahead　of　him。　He　glanced　up　and　saw　the　tree　with　the　little　bit　of　red　cloth；　the　tip　of　the　blowgun　dart；　all　still　in　place　exactly　where　the　Indian　had　put　them。　Hauser　swallowed。　Now　was　not　the　time　for　fear　or　anger。　He　had　a　job　to　do。　He　would　no　longer　play　the　Indian's　cat…and…mouse　game；　which　Hauser　now　suspected　he　would　lose。　The　time　had　e　to　flush　out　the　Broadbents　with　brute　force。
　He　turned　and　walked　along　the　edge　of　the　creeper　colony；　planted　his　feet；　and　took　aim　with　the　Steyr　AUG。　First　one　burst；　then　a　second；　and　then　he　walked　on；　pouring　fire　into　the　thick　vegetation。　It　had　exactly　the　effect　he　anticipated：　It　flushed　out　the　Broadbents。　He　could　hear　their　panicked　flight；　noisy；　like　partridges。　Now　he　knew　where　they　were。　He　sprinted　along　the　mass　of　growth　to　cut　them　off　as　they　emerged　and　herd　them　toward　the　bridge。
　There　was　a　sudden　sound　behind　him；　and　he　spun　toward　the　greater　danger；　squeezing　the　trigger　and　pouring　firepower　into　the　dense　cover　where　the　sound　had　e　from。　Leaves；　vines；　arid　twigs　jittered　off　the　branches　and　flew　in　all　directions；　and　he　could　hear　the　snick　and　thok　of　bullets　striking　wood　everywhere。　He　saw　some　movement　and　raked　the　vegetation　with　fire　again…and　then　he　heard　a　squeal　and　some　thrashing。
　Coatimundi；　damn　it！　He　had　shot　a　coat