Excavation (31 page)

“You truly think this mythical mother lode is at my dig?”

The abbot raised his eyebrows. “Word has reached us from our agent on-site there. Signs look promising. But after that accident at the underground temple, it'll take us a while to—”

Henry tensed. “What accident? What are you talking about?”

Ruiz's face grew grim. “Oh, yes, that's right. You would have no way of knowing about the collapse.” The abbot quickly related what had happened at the ruins.

The blood drained from Henry's face.

“But fear not, though the students are trapped, their last transmission suggested that they'd found a natural cavern in which to take shelter.”

“I need to get up there! Now!” Henry blurted out, pulling from Joan's grasp. All interest in anything here died to cold ash. Oh, God…he had forgotten all about Sam. He had not
even considered that his nephew might be in danger, too.

“There is nothing you can do. I'm in contact with my men up there. Any change, one way or the other, and I'll tell you immediately.”

Henry's blood, which had drained from his face, rushed back. “You'll get no cooperation from me! Not until I know my nephew is safe!”

“Calm yourself, Professor Conklin. I've already sent a team of mining experts to assist in the rescue.”

Henry wrung his hands together. Joan stepped nearer, drawing an arm around his shoulders. He stood stiffly in her embrace. After the death of his wife and brother, Sam was his only family. Henry had no room for anyone else. If he had not been so enamored of his old college flame, Henry might have been thinking more clearly and avoided this whole mess. Stepping out of Joan's embrace, Henry spoke to the abbot through clenched teeth. “If any harm comes to Sam from this, I will kill you.”

Abbot Ruiz backed up a step, while Friar Carlos moved in with his Glock, warning Henry off. The abbot's voice trembled slightly. “I'm sure your nephew is safe.”

 

Another booby trap!

As the gold floor trembled underfoot, Sam pulled Maggie to his side. She had been attempting to unlock the statue's door, but it had locked tight behind them. “Brace yourselves!” Sam yelled above the growing roar of rushing water below. “Be ready to act!” Through his bootheels, the reverberations thrummed up his legs and tingled his ribs and spine.

A step away, Denal supported Norman; the young Quechan's eyes were huge saucers.

The rumble below grew deafening in the small space, and the floor bucked under Sam's boots. “Hang on!”

Suddenly the roar filled the space around them; the floor trembled as if holding back an immense pressure. Then the loud knock of catches releasing echoed all around them. The
platform shot upward under them. Norman fell to his hands and knees, crying out in pain as his injured limb struck the metal floor. No one else spoke, hushed with fear, frozen in tense postures.

The platform rocked and jolted, but continued on its upward course—slowly at first, then faster, spinning slightly as it ascended the shaft. Underfoot, the floor continued to tremble with whatever force propelled it.

“Hydraulics!” Norman cried out over the roar. He was helped to his feet by Denal.

“What?” Sam asked.

Maggie pushed free of Sam's embrace and studied the floor. “They must've tapped into an underground river, perhaps a tributary of the one we swam in yesterday. It's a bloody hydraulic lift!”

Sam stared up into the throat of the passage above. “But where is it taking us?”

Maggie frowned. “If they wanted to kill intruders, this is an overly elaborate way to do it,” Maggie said, eyeing the flow of smooth walls. “I think it's taking us all the way up.”

“To the roof?” Sam said, remembering the stance of the Incan king, arms raised up, palms on the ceiling as if supporting the ceiling of the cavern. He pictured the statue's form. It was a straight shot up.

“Hopefully not just to crush us up there,” Norman said sourly. “That would ruin an otherwise perfectly good day.”

“I don't think so,” Maggie answered, her voice unsure.

Denal suddenly cried out. He pointed overhead. “Look!”

Maggie swung her flashlight up, but there was no need. Far above them the end of the passage came into sight, a dome of gold, the interior crown of the statue's skull. Light streamed from regularly spaced cracks in the roof's surface. Then like the petals of a flower, six sections of the roof peeled fully open. Bright sunlight flowed down toward them.

“It's a way out!” Sam exclaimed. He whipped off his Stetson and let out a whoop of joy. “We've made it!”

Norman added more quietly, “Some of us, that is.”

Sam's smile faded. He replaced his hat, picturing Ralph's face. Norman was right. It was inappropriate to cheer their own salvation when one of their friends was not beside them.

Maggie moved nearer to Sam. Her eyes were bright with both relief and sadness. She craned her neck to study the opening dome.

Sam put his arm around her. “I'm sure Ralph would be glad we escaped.”

“Maybe…” she mumbled softly.

He hugged her tighter. “The dead do not begrudge the living, Maggie—not Ralph, not even your friend Patrick Dugan back in Ireland…” And to this list, Sam silently added his own parents.

Maggie leaned into him, her voice tired. “I know, Sam. I've heard it all before.”

Holding her, he gave up on words. He knew that sometimes forgiving yourself for living was harder than facing death itself. It was something you had to do on your own.

Slowly now, the elevator climbed toward freedom, and the platform pushed up into the opened dome. Finally, it settled to a stop. The six sections of the dome had retracted fully. Underfoot, the click of latches bumped the floor, locking the platform in place once again. Below them, the whoosh of water receded, flushing down the shaft.

“We're home,” Norman said.

After the dimness of the cavern, the late-afternoon sunlight was blinding, even when filtered through the heavy mists that seemed to cloak the skies overhead.

“But where the hell are we?” Sam asked, stepping forward. He craned his neck all around.

They appeared to be in some deep wooded valley. Towering steep walls of reddish black rock surrounded them on all sides, impossible to scale without mountaineering equipment and considerable skill. Overhead, mists roiled and
obscured the sunlight to a bright haze.

“What's that smell?” Norman asked.

The air, thin and warm, was tainted by the odor of rotten eggs. “Sulfur,” Maggie said. She turned in a slow circle, then pointed an arm. “Look!”

Near the north wall of the valley, a plume of steam shot skyward from a crack in the rock near its base. “A volcanic vent,” Sam said. This region of the Peruvian Andes was still geologically active, riddled with volcanic cones, some cold and silent, others still steaming. Earthquakes rattled through the mountains almost daily.

Maggie waved an arm. “This is no rift valley. We're in some type of volcanic caldera.”

Norman limped closer, eyes on the rock walls. He frowned. “Great. Why is the phrase ‘
out of the frying pan, into the fire
' coming to mind right now?”

Ignoring the photographer's dour words, Sam studied the heights around them. “If you're right, Maggie, we must be among that cluster of volcanic peaks east of our camp.” He nodded his head to a dark shadow to the south. Another cone, its rocky silhouette masked in steam, seemed to climb from the south wall itself, towering over their volcanic valley. “Look how many there are.”

Maggie nodded. “You're probably right. This region's never been explored. Too steep and dangerous to trek through.”

Denal spoke up, sticking close to Norman's side. He wiped his brow with a shirtsleeve. “Warm in here,” he muttered.

Sam agreed, taking off his Stetson and swiping back his damp hair. At this altitude, wearing only his vest, he should be chilled as twilight approached, but instead the breeze was warm, almost balmy.

“It's the steam vents,” Maggie explained. “They're keeping this place heated and humid.”

“Like some tropical greenhouse,” Norman said, his eyes on the jungle surrounding the gold dome. “Look at all this
growth.” He struggled to free his camera.

Around them spread a dense forest. Draped with vines, the tangle of trees spread in all directions. From their vantage point higher in the valley, they could spot a few open meadows, breaks in the jungle canopy, mostly near the ubiquitous volcanic vents. Otherwise, within the walls of the volcanic cone, the forest appeared undisturbed. Under its insulating canopy, a profusion of wild growth flourished. Giant ferns, with fronds longer than a man was tall, obscured the forest floor, while hundreds of orchids with fist-sized yellow blooms hung from the crooks of trees. Even some form of jungle rose climbed on thorny creepers along limbs and vines.

Norman snapped a few photographs, while the others wandered along the forest's edge.

Within this verdant and flowered splendor, birds whistled and piped in alarm, disturbed by their presence. A small flock of blue-winged parrots darted across the misty skies. Closer, the barking calls of monkeys warned them away, echoing off the rock walls. Their tiny bodies darted and flew among the trees and vines, flashes of fiery fur and whipping tails.

Beyond this wall of greenery, the babble of water over rock promised the presence of some spring-fed creek nearby.

“It's like some lost Eden,” Norman said.

Sam nodded, though a seed of worry took root. He remembered the Latin warning etched on the hematite bands by Francisco de Almagro:
Beware the Serpent of Eden
.

A similar thought must have passed through Maggie's mind. Her lips were pinched sternly, and her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “We've got company,” she suddenly whispered.

Sam tensed, eyes instantly on the alert. “What?”

Maggie stood immobile, only her eyes moved, indicating a direction in which to look.

Behind them, a sudden grind of metal sounded. The dome was closing back up, their only means of retreat from the
volcanic caldera vanishing.

Sam searched the section of jungle Maggie had indicated. Finally, he spotted a small face in the shadows, staring back at him. The figure must have known he had been spotted and rose from his crouch. He stepped from the dense thicket at the jungle's edge. From other spots, seven more men slipped into the clearing around the gold dome.

Mocha-skinned and dark-eyed, the men were clearly of Quechan heritage. They stood only to about Sam's shoulder, but bore spears a good head taller than the Texan. They wore traditional Indian garb: unadorned
haura
trousers and shirts fancifully decorated with parrot and condor feathers.

The leader, wearing a crimson headband, stepped forward and spoke sternly in his native tongue.

Denal translated, face scrunched. “He wants us to follow him.”

The small hunter turned and stepped back to the forest's edge. He pushed aside the giant frond of a tree fern to reveal a hidden path. The man ducked under the leafy growth and started down the trail. The other hunters hung back to ensure Sam's group followed.

Without any reason yet to fear them, Sam waved. “Let's go…maybe they know a way back to the dig.” Still, as he eyed their long weapons, Sam cinched his Winchester more snugly over his shoulder. If trouble should arise, he wanted to be ready.

Denal touched Sam's elbow. The boy's eyes were narrowed in suspicion, too. He seemed about to say something, then shook his head and fished out a bent cigarette from a pocket. He mumbled something in his native tongue as he slipped the filter to his lips.

“What is it, Denal?”

“Something no right,” he grumbled but said nothing more. Ahead, the boy helped Norman under the frond and onto the path.

Sam followed last with Maggie beside him. As the jungle swallowed them up, they proceeded in silence for several
minutes.

“What do you make of them?” Maggie finally whispered.

“They're obviously a Quechan tribe. Hundreds like them live as hunter-gatherers out in the wilds.”

Maggie pointed a thumb back toward the clearing. “And they just ignore a dome made of beaten gold?”

Sam pondered her words. She was right. The hunters had seemed more shocked to see them than the wealth at their backs. Denal's consternation also nagged at him. What was wrong here?

He studied the Indians as they marched onward. They moved silently, spears carried comfortably, pushing vines from their way. Soon the path crossed a small stream forded by a series of large stone blocks set in the flow. Who were these hunters?

The answer to his question appeared around a bend in the path.

The thick jungle opened, and a village appeared as if by magic. The cluster of stone homes surrounded a central plaza and spread in terraced steps up into the jungle itself; almost all of the homes were half-buried in the growth, shadowed by the high canopy. Jungle flowers festooned stone rooftops and grew in planted yards. The fragrant blooms negated the sulfurous smell of the volcanic vents.

Sam stared, his mouth gaping open. Llamas and small pigs moved around the narrow streets, while men and women came to doorways and windows to gawk equally at the four strangers. There had to be over a hundred inhabitants here, dressed in poncholike
cushmas
, or sleeved shirts with small capes, or long Indian
anacu
tunics.

The homes were as equally decorated as their inhabitants: lintels and window edges were sculpted elaborately, while silver and gold adornments glinted in the setting sun's haze.

Norman limped ahead, leaning on Denal's shoulder. From a doorway, one of the younger women, dressed in a wool
llikla
shawl, nervously approached Norman. She held out a loose wreath of blue flowers woven with yellow parrot
feathers. The thin photographer smiled and bowed down. Taking the opportunity, the woman darted forward and slipped the handwoven adornment over the photographer's head. Norman straightened as she giggled, a hand over her lips, and danced away.