Kingdom of Bones (Sigma Force #16)

Gray shifted forward to peer past the windshield. As the ATV’s giant wheels crawled across the terrain, he saw nothing ahead but more trackless forest. “Are you sure?”

Faraji pointed off to the side. It took a moment for Gray to make out a waist-high standing stone, topped by a crudely sculpted cross. It was so encrusted with lichen and shrouded by vines that it was nearly indiscernible from the jungle. Only then was Gray able to pick out others, on both sides of their path.

Gravestones.

The markers were clustered within a grove of trees whose trunks were considerably thinner than the surrounding forest. Gray pictured the Reverend Sheppard’s missionaries cutting down a swath of the forest to make room for this cemetery. The smaller trees were younger, secondary growth filling in the space after the mission had been abandoned.

Even Kowalski recognized this. “Great, kid. You led us into a graveyard. Like that’s not a bad omen.”

Kowalski gunned their engine and hurried through, flattening a stone under one of the giant tires in his haste to escape the cemetery. Then a larger shadow appeared ahead, buried in the jungle. The beams of the headlamps bounced across a facade of stone, crumbling plaster, jagged broken windows, and a moss-covered tin roof. A large marble cross stood to one side, entwined in vines, as if the jungle were trying to pull it down.

“We here,” Faraji repeated with a nod ahead.

Though it was far more dilapidated, it clearly was the same missionary church depicted in the raffia tapestry.

Kowalski drew the ATV to a stop near the large cross. He left the light shining toward the church’s threshold. The door had rotted away long ago. The beams failed to dispel the darker shadows in the depths of the old nave. A few bats, disturbed by the brightness, cartwheeled into the night.

“You’re going to make us go in there, aren’t you?” Kowalski called back to him.

Gray pulled out the sleeve of old Kodak photos. He withdrew the second in the time line and held it up. It showed William Sheppard leading a prayer among a kneeling group of Kuba tribesmen. The trees behind the reverend—especially a V-shaped pair of mahogany trees—matched the view to the left of the church. Gray flipped the photo over to examine the drawing on the back. It surely had to be a clue.



Then Gray saw it. He gripped the photo tighter. Earlier, he had thought the sketch depicted a hill with a path leading up to a cross. Now he recognized his mistake.

It’s a headstone . . .

“I don’t think we have to go into the church,” he told Kowalski and twisted to stare out the back window. “But you’re not going to like the alternative any better.”

“Then where—” Kowalski turned in his seat and saw where Gray was looking. He swore darkly.

Gray confirmed his guess. “We’re going to have to search the graveyard.”


9:13 P.M.

Benjie followed at Gray’s heels. Back at the ATV, they had tried to confine him inside, but he had refused. Still, he stayed close to the man and his large pistol.

As they headed into the cemetery, Benjie swept a flashlight in all directions, keeping watch on the surrounding jungle. Though the canopy was thinner here, the night had gotten darker as a scudding of black clouds obscured the stars and moon. Thunder rumbled off in the distance, sounding like the growl of the Congo itself.

Not watching close enough, he bumped into Gray’s back. The other had stopped to inspect one of the grave markers. The stone stood crookedly in the sodden muck. Gray yanked away a splay of clinging vines to examine the granite surface.

Benjie shifted around to inspect the other side.

“Anything?” Gray asked.

“No, just a name and date carved into it.”

“Then let’s move on.”

Before leaving the ATV, Gray had shown them all the zigzag pattern sketched on the gravestone drawing. They were all searching for that symbol. Kowalski and Faraji inspected the neighboring row of stones. The two groups kept near to one another, all too cognizant of what had happened back at the lake.

Benjie’s face and hand still burned from the blistering.

The group continued across the graveyard, moving in tandem. Benjie’s attention remained focused on the jungle. Mosquitoes and clouds of biting flies plagued them. Each nip made him flinch, wondering what aberrations might have been instilled in the insects out here. It also didn’t help that the air smelled of rot and decaying leaf litter, especially when traversing a graveyard.

Benjie pictured the moldering bones under his feet with a shudder. The quiet of the forest compounded his edginess, as if even the jungle did not want to disturb those sleeping here. The heavy silence weighed on him. And from the way everyone else seemed to hunch and move with cautious steps, they felt it, too.

He wiped the pebbling sweat from his brow.

After another fifteen minutes, they had completed their circuit of gravestones, all twenty-two of them—even the marker that Kowalski had driven over on the way to the church. It had taken all of them to flip it over to inspect both sides.

They clustered at the cemetery’s edge.

Gray’s lips were a tight line of frustration. Kowalski just glared all around. Faraji hugged his arms across his chest, looking forlorn. They had failed to find the zigzag symbol on any of the gravestones.

“Maybe the one we’re looking for got buried,” Kowalski said. “The whole place looks like it’s about to sink away.”

“Or there could be other gravestones,” Benjie offered. “Maybe we should search behind the church, too.”

Gray nodded. “We have no other choice. It could be anywhere around here.”

Kowalski sighed. “It’ll be like looking for a needle in a moldy haystack.”

“Or in this case . . .” Benjie slashed a zigzag through the air. “A lightning bolt in a haystack.”

As if conjured by his flourish, thunder boomed. He quickly lowered his arm.

“Let’s keep moving,” Gray said. “We don’t want to stop in one place for too long.”

Benjie agreed, especially with another storm threatening. They set off again for the church—but Faraji stayed behind, rooted in place. His gaze remained on the cemetery.

Benjie drifted to his side. “What’s wrong?”

Faraji unfolded an arm and mimicked Benjie’s flourish in the air, tracing a zigzag. “Lightning . . .” he said, still staring at the cemetery.

“What about it?”

Faraji set off into the graveyard again, drawing Benjie with him. The others noted their path and crossed to follow. Faraji searched the stones, the same ones he and Kowalski had scrutinized earlier. Finally, he stopped and rubbed moss off the surface of one, exposing a name and date.



Gray read the inscription, “Peter Umeme.”

It was the grave marker of a Kuba tribesman, someone who had been baptized, taking on a Christian given name while still keeping his tribal one.

Faraji pointed to the latter. “Umeme.” He slashed his arm through the air again for emphasis. “It mean ‘lightning.’”

They stared around at each other for a silent moment.

“Does that mean this is the right place?” Kowalski asked. “Maybe we shouldn’t go digging up someone’s grave on a hunch.”

“It must be,” Gray said.

“How can you be sure?” Benjie asked.

Gray reached to the collapsible shovel hung over his shoulder and snapped it open. He pointed the spade’s tip at the lower line of the inscription. “October eighteenth, 1894. That’s the same date as the photo.”

Benjie realized he was right. “One of Sheppard’s group must have died out here while they were traveling. Perhaps the prayer circle depicted in the photo was actually a eulogy.”

“You may be right. But there’s only one way to know for sure.” Gray waved for Kowalski to help him dig. “Let’s get to work.”

The two men labored as a team. The wet soil helped. Fresh loam quickly piled up next to a deepening hole. Finally, Kowalski slammed his spade into the bottom and got a distinctive clank of metal on metal.

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