Excavation (46 page)

Henry gaped at the chamber, his face a little sick. “It's
el Sangre del Diablo
,” he mumbled, setting Sam down.

Maggie knew enough Spanish to frown at his words. “The blood of the Devil?”

“It's what the abbot's men have come searching for. The mother lode—”

Norman interrupted, “We need to get Sam in there. I'm sure there's a time factor involved in this resurrection business.”

Henry nodded. “But what do we do? How do we get it to work?”

They all looked at each other. No one had an answer.

The photographer pointed into the chamber. “I don't have an operator's manual. But there's an altar. I'd say first thing is to get Sam on it.”

Henry nodded. “Let's do it.”

They hauled Sam up, each person grasping a limb, and eased him onto the gold altar. Maggie's skin crawled as she stepped into the chamber. It was like a thousand eyes were staring at her. Her fingers brushed against the altar's surface as she placed Sam down. She yanked her hand away. The surface had felt warm, like something living.

With a shudder, she retreated from the room, along with the others. Standing in the passage, they all stared, transfixed, waiting for something to happen, some miracle to occur. It never did. Sam's body just lay on the altar. His blood dripped slowly from his chest wound and down the side of the altar.

“Maybe we waited too long,” Maggie finally said, breaking the room's spell.

“No,” Norman said. “I don't think so. Kamapak took half a day to get Pachacutec's decapitated head here, and the temple still grew him a new body.”

“Sort of,” Maggie countered. She turned to Norman. “What did Kamapak do after bringing the head here? Was there any clue?”

Norman answered sullenly, “All he said was that he prayed to Inti, and the god answered.”

Maggie frowned.

Henry suddenly stiffened beside her. “Of course!”

She turned to the professor.

“It's prayers! Concentrated human thought!” Henry stared at them as if this was answer enough. “This…this gold, Devil's blood, whatever the hell it is…it responds to human thought. It will mold and change to one's will.”

Now it was Maggie's turn to lift her brows in shock, but she remembered the transformation of Sam's dagger. It had changed as their needs dictated. She remembered how it had transformed in her own hands, when she had been so desperate for a key to the necropolis's gold statue. “Prayers?”

Henry nodded. “All we have to do is concentrate. Ask it…beg it to heal Sam!”

Norman dropped to his knees, drawing his palms together. “I'm not above begging.”

Henry and Maggie followed suit. Maggie closed her eyes, but her thoughts were jumbled. She remembered the pale beasts in the next chamber. What if something like that happened to Sam? She clenched her fists. She would not let that happen. If prayers worked, then she'd let the others pray for healing. She would concentrate on keeping the temple from making any additional “improvements” in the man.

Bearing down, she willed it to heal Sam's injuries, but
only
his injuries.
Nothing else
! She strained, knuckles whitening.
Nothing else, damn you! Do you hear me?

Denal suddenly gasped behind her shoulder. “Look!”

Maggie cracked open her eyes.

Sam still lay upon the altar, unmoving, but the ball of webbed strands above the bed began to unwind, to spread
open. Thousands of golden stands snaked and threaded from the nest to weave and twine in the air. Tips of the strands split into even tinier filaments, then these split again. Soon the threads were so fine, the room seemed filled with a golden fog. Then, like a heavy mist settling, the golden cloud descended over Sam's body. In a few seconds, his form was coated from crown to toes with the metal, making him a sculpture in gold. And still the gold seemed to flow. Like some shining umbilical cord, a thick twined rope connected the golden statue of Sam to the node above the altar. The cord writhed and pumped like a living structure.

Maggie felt slightly sickened at the sight. She stood up; Henry and Norman soon followed.

“What do you make of it?” Henry asked. “Will it work?”

No one answered.

“How long it will take is the better question,” Norman said. “I don't think the army down there is going to give us all day to hang around.”

Henry nodded. “We need to think about setting up a defense. Is there another way out?” The professor glanced down the tunnel toward the other caldera.

“Not that way,” Maggie said.

Henry turned back around and rubbed at his tired eyes. “Then we'll need weapons,” he mumbled. “I spotted an extra case of grenades in the helicopter, but…” The professor shook his head sourly.

Norman spoke up. “Grenades sound good to me, Doc. Preferably lots of them.”

“No,” Henry said dismissively. “It's too risky to go back down there.”

“And it's too risky
not
to,” Norman argued. “If I'm quick and careful…”

Denal added, “I go, too. I help carry. Box heavy.”

Norman nodded. “Together, it'll be a cinch.” He was already stepping away with the boy.

“Be careful,” Maggie warned.

“Oh, you can count on that!” Norman said. “The
National Geographic
doesn't offer combat pay.” Then he and the boy were off, hurrying down the corridor.

Henry returned to staring at the temple. He mumbled, “The structure must be using geothermal heat as its energy source. This is amazing.”

“More like horrible. I can see why Friar de Almagro called this thing the Serpent of Eden. It's seductive, but beneath its charms lies something foul.”

“The Serpent of Eden?” Henry furrowed his brows. “Where did you come by that expression?”

“It's a long story.”

The professor nodded toward the temple. “We have the time.”

Maggie nodded. She tried to summarize their journey, but some parts were especially painful to recount, like Ralph's death. Henry's face grew grim and sober with the telling. At the end, Maggie spoke of the beasts and creatures that haunted the neighboring valley. She explained her theory, finishing with her final assessment. “I don't trust the temple. It perverts as much as it heals.”

Henry stared down the long corridor toward the distant sunlight. “So the friar was right. He tried to warn us of what lay here.” Now it was Henry's turn to relate his own story, of his time with the monks of the Abbey of Santo Domingo. His voice cracked with the mention of the forensic pathologist, Joan Engel. Another death in the centuries-long struggle to possess this strange gold. But Maggie read the additional pain behind the professor's words, a part of the story left unspoken. She didn't press.

Once done, Henry wiped his nose and turned to the temple. “So the Incas built here what the abbot dreamed. A structure large enough to reach some otherworldly force.”

“But is it the coin of God?” she asked, nodding toward Sam. “Or the blood of the Devil?” She glanced to the next caldera. “What is its ultimate goal? What is the purpose of
those creatures?”

Henry shook his head. “An experiment? Maybe to evolve us? Maybe to destroy us?” He shrugged. “Who knows what intelligence guides the temple's actions. We may never know.”

Muffled voices and the scrape of heel on rock drew their attention around. It was too soon for Norman and Denal to be returning. Flashlights suddenly blinded them from the tunnel's entrance. An order was shouted at them: “Don't move!”

Maggie and Henry stood still. What else could they do? There was no escape behind them. But in truth, neither was willing to abandon Sam. They waited for their captors to approach. “Do whatever they say,” Henry warned.

Like hell I will!
But she remained silent.

A huge man, who from the professor's story could only be Abbot Ruiz, crossed to the professor. Maggie was given only the most cursory glance. “Professor Conklin, you've proven yourself as resourceful as ever. You beat us here.” He frowned at Maggie. “Of course, the tongues you needed to free were a little easier than ours, I imagine. These Incas proved themselves quite stubborn. Ah, but the end result is the same. Here we are!”

The abbot stepped past them to view the chamber. He stood, staring for a moment at the sight. Then his large form shuddered, trembling all over. Finally, he fell to his knees. “A miracle,” he exclaimed in Spanish, making a hurried sign of the cross. “The sculpture on the table appears to be Christ himself. Like in our vault at the Abbey. It is a sign!”

Maggie and Henry glanced at each other. Neither corrected the abbot's misconception.

“See how it trickles down from the roof. The old Incan tales spoke of the mother lode. How it flowed like water from the mountaintops! Here it is!”

Maggie edged closer. She knew, sooner or later, the abbot would discover his mistake. She could not let these men interfere with Sam's healing. She cleared her throat. “This
chamber is just a trinket,” she said softly.

The abbot, still kneeling, turned to her. His eyes still shone with the gold. “What do you mean?”

“This is just the temple, the entrance,” she said. “The true source lies in the next valley. The Incas call it
janan pacha
.”

“Their heaven?” the abbot said.

Maggie nodded, glad the man had some knowledge of the Incan culture. She glanced to Henry. He wore a deep frown, clearly guessing her plot. He didn't approve, but he remained silent. Maggie returned her attention to the abbot. “This temple is just a roadside prayer totem. A gateway to the true wonders beyond.”

The abbot shoved to his feet. “Show me.”

Maggie backed a step. “Only for a guarantee of our safety.”

Abbot Ruiz glanced down the corridor. One eye narrowed suspiciously.

“Heaven awaits,” Maggie said, “but without my help, you'll never find it.”

The abbot scowled. “Fine. I guarantee your safety.”

“Swear it.”

Frowning, Abbot Ruiz touched the small gold cross hanging from his neck. “I swear it on the blood of Jesus Christ, Our Savior.” He dropped his hand. “Satisfied?”

Maggie hesitated, feigning indecision, then finally nodded. “It's this way.” She headed down the corridor.

“Wait.” The abbot hung back a moment. He waved to one of his six men. “Stay here with the good professor.” He crossed toward Maggie. “Just to keep things honest.”

Maggie felt a sick tightness in her belly. She continued down the passage, forcing her legs to stop trembling. She would not give in to her fear. “Th…this way,” she said. “It's not too far.”

Abbot Ruiz stuck close to her shoulder, all but breathing down her neck. He wheezed, his face as red as a beet.
Prayers mumbled from his lips.

“It's just through there,” she said, as they neared the exit to the tunnel.

The abbot pushed her aside, marching forward, determined to be the first through. But when he reached the exit, he hesitated. His nose curled at the stronger stench of sulfur here. “I don't see anything.”

Maggie joined him and pointed to the trail in the jungle ahead. “Just follow the path.”

The abbot stared. Maggie feared he would balk. She was sure he could hear her heart pounding in her throat. But she maintained a calm demeanor. “
Janan pacha
lies just inside the jungle. About a hundred meters. It is a sight no one could put into mere words.”

“Heaven…” Abbot Ruiz took a step into the caldera, then another—still he was cautious. He waved his five men ahead of him. “Check it out. Watch for any hostiles.”

His men, rifles at shoulders now, scurried ahead. The abbot followed, keeping a safe distance back. Maggie was forced to leave the tunnel to maintain the ruse. She held her breath as she reentered the foul nest of the creatures. Where the hell were the monsters?

She took a third step away from the entryway when she heard a rasp of rock behind her. She swung around. Perched over the rough entrance to the tunnel was one of the pale beasts. One of the scouts. It clung by claws, upside down. It knew it had been spotted. A hissing scream burst from its throat as it leaped at her.

Maggie froze. Answering cries exploded from the forest's edge. It was a trap, and here was the sentinel. Maggie ducked. But the scout was too quick, lightning fast. The beast hit her. She fell backward and used the attacker's momentum to fling it down the short slope behind her. She did not wait to see what happened. She scrambled to her feet and dived for the tunnel.

Behind her, spats of gunfire exploded; screams of terror
and pain accompanied the weapons fire. But over it all, the wail and shriek of the beasts.

In the safety of the tunnel, Maggie swung around, facing the opening. She saw the abbot level his pistol and fire point-blank into the skull of the beast that had attacked her. It flopped and convulsed on the ground. The abbot glanced to the forest's edge, where his men still fought for their lives. He turned his back on them and ran toward the passageway, toward Maggie. He spotted her; hatred and anger filled his eyes. No one thwarted the Spanish Inquisition.

Maggie backed down the tunnel as the abbot pulled up to the entrance. Heaving heavily, the obese man struggled to breathe. He gasped out, “You bitch!” Then he leveled his pistol and stepped inside.

Jesus!
There was nowhere to run.

“You will suffer. That I guarant—” Suddenly the abbot was yanked backward with a squawk of surprise. His gun went off, the shot wild. The bullet ricocheted past Maggie's ear.

A scream of horror erupted from the man as he was dragged from the tunnel and flung around. A hulking pale monster, another pack leader, had his expensive safari jacket snagged in a clawed fist. The other hand grabbed the abbot by the throat. More beasts soon appeared, more razored fists snatching at the choice meal. His gun was knocked from his grip. The abbot's scream became strangled as he was dragged away from the tunnel's entrance. A pale face, mouth bloodied, appeared at the tunnel opening. It hissed at her, then dived to the side, joining in the feeding frenzy.