The Solomon Curse by Clive Cussler Page A

small roadside sign announced they were crossing Alligator River, and Remi gave Sam a dark look. “I’m noticing a theme to the local attractions.”
    â€œAlligators are different from crocodiles.”
    â€œA distinction that’s lost on this girl at the moment. They’ll both eat you.”
    â€œWell, there’s that,” Sam conceded.
    They arrived at another bridge, this one barely wide enough to accommodate the Nissan, and then drove past a sign pointing south that said “Gold Ridge.”
    â€œI wonder if that’s the mine?” Remi said.
    â€œWe can take a look on the way back, if you want. We’re not on any pressing schedule.”
    â€œLet’s see how we do in the wilds. If not today, there’s always tomorrow.”
    â€œWhatever my lady wants,” Sam said.
    â€œThat’s a little more like it.”
    When they arrived at Mbinu, they found the little hamlet was barely more than a few modest homes along a stretch of nothing. They stopped at a tiny market and were immediately assaulted by heat and bugs. Several islanders sat in the shade of a tree by the side of the road, staring at them curiously. Sam approached, the sheet of paper with the names and addresses in his hand.
    â€œWe’re looking for a man named Tom. Supposed to live around here?” he asked with a smile.
    The islanders stared at him, and then one made a comment in a language neither Sam nor Remi understood and the others all laughed.
    Remi stepped forward. “Do you know Tom?”
    More muttered comments, more laughter, and one of the men shrugged. Remi turned to Sam. “This is going well.”
    â€œI remember reading that even though English is the official language, only a fraction of the population speaks it.”
    â€œLooks like this isn’t that fraction.”
    They waved at the islanders, who waved back, friendly enough, and tried the market. There they had a slightly better result—the heavyset woman behind the ancient cash register spoke a little English.
    â€œTom? He by da church. Down da road a piece.”
    â€œChurch?” Sam asked.
    â€œBack that way.”
    â€œOh, good. And where, exactly, is Tom’s?”
    â€œLook for sign.”
    â€œSign?”
    â€œSkink.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œSkink.” The woman pantomimed a crawling animal and Remi nodded.
    â€œAh.”
    They got back into the car and backtracked. It took them two return trips before they spotted a muddy sign with the outline of a lizard on it. “Want to bet that’s a kink?” Sam asked.
    â€œ
Skink.
With an
s
. At least that’s what it sounded like,” Remi corrected.
    They bounced down a rutted muddy drive for a hundred yards and then rounded a bend. A tired-looking house occupied the far side of a clearing ringed by trees. A sixties Toyota sedan, almost entirely rust, was parked at the edge of the drive. An elderly man wearing a dark green T-shirt and shorts sat on what served as a porch, staring at them as they parked and got out of the Nissan.
    â€œTom?” Remi asked with a smile.
    â€œThat’s me,” the man replied, smiling, his few yellow teeth standing out against his dark complexion like headlights.
    â€œWe’re friends of Orwen Manchester.”
    â€œThat thief? Always said no damned good would come of the boy,” Tom said with a cackle. “What can I do for you? Skink?” He held up a green lizard that had been slumbering in his lap and Remi resisted the urge to recoil. It was over two feet long, with a triangular head and beady black eyes.
    â€œUm, no. We’re here to ask about some of the old stories. Orwen felt you might be able to help,” Remi said, returning his smile.
    â€œWell, I don’t know about that, but no harm asking. Can I get you anything? Water? Maybe soda? I’m a little low on supplies, but I can probably find something.”
    Sam shook his head. “No,