Excavation

Uncle Hank had pinpointed its location from old tales passed among the Quechans of the region. Using hand-scrawled maps and pieces of tales, he had led a team out from Machu Picchu along the UrabambaRiver, and in only ten days, discovered the ruins below MountArapa. The discovery had been covered in all the professional journals and popular magazines. Nicknamed the Cloud Ruins, his uncle’s picture beamed from many a front page. And he deserved it—it had been a miraculous demonstration of extrapolation and archaeological skill.

Of course, this sentiment might be clouded by Sam’s feelings for his uncle. Hank had raised Sam since his parents had died in a car crash when he was nine years old. Henry’s own wife had died of cancer the same year, about four months earlier. Drawn together in grief, they developed a deep bond. The two had become nearly inseparable. So it was to no one’s surprise that Sam pursued a career in archaeology at Texas A&M.

“I’d swear if you listen close enough,” Norman said, “you can even hear the wail of the warriors calling from high in the peaks, the whispers of hawkers and buyers from the lower city, the songs of the laborers in the terraced fields beyond the walls.”

Sam tried to listen, but all he could hear were the occasional snatches of raised voices and the rasping of shovel and pick echoing up from a nearby hole. The noises were not the voices of the Incan dead, but of the workers and his fellow students laboring deep in the heart of the ruins. The gaping hole led to a shaft that dropped thirty feet straight down, ending in a honeycomb of excavated rooms and halls, a subterranean structure of several levels. Sam sat up straighter. “You ought to be a poet, Norman, not a journalist.”

Norman sighed. “Just try listening with your heart, Sam.”

He thickened his west Texas drawl, knowing how it irritated Norman, who hailed from Boston. “Right now all I kin hear with is my belly. And it ain’t saying nothing but complaining about dinnertime.”

Norman scowled at him. “You Texans have no poetry in your souls. Just iron and dust.”

“And beer. Don’t forget the beer.”

The laptop computer suddenly chimed the six o’clock hour, drawing their attention.

A rattling groan escaped the narrow confines of Sam’s throat. “We’d better wrap up the site before the sun sets. By nightfall, the place will be crawling with looters.”

Norman nodded and twisted around to gather his camera packs. “Speaking of grave robbers, I heard gunfire last night,” he said.

Sam frowned while storing away his brushes and dental picks. “Guillermo had to scare off a band of huaqueros. They were trying to tunnel into our ruins. If Gil hadn’t found them, they might have pierced the dig and destroyed months of work.”

“It’s good your uncle thought to hire security.”

Sam nodded, but he heard the trace of distaste in Norman’s voice at the mention of Guillermo Sala, the ex-policeman from Cuzco assigned as the security head for the expedition. Sam shared the journalist’s sentiment. Black-haired and black-eyed, Gil bore scars that Sam suspected weren’t all from the line of duty. Sam also noticed the sidelong glances he shared with his compadres when Maggie passed. The quick snippets of Spanish exchanged with guttural laughs heated Sam’s blood.

“Was anyone hurt in the gunfire?” Norman asked.

“No, just warning shots to scare off the thieves.”

Norman continued stuffing his gear. “Do you really think we’ll find some tomb overflowing with riches?”

Sam smiled. “And discover the Tutankhmen of the New World? No, I don’t think so. It’s the dream of gold that draws the thieves, but not my uncle. Knowledge is what lured him here—and the truth.”

“But what is he is so doggedly searching for? I know he seeks some proof that another tribe existed before the Incas, but why this stubborn need for secrecy. I need to report to the Geographic at some point to update them before the next deadline.”

Sam bunched his brows. He had no answer for Norman. The same questions had been echoing in his own mind. Uncle Hank was keeping some snippet of information close to his chest. But this was always like the professor. He was open in all other ways, but when it came to professional matters, he could be extremely tight-lipped.

“I don’t know,” Sam finally said. “But I trust the professor. If he has his nose into something, we’ll just have to wait him out.”

A shout suddenly arose from the excavated hole on the neighboring terrace: “Sam! Come look!”

Ralph Isaacson’s helmeted head popped from the shaft, excitement bright in his eyes. The large African-American, a fellow grad student, hailed from the University of Alabama. Financed on a football scholarship, he had excelled in his undergraduate years and managed to garner an academic scholarship to complete his masters in archaeology. He was as sharp as he was muscular. “You have to see this!” The carbide lamp of Ralph’s mining helmet flashed toward them. “We’ve reached a sealed door with writing on it!”

“Is the door intact?” Sam called back, getting to his feet excitedly.

“Yes! And Maggie says there’s no evidence of tampering.”

This could be the breakthrough all of them had been searching for these past months. An intact tomb or royal chamber within the ancient ruins. Sam helped Norman, burdened by his sling of cameras, up the steep steps toward the highest terrace of the SunPlaza.

“Do you think—?” Norman huffed.

Sam held up a hand. “It may just be a basement level to one of the Incan temples. Let’s not get our hopes up.”

By the time they had reached the excavated terrace, Norman was wheezing. Ralph frowned in disdain at the photographer’s exertion. “Havin’ trouble there, Norman? I could ask Maggie to help carry you.”

The photographer rolled his eyes and refrained from commenting, too winded to speak.

Sam joined them atop the plaza. He was breathing hard, too. Any exertion at this high altitude taxed lungs and heart. “Leave him alone, Ralph,” he scolded. “Show us what you found.”

Ralph shook his head and led the way with his helmet lamp. The black man’s wide frame filled the three-foot-wide shaft as he mounted the ladder. Unlike Sam, Ralph did not get along with Norman. Ever since the photographer had let his sexual orientation be known, a certain friction had grown between the two. Raised in the Bible Belt, Ralph seemed unable to let go of certain prejudices that had nothing to do with color. But Henry had insisted they all work together. Be a team. So the two had developed a grumbling cooperation.