Burial Ground (10 page)

Jay rose from where he crouched and walked
down the center of the road leading away from the dock. Dahlia's
goal was to shoot this documentary in a way that made it feel like
a first-person exploration, as though the viewer were actually a
participant in the expedition. She had delusions of the film
appearing on IMAX screens across the country in wide, panoramic
splendor, and who knew? If they indeed discovered ancient ruins
filled with priceless relics that had remained hidden for a
millennium, she just might be right. And if she was, he could only
imagine the fame and financial rewards that would come. Perhaps
even a little golden statue or two.

Gravel crunched underfoot. Mosquitoes hummed
and flies buzzed. The din of voices drifted down the street. None
of these sounds would reach their final version, of course, as they
would be replaced by voiceover or music of some kind. For whatever
reason, the score from the Indiana Jones movies played on a
continuous loop in his mind.

A ramshackle cantina clouded by cigarette
smoke and desperation passed to his left, their humble
accommodations to his right. A hairy monkey scrabbled up the side
of the shack beyond and disappeared over the roof. For a brief
moment, Jay thought he saw the silhouette of a man in the shadows
between the buildings, and then it was gone. He watched from the
peripheral range of the viewfinder as he passed, but saw only an
empty alley filled with garbage and rusted appliances. Apparently,
the natives were both curious and camera-shy.

A burro stood in front of the market, saddle
bags brimming with round green lucuma fruit. It raised its tail and
dropped a pile of manure for the eager flies, which gleefully
abandoned the rack of cured meats upon which they'd been crawling.
An elderly woman wearing a traditional oversize sweater and skirt
made from alpaca wool seized the opportunity to peruse the
selection in their absence. Across the street, the church, which
reminded him of the little missions scattered throughout Southern
California and Mexico with its sloping tiled roof, terraced bell
towers, pedimented gables, and fortified
quadrángulo
, stood
vacant. He had heard the bell's Call to Mass not so long ago, and
wondered how much it would cost to convince the priest to make it
ring again for the camera, or would even the request be considered
sacrilegious?

There was a shift in the shadows beside the
church. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw a human form peel apart
from the darkness. He stepped to his right to get a better view,
but saw nothing between him and the
quadrángulo
wall.
Probably just another monkey or a skittish child. Nothing to get
worked up about.

"Zoom down the street and then up to the
mountains," Dahlia said. "Focus on the clouds covering the peaks,
and then fade out."

Jay did as instructed, then lowered the
camera. When he turned to Dahlia, she was positively beaming.

"You realize we're about to make history,
don't you?" she asked.

Her enthusiasm was contagious. He couldn't
help but return her smile.

"I believe you've mentioned that once or
twice."

"I mean, no one has ever documented the
discovery of ancient ruins like we're about to."

"Technically, the ruins have already been
discovered."

"You don't know that for sure. Mr.
Gearhardt's son could have not found them at all. There's no
verifiable proof."

"If that's the case, then there might not be
any ruins up there at all."

"When did you become such a pessimist?"

"Where have you been? I've always been the
voice of reason in the sea of unbridled optimism. Even back in film
school."

"Way back then, huh? What was that, three
years ago now?"

"I already feel like I've been paying the
student loans forever."

"Well, this ought to put an end to that
nonsense," Dahlia said, and gave him a wink that weakened his
knees.

He'd been crazy about her for more years
than he cared to admit. Unfortunately, he knew nothing would ever
come of it, so he would have to settle for proximity and hope that
like a mold or a fungus, he would eventually grow on her. He wasn't
a bad looking guy by anyone's definition. He just wasn't in the
same league as Dahlia. From the right angle, he imagined he looked
a little like Kurt Cobain with dark hair, while in reality, he was
probably more reminiscent of a long-haired Gary Sinise in
Forrest Gump
. Dahlia, on the other hand, had all of the
magical qualities that would have served her every bit as well in
front of the camera as behind it. It wasn't just the Jaime Pressly
hair or the Claudia Schiffer eyes, the Jennifer Aniston body or the
Denise Richards lips. It was everything about her: the way she
moved, the way she projected herself, her boundless confidence. The
way she elevated his skills to her level whenever she was
around.

Perhaps the formation of Four Winds
Productions had been a marriage of convenience at first, but it had
become a true partnership. Granted, his father owned the rundown
sound studio they'd been able to renovate with only a small bank
loan and charged only nominal rent, and his uncle had known a guy
at Paramount who had sold them the used equipment for a song and
dance, but she had brought the ambition and the will to succeed
that he often lacked. Now if only she could see him as a partner in
more than the financial sense.

"So are you just going to stand there, or
are we going to get in on this strategy session and figure out what
the plan is from here?" Dahlia asked. She smirked, slipped her arm
under his, and led him back down the street toward their hotel.

Jay glanced back over his shoulder at the
church. He was certain he could feel the weight of unseen eyes
watching him from just out of sight.

4:19 p.m.

First Sergeant Kelvin Tasker called for
another beer in Spanish and adjusted his sweaty flannel shirt to
ensure the sidearm in the hostler beneath his left armpit remained
invisible. There was only one other patron in the dark cantina, a
downtrodden local who guarded his bottle of Pisco Soldeica Huaco
with both arms and never once looked away from it, as though the
clear fluid held the secrets of life itself. An uneven scatter of
scuffed tables and unmatched chairs covered the sticky wood-plank
floors, upon which only a few rays of sunlight shined through the
twin windows covered with faded promotional posters. Tasker sat in
the rear corner with the doors to the kitchen and the rear exit to
his left, the main entrance diagonally across the room to his
right. The shadows surrounding him momentarily peeled back at the
snap of his lighter, then swallowed him again, save the glowing
cherry of his Ducal cigarette. Whatever had crept closer along the
wall under the cover of darkness scurried back toward the ceiling
with a series of clacking sounds.

The bartender set Tasker's Malta Polar on
the table in front of him with a slosh of fluid. Tasker dismissed
him with a fifty nuevo sol note that not only covered the beer, but
his continued privacy as well. Thus far, there hadn't even been a
sideways glance from behind the warped maple bar. That was one
thing about the people down here. They knew how to mind their own
business.

Tasker allowed the world around him to
vanish while he focused on the chatter from the wireless receiver
in his right ear and watched the entrance carefully. They had
placed the audio surveillance microphones and transmitters inside
the walls of the hacienda, in the deepest reaches of the finch
nests. The voices were somewhat muffled, but the words were clear
enough. He eavesdropped while they detailed their plans and made
pointless conversation about things that didn't concern him. The
different types of birds they would encounter; the social hierarchy
of the Chachapoya people pre- and post-Inca conquest; the various
kinds of structures they should expect to find; the species of
plants and animals to avoid; and myriad ways to repel insects. It
wasn't until a female voice, that of Dr. Samantha Carson, began
detailing the types of artifacts they might stumble upon that he
paid close attention. Apparently, the headdress was a cultural
anomaly, but that didn't change the fact that it existed. And where
there was one, surely there were a dozen more just like it. He had
been able to secure a buyer for the first in a matter of hours, a
Korean businessman who had offered seven figures for it and asked
if he could ascertain any more artifacts of similar quality.
Through his newfound international channels, he expected this
venture to bring in somewhere between ten and twenty million
dollars, and he fully intended to keep half for himself. After all,
he had come up with the plan and was responsible for its
implementation. He was the one out here risking his neck. Monahan
should consider himself fortunate that he had even been offered a
cut, but when it came right down to it, Tasker needed him. For the
time being anyway. The office of the Consul-general provided a
measure of legitimacy, and would help facilitate a speedy exodus
from Peru when the job was complete.

Monahan also gave him a scapegoat should
anything go wrong. He was certain that nothing would---he had planned
this too meticulously---but one must be prepared for every
eventuality.

Tasker committed the eavesdropped details to
memory, and simultaneously plotted his course. He had already
reserved the boats that would take him and his men upriver under an
alias, and a little extra cash had ensured that no one would
witness their departure. It was amazing how much more the dollar
was worth here than back home.

He drew a long swill from his beer, feigned
wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and whispered into the
microphone in his watch. Four voices acknowledged through the
earpiece.

The two men who had been monitoring the
hotel from hidden locations on the street would now fall back to
their rendezvous point, where the others would already be waiting
with their supplies packed and ready. These were four of his best
and most trustworthy men. Four
Marines
. They would follow
his orders to the letter, and every bit as importantly, they would
follow their bank accounts. Their careers would soon be over, and
either they would be living life large in the Cayman Islands, or
they would be facing a court marshal and prison time. That in
itself was motivation enough should millions of dollars not fit the
bill. It was a calculated risk they were taking, but a risk
nonetheless. Besides, what did they have to lose? Appointment to a
consulate in a backwater country was certainly not the fast-track
to advancement. He had already been in his post for three years,
and largely forgotten by the powers that be. They wouldn't even
think about him until he disappeared, but then they would
definitely think about him a lot.

He imagined the expression on his commanding
officer's face when he heard the news and had to stifle a laugh.
Captain Patterson was simply going to explode, and if they were
unable to track down and extradite Tasker, the responsibility would
fall squarely on the old blowhard's shoulders.

There was just one more thing he needed to
do before he vacated his post in the cantina and met up with his
team.

He removed the prepaid cell phone from his
pocket and dialed the only number programmed into memory. The calls
could never be traced back to him, but unknown to the recipient,
when the shit hit the fan, they would point like an accusatory
finger at the man on the other end.

"Now isn't a good time," Monahan answered.
He had proved a hesitant accomplice at first, but any man could be
swayed with the right number of dollar signs. Too bad he would
never get a chance to spend his share.

"Just wanted to let you know that everything
is right on schedule."

"You're responsible for the details,"
Monahan snapped. Man, he whined like a little girl. "Meanwhile, I'm
the one back here trying to conduct business as usual with half of
my regular security contingent on 'vacation.'"

"You'll live. Just keep thinking about what
you're going to do with all that money."

This statement was met with silence, beneath
which Tasker imagined he heard the gears in the Consul-general's
brain grinding.

"I'll be in touch again soon," Tasker said,
and terminated the connection.

His only regret was that he wouldn't be
around to watch Monahan as he was cuffed and led out of the
Consulate in tears.

Pomacochas, Peru

October 26
^th

4:38 a.m. PET

Galen was thankful it was still dark. He
didn't want to see the size of the cloud of mosquitoes that swarmed
around the long, slender aluminum boat. The humming was so loud it
nearly drowned out the putter of the outboard motor as they chugged
slowly upriver from the weathered shack where they had procured
their transportation. The guide assigned to Galen's boat, a native
named Naldo who spoke Quechua and a seemingly random smattering of
Spanish and English words, stood at the bow with a long pole to
help navigate the unseen rocks and snarls of debris, while one of
their party, a man he knew only as Sorenson and with whom he had
never shared more than a nod in passing, manned the Evinrude. Naldo
wore a dirty white Henley missing several buttons and a pair of
brown corduroys so old they lacked nearly all texture. He balanced
on the prow with filthy, bare feet, humming tunelessly.

Frogs and insects raised a ruckus from the
forest around them, while the drowsy cries of birds and monkeys
echoed hauntingly. Something splashed near the bank to his right,
but with the fading moon and stars eclipsed by the canopy
overhanging the river, all he could see were shadows. He could
barely discern the silhouette of the lead boat ahead. It's
grumbling motor left a thin trail of diesel smoke that settled over
the river like a fog in the stagnant air. His generous benefactor
and his henchman, as Galen had come to think of Colton---though he
would never speak as much aloud---rode at the front behind their
guide, a man named Santos, who wore only a pair of cutoff jeans.
His thick black braid trailed down his back between bony shoulder
blades that bracketed his knobby spine. Galen hadn't been able to
tell in the moonlight if the man had been wrinkled by age or by too
much time in the sun. Truthfully, he hadn't paid much attention to
their guides at all. He could blame it on the darkness and his
inability to clearly see them, but he knew it was a consequence of
his nerves, which were strung as tightly as high-voltage wires.