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“Sam, do you know what this resembles?” Remi asked.
“No. Should I?”
“Probably not, I suppose. It’s less elaborate and stylized, but it’s the near spitting image of Quetzalcoatl, the Great Plumed Serpent God of the Aztecs.”
“CRAZY LIKE A FOX,” Sam muttered after a few seconds.
“Pardon?”
“Blaylock. Crazy like a fox. Clearly, he hid the Moreau map and the codex together in his walking staff for good reason. He was obsessed with something all right, but it was about more than the Shenandoah or the El Majidi.”
“Maybe it started out with them,” Remi agreed, “but somewhere along the line he must have found something, or learned something, that changed his focus. The question is, how did whoever brought this canoe here get it in the cave?”
“Unless there’s another entrance beyond croco-ville down there, they must have dismantled it, brought it in through the waterfall, then reassembled it.”
“That’s a lot of work. We’re two miles from the beach, and it weighs a couple thousand pounds.”
“Sailors tend to get attached to their vessel, especially if it’s seen them through rough seas and a long voyage. We might know more once we get these samples tested, but if we’re buying into Blaylock’s odyssey this could be an Aztec boat. Which would make it what? At least six hundred years old?”
“We’re talking about rewriting history, Sam. There are no accounts of the Aztecs traveling beyond Mexico’s coastal regions, let alone across the Pacific and around the Cape of Good Hope.”
“We’re thinking at cross-purposes, my dear.”
“How so?”
“You’re thinking west to east and the sixteenth century. I’m thinking east to west and much earlier than that.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Remi, you said it yourself: Historians aren’t entirely sure where the Aztecs originated. What if we’re standing in front of a Proto-Aztec migration ship?”
CHAPTER 32
MADAGASCAR, INDIAN OCEAN
REMI WAS ABOUT TO OPEN HER MOUTH TO REPLY WHEN THE crack of a gunshot echoed through the cave. To their left they heard something plunk into a stalagmite. They doused their headlamps and dropped to the ground. Perfectly still, barely breathing, they waited for more shots. None came. At the mouth of the right-hand tunnel the flare was sputtering, almost consumed. Red light flickered over the wall.
“Do you see anything?” Remi whispered.
“I think it came from outside. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Sam got to his feet. Hunched over, he dashed to a mineral column, stopped to look and listen, then moved on, zigzagging from cover to cover until he was pressed flat against the wall beside the entrance. He drew the Webley and ducked into the entrance.
Crack!
A bullet struck the floor beside him and ricocheted off into the cavern. Hurrying now, he ran out into the grotto, then sidestepped left until he reached the spot where they’d entered. He fell to his belly and crawled between a pair of boulders until his head slipped beneath the cascade. Eyes squinted against the torrent, he peered ahead until the lagoon came into view.
Six men, all armed with assault rifles, stood on the beach. They were dressed in torn jeans, ratty T-shirts, and combat boots. To a man, each wore a white bandanna with red-dyed corners tied around his forearm. Two of them knelt beside Sam and Remi’s packs, sorting the contents into piles. Sam scanned the lagoon area and surrounding trees but saw no sign of the Kid.
One of the men—the leader, Sam assumed, based on his mannerisms and the semiautomatic pistol he wore on his belt—barked something to the others, then pointed toward the waterfall. The five subordinates began picking their way around the lagoon.
Sam back-crawled, holstered the Webley, and hurried back into the cavern. He found Remi where he’d left her. He said, “Six men, all armed—the rebels the Kid mentioned.”
“Did you see him?”
“No, I think he got away.”
“Good.”
