The Moche Warrior (26 page)

At the end of this experience which I beleive took several days I came back to the present, but not the same. People dont beleive me tho. I tried to tell them, but what did they do. They called the police and they put me in the hospital for two weeks.

I told the doctors too. They didnt beleive me neither. I also told them all about histry. Even tho I didnt like school much, I always liked histry. I watch all those programs on TV about ancient mysterys and stuff. I always wondered why I liked it so much but now of course I no. It is on account of my former lives as a prophit.

By now, of course, I knew who had written it. But was there a point to this? I wondered. And if there was, would I ever be able to figure it out?

When I got out of there the police were still pretty interested in me,
the writer went on.
So I desided to come to Peru to see if I coud get closer to this Wayna the freind of Atahualpa which as I have explaned to you is me. I borrowed some $$$ from my brother, I didnt tell him tho so I guess hes mad at me too like every body else.

Its worked out good tho. I have the lady freind her real name is Megan. She was Joan of Ark in another life so she nos what its like.

The thing is the realy important part is that since I can remember all these times in histry I no where the treasure is. I have seen cities of gold that you get to thru cracks in the rock. And most especialy I no where Atahualpa hid the most fabulus treasure ever so as the Spanish coudnt find it. You no how I no? Because I helped him do it. And I have seen it with my own eyes I mean in this life time. And it is near here. I found it once but I was on a bit of a bad trip so I have to find il again. I could pay my brother back so he woudnt be mad any more but also I coud pay off the deficet for every country in the world. I coud build houses for those refujees and feed all those kids you see on TV with those big bellys and sad eyes.

The trouble is Megan is mad because I used the $$$ I earnt to buy marigana. She doesnt realy understand I need it to fuse with my former life as Wayna so I can find the treasure. Shell get over it but right now she is gone and I am alone.

To make things even worse I think the Spanish are after me. Like if I can go back to my former lives then may be they can come forward to now if you no what I’m getting at. I think they mean to kill me good this time. Please help me.

Your freind Wayne, who you no as Puma,
the letter ended.

What was one to think about a letter like this? I didn’t know whether to just forget it—and perhaps congratulate Pachamama, or Megan, should our paths ever cross again, for having the foresight to leave her somewhat deranged boyfriend when she had a chance—or, on the other hand, to try to find a thread of reality in all the madness.

Ever since Puma had disappeared, I’d wondered if he was connected in some way to Moche artifacts.
I know where the treasure is. I have seen cities of gold that you get to thru cracks in the rocks… the most fabulous treasure ever… and it is near here.
It sounded like the words of a madman, but was it possible Puma had indeed seen something, in this lifetime, drunk or drugged though he might have been at the time?
To make things even worse I think the Spanish are after me.
If he had, then he might well be right about the Spanish being after him, not, as he maintained, from a different time, but right here and right now. Pachamama—Megan, that is—had left because she didn’t believe him. I didn’t know what to think, but with all the strange things that were happening, I was beginning to give him the benefit of the doubt.

I was sure about one thing, however, and that was that I was more than a little annoyed with Lucho. I was waiting as he came shuffling back through the main door heading for his room, having chosen tonight of all nights to stay here. I was so irritated, in fact, that I didn’t care if he knew I’d been searching through his belongings.

“What were you doing with this letter?” I demanded. “It is very clearly addressed to me!”

Lucho looked wary but said nothing.

“When did it arrive? Did someone deliver it? Well?” I demanded, one foot tapping the floor impatiently. “Answer me!”

“I don’t know,” Lucho whined.

“It was in your room,” I said. I could hear a dangerous tone in my voice.

“I forgot,” Lucho said. He was practically sniveling.

“When did it arrive?” I asked again.

“Yesterday,” Lucho said hesitantly.

“Are you sure?” Manco Capac had said yesterday that the kids had left one or two days before.

“Maybe the day before,” he conceded. This was the second person—Manco Capac being the first— who’d had a serious lapse of memory where Puma’s whereabouts were concerned.

“Who brought it?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. I glared at him. “I don’t!” he repeated stubbornly. “It was on the floor inside the front door when I came in. I didn’t see anybody.”

“But you opened it,” I said very quietly.

“No way,” he said, and that was the last I could get out of him. I stomped upstairs and told myself to sleep. But I couldn’t, unbidden images of Lizard and Edmund Edwards, and most of all the Spider, haunting me. Very late, I decided that I should go to plan B, back to the Paradise Crafts Factory and look around one more time, to see if I’d missed anything. Lucho’s door was closed and there was no sign of a light on, as I eased my way out the front door.

I hoped, as I started the truck, that Hilda had been well into the scotch and thus sleeping soundly. I pulled the truck off the highway several hundred yards from the factory, concealing it behind an old abandoned hut, and went the rest of the way on foot, thankful, for once, for the covering blanket of the
garua.

Montero’s little industrial complex was in darkness except for one light over the front door of each of the buildings. I headed around to the rear of the factory building, hoping that one or other of the doors had been left ajar to help cool down the work area after the tremendous heat from the kiln.

All were closed and locked, but I had a fallback. I’d noticed during my tour of the place that the back door was old, with a very poor lock of the bathroom door variety, where you simply push a button on the inside doorknob. Montero was not overly worried, it seemed, about intruders. If he’d really been up to no good I’d have expected better locks, for some reason. Having had some experience getting locks of this sort open, I figured I’d be able to get in reasonably easily-In the absence of a credit card, I’d brought a couple of tools from the lab that I thought would do the trick. They did, and with very little effort I let myself in. I locked the door from the inside.

The room was stifling, and I stood for a moment or two, waiting until my eyes adjusted to the dark, as sweat began trickling down my back from the heat and my fear.

I made my way to the end of the room where Antonio’s drafting table was located, and, turning the shade down as far as I could, switched on the light. In another minute, I’d unlocked the filing cabinet next to the table.

The top drawer was filled with drawings, the second with photographs. It took me a moment or two to see how the files were organized: in large sections by year, and then within that, by type of artifact.

My purchases from the auction house had been abandoned in customs, and A. J. Smythson, to whom they’d been sent, had died between two and three years earlier. I went back three years in the file and started to search.

There were several bulging files for that year, quite a few for stirrup vessels done by subject, one file for portraits, another for animals, still another for birds. What I was looking for wasn’t there. After checking every file for that year, I went back four years, and started working through those files as well. At the very back of the drawer I found a file marked miscellaneous and opened that.

Midway through the file, I almost exclaimed out loud. I’d found what I wanted. Before I could look further, however, I heard the sound of a car engine Very nearby. I stuffed the file back into the drawer, closed it, pushed the lock shut and extinguished the light, almost in one motion. Footsteps crunched on the sand and gravel that surrounded the building. Then the back door rattled, and the glare of a flashlight swept the upper windows. Night watchman, I thought, checking the doors and windows. I hoped his patrol did not include searching the interior.

The steps moved on, then the two doors by the kiln were tried in succession.

I waited, barely breathing, until the footsteps died away. The check of the property must have been fairly thorough, because several minutes went by, and I still hadn’t heard the sound of the car engine starting, a signal that this inspection was at an end. Did this mean, I wondered, that the watchman was permanently stationed there for the night, or was he checking out the other buildings more carefully? I waited several minutes more, then, deciding I couldn’t wait all night, I plotted in my mind a route back to the truck that would take me away from the main buildings.

I remembered the old ruin of a building out back, and after looking carefully about me, and pulling the locked door shut behind me, I headed across the sand in its direction. It was quite a distance away, but I made it, then stood behind it to listen. Absolute silence greeted me. I kept close to the walls of the building and went around to the back where a door was located. That’s strange, I thought, but at that moment, a flashlight came around the comer of the main building once again, and I pulled back into the darkness. As soon as the guard, or whoever it was, had made his circuit, I looked again.

Two things caught my attention. First of all there was a padlock on the door of the ruin. That shouldn’t have been necessary, I thought. Secondly, an electric cord had been threaded under the door. As unnecessary as a padlock might be on a- ruined building, electricity was even less useful, I’d have thought. I picked it up. I couldn’t slide under the door, of course, but I decided to follow the cord back to see if it was actually plugged in somewhere. The cord snaked its way along the wall of the building farthest away from the factory. I came to the corner of the building, and followed the cord around it. It was very dark, and I stumbled over an object in my path. A large object. I switched on the flashlight I had brought with me. Carlos Montero was dead. Shot. It was all I could do to keep from screaming.

I thought for a second or two what I should do. Carlos was beyond help. They’d find him soon enough. I angled away from the building and made a large circle back to the truck.

Back at the hacienda, I opened the front door and started across the courtyard in the dark. “Hands up,” a voice said. “Turn around very slowly.”

This time, it wasn’t Lucho playing freedom fighter.

I turned around to face the voice.

15

Hilda stood in shadow, her tall, slight figure barely discernible to my eyes, framed only by the dim light from outside. I on the other hand was the perfect target, caught in the beam of her flashlight. She gestured at me to move into the dining room, then shut the door behind her. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” she rasped. “And don’t tell me you’re Rebecca MacCrimmon just trying to catch up on some work in the lab. I’ve had your passport checked. The name and the number don’t match.”

What to do? Sometimes in life you have to take a chance, make a choice. Feeling as if I stood on the edge of a precipice, I made my decision, and, taking a deep breath, stepped off.

“My name is Lara McClintoch,” I said. “I’m co-owner of an antiques shop called Greenhalgh and McClintoch in Toronto. I’m here because several weeks ago I went to an auction and picked up what I thought was a box of junk, except that there were objects in it, supposedly replicas of pre-Columbian artifacts, that I later decided were real. One of them came from here, Campina Vieja, at least that’s what it said. Two of the objects disappeared; someone was killed, murdered in my shop; our one employee, a dear friend of mine, was attacked; and then the shop was set on fire. The police think my employee has something to do with it all, and if they think that, they’ll end up charging him with manslaughter at the very least. And if they clear him, then they’ll be after me for arson probably, insurance fraud that went wrong. So I went to New York to find the source of these objects, and someone else got murdered.”

I paused to catch my breath and then continued. “After that, I headed for the source, or what I thought was the source, and here I am. That’s the short version, but you get the general idea,” I said, trying not to sound terrified.

“That’s quite a story,” she said. Wait till you hear the rest of it, I thought. “Perhaps the missing details would make it more plausible,” she went on, more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “What did these objects look like?”

“There was a silver peanut, about life-size; an ear spool of gold, turquoise, and some other materials; and a flared vase with serpents drawn around the rim, sort of like this,” I said, dropping my hands slightly to indicate the shape.

“It’s called a
florero
,” she said, and then I knew I was safe. You don’t correct people’s description of things, I decided, if you’re planning to shoot them.

“A
florero,”
I agreed. “It had
hecho en Peru
stamped on the bottom, and there was a card that said it was a pre-Columbian replica from Campina Vieja.”

Hilda said nothing, so I pressed on. “So now,” I said into the shadows, “perhaps you could return the favor and tell me who you are and why you’re here.”

“What do you mean?” she demanded.

“I don’t think the average person would know how to check out a passport,” I replied.

“Even fewer average people know how to get a fake one,” she snapped.

“Touche,” I replied.

“Furthermore,” she went on, her voice heavy with rebuke, “my name really is Hilda Schwengen, and I really am an archaeologist.”

I said nothing, just waited.

“I am also,” she said reluctantly, “from time to time, a consultant to U.S. Customs.”