Excavation (17 page)

Sam nodded and turned back to the statue. With the tip of the dagger trembling, Sam edged the knife into the belly of the Incan king. It took a bit of rocking back and forth to insert the jagged blade fully, but with one final push, the knife slid home.

A cracking grind of gears exploded, loud enough to vanquish the crash of boulders behind them.

As Sam held tight to the hilt of the dagger, the Incan statue split neatly in half, from crown to feet, a seam appearing from nowhere. The two halves pulled apart from the dagger's hilt, along with the silver archway behind it. Beyond the statue, a natural fissure in the rock was
revealed.

Sam stood frozen before the split statue, the knife still in his grip, the blade now pointing toward the cavern entrance. “Holy shit!”

Stunned, Sam raised the dagger. It was once again just the straight blade he had first found. He let his arm drop and turned to the others. A blinding flash of Norman's camera caught him off guard. Sam rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Warn a guy next time,” he complained.

“And ruin that natural expression of awe,” Norman answered. “Not a chance.”

The others all began talking at once—amazement, wonder, and relief ringing brightly. Ralph shone his flashlight down the throat of the fissure. It delved deep into the cliff face, beyond the reach of Ralph's light. “I hear what sounds like running water,” he said. “The cavern must be plenty deep.”

“Good,” Sam said. He finally held up his dagger, getting the others' attention. “I have no idea what just happened here, but let's get our asses out of this temple before it crushes us flat as pancakes.”

With more of the roof falling behind them, no one argued. They filed quickly past Sam and into the coolness of the natural cavern.

As Ralph slid by, he returned Sam's Winchester. “I have my own now,” the large man said, lifting a snubby lever-action rifle.

Sam recognized it as Gil's weapon. “Where?”

Ralph jerked his thumb back at the tile floor. “I picked it up when Norm and I crossed. Gil must have run off in too big a hurry, abandoning it.” Ralph hefted an ammo belt from his shoulder. “His loss…our gain.”

“Hopefully we won't need either,” Sam said.

Ralph shrugged and continued into the tunnel.

“You'd better try one last time to reach Philip,” Maggie said, glancing back at the crumbling room. “Let him know
we're safe and not to give up on us. With water and shelter, we should be able to survive until help arrives.”

“You're right. In the caves, I might not be able to reach him.” Sam had forgotten all about Philip Sykes. He pulled the walkie-talkie free, stepped away from the threshold, and switched it on. Static immediately squealed when Sam hit the transmitter. “Sykes, can you read us? Over?”

The answer was immediate and choppy. “…alive? Thank God…the whole hill is gone…We're…as fast as we can! Over.”

Sam smiled. He quickly summarized their discovery and the miracle of the dagger. “So we're gonna hole up in the caves here until you can free us. Did you get all that? Over.”

The answer was scratchier as the walkie-talkie's battery weakened. “…caves? Don't wander too far. I'll try and…” Static drowned the rest.

Sam turned to stare at the pale faces of his friends. “Just hurry your ass, Philip!” he yelled into the walkie-talkie. “And get word to Uncle Hank as soon as possible!”

Static was his only response. The battery was too weak to send a signal through all the jumble of rock and clay overhead. Sam swore under his breath and turned off the walkie-talkie, conserving the little juice that was left. He prayed Philip had got all that.

Biting his lower lip, he joined the others. Beyond them lay a well of darkness. Though Sam was relieved at the escape from the crumbling pyramid, Friar de Almagro's warning still echoed in his head:
The Serpent of Eden…may it never be disturbed.

Sam motioned them toward the black caverns. “Let's go.”

The path through the rock was tight, so they proceeded single file. Ralph took the lead, and Sam brought up the rear. In the cramped space, Sam felt as if the rock were squeezing closed around him. At one point, they had to slide sideways, crushed between two walls of granite. Once through the
jam, they could hear the echoing sound of rushing waters growing. The sound whetted Sam's thirst. His tongue felt like dry burlap in his mouth.

Ralph called back from the lead. “I think it opens up just ahead. C'mon.”

Sam hurried forward, stepping almost on Maggie's heels. They had been climbing and scraping their way through the passage for close to an hour by then. At last, Sam felt a stirring of the air. He sensed a large space ahead. It coaxed them all to a faster clip.

The passage widened at last. The team could now proceed as a group. Ralph, a step ahead of the rest, held one of the flashlights. “There's something ahead,” he mumbled.

Their pace slowed as the passage came to an end. Ralph raised his flashlight. “I don't believe it!” he gasped.

Sam agreed. The others stood silent beside him. Ahead lay an open chamber, a cavern with a river channel worn through the center of the floor. But that was not what triggered the stunned reactions from the others. Pillars linked roof to floor, their lengths carved with intricate images and fantastic creatures. In the stone, embedded silver reflected the flashlight, eyes from thousands of carved figures, sentinels from an ancient world.

Ralph lowered the light. “Look!” Across the floor of the dark cavern, a path of beaten gold wound from the passage's opening over to the rumbling river and followed the course deeper into the warren of caves. The bright path disappeared around a curve in the cavern wall.

“Amazing,” Sam said.

Ralph spoke at his shoulder. “The other chamber must have been a decoy, a trap protecting what lies ahead.”

Sam stepped forward, tentatively placing a boot on the gold path. “But what have we discovered?”

Maggie moved to his side as Norman snapped a few pictures. “We've found a place to rest. And that's enough for now.”

The others mumbled their agreement, thirst and exhaustion
overwhelming wonder and mystery.

Even Sam agreed. The mysteries could wait 'til morning. Still, as the others moved forward down the curving gold path toward the river, Sam could not help but notice how the shining track bore a distinct resemblance to a winding snake.

A golden serpent
.

 

Henry sat by his computer and watched the on-screen phone connections whir through their internet nodes, the modem buzzing and chiming in sync. “C'mon, Sam, pick up the damn phone,” he muttered to himself. It was at least the tenth time he had tried to reach the camp in Peru.

Various scenarios played in his head—from the mundane, such as a glitch in the site's satellite feed, to the more frightening scene of an armed attack on the camp by looters. “I should never have left.”

Henry glanced to the clock in the upper right-hand corner of his laptop's screen. It was after eleven. He took a deep breath, calming his war of nerves. There might even be a simpler reason for the lack of response. Because of the burglary and the ensuing paperwork with hotel security, Henry had been over twenty minutes late in making his call. The students probably gave up on him and were already sound asleep in their bunks.

Still, Henry waited one last time for the line to feed through to Peru. He watched the screen icon appear, indicating the satellite had been reached. The signal leaped for the metal transmitting dish at the Andean site. Henry held his breath. But again the signal died, no connection.

“Damn!” Henry slammed his fist on the desk as the modem switched off. Though there were a thousand other excuses for the lack of connection, Henry knew in his heart something was wrong. A creeping dread. Once before, he had experienced a similar fear, the day his brother Frank—Sam's dad—had died in the car crash. He recalled that phone call at four in the morning, the cold sensation of terror as he
had reached for the receiver. He now felt a similar dread.

Something had happened down in Peru. He just knew it.

Henry reached for the computer once again, but before his hand touched a key, the phone beside the laptop rang loudly, startling him. His heart in his throat, he stared at the receiver, flashing back to that horrible morning years ago. He clenched his fist. “Get ahold of yourself, Henry,” he said, forcing his fingers to relax. Closing his eyes and girding himself, he picked up the phone and raised it to his ear. “Hello?”

A woman's voice answered. “Henry? It's Joan.”

Though relieved it was just his colleague, Henry recognized the stress in her voice. This wasn't a casual call. “Joan, what's wrong?”

His sudden worry must have caught her off guard. She stuttered for a moment, then spoke. “I…I just thought you should know. I dropped by my office after our date…um, evening together…and discovered someone had tried to break into the morgue where the mummy's remains are stored. The security guard startled them off, but he was unable to catch them.”

“The mummy?”

“It's fine. The thieves never even got through the door.”

“It seems that
Herald
reporter's story drew more flies than we suspected.”

“Or maybe the same ones,” Joan added. “Maybe after failing to find anything in your hotel room, they came here next. What did the police say?”

“Not much. They didn't seem particularly interested since nothing was stolen.”

“Didn't they dust for prints or anything?”

Henry laughed. “You've been watching too many cop shows. The only thing they did was check the tapes from the security cameras in the hallway.”

“And?”

“No help. The camera lenses had been spray-painted
over.”

Joan was silent for several breaths.

“Joan?”

“They did the same here. That's how the guard was alerted. He noticed the blacked-out monitor.”

“So you think it was the same team of thieves?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, hopefully the close call with the security guard will keep them from any further mischief.” But Henry was not convinced.

Joan sighed loudly. “I hope you're right. I'm sorry I bothered you.”

“It was no bother. I was up.” Henry avoided telling her about his inability to reach Sam. Though it made no sense at all, Henry had a feeling that tonight's events were somehow intertwined: the burglary at the hotel, the attempted break-in at the morgue, his difficulty in reaching Sam. It was nonsense, of course, but the small hairs on the back of Henry's neck stood on end.

“I should let you go,” Joan said. “I'll see you in the morning.”

Henry frowned in confusion, then remembered his schedule to meet with Joan at the lab. After the night's hubbub and his nagging worry over his nephew, Henry had momentarily forgotten about the planned rendezvous with Joan. “Yes, of course. I'll see you then. Good night.” Just before he hung up the phone, he added a quick, “Thanks for calling,” but the phone line was already dead.

Henry slowly hung up the receiver.

He stared at his computer screen, then clicked it off. There was no further reason to keep trying to reach the camp. He knew he would fail. Snapping shut the laptop, he made a whispered promise to himself. “If I can't reach the camp by tomorrow night, I'm on the first red-eye out of here.” But even that decision did not calm his twanging nerves.

 

Sam studied the dagger's gold blade in the feeble light cast by the single flashlight. He had the last guard shift of the night. The others lay sprawled behind him, curled on the flat rock of the cavern floor, pillows made from rumpled shirts and packs. Ralph snored softly, but at least the big man was sleeping. Earlier, Sam had been unable to drowse, except for a brief catnap fraught with terrifying images of falling rocks and unseen monsters. He had been relieved when Norman had nudged him to take his shift.

Sam raised his eyes from the dagger and glanced about the cavern. All around him, silver eyes studied Sam from the dozens of carved pillars, creatures that were half-human, half-animal. Incan gods and spirits. Nearby, the golden path reflected the meager light, a bright vein in the dark rock. Sam imagined the generations of Incan Indians that must have walked this trail. The footpath continued along the river's bank deeper into the series of caves, and Sam longed to follow it. But the consensus of the group was to make camp there, near a water source and the fissure opening, and await rescue. Exploration could come later.

Glancing at his watch, Sam suspected the sun was just now rising above the Andean mountains. Down there, however, the blackness seemed to grow deeper and more endless. Time lost all meaning; it stretched toward eternity.

Though Sam tried to ignore his hunger, his stomach growled loudly. How long had it been since any of them had anything to eat? Still, he shouldn't complain. At least, with the stream, they had water.

He just needed to keep himself distracted.

Sam fingered the blade of the dagger, pondering the mystery of its mechanism. How had yesterday's transformation occurred? He couldn't even fathom the trigger that unfolded the dagger into a jagged lightning bolt. It had done so with such smoothness and lack of mechanical friction, appearing to melt into the new form. The trick was too damned convincing. How intricate was the technology developed here? Friar de Almagro's warning of the Serpent of Eden suggested a source of forbidden knowledge, a font of wisdom that could corrupt mankind. Was this an example of it?

A cough drew his attention. Barefoot, Maggie sidled toward him. Even disheveled, she was striking. Covered only by a thin blouse, buttoned loosely, her breasts moved under the fabric. Sam's mouth grew dry. He dropped his eyes before he embarrassed himself, but his gaze only discovered the soft curves of waist and leg.

“You must quit fondling that thing, Sam,” she said quietly. “People are goin' to start talking.”

“What?” Sam asked, shocked, glancing up at her.

Maggie offered him a tired smile and nodded toward the dagger.

“Oh…” He tucked it away. “So…so you couldn't sleep?”

She shrugged, sitting beside him. “Rock doesn't make such a great mattress.”

Sam nodded, allowing her this tiny falsehood. He suspected her restlessness was the same as his: bone-deep worries
and the omnipresent press of the darkness around them. “We're going to get out of here,” he said plainly.

“By trusting in good ol' Philip Sykes?” she said, rolling her eyes.

“He's an ass, but he'll pull us through.”

She stared up at a neighboring pillar and was silent. After a time, she spoke, “Sam, I wanted to thank you again for coming out on the tiles when I had that last…that last seizure.”

He began to protest that no such thanks were needed.

She stopped him with a touch to his hand. “But I need you to know something…I think I owe you that.”

He turned to face her more fully. “What?”

“I am not truly epileptic,” she said softly.

Sam scrunched his face. “What do you mean?”

“The psychologists diagnosed it as post-traumatic stress syndrome, a severe form of panic attack. When tension reaches a certain level”—Maggie waved a hand in the air—“my body rebels. It sends my mind spinning away.”

“I don't understand. Isn't that a war-trauma thing?”

“Not always…besides there are many forms of war.”

Sam didn't want to press her any further, but his heart would not let him stay silent. “What happened?”

She studied Sam for a long breath, her eyes judging him, weighing his sincerity. Finally, she glanced away, her voice dull. “When I was twelve years old, I saw a schoolyard friend, Patrick Dugan, shot by a stray bullet from an IRA sniper. He collapsed in my arms as I hid in a roadside ditch.”

“God, how awful…”

“Bullets kept flying. Men and women were screamin', cryin'. I didn't know what to do. So I hid under Patrick's body.” Maggie began to tremble as she continued the story. “His…his blood soaked over me. It was hot, like warm syrup. The smell of a slaughterhouse…”

Sam slid closer to Maggie, pulling her to him. “You don't have to do this…”

She did not withdraw from him but neither did she respond to his touch. She gazed without blinking toward the darkness, lost in a familiar nightmare. “But Patrick was still alive. As I hid under him, he moaned, too low for others to hear. He begged me to help him. He cried for his mama. But I just hid there, using his body as a shield, his blood soaking through my clothes.” She turned to Sam, her voice catching. “It was warm, safe. Nothin' could make me move from my hiding place. God forgive me, I forced my ears not to hear Patrick's moans for help.” A sob escaped her throat.

“Maggie, you were only a child.”

“I could have done something.”

“And you could've been killed just as well. What good would that have done Patrick Dugan?”

“I'll never know,” she said with the heat of self-loathing tears on her cheek. She struggled away from Sam's arm and turned angry, hurt eyes toward him. “Will I?”

Sam had no answer. “I'm sorry,” he offered feebly.

She wiped brusquely at her face. “Ever since then, the goddamn attacks occur. Years of pills and therapy did nothing. So I stopped them all.” She swallowed hard. “It's my problem, something I must live with…alone. It's my burden.”

And your self-imposed punishment for Patrick's death
, Sam thought, but he kept silent. Who was he to judge? Images of his parents' crumpled forms being yanked like sides of beef from the smashed car while he sat strapped in the backseat, watching it all, tumbled through his mind. Survivor's guilt. It was a feeling with which he was well acquainted. He still often woke with his bedsheets clinging to his damp skin, cold sweat soaking his body.

Maggie's next words drew him back to the black cavern. “In the future, Sam, don't risk yourself for me. Okay?”

“I…I can't promise that.”

She stared angrily at him, tears brightening her eyes.

“Maggie—?”

They were interrupted by the appearance of Norman. “Sorry, folks, but I must talk to a man about a horse,” the
photographer grumbled, hair sticking up in all directions. He crossed over the gold path and headed for a nearby boulder, seemingly oblivious to the tension between the pair.

Sam turned to Maggie, but she would not meet his eyes. She pushed to her feet. “Just…just don't risk your life…” As she stepped away, Sam heard her mumble something else. The words had been meant only for herself but the cavern acoustics carried the words to him. “I don't want another death on my hands.”

Leaning forward, ready to follow and console her, Sam paused, then relaxed back down to his seat. There was nothing he could say. He himself had heard all the platitudes before, after his parents had died.
Don't blame yourself. There was nothing you could do. Accidents happen
. No words had helped him then either. But at least Sam had had his Uncle Henry. Having just lost his own wife, Uncle Hank had seemed to sense that some things had to be faced alone, worked out in silence, rather than probed and prodded for an answer. It was this silence more than grief that had bound nephew to uncle, like two raw-edged wounds healing and scarring together.

Sam watched Maggie walk away, shoulders slumped. She had been right. It was her burden. Still, Sam could not suppress the urge to rush over to her, to take her in his arms and protect her.

Before he could act, a shriek drew him around. He flew to his feet, pulling out the dagger. He stepped to where his grandfather's Winchester leaned against a rock.

Norman came running around the boulder's edge, zipping up his fly, and glancing in panic behind him.

“What's wrong?” Sam asked as Norman stumbled to his side.

The photographer could not catch his breath for a moment. One arm kept gesturing back at the boulder as he gasped and choked. “B…Behind…”

Ralph drew beside them, bleary from his sudden awakening. He rubbed sleep from his eyes, Gil's lever-action rifle
held in his other hand. “Goddammit, Norman. You scream like a girl.”

Norman ignored Ralph's jibe, too panicked to care. “I…I thought they were just…just patches of lichen or spots of lighter rock. But something moved out there!”

“Who? What are you talking about?” Sam asked.

Norman shuddered, then finally seemed to collect himself. He waved them all back toward the boulder. By then, Maggie and Denal hovered a few steps away. “I'm not sure.” He led them back, but this time stayed well away from the rock and whatever lurked behind it.

Sam remained at the photographer's side. The dark stone on the far side of the rock lay in shadows. Streaks of quartz or white gypsum ran in streams up the nearby cavern wall. “I don't see anything.”

Norman reached a hand back toward the others. “Gimme one of the lights.”

Denal moved up and passed the second flashlight to the photographer. Norman clicked it on; light speared the inky gloom.

Sam twitched back in shock. It was not veins of quartz or gypsum that ran down the walls. These pale streaks flowed, streaming down the walls to pool at its foot. Even now, rivulets started spreading across the floor toward the gathered party. Sam shifted his own lantern. “Spiders…” Each was as pale as the belly of a slug and had to be a hand-spread wide. There had to be hundreds…no thousands of them.

Ralph stepped back. “Tarantulas.”

“Albino tarantulas,” Maggie moaned.

The army continued its scurried march. Scouts skittered to either side of the boulder. A few paused where the rock was damp and steamed slightly from Norman's morning relief, clearly drawn to the warmth.

“It's our body heat,” Sam said. “The damned things must be blind and drawn by noise and warmth.”

Behind him, Denal started gibbering in his native Quecha.

Sam swung around. The young Indian was gesturing in the opposite direction, toward the far side of the gold path. Norman turned his flashlight to where Denal pointed. As another flank of the army streamed down the other wall on pale, hairy legs, Sam suddenly had an awful sensation crawl up his back.

Sam arched his neck, raising his lantern high.

Overhead, the roof was draped by a mass of roiling bodies, crawling, mating, fighting. Thousands of pendulous egg sacs hung in ropy wombs of silk. The students had stumbled into the main nest of the tarantulas…and the army of predators was hunting for prey. They were already moving down the pillars, as if the carved figures were giving birth to them.

The group scattered from under the shadow of the monstrosity, fleeing back to their campsite.

As they retreated, Sam studied the huge spiders. Dependent upon the meager resources found in these caves, the tarantulas had clearly evolved a more aggressive posture. Instead of waiting for prey to fall into webs, these normally solitary spiders had adapted a more cooperative strategy. By massing together, they could comb the caves more successively for any potential sources of a blood meal, taking down larger prey by their sheer numbers—and Sam had no intention of being their next course.

“Okay, folks, I think we've overstayed our welcome,” he said. “Gather our gear and let's get the hell out of Dodge.”

“Where to?” Maggie asked.

“There's a path through these caves, right? Those Indians who forged it must have done so for a reason. Maybe it's a way out. Anyone object to finding out?”

No one did. Five sets of eyes were still on the encroaching tarantulas.

Sam slipped the gold dagger into his vest and collected his grandfather's rifle. He gestured to the others to collect their few possessions. “One flashlight only,” he said, as he led the way down the path. “Conserve the other. I don't want
to run out of illumination down here.” A shiver passed through Sam at the mere thought of being trapped, blind, with a pale army of poisonous predators encircling him. He tightened his grip on his rifle but knew it would do him little good if the lights went out.

Norman followed with the flashlight, glancing frequently behind him.

“As long as we keep moving, the spiders won't get you, Norman,” Ralph said with a scowl.

The photographer still kept an eye on their backtrail. “Just remind me…no more bathroom breaks. Not until I see the light of day.”

Sam ignored their nervous chatter. It was not what lay behind them that kept Sam's nerves taut as bowstrings, but the trail ahead. Just where in the hell would this path take them?

Unfortunately there was only one way to find out.

As they proceeded, Norman mumbled behind him. “Lions and tigers and bears, oh my…”

Sam glanced back, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Norman nodded to the gold path. “Sort of reminds me of the yellow brick road.”

“Great,” Ralph groused. “Now the fruit thinks he's Dorothy.”

“I wish I was. Right now I wouldn't mind a pair of ruby slippers to whisk me home,” Norman grumbled. “Or even back to a farm in Kansas.”

Sam rolled his eyes and continued onward.