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“You . .
. you don’t suspect he’s still alive, do you?”
“I’m not going to speculate. He’d be older than Moses, though, if he is, so it’s unlikely.”
“Keep on it, Selma.”
“Oh, you can depend on that. I’m sorry you didn’t find the treasure.”
“Don’t be. We’ve been able to confirm a remarkable historical discovery and we foiled a monstrous plot in the bargain. I’d say that’s a full day’s work, wouldn’t you?”
“Absolutely. I’m thinking more of Lazlo. He must be dejected.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. He’ll recover easily enough. He’s nothing if not resilient, I’ll give him that,” Remi conceded.
“Still. It’s out there somewhere.”
Remi stared off down the hallway at the police going about their grim business and nodded to herself.
“Yes, it is, Selma. Yes, it is. But you can’t win them all, right?”
“I’m sorry. You must have dropped out, I didn’t catch that last bit . . .”
They laughed together, the sound musical and easy, and Selma reminded Remi again to call that evening and let her know how Sam was faring, and to be careful—she’d been following news of the rioting online and was clearly worried.
“I will, Selma.” Remi smiled. “And thank you. For everything.”
“What did I do now?” Selma asked warily.
“Just for being you.”
CHAPTER 51
Morning mist hung thick in the air the following day as Remi motored along the logging road into the mountains, Lazlo and Leonid in the backseat, Sam riding shotgun. Sam had slept fitfully but after an early breakfast insisted he felt fine, and when they’d stopped in at the hospital with Lazlo before heading to the caves at Fleming’s request, Leonid had been waiting to be released, grumbling at the staff as he signed the discharge papers.
As Fleming had predicted, the civil unrest had run its course once the Prime Minister had addressed the nation and by morning the only evidence of the prior day’s rioting were a few smoldering storefronts on the southern end of the city and a notably increased police presence in town. The police chief had called on the Fargos that morning at their hotel to invite them back to the caves to walk him through and offer their impressions, which they’d only briefly discussed during the controlled chaos of the previous day.
Remi looked over at Sam as they neared the end point of the logging road, where a wall of police vehicles was visible in the distance.
“How’s the head?” she asked. She’d been trying to minimize the bouncing by swerving around the worst of the potholes—a tactic doomed to failure because of the deep grooves scored into the mud by the police trucks.
“I’m not going to be taking up the drums anytime soon, but I’ll manage,” Sam said.
“How about you, Leonid?”
“Compared to sleeping on that Australian rust bucket, I feel fine,” the Russian griped.
“Tell us again how you managed to get back to the main cave and then track us down and save us,” Lazlo said.
“Easy. I came to, climbed up, followed the islanders, and then whacked one when the rest were outside with the woman,” Leonid explained as though it was all as ordinary as taking a stroll around the hotel grounds.
Lazlo stared at him in amazement and shook his head. “Must be all the vodka.”
“My body is temple,” Leonid declared, exaggerating his Russian accent.
“Yes, well, mine too, albeit heavily supplemented by the fermented grape until recently.”
The Mitsubishi rolled to a stop near a forensic van, and a stern-faced island cop stared them down as they climbed out of the SUV. A dozen journalists sat in the shade, their vans nearby, watching the police watch them.
