Excavation

Joan squeezed his hand, clearly sensing his distress. He found comfort in her grip.

Abbot Ruiz stood up. “We’re set to leave by helicopter in ten minutes,” he said. “Time is critical.”

“Why?” Henry asked, taking strength from Joan.

Ruiz stared Henry down. “Because we have come to believe your nephew has uncovered more than just an Incan tribe. He may have unearthed the site of el Sangre del Diablo’s mother lode. Why else would a small clan of Incas still be hiding up there? Unless they were guarding something.”

Joan and Henry exchanged concerned glances.

“We must hurry.” The abbot waved to Carlos, who shuffled forward in his robe, his 9mm Glock again in his hand.

“Move,” the guard said harshly, jabbing his gun into Henry’s throat.

The abbot seemed oblivious to his aide’s rough manner. As if washing his hands of the matter, he circled around the desk and headed to the door.

At gunpoint, Henry and Joan stood.

“Not you,” Carlos said, indicating Joan. “You’re staying here.”

Joan’s brows crinkled with fear.

Still holding her hand, Henry pulled her closer. “She comes with me, or I don’t leave.”

By the door, the abbot paused at the commotion. “Fear not, Professor. Dr. Engel simply remains here to ensure your cooperation. As long as you obey our orders, no harm will come to her.”

“Fuck that! I’m not going!” Henry said fiercely.

A nod from the abbot and Carlos struck faster than Henry could react. The large man swung his arm and slapped Joan a resounding blow across her face. She fell to the floor, a surprised cry on her lips.

Henry was instantly at her side, kneeling beside her.

She lifted her hands from her pale face. Her fingers were bloody, her lip split.

Henry turned to take in both Ruiz and Carlos. “You god-damned bastards! There was no need for that!”

“And there is no need for profanity either,” Ruiz said calmly from the doorway. “The lesson could’ve been much worse. So I’ll invite you again, Professor Conklin, please come with me. Do not disobey again, or Carlos will not be so lenient next time.”

Joan nudged Henry away. “Go,” she said around her tears, her voice shaky. “D… Do as they say.”

He leaned closer to her. He knew he had to leave. Still… “I can’t abandon you here.”

She pushed to her knees and swiped at the blood trailing down her chin. “You have to,” she said tremulously, near to sobbing. Joan then reached out and hugged him, falling into his arms. She whispered in his ears, her voice instantly dropping from its frightened demeanor to a firmer tone. “Go, Henry. Help Sam.”

Henry was stunned by the transformation, suddenly realizing the “shrinking violet” act was for the benefit of their captors.

Joan continued, “If the bastards are right about the mother lode being up there, you’re the only one who knows of Francisco’s warning. So go. I’ll manage what I can from here.”

Henry could find no words to match this woman’s strength. “But—?”

She hugged him tighter, faking a sob, then hissed into his ear, “Oh, quit this chauvinistic crap. I thought you were better than that.” She leaned her cheek against his own. Her voice grew louder again for the benefit of Carlos and Ruiz. “Oh, please, do… do whatever they ask of you. For my sake. Just come back to me!”

Even considering the circumstances, Henry could not hold back a tight grin. He buried his expression in the folds of her thick raven hair. “Okay, now you’re laying it on a bit too thick.”

She kissed him gently by the earlobe, her breath hot on his neck, her voice a whisper again. “I meant every word. You had better come back for me, Henry. I won’t have you disappearing from my life like you did after college.”

They held each other for a few silent seconds. Then she shoved him brusquely away. “Go!”

Henry rose to his feet, his neck still warm from her kiss. He saw new tears in Joan’s eyes that he suspected were not faked. “I’ll be back,” he said softly to her.

Carlos grabbed his elbow. “Come on,” he spat sourly, and yanked him away.

Henry did not resist this time. He turned to the door, but not before catching Joan as she mouthed one final warning, her bloody fingers touching her breast pocket.

As Henry was led away, Joan’s last message echoed through his thoughts—both a mystery and a warning.

Beware the Serpent.

Two things struck Sam when he awoke the next morning and crawled out of his bed of straw. First, amazement that he could have slept at all. Around him, scattered throughout the stone room were countless examples of Incan handiwork: pottery with enameled designs, woven tapestries hung upon the walls depicting gods in battle, simple wooden utensils and stone tools. He really was in a living Incan village! He could not believe the dream from last night was still real.

Second, he realized that the Incas’ chicha beer had created the most brain-splintering hangover he’d ever had. His head pounded like one of the drums from last night, and his tongue felt as furry as a monkey’s tail. “God, I didn’t even drink that much,” he groaned. He stretched, adjusted the loincloth he’d donned the day before, and rolled to his feet. “It must be the altitude,” he decided aloud.

Searching for his tunic, he found it in a corner and slipped into it. Rounding up his Stetson, he headed toward the door. He noticed Denal and Norman were already up and about. Their beds were empty.

Shoving aside the reed mat that hung across the doorway, Sam blinked against the painful glare of late-morning sunlight. Too bright for his bleary eyes. Nearby, birds sang from the treetops, and a scent of lavender almost overpowered the ever-present reek of sulfur from the volcanic vents. Sam groaned at the morning.

“About time,” Maggie said from nearby. Norman and Denal were at her side. “You’ll be happy to know the Incas also developed a form of coffee.”

Sam raised both hands and ambled toward the sound of her voice. “Give me!”

His eyes slowly adjusted to the light, and he found his three companions, dressed in matching tunics, gathered around two women who were working at a small brick stove with an open baking hearth beneath it. The trio smiled at his sorry state.

He hobbled over to them. Thick earthenware pots rested on small openings atop the stone oven, bubbling warmly with morning porridges and stews. The smell of baking bread arose from the oven, along with another odor he could not place.