Chapter One
Borneo
The river was always darkened by the shadows of the various subtropical faunas along its banks, but as it passed beneath a mountain range it became nearly impossible to see beneath the water’s surface. On this day a proboscis monkey hurried nervously through this area, knowing from experience that crocodiles waited just out of sight.
Upstream, a small steamer came around the bend, and the monkey regarded it with curiosity. He had seen such metal beasts occasionally before but had no idea what to make of them. They had never harmed him, and he presumed this rather dilapidated specimen would be no exception. Then he heard shouts from its direction. Shouts of panic.
“Dr. Jones, we’re out of coal!” one voice yelled. Though these words meant nothing to him, the monkey decided not to take any chances and scurried off into the undergrowth.
The voice belonged to a wild-eyed native of Borneo named Kabul who was just now shoveling the last dust of coal into the ship’s engine. He glanced back at the man whom his cry had brought up from below deck. The man, Professor Indiana Jones, was more accustomed to life or death situations than to teaching in his classroom, as evidenced by the fedora, bullwhip and leather jacket that he wore whenever he got the chance.
Indy didn’t bat an eyelash as he pushed Kabul aside and took the wheel. “Burn anything you can get your hands on, Kabul,” he said. “I’ll try to get her out into the current.” He yanked the wheel hard to starboard and checked the steam gauge, which still showed half full. “Damn it, I meant to get that gauge fixed,” he muttered, thumping it with his fist. He only succeeded in bruising his knuckles.
“I should have fixed it,” Kabul said as he loosened a portion of the deck. “I forgot. I am sorry.”
They passed beneath the shadow of the mountain. Along the riverbank, crocodiles twenty feet long and six months between meals eyed the boat, seeming to sense that it was in trouble. Kabul pulled down a pole that held the awning and broke it across his knee, but instead of a snap, he was shocked to hear a resounding boom.
Indy and Kabul exchanged a look as a plume of water rose twenty feet high off the port side of the steamer. Indy looked downriver at a World War II-vintage PT boat, equipped with machine gun and cannon. It roared around a bend in the river and bore down on the tiny steamer, its deck swarming with river pirates waving guns and a variety of Malaysian machete known as parangs. The front cannon fired another 5mm shell that missed the steamer by several feet.
Indy cracked open his Webley, checked the cylinder, and was pleased to find it full. He tossed it to his companion. “Make them count, Kabul,” he said. For himself he grabbed a .45 automatic from a hidden shelf under the gunwale.
Kabul nodded but didn’t like the odds.
The PT boat pulled up alongside and half a dozen pirates swarmed onto the steamer’s deck, eager for blood. At first the tiny boat seemed deserted. Then suddenly with a loud crack a bullwhip lashed out of nowhere, wrapping itself around the waist of a startled pirate and hurling him over the gunwales into the river. Indy snapped the whip loose and shot a second pirate as the crocodiles slid into the water, eager for a snack.
Kabul fired with desperate abandon and in a moment was out of bullets. He threw the gun at a pirate as two others overwhelmed him and thrust him into the mast. “Dr. Jones!” he gasped, but Indy was preoccupied with his own struggles at the moment. Kabul’s thrashing was useless as they wrapped a rope around him.
A well-dressed gentleman in a pith helmet appeared on the deck of the PT boat to watch the action. He saw as Indy, his hiding spot compromised, ducked around the front of the boat right into the fist of a huge pirate. Indy's gun skittered across the deck as he flailed and nearly fell over backward, but the pirate grabbed him and bent him over the gunwale, pushing his head closer to the water with one hand and bringing a parang to his throat with the other.
Indy couldn’t even think of getting loose; he had to use both hands to keep the blade from carving him another mouth. Even now, his professorial brain was running as he looked at the blade. It was optimized for a stronger chopping action than a traditional machete, with a heavier blade and “sweet spot” further forward from the handle, owing to the vegetation being woodier in Malaysia than in South America. It had three different edges; the front was very sharp and used for skinning, the middle wider and used for chopping, and the back end near the handle was very fine and used for carving.
He might have laughed at the absurdity of it all, but this was hardly the first time he’d had a knife at his throat. The pirate did laugh, though it was hardly the first time he’d held a knife at someone’s throat. He released the pressure as he looked up at the well-dressed man, who had boarded the steamer and walked over to them. The man wiped his brow with a handkerchief and stared down at Indy.
Indy knew this man by the name of Frederick Baldassare and, in spite of the imminent danger, his first thought was exasperation. He had dealt with this type over and over and over again throughout the years, trying to steal the fruits of his archaeological labors for whatever reason. René Belloq, a rival archaeologist, had been the most unique, interesting and competent one, but he had died thirteen years ago. The rest all blurred together.
“Where are the maps, Dr. Jones?” Baldassare demanded. At least he didn’t waste time blowing hot air like most of the others.
“You want maps? Check my glove compartment,” Indy said. Wait, hadn’t he said that before sometime? Probably. He was running out of witty retorts.
Just then a pirate emerged from below deck with a trunk and held it up to Baldassare, who eagerly broke it open. It was filled to the brim with artifacts from a deceased local civilization; the products of three weeks’ digging. Though not shiny or fancy in any way they provided a fascinating glimpse into the lives of ancient people and would be considered immensely valuable to any museum – something that Baldassare, judging by the gleam in his eyes, was aware of. “Never mind,” he said. “These will do. You see, I’m not greedy, Dr. Jones.”
Indy wasn’t paying attention. He was eyeing a crocodile, unsatisfied with its earlier morsels, moving silently as a torpedo for his head.
Baldassare followed his gaze and grinned. “Dr. Jones’ services are no longer required,” he said. “Get rid of him.”
The huge pirate leaned in with Indy to finish the job just as the crocodile lunged out of the water. With a strength born of desperation, Indy jerked his head away and yanked the pirate’s knife hand into the croc’s gaping maw. The reptilian jaws clamped shut on the hand and snipped it clean off. The pirate withdrew his stump and ran screaming across the deck back to the PT boat.
Indy lunged for his gun. Baldassare kicked it out of his grasp, but Indy turned his landing into a roll and came up with it aimed straight at the pirate leader. Before he could say anything, however, something sharp and metal landed in his back, just above his left shoulder blade. White-hot pain seared from the spot. As his groaned and reached out his right arm for it, Baldassare darted away.
The handle of the knife stayed just beyond the reach of his groping fingers, and in the corner of his eye he saw two pirates charging at him. He swung around with the gun in his left hand, and as he did his shoulder popped out of its socket and he slipped the knife easily from his back. But the pirates were already upon him and knocked him over the side, where the water of the dark river closed over his head.
***
“Dr. Jones!” Kabul yelled again, and a filthy rag was quickly jammed into his mouth. He watched the water churn, then turn a sickening red.
Baldassare smiled at the sight. “Your Dr. Jones has finally met his fate,” he said. “Truly we have witnessed an historic day. I am honored to have been responsible for it.”
The pirates set to work unloading the boxes of artifacts from the tiny steamer onto the PT boat, but Baldassare stopped one of them and whispered something in his ear. The pirate laughed and went below deck. When he returned, he was holding several boxes of dynamite, and he began stacking them around Kabul’s feet.
“This is nothing personal,” Baldassare assured his captive. “I’m not the bloodthirsty type, but the boys here are more cooperative if I sate their lusts once in a while.” From his pocket he pulled a single dynamite stick and nestled it against the boxes. Then he lit the long fuse and bolted onto the PT boat after the others. In spite of his noble words, he laughed with the rest of them as they pulled away.
Kabul watched the fuse burn quickly across the deck. He struggled with his bonds, but although the rope was old and worm-eaten, it was tied fast. Slipping out would take more time than he had available.
Then a hand grabbed the gunwale. A moment later Indiana Jones rolled back onto the steamer, his clothes in tatters, his other hand in a death grip on his hat. He lay gasping and coughing on the deck but did not look up.
After what seemed an hour he gathered the breath to say scornfully, “Like I’ve never wrestled a crocodile before.” He shook his head. “I’m getting too old for this, Kabul...”
Kabul strained at his bonds and yelled through his gag, but Indy didn’t notice. The fuse went right under the archaeologist's leg without him seeing it. “I’ve got to get out of this grind...” he continued.
Kabul’s eyes bulged in panic. He put everything he could into yelling, but the gag was as tight as the ropes.
“...Find a place to settle down.” Had he really just said that? Yeah, he had, so it must be true. He realized he wouldn’t kid about such a thing.
“Ummmmmm!” Kabul screamed. The fuse ran up the last five inches, four inches – he closed his eyes and prepared for oblivion –
“Kabul,” Indy said, “are you listening to me?” He rolled over onto his back, saw the dynamite, and in one swift motion that was more instinct than thought he hurled it into the jungle, where it exploded and scattered a chorus of brightly-colored birds.
Kabul’s eyes rolled back in his head and he fainted.
“Well,” Indy said, “why didn’t you say something?”
***
Missing sections of its decking and masts, the steamer putted on down the river. “All our work, gone,” Kabul lamented as he steered. “Three months, no pay. Everything gone. Even three days late to pick up doctor.”
Indy gasped and took a break from painfully trying to put on another shirt. “Not everything,” he said. He picked up his other shirt, wet and bloody, from the deck at his feet, and from its pocket he pulled out a small golden idol. Kabul laughed, and he managed a weak smile. “All Baldassare got was a load of crockery,” Indy continued. “By the time he finds out we have the idol, we’ll be on our way back to London.” Suddenly his guide’s words registered. “What doctor?”
“Dr. McGregor,” Kabul said, “from Princeton. You said that you would take her north to –”
Indy remembered now but wanted no part of it. “That was before I quit,” he interrupted. The words surprised him, but again, as soon as they were out he knew they were true. He was fifty years old, for crying out loud. It was time to do something else.
“You must,” Kabul said. “You promised Marcus.”
Indy hesitated. He had indeed promised this as a favor to his old friend Marcus Brody, who had taken a liking to Dr. McGregor. Marcus had done so many things for him, too, that he didn’t want to let his buddy down. But he couldn’t take another adventure, and he couldn’t go anywhere without adventures happening to him. Besides, he could always arrange for someone else to pick her up. “Marcus will understand,” he said. “I’m through.”
Kabul saw that he was serious, and shook his head in wonder. This was not the Indiana Jones he had come to know.
***
The little steamer threaded its way among the tambangs, lorries and dugout canoes full of wares and pulled up to a rickety river dock. Before it had stopped moving, Indy hopped onto the wharf teeming with river people and nearly stumbled over a large yellow crocodile stretched out on its back. He jumped back with a yelp and the bystanders laughed. Kabul followed, also giving the reptile a wide berth.
“Get to the bar and call London,” Indy said. “Tell them we’ve got the idol and to wire us some cash. Then try to sell the boat.”
“What’re you going to do?” Kabul asked.
“I’m going to find Dr. McGregor and tell her to get another guide, then go to the hotel and have a hot bath.” Ah, hot baths. There was something you didn’t get much in the adventuring business, and after three months in the jungle nothing could provide more ecstasy, with the possible exception of real food.
Kabul nodded and moved away. He felt bad for Marcus and Dr. McGregor, but he knew better than to try to change Indy’s mind when it was set.
Indy continued down the crowded dock until he found Casada, a heavily-tattooed pots and pans trader with distended earlobes whom he had met when starting out on the expedition. Casada's eyes brightened to see him alive. “Dr. Jones,” he said. “Long time...”
“Casada, have you seen an American woman looking for me?” Indy asked. “Probably going out of her mind right now...”
The trader pointed down the dock at a Caucasian woman in her early thirties. She had shoulder-length dirty blonde hair framing a pale triangular face with brown eyes and a dainty little nub of a nose. Dressed in khaki pants, a T-shirt, and a red bandanna, she laughed and talked with several native women, looking and sounding completely at home.
“She’s been waiting for you,” Casada said, “but she’s not worried.”
Indy felt something strange come over him. With his good hand he quickly attempted to button his shirt and run his fingers through his hair as he snuck a look at his ragged appearance in the shiny bottom of one of Casada’s pots. Hopeless, he realized, his heart gripped with panic. Before he could escape, a voice stopped him.
“Dr. Jones? I’m Elaine McGregor.”
Indy looked up to see the woman looking at him through a pair of the most amazing eyes he had ever seen, and he had seen quite a few. Even through the scents of the marketplace he could distinguish her perfume, and it made him light-headed. “Dr. McGregor,” he said, his tongue suddenly feeling like lead in his mouth. “I’m sorry I’m late – we had a little trouble getting here and –”
“You’re wounded!” she gasped, catching sight of the back of his shoulder.
How could he have forgotten? “Oh, it’s nothing. Just a –”
She barked some foreign words with the distinctive tone of command. Instantly people on the dock were moving like the wind, bringing her supplies.
Indy gaped. “You speak Iban?”
A man selling herbs offered an armload of his wares to Dr. McGregor. Without hesitation she selected three and began making a poultice. “I speak forty-nine languages and dialects, Dr. Jones,” she said. “I’m a linguist, or didn’t Dr. Brody tell you?”
“There were obviously a lot of things Marcus didn’t tell me about you…” he mumbled.
She pressed the poultice, which had taken her less than thirty seconds to make, to his back. “How does that feel?”
Whatever she had done was incredible. The pain and stiffness in his shoulder muscles evaporated and he could to move his arm again. “You’re an angel,” he said before he could stop himself.
“Not hardly,” she said, giving him an enigmatic smile.
Indy’s heart jumped. And then he caught himself. What the hell was going on? He was feeling, not to mention acting, like a third-grader with a crush. Certainly he’d been with enough beautiful women over the years that he shouldn’t have been fazed by anything one could dish out. Besides, there were important matters to take care of. Get a grip on yourself, Jones, he thought. “Look, Dr. McGregor –”
“Elaine,” she corrected, starting to bandage his arm. He tingled where her fingers brushed his sleeve.
“Elaine,” he amended. Dispensing with the formalities already; perfect. “Going upriver in Borneo to find some temple that no one’s heard about for eight hundred years sounds great when you’re sitting in an office in Princeton. But Borneo isn’t for the faint of heart. Headhunting is still a major practice of the upland tribes and the river is full of pirates.”
She frowned. “Does that mean you won’t be coming with me?”
He blinked. “You mean I didn’t discourage you?”
“Not hardly,” she said, finishing his bandage and pulling it snug. She looked him in the eye again. “The Iban temple exists,” she said with conviction. “It has taken me three years to raise the money for this expedition, and though I’m touched by your concern for my well-being, it won’t stop me. Finding the temple means more to me than anything. Either you take me, or I’ll find a guide who will.”
“Well.” Indy swallowed, suddenly feeling the heat. “I don’t want that to happen.”
Their gazes remained locked for a few more seconds, and at the same moment both of them began feeling a bit uncomfortable. As luck would have it, Kabul reappeared just then. “Good news, Dr. Jones!” he said, rushing up to them. “I sold the boat!”
Indy snapped back to the present. “Not now, Kabul,” he mumbled sotto voce.
“Good price – what?”
“You sold the boat?” Elaine sounded a bit distressed. “Your boat?”
“Yes,” Kabul said apologetically, looking in confusion from one to the other.
“No,” Indy said, forcing a laugh, “there’s been some mistake. He didn’t sell our boat.” He gave Kabul a cold hard stare and put extra emphasis on his words. “I never said sell ‘the boat’. I said sell ‘the goat’.”
Kabul was totally lost. “The goat?”
“Is there a problem?” Elaine said testily.
“No, no problem,” Indy insisted. “Why don’t you get your things? Kabul is going to get the boat ready for the trip upriver.”
Kabul’s eyes widened. Elaine looked at them both strangely, then shrugged to herself and moved off into the crowd. Indy stared after her in a daze, admiring her walk, the walk of someone who knew where she was going and what she wanted in the world. His gaze drifted down to her ankles. Nice ankles, strong ankles.
It took him a few seconds to notice Kabul tugging on his sleeve. “Indy, are you all right?” he was saying. “Do you have a fever or something? You’re acting strange.”
Indy waved him off. “I’m just tired. I’ll sleep on the boat.”
“If we can get it back,” Kabul said. “The man I sold it to will want twice as much for it now, to recoup his loss.”
“Write him a check,” Indy said. “Let me worry about it.” Actually, Marcus Brody would be the one who would have to worry about it, but Indy would make it up to him. Somehow.
***
The crackling fire sent sparks spiraling up into the sky, joining the stars before they fizzled out. Indy knew that in fact most of the stars themselves had also “fizzled out” quite some time ago, and their light was just now reaching Earth. The kind of distances involved were impossible for him to wrap his brain around. He preferred not to try.
“They were never so bright back in New Jersey,” Elaine said. She was seated next to him on the fallen log he had dragged over to the campsite. Nearby, out of sight but taking care to stay close to the fire, Kabul gathered more wood.
“You should get out in the field more often,” Indy said. “I’ve seen this light show a thousand times, from as many angles.”
“It’s always been in the nature of mankind to explore, and colonize, and basically conquer everywhere he can reach,” Elaine continued. She gestured up at the sky. “Do you think he’ll ever get that far?”
Indy shrugged. “I imagine if he does, he’ll lose interest and come home pretty quick. Dusting off space rocks isn’t my idea of a swell time.”
“No,” she said, casting a sidelong glance at him. “I’m sure arrowheads are much more interesting.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I happen to think they are,” he said, narrowing his eyes at her. “If you’d care to attend one of my lectures on the subject, I’m sure you’ll come to agree.” He paused to reflect for a moment. “When they aren’t being thrown or shot at you, they’re much easier to examine. That’s always nice.”
She laughed; a magical sound like the tinkling of fairy wings. The red glow of the campfire gave her skin an unearthly quality that might have been unsettling on some people, but in this case only served to augment her beauty.
As she looked into his eyes he noticed the familiar telltale signs that she, too, was beginning to feel something strange. Something unfamiliar, something wonderful, something alarming. She tried to push it aside, pretend it wasn’t there. But before her brain could stop it, her mouth was saying, “I feel compelled to tell you, Dr. Jones, that I’m engaged.”
Indy’s heart sank, but for the moment he hardly noticed it, so trapped was he in those gorgeous brown eyes. “Apropos of what?”
She shrugged. “I just – your reputation precedes you, Dr. Jones. I’ve heard about how you seduce another woman at least every month. And I don’t mean to flatter myself, but if you had that in mind again, you just should know that it isn’t going to work out like that.”
“I’m insulted,” he said. “I’m perfectly capable of maintaining a purely professional relationship with a colleague of the opposite sex.”
“Yes?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Do you know that from experience?”
“Yes!” he snapped. “There was Sophia Hapgood, for one, and – and – others. They’ll come back to me.”
“I suppose those would be less memorable,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “All those women – tell me, Dr. Jones, did any of them really mean anything to you? Or was each just the latest trophy for the shelf of your manhood?”
“That’s getting a bit personal,” Indy said, shifting away from her. “You’ve made your point. You’re off-limits. I respect that.”
“Sorry, I can be a bit blunt sometimes,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “It’s none of my business. Anyway, let’s forget this silly talk. We have work to do.”
“Agreed.” Indy intended to do just that, but before his brain could stop it, his mouth was saying, “Who’s the lucky guy?”
“Dr. Benjamin F. Morganthal. A charming, intelligent man...”
“An intelligent man wouldn’t let you come to Borneo alone, Dr. McGregor,” he retorted softly.
“Maybe he was glad to be rid of me for a while,” she retorted back. “He’s fond of peace and quiet, and he knows I can take care of myself.”
“Peace and quiet. I wonder what that would be like.”
“Perhaps you should have gone into philosophy, Dr. Jones,” Elaine said, standing up and brushing ash off her pants legs. “I’m turning in. Good night.”
Indy mumbled something back to her and continued to poke at the fire in silence. He became aware now of the pain in his heart at having learned she was engaged, and hated himself for it. What had he expected, that they’d live happily ever after together? It had never worked out long-term before, all those other times. And now he was – Lord, was he really fifty? He’d never get used to that.
He had to be losing his mind; that was all there was to it. His decision to quit, impetuous though it had seemed even by his standards, had clearly been at least a few years in the making. He had been working up to it as his disillusionment had grown for some time. However, his rescinding of that decision owing to an infatuation with a woman he’d just met, an engaged woman no less, really was sudden and crazy enough to cause him some alarm as he thought about it now.
“So,” Kabul said, approaching with the firewood from where he’d been lurking just within earshot, “that could have gone better, eh?”
“Stuff it,” Indy said.
Kabul didn’t stuff it. “You know,” he continued as he set the wood down, “she’s not married yet. I didn’t even see a ring.”
Indy shook his head. “What are you suggesting? I’m a decent man, Kabul, or at least I try to be. She’s taken. I’m staying out of the way.”
“Suit yourself. We have bigger things to worry about anyway.” The guide glanced around as if afraid their adversary would burst from the undergrowth at any moment. “When Baldassare finds out about the maps he will kill you.”
“Trust me, Kabul,” Indy said. He’d said that more than a few times over the years – sometimes it was justified, and sometimes not, but he tried not to think about that. “He’ll never know.”
Next: Chapter Two
Upstream, a small steamer came around the bend, and the monkey regarded it with curiosity. He had seen such metal beasts occasionally before but had no idea what to make of them. They had never harmed him, and he presumed this rather dilapidated specimen would be no exception. Then he heard shouts from its direction. Shouts of panic.
“Dr. Jones, we’re out of coal!” one voice yelled. Though these words meant nothing to him, the monkey decided not to take any chances and scurried off into the undergrowth.
The voice belonged to a wild-eyed native of Borneo named Kabul who was just now shoveling the last dust of coal into the ship’s engine. He glanced back at the man whom his cry had brought up from below deck. The man, Professor Indiana Jones, was more accustomed to life or death situations than to teaching in his classroom, as evidenced by the fedora, bullwhip and leather jacket that he wore whenever he got the chance.
Indy didn’t bat an eyelash as he pushed Kabul aside and took the wheel. “Burn anything you can get your hands on, Kabul,” he said. “I’ll try to get her out into the current.” He yanked the wheel hard to starboard and checked the steam gauge, which still showed half full. “Damn it, I meant to get that gauge fixed,” he muttered, thumping it with his fist. He only succeeded in bruising his knuckles.
“I should have fixed it,” Kabul said as he loosened a portion of the deck. “I forgot. I am sorry.”
They passed beneath the shadow of the mountain. Along the riverbank, crocodiles twenty feet long and six months between meals eyed the boat, seeming to sense that it was in trouble. Kabul pulled down a pole that held the awning and broke it across his knee, but instead of a snap, he was shocked to hear a resounding boom.
Indy and Kabul exchanged a look as a plume of water rose twenty feet high off the port side of the steamer. Indy looked downriver at a World War II-vintage PT boat, equipped with machine gun and cannon. It roared around a bend in the river and bore down on the tiny steamer, its deck swarming with river pirates waving guns and a variety of Malaysian machete known as parangs. The front cannon fired another 5mm shell that missed the steamer by several feet.
Indy cracked open his Webley, checked the cylinder, and was pleased to find it full. He tossed it to his companion. “Make them count, Kabul,” he said. For himself he grabbed a .45 automatic from a hidden shelf under the gunwale.
Kabul nodded but didn’t like the odds.
The PT boat pulled up alongside and half a dozen pirates swarmed onto the steamer’s deck, eager for blood. At first the tiny boat seemed deserted. Then suddenly with a loud crack a bullwhip lashed out of nowhere, wrapping itself around the waist of a startled pirate and hurling him over the gunwales into the river. Indy snapped the whip loose and shot a second pirate as the crocodiles slid into the water, eager for a snack.
Kabul fired with desperate abandon and in a moment was out of bullets. He threw the gun at a pirate as two others overwhelmed him and thrust him into the mast. “Dr. Jones!” he gasped, but Indy was preoccupied with his own struggles at the moment. Kabul’s thrashing was useless as they wrapped a rope around him.
A well-dressed gentleman in a pith helmet appeared on the deck of the PT boat to watch the action. He saw as Indy, his hiding spot compromised, ducked around the front of the boat right into the fist of a huge pirate. Indy's gun skittered across the deck as he flailed and nearly fell over backward, but the pirate grabbed him and bent him over the gunwale, pushing his head closer to the water with one hand and bringing a parang to his throat with the other.
Indy couldn’t even think of getting loose; he had to use both hands to keep the blade from carving him another mouth. Even now, his professorial brain was running as he looked at the blade. It was optimized for a stronger chopping action than a traditional machete, with a heavier blade and “sweet spot” further forward from the handle, owing to the vegetation being woodier in Malaysia than in South America. It had three different edges; the front was very sharp and used for skinning, the middle wider and used for chopping, and the back end near the handle was very fine and used for carving.
He might have laughed at the absurdity of it all, but this was hardly the first time he’d had a knife at his throat. The pirate did laugh, though it was hardly the first time he’d held a knife at someone’s throat. He released the pressure as he looked up at the well-dressed man, who had boarded the steamer and walked over to them. The man wiped his brow with a handkerchief and stared down at Indy.
Indy knew this man by the name of Frederick Baldassare and, in spite of the imminent danger, his first thought was exasperation. He had dealt with this type over and over and over again throughout the years, trying to steal the fruits of his archaeological labors for whatever reason. René Belloq, a rival archaeologist, had been the most unique, interesting and competent one, but he had died thirteen years ago. The rest all blurred together.
“Where are the maps, Dr. Jones?” Baldassare demanded. At least he didn’t waste time blowing hot air like most of the others.
“You want maps? Check my glove compartment,” Indy said. Wait, hadn’t he said that before sometime? Probably. He was running out of witty retorts.
Just then a pirate emerged from below deck with a trunk and held it up to Baldassare, who eagerly broke it open. It was filled to the brim with artifacts from a deceased local civilization; the products of three weeks’ digging. Though not shiny or fancy in any way they provided a fascinating glimpse into the lives of ancient people and would be considered immensely valuable to any museum – something that Baldassare, judging by the gleam in his eyes, was aware of. “Never mind,” he said. “These will do. You see, I’m not greedy, Dr. Jones.”
Indy wasn’t paying attention. He was eyeing a crocodile, unsatisfied with its earlier morsels, moving silently as a torpedo for his head.
Baldassare followed his gaze and grinned. “Dr. Jones’ services are no longer required,” he said. “Get rid of him.”
The huge pirate leaned in with Indy to finish the job just as the crocodile lunged out of the water. With a strength born of desperation, Indy jerked his head away and yanked the pirate’s knife hand into the croc’s gaping maw. The reptilian jaws clamped shut on the hand and snipped it clean off. The pirate withdrew his stump and ran screaming across the deck back to the PT boat.
Indy lunged for his gun. Baldassare kicked it out of his grasp, but Indy turned his landing into a roll and came up with it aimed straight at the pirate leader. Before he could say anything, however, something sharp and metal landed in his back, just above his left shoulder blade. White-hot pain seared from the spot. As his groaned and reached out his right arm for it, Baldassare darted away.
The handle of the knife stayed just beyond the reach of his groping fingers, and in the corner of his eye he saw two pirates charging at him. He swung around with the gun in his left hand, and as he did his shoulder popped out of its socket and he slipped the knife easily from his back. But the pirates were already upon him and knocked him over the side, where the water of the dark river closed over his head.
***
“Dr. Jones!” Kabul yelled again, and a filthy rag was quickly jammed into his mouth. He watched the water churn, then turn a sickening red.
Baldassare smiled at the sight. “Your Dr. Jones has finally met his fate,” he said. “Truly we have witnessed an historic day. I am honored to have been responsible for it.”
The pirates set to work unloading the boxes of artifacts from the tiny steamer onto the PT boat, but Baldassare stopped one of them and whispered something in his ear. The pirate laughed and went below deck. When he returned, he was holding several boxes of dynamite, and he began stacking them around Kabul’s feet.
“This is nothing personal,” Baldassare assured his captive. “I’m not the bloodthirsty type, but the boys here are more cooperative if I sate their lusts once in a while.” From his pocket he pulled a single dynamite stick and nestled it against the boxes. Then he lit the long fuse and bolted onto the PT boat after the others. In spite of his noble words, he laughed with the rest of them as they pulled away.
Kabul watched the fuse burn quickly across the deck. He struggled with his bonds, but although the rope was old and worm-eaten, it was tied fast. Slipping out would take more time than he had available.
Then a hand grabbed the gunwale. A moment later Indiana Jones rolled back onto the steamer, his clothes in tatters, his other hand in a death grip on his hat. He lay gasping and coughing on the deck but did not look up.
After what seemed an hour he gathered the breath to say scornfully, “Like I’ve never wrestled a crocodile before.” He shook his head. “I’m getting too old for this, Kabul...”
Kabul strained at his bonds and yelled through his gag, but Indy didn’t notice. The fuse went right under the archaeologist's leg without him seeing it. “I’ve got to get out of this grind...” he continued.
Kabul’s eyes bulged in panic. He put everything he could into yelling, but the gag was as tight as the ropes.
“...Find a place to settle down.” Had he really just said that? Yeah, he had, so it must be true. He realized he wouldn’t kid about such a thing.
“Ummmmmm!” Kabul screamed. The fuse ran up the last five inches, four inches – he closed his eyes and prepared for oblivion –
“Kabul,” Indy said, “are you listening to me?” He rolled over onto his back, saw the dynamite, and in one swift motion that was more instinct than thought he hurled it into the jungle, where it exploded and scattered a chorus of brightly-colored birds.
Kabul’s eyes rolled back in his head and he fainted.
“Well,” Indy said, “why didn’t you say something?”
***
Missing sections of its decking and masts, the steamer putted on down the river. “All our work, gone,” Kabul lamented as he steered. “Three months, no pay. Everything gone. Even three days late to pick up doctor.”
Indy gasped and took a break from painfully trying to put on another shirt. “Not everything,” he said. He picked up his other shirt, wet and bloody, from the deck at his feet, and from its pocket he pulled out a small golden idol. Kabul laughed, and he managed a weak smile. “All Baldassare got was a load of crockery,” Indy continued. “By the time he finds out we have the idol, we’ll be on our way back to London.” Suddenly his guide’s words registered. “What doctor?”
“Dr. McGregor,” Kabul said, “from Princeton. You said that you would take her north to –”
Indy remembered now but wanted no part of it. “That was before I quit,” he interrupted. The words surprised him, but again, as soon as they were out he knew they were true. He was fifty years old, for crying out loud. It was time to do something else.
“You must,” Kabul said. “You promised Marcus.”
Indy hesitated. He had indeed promised this as a favor to his old friend Marcus Brody, who had taken a liking to Dr. McGregor. Marcus had done so many things for him, too, that he didn’t want to let his buddy down. But he couldn’t take another adventure, and he couldn’t go anywhere without adventures happening to him. Besides, he could always arrange for someone else to pick her up. “Marcus will understand,” he said. “I’m through.”
Kabul saw that he was serious, and shook his head in wonder. This was not the Indiana Jones he had come to know.
***
The little steamer threaded its way among the tambangs, lorries and dugout canoes full of wares and pulled up to a rickety river dock. Before it had stopped moving, Indy hopped onto the wharf teeming with river people and nearly stumbled over a large yellow crocodile stretched out on its back. He jumped back with a yelp and the bystanders laughed. Kabul followed, also giving the reptile a wide berth.
“Get to the bar and call London,” Indy said. “Tell them we’ve got the idol and to wire us some cash. Then try to sell the boat.”
“What’re you going to do?” Kabul asked.
“I’m going to find Dr. McGregor and tell her to get another guide, then go to the hotel and have a hot bath.” Ah, hot baths. There was something you didn’t get much in the adventuring business, and after three months in the jungle nothing could provide more ecstasy, with the possible exception of real food.
Kabul nodded and moved away. He felt bad for Marcus and Dr. McGregor, but he knew better than to try to change Indy’s mind when it was set.
Indy continued down the crowded dock until he found Casada, a heavily-tattooed pots and pans trader with distended earlobes whom he had met when starting out on the expedition. Casada's eyes brightened to see him alive. “Dr. Jones,” he said. “Long time...”
“Casada, have you seen an American woman looking for me?” Indy asked. “Probably going out of her mind right now...”
The trader pointed down the dock at a Caucasian woman in her early thirties. She had shoulder-length dirty blonde hair framing a pale triangular face with brown eyes and a dainty little nub of a nose. Dressed in khaki pants, a T-shirt, and a red bandanna, she laughed and talked with several native women, looking and sounding completely at home.
“She’s been waiting for you,” Casada said, “but she’s not worried.”
Indy felt something strange come over him. With his good hand he quickly attempted to button his shirt and run his fingers through his hair as he snuck a look at his ragged appearance in the shiny bottom of one of Casada’s pots. Hopeless, he realized, his heart gripped with panic. Before he could escape, a voice stopped him.
“Dr. Jones? I’m Elaine McGregor.”
Indy looked up to see the woman looking at him through a pair of the most amazing eyes he had ever seen, and he had seen quite a few. Even through the scents of the marketplace he could distinguish her perfume, and it made him light-headed. “Dr. McGregor,” he said, his tongue suddenly feeling like lead in his mouth. “I’m sorry I’m late – we had a little trouble getting here and –”
“You’re wounded!” she gasped, catching sight of the back of his shoulder.
How could he have forgotten? “Oh, it’s nothing. Just a –”
She barked some foreign words with the distinctive tone of command. Instantly people on the dock were moving like the wind, bringing her supplies.
Indy gaped. “You speak Iban?”
A man selling herbs offered an armload of his wares to Dr. McGregor. Without hesitation she selected three and began making a poultice. “I speak forty-nine languages and dialects, Dr. Jones,” she said. “I’m a linguist, or didn’t Dr. Brody tell you?”
“There were obviously a lot of things Marcus didn’t tell me about you…” he mumbled.
She pressed the poultice, which had taken her less than thirty seconds to make, to his back. “How does that feel?”
Whatever she had done was incredible. The pain and stiffness in his shoulder muscles evaporated and he could to move his arm again. “You’re an angel,” he said before he could stop himself.
“Not hardly,” she said, giving him an enigmatic smile.
Indy’s heart jumped. And then he caught himself. What the hell was going on? He was feeling, not to mention acting, like a third-grader with a crush. Certainly he’d been with enough beautiful women over the years that he shouldn’t have been fazed by anything one could dish out. Besides, there were important matters to take care of. Get a grip on yourself, Jones, he thought. “Look, Dr. McGregor –”
“Elaine,” she corrected, starting to bandage his arm. He tingled where her fingers brushed his sleeve.
“Elaine,” he amended. Dispensing with the formalities already; perfect. “Going upriver in Borneo to find some temple that no one’s heard about for eight hundred years sounds great when you’re sitting in an office in Princeton. But Borneo isn’t for the faint of heart. Headhunting is still a major practice of the upland tribes and the river is full of pirates.”
She frowned. “Does that mean you won’t be coming with me?”
He blinked. “You mean I didn’t discourage you?”
“Not hardly,” she said, finishing his bandage and pulling it snug. She looked him in the eye again. “The Iban temple exists,” she said with conviction. “It has taken me three years to raise the money for this expedition, and though I’m touched by your concern for my well-being, it won’t stop me. Finding the temple means more to me than anything. Either you take me, or I’ll find a guide who will.”
“Well.” Indy swallowed, suddenly feeling the heat. “I don’t want that to happen.”
Their gazes remained locked for a few more seconds, and at the same moment both of them began feeling a bit uncomfortable. As luck would have it, Kabul reappeared just then. “Good news, Dr. Jones!” he said, rushing up to them. “I sold the boat!”
Indy snapped back to the present. “Not now, Kabul,” he mumbled sotto voce.
“Good price – what?”
“You sold the boat?” Elaine sounded a bit distressed. “Your boat?”
“Yes,” Kabul said apologetically, looking in confusion from one to the other.
“No,” Indy said, forcing a laugh, “there’s been some mistake. He didn’t sell our boat.” He gave Kabul a cold hard stare and put extra emphasis on his words. “I never said sell ‘the boat’. I said sell ‘the goat’.”
Kabul was totally lost. “The goat?”
“Is there a problem?” Elaine said testily.
“No, no problem,” Indy insisted. “Why don’t you get your things? Kabul is going to get the boat ready for the trip upriver.”
Kabul’s eyes widened. Elaine looked at them both strangely, then shrugged to herself and moved off into the crowd. Indy stared after her in a daze, admiring her walk, the walk of someone who knew where she was going and what she wanted in the world. His gaze drifted down to her ankles. Nice ankles, strong ankles.
It took him a few seconds to notice Kabul tugging on his sleeve. “Indy, are you all right?” he was saying. “Do you have a fever or something? You’re acting strange.”
Indy waved him off. “I’m just tired. I’ll sleep on the boat.”
“If we can get it back,” Kabul said. “The man I sold it to will want twice as much for it now, to recoup his loss.”
“Write him a check,” Indy said. “Let me worry about it.” Actually, Marcus Brody would be the one who would have to worry about it, but Indy would make it up to him. Somehow.
***
The crackling fire sent sparks spiraling up into the sky, joining the stars before they fizzled out. Indy knew that in fact most of the stars themselves had also “fizzled out” quite some time ago, and their light was just now reaching Earth. The kind of distances involved were impossible for him to wrap his brain around. He preferred not to try.
“They were never so bright back in New Jersey,” Elaine said. She was seated next to him on the fallen log he had dragged over to the campsite. Nearby, out of sight but taking care to stay close to the fire, Kabul gathered more wood.
“You should get out in the field more often,” Indy said. “I’ve seen this light show a thousand times, from as many angles.”
“It’s always been in the nature of mankind to explore, and colonize, and basically conquer everywhere he can reach,” Elaine continued. She gestured up at the sky. “Do you think he’ll ever get that far?”
Indy shrugged. “I imagine if he does, he’ll lose interest and come home pretty quick. Dusting off space rocks isn’t my idea of a swell time.”
“No,” she said, casting a sidelong glance at him. “I’m sure arrowheads are much more interesting.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I happen to think they are,” he said, narrowing his eyes at her. “If you’d care to attend one of my lectures on the subject, I’m sure you’ll come to agree.” He paused to reflect for a moment. “When they aren’t being thrown or shot at you, they’re much easier to examine. That’s always nice.”
She laughed; a magical sound like the tinkling of fairy wings. The red glow of the campfire gave her skin an unearthly quality that might have been unsettling on some people, but in this case only served to augment her beauty.
As she looked into his eyes he noticed the familiar telltale signs that she, too, was beginning to feel something strange. Something unfamiliar, something wonderful, something alarming. She tried to push it aside, pretend it wasn’t there. But before her brain could stop it, her mouth was saying, “I feel compelled to tell you, Dr. Jones, that I’m engaged.”
Indy’s heart sank, but for the moment he hardly noticed it, so trapped was he in those gorgeous brown eyes. “Apropos of what?”
She shrugged. “I just – your reputation precedes you, Dr. Jones. I’ve heard about how you seduce another woman at least every month. And I don’t mean to flatter myself, but if you had that in mind again, you just should know that it isn’t going to work out like that.”
“I’m insulted,” he said. “I’m perfectly capable of maintaining a purely professional relationship with a colleague of the opposite sex.”
“Yes?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Do you know that from experience?”
“Yes!” he snapped. “There was Sophia Hapgood, for one, and – and – others. They’ll come back to me.”
“I suppose those would be less memorable,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “All those women – tell me, Dr. Jones, did any of them really mean anything to you? Or was each just the latest trophy for the shelf of your manhood?”
“That’s getting a bit personal,” Indy said, shifting away from her. “You’ve made your point. You’re off-limits. I respect that.”
“Sorry, I can be a bit blunt sometimes,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “It’s none of my business. Anyway, let’s forget this silly talk. We have work to do.”
“Agreed.” Indy intended to do just that, but before his brain could stop it, his mouth was saying, “Who’s the lucky guy?”
“Dr. Benjamin F. Morganthal. A charming, intelligent man...”
“An intelligent man wouldn’t let you come to Borneo alone, Dr. McGregor,” he retorted softly.
“Maybe he was glad to be rid of me for a while,” she retorted back. “He’s fond of peace and quiet, and he knows I can take care of myself.”
“Peace and quiet. I wonder what that would be like.”
“Perhaps you should have gone into philosophy, Dr. Jones,” Elaine said, standing up and brushing ash off her pants legs. “I’m turning in. Good night.”
Indy mumbled something back to her and continued to poke at the fire in silence. He became aware now of the pain in his heart at having learned she was engaged, and hated himself for it. What had he expected, that they’d live happily ever after together? It had never worked out long-term before, all those other times. And now he was – Lord, was he really fifty? He’d never get used to that.
He had to be losing his mind; that was all there was to it. His decision to quit, impetuous though it had seemed even by his standards, had clearly been at least a few years in the making. He had been working up to it as his disillusionment had grown for some time. However, his rescinding of that decision owing to an infatuation with a woman he’d just met, an engaged woman no less, really was sudden and crazy enough to cause him some alarm as he thought about it now.
“So,” Kabul said, approaching with the firewood from where he’d been lurking just within earshot, “that could have gone better, eh?”
“Stuff it,” Indy said.
Kabul didn’t stuff it. “You know,” he continued as he set the wood down, “she’s not married yet. I didn’t even see a ring.”
Indy shook his head. “What are you suggesting? I’m a decent man, Kabul, or at least I try to be. She’s taken. I’m staying out of the way.”
“Suit yourself. We have bigger things to worry about anyway.” The guide glanced around as if afraid their adversary would burst from the undergrowth at any moment. “When Baldassare finds out about the maps he will kill you.”
“Trust me, Kabul,” Indy said. He’d said that more than a few times over the years – sometimes it was justified, and sometimes not, but he tried not to think about that. “He’ll never know.”
Next: Chapter Two
