Excavation (23 page)

Carlos nodded.

Henry used the momentary distraction of the newcomer to slip the Dominican crucifix from his jacket pocket and flip it into the toppled janitor's bucket. Only Joan noticed. Her eyes were huge with fear.

Raising the pistol, Carlos turned to Henry. “I'm losing patience, Professor. The cross, please.”

Henry stepped forward, placing himself between the shooter and Joan. He held out the beaker with the crude cross. He hoped the shape and the color would fool these thieves. He refused to lose the ancient relic.

The man's eyes narrowed suspiciously. He took the beaker and held it before him. Even distracted, the pistol never wavered from where it pointed, straight at Henry's heart.

The shooter's accomplice stood at the man's shoulders. “Is it…?”

Carlos ignored the man, still staring at the mock-up of the original crucifix. Whispered words of a Spanish prayer flowed from his lips, a benediction. Then the cross in the beaker changed, melting before the man's gaze into a perfectly symmetrical pyramid.

Henry gasped.

The second man fell to his knees. “
Dios mio!
”

Carlos lowered the beaker, his hand shaking. “We've found it!” Exultant, he turned to his captives.

Henry backed into Joan. She clutched his hand fiercely. Henry sensed he had made a grave miscalculation. The
thieves hadn't been after the Dominican crucifix because it was
gold
, but because they had suspected it was made of
Substance Z
. Henry had inadvertently handed them the very prize they had sought. Who were these people?

Carlos nodded toward Henry and Joan, but his brusque orders were for his companion. “Silence them.”

The second man stood, pulling his own gun, much larger and more intimidating than the leader's weapon.

“Wait!” Henry begged.

Ignoring him, the man aimed his pistol at Henry and fired. Henry's chest exploded with fire. Joan screamed. Henry fell to his knees, his hand slipping from Joan's. He glanced up in time to see the man twist the gun toward Joan.

“No!” he moaned, raising one hand futilely.

Too late. A muffled shot.

Joan clutched her own chest and fell. She turned stunned eyes to Henry, then glanced down. Henry followed her gaze. Her fingers pulled out a feathered barb from between her breasts, then she fell backward.

Henry glanced to his own chest. There was no bleeding bullet hole, only a red-feathered spot of agony. Tranquilizing darts?

Words, in Spanish, floated around him as the drug took effect.

“Get the men up here now.”

“What about the dead one?”

“Leave him in the office along with the janitor's body.”

Carlos's face suddenly bloomed close to Henry's. His wavery dark eyes were huge. Henry felt lost in them. “We're going for a short ride, Professor. Pleasant dreams.”

Henry slumped, but not before noticing the tiny silver cross dangling from a chain around the man's neck. He had seen it before. It was an exact match to the one found on the mummified friar.

A Dominican cross!

Before he could ponder this newest mystery, the black grip of the drug hauled him away.

 

Sam awoke on the stone floor of the cavern as someone nudged his side with a toe. Now what? Groaning a protest, he rolled away from the fire and found Norman standing nearby, staring out at the dark necropolis. The photographer had pulled the last guard shift. Even though the bat cave stood between them and the tarantula army, no one had been willing to take any chances.

“What is it?” Sam asked groggily, rubbing his eyes. After yesterday's labors and near deadly swim in the icy stream, he wished for nothing more than another half day beside the warmth of the crackling flames. Even the smell was rather pleasant, considering the source of the fuel—almost a burnt cinnamon. From the heart of the bonfire, a charred skull glared through the flames at him. Stretching, Sam pushed up. “Why did you wake me?”

Norman kept staring at the shadowed tombs of the Incan dead. “It's getting lighter in here,” he finally said.

Sam frowned. “What are you talking about? Did someone throw another log on the fire?” He glanced to the three bundled
mummies stacked nearby like cords of wood, waiting to stoke the flames.

Norman swung around; he held a small device in his palm. It was his light meter. “No. While on guard, I checked a few readings. Since five o'clock this morning, the meter has been reading rising footcandles.” Norman's glasses reflected the firelight. “You know what that must mean?”

Sam was too tired to think this early, not without at least a canteen of coffee. He pushed to a seated position. “Just spill it already.”

“Dawn,” Norman said, as if this made it all clear.

Sam just looked at him.

Norman sighed. “You really aren't a morning person, are you, Sam?”

By now the others were stirring slowly from their makeshift beds. “What's going on?” Maggie asked around a wide yawn.

“Riddles,” Sam said.

Norman shot Sam a sour look and stepped closer to encompass the entire group as he spoke. “My light meter's been registering stronger and stronger signals since dawn.”

Maggie sat up straighter. “Really?” She glanced beyond the firelight at the dark cave.

“I waited a couple hours to be sure. I didn't want to give anyone false hope.”

Sam pushed to his feet. He wore only his pants. His vest still lay drying beside the fire. He had been using it as a pillow. “You're not suggesting—?”

Maggie interrupted, her words laced with excitement. “Maybe Norman's right. If the readings are stronger as the morning progresses, then sunlight must be getting down here from somewhere.” She clapped Norman on the shoulder and shook him happily. “By Jesus, there must be a way out nearby!”

Her words sank into Sam's consciousness.
A way out
! Sam stepped to the pair. “You're sure the meter is not just registering flare-ups in the campfire?”

Norman frowned as Ralph and Denal edged around the fire to join the group. “No, Sam.” He lifted his device. “It's definitely picking up sunlight.”

Sam nodded, satisfied with the photographer's expertise. Norman was no fool. Sam squinted at the dark cavern. Firelight basked the walls and reflected off the monstrous gold statue in the center of the city. Sam prayed Norman was correct in his conclusions. “Then let's find out where that light's coming from. Can you use the meter to track the source?”

“Maybe…” Norman said. “If I keep it shielded from the torches and widen the f-stop…” He shrugged.

Ralph volunteered a suggestion. He seemed back to his old self since yesterday's trials, only perhaps slightly more subdued. “Maybe Norm and I could circle the camp and search out where the light reads the strongest. It should give us a direction to start.”

Sam nudged the photographer when he did not immediately respond. “Norman?”

The thin man glanced at the wall of darkness at the edge of the fire's pool of light. He did not look like he cared for Ralph's idea, but he finally admitted reluctantly, “It might work.”

“Good.” Sam rubbed his hands and put a plan together. “While you reconnoiter, we'll finish breaking down the camp. Take the flashlight. You can click it on and off as you take your readings. But be careful, the batteries on this one are wearing down, too.”

Ralph took the flashlight and tested it, thumbing the switch. “We'll be careful.”

Norman glanced to the fire, then back to the darkness. “If we're gonna do this, we'd better hurry. There's no telling when we might lose the sunlight. Even passing clouds could block the footcandles stretching down to us.” Contrary to his own words, Norman still hesitated, his face tight.

Sam noticed the photographer's tension. “What's wrong?”

Norman shook his head. “Nothing. I've just seen too many cheap horror movies.”

“So?”

“Splitting up the group. In horror movies, that's when the killer starts knocking off the college co-eds.”

Sam laughed, believing the photographer was cracking a joke—but Norman wasn't smiling. Sam's laughter died. “You don't seriously think—”

Suddenly something huge crashed into the bonfire. Flaming bits of wrap and bone exploded outward, stinging bare flesh and rattling across the stone floor. Smoke billowed, and darkness threatened to consume the group as the campfire was scattered. Luckily, a large flaming brand landed a t o p the stacked mummies nearby and set them on fire, returning the light. Shadows from the various pyres danced across the walls of the tombs.

Sam spun around, pulling Maggie behind him. Amid the ruins of their original fire rested a large square block, clearly a hewn-granite brick from one of the structures. He glanced up. There was no overhanging cornice from where the huge block could have fallen.

Ralph voiced Sam's own thoughts. “That was no accident.” The Alabama football player clicked on his flashlight and stabbed its beam into the darkness beyond the reach of the fires.

“Get the guns,” Sam said. “Now.”

Ralph nodded, tossing the light to Norman, then grabbed the rifle leaning against the stone wall. Sam bent and retrieved his own Winchester from beside his makeshift bed. Maggie kept close to his side, Denal at her hip.

Beyond the occasional crack and snap from the fire as dried bones burst from the heat, nothing could be heard. Yet all around them, Sam could sense movement. Shadows danced in the firelight, but some of the pools of darkness seemed to slink and slide. Something was out there, closing in on them.

“Ghosts come for us,” Denal mumbled.

Maggie put her arm around the boy's shoulder. She comforted the lad, but no one argued against his words. The spread of the necropolis, limned in flame and thick with shifting shadows, made even their worst nightmares seem possible.

But what moved through the necropolis was much worse.

Norman's flashlight caught one of the slinking interlopers in his beam. It froze for a heartbeat like a deer in headlights—but this was no doe or buck. As pale as the albino tarantulas, it stood on two legs, naked, hunched, knuckling on one long, thickly muscled arm. Sam's first thought was ape, but the creature was hairless, bald-pated.

It hissed at the light—at them—huge black eyes narrowed to angry slits, teeth pointed and sharp. Then it flew from the light, disappearing into the gloom, moving faster than Sam would have thought possible.

It had appeared and vanished so quickly that none of the group had time to comment. Sam had not even thought to raise his rifle; neither had Ralph. Norman's beam jittered as the photographer's arm trembled.

“What in bloody hell was that?” Maggie finally whispered.

Sam positioned his Winchester to his shoulder. In the distance, faint echoes could be heard all around them: the scrape of rock, strangled hisses, guttural coughs, even one piercing howl, clearly a challenge being trumpeted. It sounded as if scores of the creatures had them trapped, surrounded, but the cavern acoustics were deceptive. Ralph met Sam's gaze, fear glinting bright in the big man's eyes.

“What are they?” Maggie repeated.

“
Mallaqui
,” Denal answered. Spirits of the underworld.

“And you wanted Ralph and me to go out there alone,” Norman said, voice squeaking, flashlight trembling. “Let's take a lesson from horror flicks. We stick together from here on.”

No one argued. In fact, no one said a word.

All eyes stared into the dark heart of the necropolis.

Henry woke and wished he hadn't. His head ached and throbbed as if someone had been using his temples for a drum solo. His mouth was full of sour acid and as sticky as Elmer's glue. He groaned because that was all he was capable of doing for the moment. Taking several breaths, he concentrated on making out his surroundings. The only light came from a slitted window high up the rear wall of the tiny room.

Memories of the attack in the halls of Johns Hopkins returned. One of his hands crawled across his chest to finger a tender spot in its center. The feathered barb was gone. Slowly he pushed up to find himself lying atop a frame bed, poorly cushioned by a worn mattress. He still wore his same clothes—Levi's and a grey shirt, only his Ralph Lauren sports coat was gone. Tossing aside a thin wool blanket, Henry pushed himself up.

The room was spartan. Besides the bed, the only other pieces of furniture were a wormwood desk huddled in the back corner and a prayer bench set before a plain wooden crucifix. Henry stared at the cross, its deep cherry stain stark against the whitewashed plaster. Before his mind's eye, he again pictured the silver Dominican cross hanging from around his attacker's neck. What the hell was going on?

He swung his feet to the floor, causing his ears to ring and his vision to dim for a fraction of a second. He took a deep breath, but not before noticing a strong, familiar smell from the tattered blanket on the bed. He fingered the coarse wool which was slightly greasy. He raised it to his nose and sniffed. Llama. Wool from the llama was the poorest quality of the textiles produced in South American countries, used by the peasants only. It was seldom exported.

Understanding slowly dawned. South America?

Henry quickly stood, wobbling for a moment on his weak legs, then quickly regaining his strength. “No, it can't be!”

He stepped to the only door, short-framed but solid. He tested the latch. Locked, of course. Moving to the room's center, he stared up at the high window. Birds whistled in some nearby tree, and a warm breeze stirred the dust motes in the stream of sunlight. Too bright. Henry sensed that this was not the same day when he had been shot by the tranquilizer dart. How long had he been out? The thin breeze smelled of frying oil, and in the distance rose the vague noises of a market, its strident voices hawking wares in Spanish.

Henry's heart sank as he realized the truth. He had been abducted, whisked out of the country. Another face appeared to him: straight fall of midnight hair, bright eyes, full lips. His breath caught in his throat as he remembered Joan pulling the feathered dart from between her breasts and slumping to the floor. Where was she?

More worried about Joan than himself, Henry stepped to the door and pounded his fist, shaking the planks in their frame. Before he could even call out, a small peekhole slid open near the top of the door. Dark eyes stared at him.

“I want to know what—!”

The peephole slammed shut. Muffled words, too low to hear distinctly, were exchanged a few paces down the hall. Someone left in a hurry. Henry pounded the door again. “Let me out of here!”

He had not truly expected a response; he had only been venting his frustration. So he was shocked when someone responded to his call. A voice called to him from down the hall. “Henry? Is that you?”

Relief flooded his chest, cooling his hot blood. “Joan!”

“Are you okay?” she yelled back.

“Fine. How 'bout you?”

“Sore, sick, and mad as hell.”

Henry heard a lot of fear in her voice, too. He didn't know what to say. Apologize for getting her in this trouble? Offer false promises of rescue? He cleared his throat and called
back. “Sorry…that wasn't much of a second date, was it?” he called out.

A long pause…then a soft chuckle. “I've had worse!”

Henry pressed both palms against the door. He longed to wrap his arms around her.

From outside the cell, the sound of someone approaching suddenly echoed down the hall. Joan must have heard, too; she grew quiet. Henry held his breath. Now what? A voice, firm and curt, spat just outside his door. Henry recognized the cadence of an order.

The grate of a sliding bolt sounded, then the door to his cell swung open. Henry did not know what he had expected, but he was shocked when he discovered two robed monks outside his cell. Their cowls were tossed back and prominent crucifixes hung from beaded chains around their necks.