Excavation (40 page)

Sam did not know how the transformation had occurred, but the miracle of the dagger was clearly something the Incas had never seen. Sam raised the golden asp high.

Pachacutec lifted his staff, mimicking Sam's pose. His eyelids lowered slightly, as if in prayer. Suddenly the golden sunburst symbol atop his staff flowed and transformed to match the serpent. Two snakes stared each other down.

Now it was Sam's turn to back away. Pachacutec met the Texan's gaze. Sam no longer saw anger in the man's eyes, but tears.

To the king's side, Kamapak fell to his knees, bowing his head toward Sam. The gathered throng followed suit. Foreheads pressed to the stones.

Pachacutec lowered his staff. He stepped toward them. Arms wide. “Inti has blessed you. The sun god of the Mochico listens to your dreams. You be one of the chosen of Inti!” The king crossed to stand before Sam. He offered his hand. “You be safe in our house. All of you!”

Sam was too confused to react. The sudden change in the Incas was unnerving. But he could not quite trust the transformation, any more than he could understand what had happened to the dagger.

Maggie pushed beside Sam. “What about Denal?”

Pachacutec heard her. “The boy. He be not fourteen years. Too young for
huarachicoy
.” He smiled as if this explained it all.

Sam frowned.
Huarachicoy
was the ceremonial feast where a boy was accepted as a man into a tribe, when he was given his first
huara
, the loincloth of an adult tribesman. “What do you mean ‘too young'?”

Kamapak raised his face and spoke. Norman translated. “It was decided that the boy, like all the tribe's children, was to be taken to the temple. He was to be gifted directly to the gods.”

Maggie turned to Sam. “Sacrifice,” she said with fear.

“When?” Sam asked. “When was this to be done?”

Pachacutec glanced to the rising sun. The bright disk was fully above the volcanic edge. “It be done already. The boy be with the gods.”

Sam stumbled backward. “No…”

The Texan's reaction confused the king. The Sapa Inca's bright smile faltered. “Be this not Inti's wish?”

“No!” Sam said more forcefully.

Maggie grabbed Sam's elbow. “We need to go to that temple. Maybe he's still alive. We don't know for sure that he's dead.”

Sam nodded at her words. There was a chance. He faced Kamapak and Pachacutec. “Take us to the temple.”

The king bowed his head, offering no argument to one of the chosen. Instead, he waved, and the shaman stood. “Kamapak will guide you.”

“I'm coming with you,” Maggie said.

“Me too,” Norman added, swaying a bit on his feet. Clearly the transformation and the long stressful night had taken its toll on him.

Sam shook his head. “Norman, you need to stay here. You can speak the local lingo. Get the Incas to light a signal fire on the highest ridge so the evac helicopter can find us.” Sam reached to his vest pocket and pulled out the walkie-talkie. “Here. Contact Sykes and get a status report. But more importantly…get Uncle Hank up here ASAP!”

Norman looked worried with the burden of his assignment, but he accepted the walkie-talkie with a slow nod. “I'll do what I can.”

Sam clapped the photographer on the shoulder, then he and Maggie hurried away, stopping only to collect Sam's Winchester.

“Be careful!” Norman called to them. “There's something strange up there!”

Sam didn't need to be told that. All he had to do was look at the golden viper mounted on the dagger's hilt in his hand.

Bright sunlight glinted off its sharp fangs.

He shivered. Old words of warning rang in his head:
Beware the Serpent of Eden.

Henry trudged toward the collapsed subterranean temple. Even from here, he saw how the crown of the hill had fallen in on itself. Sodium lamps highlighted the excavation on the lee side of the slope, where workers still struggled to dig a rescue shaft into the buried ruins.

As Henry walked, Philip's litany of the events of the past few days droned on: “…and then the temple started to implode. There was nothing I could do to stop it…” Philip Sykes had come running up to Henry as soon as the professor had cleared the helicopter's rotors, wearing a smile that was half panicked relief and half shame, like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs. Henry ignored his student's ceaseless explanation. The theme was clear from the start:
I'm not to blame
!

Henry finally touched Philip's shoulder. “You've done a great job, Mr. Sykes. Considering the circumstances and confusion here, you've managed admirably.”

Philip bobbed his head. “I did, didn't I?” He ate up the praise with a big spoon…and then thankfully grew quiet, content at being absolved for any of the tragedy. Henry, though, knew the student was hiding more than he was telling. Henry had heard the disparaging comments whispered from some of the Quechan workers as they passed. He knew enough of the local Indian dialect to tell that the laborers resented Philip. Henry suspected that if he questioned the workers, a different view of the events of the past few days would come to light…and that Philip would not come out looking so squeaky clean.

But right now, Henry had more important concerns.

He eyed the two guards who flanked them. They no longer brandished their guns, but they kept their hands on holstered pistols. Abbot Ruiz marched ahead of them, wheezing through nose and mouth. The altitude and exertion in climbing through the ruins were clearly taxing the heavy man.

As they finally reached the site where a black tunnel
opened into the side of the buried temple, a man dressed in the brown robes of a friar stepped toward them. He was darkly handsome with cold eyes that seemed to take in everything with a sharp glance.

Abbot Ruiz stared hungrily at the tunnel opening. “Friar Otera, how do things fare here?”

The monk remained bowed. “We should reach the temple ruins by noon, Your Eminence.”

“Good. Very good. You have done brilliantly.” He stepped past the bowing man without a glance, dismissing him.

Henry, though, caught the glint of white-hot anger in the monk's eyes as he straightened, the man's face settling back to passive disinterest. But Henry knew better. A few words of faint praise were not going to satisfy this man as they had Philip. Closer to him now, Henry noted some Indian features mixed with his Spanish heritage: a deeper complexion, a slightly wider nose, and eyes so deep a brown they seemed almost black. Friar Otera was clearly a
mestizo
, a half-breed, a mixture of Spanish and Indian blood. Such men had hard lives here in South America, their mixed blood often a mark of humiliation and ridicule.

Henry followed the abbot, but remained attuned to the friar's movements. He knew he had better keep a close watch. There were dangerous layers to this man that had nothing to do with the abbot's schemes. Henry noticed how even Philip gave the man a wide berth as the student clambered up the loose soil toward the tunnel opening.

Friar Otera took up a pace behind Henry.

As they reached the excavated tunnel, the sun climbed fully into the sky. The clear blue skies promised a hot day to come.

Suddenly a crackle of static drew their eyes toward Philip. The student reached inside his jacket and pulled free a walkie-talkie. “It must be Sam,” Philip said. “He's early.”

Henry stepped nearer. His nephew had said he would contact base around ten o'clock. The call was a few hours ahead of schedule.

“Base here,” Philip said, lips pressed to the receiver. “Go ahead, Sam.”

Static and interference whined for a few seconds, then…“Philip? It's not Sam. It's
Norman
.”

Philip glanced over the radio to the others, brows raised. Henry understood the Harvard student's shock. From Sam's last radio message, Norman had been at risk of being sacrificed last night. Thank God, he was still alive!

Norman continued, speaking rapidly. “When do you expect the helicopters? We need them up here now!” Panic etched his voice.

“They're right here!” Philip yelled back. “As a matter of fact, Professor Conklin's with me.” Philip held out the walkie-talkie.

Henry took it, but not before noticing the narrowing of Abbot Ruiz's eyes. A warning against any slip of the tongue. Henry raised the radio. “Norman, it's Henry. What's going on up there?”

“Denal's in danger! Sam and Maggie have gone to rescue him. But we need help up here ASAP. Within the hour, several signal fires should be blazing near the cone's western ridge. They should be visible through the mists. Hurry!”

Henry eyed the Abbot. He was already waving some of his men back toward the helicopter. They had thought to have a few hours until Sam called, but clearly Abbot Ruiz was more than happy to accelerate the schedule, especially with Norman's next words.

“There's something strange up here…borders on the miraculous, Professor. Must see to…” The static was growing worse, eating away words.

The abbot met Henry's gaze, his eyes bright with religious hope. Ruiz nodded for Henry to question the photographer.

“Does it have anything to do with a strange type of gold?” Henry asked.

Norman seemed not to have heard, cutting in and out, “…a temple. I don't know how…heals…no children though.”

The choppy transmission was clouding any clear meaning. Henry gripped the walkie-talkie firmly and pressed it closer to his lips. If he had any hope of warning Sam and the others, it would have to be now. “Norman, sit tight! We're coming! But tell Sam not to do anything rash. He knows I don't
trust
him to act on his own.”

Beside him, Philip startled at his words. Henry prayed Norman would be as equally shocked by such a statement. The entire team knew Henry held his nephew in the highest esteem and would never disparage Sam or any of them in this manner, but Abbot Ruiz didn't know that. Henry pressed the receiver again. “I mean it. Do nothing. I
don't trust
Sam's judgment.”

“Professor?” Norman's voice was full of confusion. Static raged from the unit. Any further words dissolved away.

Henry fiddled with the radio but only got more static. He thumbed it off. “Batteries must have died,” Henry said morosely. He prayed Norman had understood his veiled warning, but if not, at least no harm had been done. Abbot Ruiz seemed oblivious of Henry's attempt at a secret message. He handed the radio back to Philip.

Philip returned the walkie-talkie to a pocket, then opened his mouth. “What do you mean you don't trust Sam, Professor. Since when?”

Henry took a step forward, trying to signal the Harvard grad to shut up.

But Abbot Ruiz had already heard. He swung back to Henry and Philip. “What's all this about?” he asked, his face narrowed with suspicion.

“Nothing,” Henry answered quickly. “Mr. Sykes here and my nephew have an ongoing rivalry. He's always thought I favored Sam over him.”

“I never thought that, Professor!” Philip said loudly. “You trusted all of us!”

“Did you now?” Ruiz asked, stalking up to them. “Trust seems to be something that all of us are losing at this moment.”

The abbot waved a hand, and Friar Otera appeared behind Philip with a bared blade.

“No!” Henry yelled.

The thin man grabbed a handful of the student's hair and yanked Philip's head back, exposing his throat.

Philip squawked but grew silent when he saw the blade. He stiffened when the knife touched his throat.

“Is another lesson in order so soon?” the abbot asked.

“Leave the boy be,” Henry begged. “He doesn't know what he's saying.”

The abbot stepped beside Philip, but his words were for Henry. “Were you trying to pass a warning up there? A secret signal perhaps?”

Henry stared Ruiz full in the face. “No. Philip just misspoke.”

Ruiz turned to the terrified student. “Is that so?”

Philip just moaned, closing his eyes.

The abbot leaned and spoke in Philip's ear. “If you wish to live, I expect the truth.”

The student's voice cracked. “I…I don't know what you're asking.”

“A simple question. Does Professor Conklin trust his nephew?”

Philip's eyes flicked toward Henry, then away again. “I…I guess.”

The abbot's face grew grim, clearly dissatisfied by the vague answer. “Philip,” he intoned menacingly.

The student cringed. “Yes!” he gasped out. “Professor Conklin trusts Sam more than any of us. He always has!”

The abbot nodded, and the knife left the student's throat. “Thank you for your candor.” Ruiz turned to Henry. “It seems a further lesson is needed to convince you of the
value of cooperation.”

Henry felt ice enter his veins.

“For your deception against the path of God, a severe punishment is in order. But who should it be exacted upon?” The abbot seemed to ponder the question for a moment, then spoke. “I think I shall leave this up to you, Professor Conklin.”

“What do you mean?”

“You get a choice on who will bear the burden of your sins: Philip or Dr. Engel?”

“If you're going to punish anyone,” Henry said, “then punish me.”

“We can't do that, Professor Conklin. We need you alive. And making this choice is punishment enough, I imagine.”

Henry blanched, his knees weakening.

“We have no need for two hostages. Whoever you choose—Philip or Dr. Engel—will be killed. It is your choice.”

Henry found Philip's eyes upon him, begging him for his life. What was he to do?

“Make your decision in the next ten seconds or
both
will die.”

Henry closed his eyes. He pictured Joan's face, laughing and smiling over their dinner in Baltimore, candlelight glowing on her cheeks. He loved her. He could no longer deny it, but he could also not dismiss his responsibility here. Though Philip was often a thoughtless ass, he was still one of his students, his responsibility. Henry bit his lips, tears welling. He remembered Joan's lips at his ear, her breath on his neck, the scent of her hair.