“What are you going to do with the ship’s bell?”
“Leave it here,” Sam replied. “Selma booked the villa anonymously and wired cash. Not much chance of them finding it.”
“I already know the answer to this, but I feel obligated to ask: Any chance of you two just taking the bell and going home?”
“We might do just that,” Sam replied. “We’re going to do a little more research and see where it takes us. If nothing pans out, we’ll head home.”
“Miracle of miracles,” Rube said. “You two be careful. I’ll call you when I have info.” He hung up.
Remi said to Sam, “We’re going to have to get him something extraspecial for Christmas.”
“Right about now I can guess what he’s wishing for.”
“What’s that?”
“A new, unlisted phone number.”
THEY TOOK THE ANDREYALE south to Uroa Village, found a ramshackle hardware store, gathered what few supplies they needed, and were back at the villa before noon. Remi left Sam with his hammer and nails and wooden planks and went inside to check on Yaotl, who was sound asleep. She found a couple cans of clam chowder, heated them up, and took the bowls out to the patio. Sam was nailing the last two planks into place.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“As a box, Sam, it’s wonderful.”
“It’s supposed to be a crate.”
“Crate, box, whatever. Sit down and eat.”
HALF A MILE FROM THE END of Chukwani Point Road, Itzli Rivera pulled the rented Range Rover onto the shoulder, then down into the ditch and up the other side into the trees. The terrain was rugged and heavily choked with scrub brush, but the Rover’s four-wheel drive handled it easily. He turned southwest toward the clearing on Chukwani Point.
“Time?” he asked Nochtli.
“Just after one.”
An hour before the Fargos were set to meet the truck from Mnazi Freight & Haul. Plenty of time to find a vantage point that provided not only a good line of sight but also an easily accessible route to cut off any escape attempt.
“I see the clearing,” Nochtli said, binoculars lifted to his eyes.
“There’s something there.”
“What?”
“See for yourself.”
He handed the binoculars to Itzli, who focused them on the clearing. Sitting in the middle of the dirt road was a wooden crate. Tacked to the side of the crate was a cardboard sign. “There’s something written on it,” he said, then zoomed in. After a moment he muttered, “¿Qué madres . . . ?”
“What?” asked Nochtli. “What does it say?”
“‘Merry Christmas.’”
ITZLI DROVE through the trees, down into the ditch, and back up the side into the clearing. He stopped the Rover and walked over to the crate. He nudged it with his toe. It was empty. He ripped off the cardboard sign and flipped it over. Written in block letters was a message:
LET’S MEET AND TALK ABOUT BELLS.
NYERERE ROAD CRICKET GROUNDS.
BENCH, SOUTHWEST CORNER.
4:00 P.M.