Excavation (10 page)

He looked at the luminous dial of his watch. It was after midnight, for Christ's sake. Various scenarios played in his head. The looters from the previous day had returned with better arms, and they were attacking the camp. Or maybe the Quechan laborers themselves, a swarthy and suspicious lot, had mutinied. Or maybe one of the three generators had just
exploded.

Philip clutched the collar of his robe tight to his neck. Where were his fellow students? Finally, fear and irritation drove him barefooted from the flap. He took a quick peek around the edge of his tent. Farther back, the three other shelters were dark humps huddled against the night. Why hadn't the others been roused? Were they hiding in the dark?

Stepping back to his own tent, Philip's eyes grew wide. Maybe he should do the same. His own lamplit shelter was surely an illuminated target for any aggressor. He darted inside and blew out the lamp. As he turned back to the tent's entrance, a huge black shadow filled the doorway. Philip gasped.

A flashlight blinded him.

“What do you want?” he moaned, his knees weak.

The light shifted to illuminate the face of one of the Quechan workers. Philip could not say which of the many laborers stood at his tent flap. They all looked the same to him. The man garbled some words of Quecha, but Philip understood none of it. Only the wave of the man's hand, indicating Philip should follow, was clear.

Still, Philip hesitated. Did the man here mean him harm or was he trying to help? If only Denal, the filthy urchin from Cuzco who had acted as their translator, were there. Unable to communicate, Philip felt defenseless, isolated, and trapped among these foreigners.

Again the shadowy figure waved for Philip to follow, then stepped back and turned to leave. Philip found himself skittering after the man into the darkness. He did not want to be alone any longer. Barefooted still, he hurried to keep up.

Outside the shelter of his tent, the night wind had grown a crisp edge to it. It sliced through Philip's robe to his bare skin. The man led him to the other students' tents. Once there, he threw back the flap to Sam's tent and flashed the light inside for Philip to see.
Empty!

Philip backed up a step and surveyed the ruins. If the bastard was out there, why hadn't Conklin answered his calls?
His Quechan guide showed him the other tents. They were empty, too. Sam, Maggie, Ralph, even the photographer Norman, had disappeared. Panic, more than the cold breezes from the mountaintops, set Philip's limbs to shaking. Where were they?

The worker turned to him. His eyes were dark shadows. He mumbled something in his native tongue. From his tone, the Indian was just as concerned.

Edging farther away, Philip waved an arm behind him. “We…we need to call for help,” he mumbled from behind chattering teeth. “We need to let someone know what's going on.”

Philip turned and hurried toward the communication tent. The Quechan worker followed with the flashlight. Philip's shadow jittered across the path ahead of him. He needed to alert the authorities. Whatever was happening, Philip could not handle it himself.

At the tent, Philip worked the zipper and snaps with fumbling fingers. Finally the flap was open, and he crawled within. The worker remained at the entrance, pointing the flashlight inside. In the beam of light, Philip stared wide-eyed at their communication equipment. A pickax was embedded in the heart of the central computer.

Philip slid to his knees with a moan. “Oh, God…no.”

 

Sam held the Winchester pointed toward the dark corridor that led to the heart of the ruins. A furtive scuffing and shuffling moved toward them through the darkness.

Beside him, Ralph held Sam's ultraviolet lamp out toward the darkness. Its illumination did little to pierce the well of shadows. What lay within the blackness remained a mystery.

Maggie and Norman stood behind the two men. Leaning forward, Maggie whispered in Sam's ear, her breath hot on his neck. “Gil was running from something. Something that scared the hell out of him.”

Sam's arms trembled with her words, his grip on the rifle
slipping. “I don't need to hear this right now,” he hissed back at her, steadying his hand.

Ralph had heard her words, too. The ex–football player swallowed audibly and raised the lamp higher, as if that would spread the glow farther. It didn't.

Sam tired of this game of silences. He cleared his throat, and called out, “Who's there!”

His answer was instant and blinding. Light flared up from the dark corridor, so bright it stung the eye. The group tumbled backward. Sam's finger twitched on the rifle's trigger, but only instinct drilled into him from hunting trips with his uncle kept him from firing off a round:
you never shoot what you can't see
.

Sam kept his rifle pointed, but he eased back on the trigger.

A squeaky voice, timid and frosted with terror, echoed up from behind the blinding light. “It's me!” The light suddenly tilted away from their gathered faces to play across the ceiling. A small figure stepped forward.

Sam lowered his weapon, silently thanking his uncle for his training in restraint. “Denal?” It was the young Indian lad who acted as their translator. The boy's face was ashen, his eyes glowing with fear. Sam shouldered his rifle. “What the hell are you doing down here?”

The boy hurried forward, keeping the flashlight he bore pointed down now. Words in fractured English rushed from him. “I…I see Gil sneakin' down here with Juan and Miguel. With bags of stuff. So I follow 'em.”

Maggie pushed beside the trembling boy and put an arm around him. “What happened?”

Denal used his free hand to slip a cigarette to his lips. He did not light it, but its familiar presence seemed to calm him. He spoke around the cigarette. “I no know…not sure. After they broke the sealed door—”

“What!” Sam gasped out. Even in their dire situation, such a betrayal shocked him.

Denal merely nodded. “I no see much. I stay out of sight. They crawl through door…and…and…” Denal
glanced up to Sam, his eyes frightened. “Then I hear screaming. I run. Hide.”

Maggie spoke, “Goddamn. The feckin' bastard was going to loot the place right out from under our noses.”

“But obviously something went wrong,” Norman added tensely, glancing back at the wall of rubble behind them. He turned back around. “What about the other two? Juan and Miguel?”

“I no know.” Denal seemed to see the blockage for the first time. He crossed to the cascade of boulders and clay. “Guillermo run out…I wait. I scared others might catch me. But no one come out. Then big boom. Stones fall…I run.” Denal raised a hand toward the tumbled section of the temple. “I should no come down alone. I should tell you instead. I so stupid.”

Sam took the Wood's lamp from Ralph and turned off its ultraviolet glow. “Stupid? You at least thought to bring a flashlight.”

Maggie moved closer to Sam. “What are we going to do?”

“We'll just have to wait for Philip to realize we're down here.”

Norman scowled at Sam's side. “We'll be waiting a long time.”

Denal crossed back to them. “Why no call him on walkie-talkie?”

Sam frowned. “Like the flashlight, that's another thing none of us thought to bring.”

Denal reached to a back pocket and pulled free a small handheld unit. “Here.”

Sam stared at the walkie-talkie. A smile grew on his face. “Denal, don't ever call yourself stupid again.” He took the pocket radio. “If you're stupid, what does that make all of us?”

Denal stared gloomily back at the rubble. “Trapped.”

 

Philip still knelt in the communication tent when the
camp's radio erupted with static. The loud noise drew a gasp from the startled student. Garbled words flowed between screeches of static: “…stones collapsed…someone pick up the line…”

It was English! Someone he could talk to! Philip scrambled for the receiver. He stabbed at the transmission button and spoke into the receiver. “Base camp here. Is anyone out there? We have an emergency! Over!”

Philip waited for a response. Hopefully whoever was there would be able to send help. Static was his only answer for a few strained heartbeats; then words formed again. “Philip?…It's Sam.”

Sam? Philip's heart sank. He raised the receiver. “Where are you? Over.”

“We're trapped down in the temple ruins. Gil blew the entrance.” Sam explained about the security chief's betrayal. “The whole structure is unstable now.”

Philip silently thanked whatever angel had been watching over him and kept him from being buried down there with the others.

“You'll need to send an S.O.S. to Machu Picchu,” Sam finished. “We'll need heavy equipment.”

Eyeing the pickax in the damaged CPU, Philip groaned softly. He clicked the transmit button. “I have no way of reaching anyone, Sam. Someone took out the satellite system. We're cut off.”

There was a long pause as Philip waited for a response. He imagined the string of expletives flowing from the Texan's lips. When Sam next spoke, his voice was angered. “Okay, Philip, then at first light send someone out on foot. Someone fast! In the meantime, you'll need to survey the damage on the surface when the sun's up. If you and the workers could begin a cautious excavation—at least get started—then when help arrives you can move quickly. I don't know how long the air will hold out down here.”

Philip nodded, even though Sam could not see. His mind dwelt on other concerns—like his own safety. “But what
about Gil?” he asked.

“What about him?” Sam's voice had a trace of irritation.

“He's surely long gone.”

“But what if he comes back?”

Again a long pause. “You're right. If he blew the place and sabotaged the communications, he must be planning to return. You'd better post guards, too.”

Philip swallowed hard as the growing danger he faced dawned on him. What if Gil returned with more bandits? They had only a few hunting rifles and a handful of machetes. They would be sitting ducks for any marauders. Philip glanced to the single Quechan Indian who still held the flashlight at the tent's entrance. And who among these swarthy-skinned foreigners could he trust?

A squelch of static drew Philip's attention back to the radio. “I'm gonna sign off now, Philip. I have to conserve this walkie-talkie's battery. I'll check back with you after sunrise to get an update on how things look from above. Okay?”

Philip held the receiver with a hand that now shook slightly. “Okay. I'll try to reach you at six.”

“We'll be here. Over and out.”

Philip settled the receiver back to the radio unit and stood up. From outside the tent, the worst of the commotion from the riled camp seemed to have died down. Philip crossed to the tent's flap and stood beside the small Quechan Indian.

Barefoot, wearing only his robe, Philip stared out at the black jungle and the smoking ruins. The chill of the night had settled deep into his bones. He hugged the robe tight to his frame. Deep in his heart, a part of him wished he had been trapped down in the temple with the others.

At least he wouldn't be so alone.

 

As early-morning sunlight pierced the gaps in the heavy hotel curtains, Henry sat at the small walnut desk and stared at the row of artifacts he had recovered from the mummy: A silver ring, a scrap of faded illegible parchment, two Spanish coins, a ceremonial silver dagger, and the heavy Dominican cross. Henry sensed that clues to the priest's fate were locked in these few items, like a stubborn jigsaw puzzle. If only he could put it all together…

Shaking his head, Henry stretched a crick from his back and rubbed at his eyes under his glasses. He must look a mess. He still wore his wrinkled grey suit, though he had tossed the jacket on the rumpled bed. He had been up all night studying the items, managing only a short catnap around midnight. The artifacts kept drawing him back to the hotel-room desk and the array of books and periodicals he had borrowed from the library at Johns Hopkins. Henry simply could not quit working at the puzzle, especially after his first discovery.

He picked up the friar's silver ring for the thousandth time. Earlier, he had gently rubbed the tarnish from its surface
and uncovered faint lettering around a central heraldic icon. Henry raised his magnifying lens and read the name on the ring: “
de Almagro
.” The surname of the Dominican friar. Just this one piece to the puzzle brought the man to life in Henry's mind. He was no longer just a
mummy
. With a name, he had become flesh and blood again. Someone with a history, a past, even a family. So much power in just a name.

Laying the magnifier down, Henry retrieved his pen and began adding final details to his sketch of the ring's symbol. A part of it was clearly a family crest—surely the de Almagro coat of arms—but a second image was incorporated around the family heraldry: a crucifix with a set of crossed sabers above it. The symbol was vaguely familiar, but Henry could not place it.

“Who were you, Friar de Almagro?” he mumbled as he worked. “What were you doing at that lost city? Why did the Incas mummify you?” Chewing his lower lip in concentration, Henry finished the last flourishes on his drawing, then picked the paper up and stared at it. “This will have to do.”

He glanced to his watch. It was almost eight o'clock. He hated to call so early, but he could not wait any longer. He swiveled his chair and reached for the phone, making sure the portable fax unit was hooked in properly. Once satisfied, he dialed the number.

The voice that answered was officious and curt. “Archbishop Kearney's office. How may I help you?”

“This is Professor Henry Conklin. I called yesterday to inquire about gaining access to your order's old records.”

“Yes, Professor Conklin. Archbishop Kearney has been awaiting your call. One moment please.”

Henry frowned at the receptionist's manner. He had not expected to reach the archbishop himself, but some minor clerk in their records department.

A stern but warm voice picked up the line. “Ah, Professor Conklin, your news about the mummified priest has caused
quite a stir here. We're most interested in what you've learned and how we might be of help.”

“Thank you, but I didn't think the matter would require disturbing Your Eminence.”

“Actually, I am quite intrigued. Before entering the seminary, I did a master's thesis in European history. A chance to participate in such a study is more of an honor than a bother. So, please, tell me how we can be of assistance.”

Henry smiled inwardly at his luck in finding a history buff among these men of the cloth. He cleared his throat. “With Your Eminence's help and access to Church archives, I had hoped to piece together the man's past, maybe shed light on what happened to him.”

“Most certainly. My offices are fully at your disposal, for if the mummy is truly a friar of the Dominican order, then he deserves to be sanctified and interred as befits a priest. If descendants of this man still survive, I would think it fitting that the remains be returned to the family's parish for proper burial.”

“I quite agree. I've tried to glean as much information as I can on my own, but from here, I'll need to access your records. So far, I've been able to determine the fellow's surname—de Almagro. He was most likely a friar in the Spanish chapter of the Dominicans dating back to the 1500s. I also have a copy of the man's family coat of arms that I'd like to fax you.”

“Hmm…the 1500s…for records that old, we might have to search individual abbeys' records. It might take some time.”

“I assumed so, but I thought to get started before I headed back to Peru.”

“Yes, and that does give me an idea where to start. I'll forward your records to the Vatican, of course, but there is also a very old Dominican enclave in Cuzco, Peru, headed by an Abbot Ruiz, I believe. If this priest was sent on a mission to Peru, the local abbey there might have some record.”

Henry sat up straighter in his chair, excitement fueling his tired body. Of course! He should have thought of that himself. “Excellent. Thank you, Archbishop Kearney. I suspect your help will prove invaluable in solving this mystery.”

“I hope so. I'll have my secretary give you our fax number. I'll be awaiting your transmission.”

“I'll forward it immediately.” Henry barely paid attention while he was passed back to the receptionist and given the fax number. His mind spun on the possibilities. If Friar de Almagro had been in Peru long, surely there might even be some of the man's letters and reports at the abbey in Cuzco. Perhaps some clue to the lost city might be contained in such letters.

Henry replaced the receiver with numb fingers and slid his sketch of the ring into the fax machine. He dialed out and listened to the whir and buzz as the fax engaged.

As the drawing was forwarded, Henry forced his mind to the other mystery that surrounded the mummy. He had spent the night pursuing this fellow's past, but with such matters out of his hands, he allowed himself to speculate on the last puzzle concerning the mummy. Something he had not related to the archbishop. Henry pictured the explosion of the mummy's skull and the splatter of gold.

What exactly had happened? What was that substance?
Henry knew the archbishop could shed no new light on that matter. Only one person could help him, someone whom he had been looking for an excuse to call anyway. Since meeting her again for the first time in almost three decades, he could not get the woman out of his mind.

The fax machine chimed its completion, and Henry picked up the phone. He dialed a second number. It rang five times before a breathless voice answered. “Hello?”

“Joan?”

A puzzled voice. “Yes?”

Henry pictured the pathologist's slender face framed by a fall of hair the shade of ravens' wings. Time had barely touched her: just a hint of grey highlights, a pair of reading
glasses perched on her nose, a few new wrinkles. But her most delightful features remained unchanged: her shadowy smile, her amused eyes. Even her quick intelligence and sharp curiosity had not been dulled by years in academia. Henry suddenly found it difficult to speak. “Th…this is Henry. I'm…I'm sorry to disturb you so early.”

Her voice lost its cold dispassion and warmed considerably. “Early? You just caught me arriving home from the hospital.”

“You worked all night?”

“Well, I was reviewing the scans of your mummy, and…well…”—a small embarrassed pause—“I sort of lost track of time.”

Henry glanced down at his own wrinkled clothing and smiled. “I know what you mean.”

“So have you learned anything new?”

“I've put together a few things.” He quickly related his discovery of the friar's name and his call to the archbishop. “How about yourself? Anything new on your front?”

“Not much. But I'd like to sit down and go over some of my findings. The material in the skull is proving most unusual.”

Before Henry could stop himself or weigh such a decision, he pushed forth. “How about lunch today?” He cringed as the words came out. He had not meant to sound so desperate. His cheeks grew heated with his awkwardness.

A long pause. “I'm afraid I can't do lunch.”

Henry kicked himself for being so unprofessional. Surely she saw through his words. Ever since Elizabeth had died, he had forgotten the knack of approaching a woman romantically—not that he'd ever had much of a desire to do so before now.

Joan continued, “But how about dinner? I know a nice Italian place on the river.”

Henry swallowed hard, struggling to speak. Dare he hope that she was suggesting more than just a meeting of colleagues? Perhaps a renewal of old feelings? But it had been
so long. So much life had passed between their college years and now. Surely whatever tiny spark that had once flared between them had long gone to ash. Hadn't it?

“Henry?”

“Yes…yes, that would be great.”

“You're staying at the Sheraton, yes? I can pick you up around eight o'clock. That is, if a late dinner is okay with you?”

“Sure, that would be fine. I often eat late, so that's no problem. And…and as a matter of fact, um…” Henry's nervous blathering was thankfully interrupted by the beep of an incoming call. He awkwardly coughed. “I'm sorry, Joan. I've got another call. I'll be right back.”

Henry lowered the receiver, took a long calming breath, then clicked over to the other line. “Yes?”

“Professor Conklin?”

Henry recognized the voice. His brow crinkled. “Archbishop Kearney?”

“Yes, I just wanted to let you know that I received your fax and took a look at it. What I saw came as quite a surprise.”

“What do you mean?”

“The emblem of the crossed swords over the crucifix. As a former European historian, it's one I'm quite familiar with.”

Henry picked up the friar's silver ring and held it to the light. “I thought it looked familiar myself, but I couldn't place it.”

“I'm not surprised. It's a fairly archaic design.”

“What is it?”

“It is the mark of the Spanish Inquisition.”

Henry's breath caught in his throat. “What?” Images of torture chambers and flesh seared by red-hot irons flashed before his eyes. The black sect of Catholicism had long been disbanded and vilified for the centuries of deaths and tortures it had inflicted in the name of religion.

“Yes, from the ring, it seems our mummified friar was an Inquisitor.”

“My God,” Henry swore, forgetting for a moment to whom he was speaking.

An amused chuckle arose from the Archbishop. “I thought you should know, but I must be going now. I'll forward your information to the Vatican and to Abbot Ruiz in Peru. Hopefully we'll learn more soon.”

The archbishop hung up. Henry sat stunned, until the phone rang in his hand, startling him. “Oh, God…Joan.” Henry clicked back to the pathologist he had left on hold. “I'm sorry that took so long,” he said in a rush, “but it was Archbishop Kearney again.”

“What did he want?”

Henry related what he had learned, still shaken by the revelation.

Joan was silent for a moment. “An Inquisitor?”

“It would appear so,” Henry said, collecting himself. “One more piece to an expanding puzzle.”

She replied, “Amazing. It seems we'll have even more to ponder over dinner tonight.”

Henry had momentarily forgotten their supper arrangements. “Yes, of course. I'll see you tonight,” he said with genuine enthusiasm.

“It's a date.” Joan quickly added her good-byes, then hung up.

Henry slowly returned the receiver to its cradle. He did not know what surprised him more—that the mummy was a member of the Spanish Inquisition or that he had a date.

 

Gil climbed the stairs of the only hotel in the jungle village of Villacuacha. The wooden planks creaked under his weight. Even in the shadowed interior of the inn, the late-morning heat could not be so easily escaped. Already a sweltering warmth wrapped itself around Gil like a heavy blanket. He swiped the dampness from his neck with the
cuff of his torn sleeve and swore under his breath. The night-long flight through the jungle had left him scratched and foul-tempered. He had managed only a short nap after arranging this meeting.

“He had better not be late,” Gil grumbled as he climbed to the third landing. After fleeing the campsite of the Americans, Gil had reached a dirt track in the jungle just as the sun finally rose. Luckily, he stumbled upon a local Indian with a mule and a crooked-wheeled wagon. A handful of coins had bought him passage to the village. Once there, Gil had telephoned his contact—the man who had arranged for Gil's infiltration onto the Americans' team. They had agreed to a noon meeting at this hotel.

Gil patted the golden cup secured in his pocket. His contact, a dealer in antiquities, should pay a tidy sum for such a rare find. And this broker in stolen goods had better not balk at Gil's price. If Gil had any hopes of hiring a crew to return to the dig and commandeer the site, he would need quick funding—all in cash.

Gil ran a hand over the long knife at his belt. If it came down to it, he would persuade the fellow to meet his price. He would let nothing stand between him and his treasure, not after how much it had cost him already.

Atop the stairs, Gil pushed the taped bandage covering his burned cheek more firmly in place. He would be rewarded for his scarring. That he swore. Teeth gritted with determination, Gil walked down the narrow corridor. He found the right door and rapped his knuckles on it.

A man's firm voice answered. “Come in.”

Gil tried the door. It was unlocked. He pushed his way into the room and was instantly struck by two things. First, the refreshing coolness of the room. Overhead, a ceiling fan turned languidly creating a gentle stir to the air that seemed to wash away the humidity. A double set of French doors were swung wide open upon a small balcony overlooking the hotel's shaded garden courtyard. From somewhere beyond the steamy warmth of the jungle, a cool breeze
flowed through those open doors into the room. White-lace curtains drifted in the gentle breezes, while thin mosquito netting around the single bed billowed softly like the sails of a ship.