Burial Ground

VI

10:44 p.m.

Once the intense heat and flames had diminished enough to comfortably approach, Leo had taken a seat on the fallen trunk by the fire. He clung to the rock hammer as though his life depended on it. Whatever semblance of control he had once maintained over his emotions was now gone. Tears rolled down his cheeks and his hands trembled, yet he refused to allow this development to break him. Instead, he poured all of his sorrow and pain into a burbling cauldron of rage. He squeezed the miniature hammer so hard his knuckles cracked. He had finally discovered what happened to his son. Rather than this newfound knowledge allowing for even a small measure of closure, it widened the chasm that had been torn inside of him.

"Are you one hundred percent sure it's Hunter's?" Colton asked. The tone of his voice expressed not doubt, but the solemn need for confirmation. They both knew the ramifications of such verification.

"Estwing Supreme Light Weight Rock Pick. Customized leather grip. I bought him an entire set as a graduation gift when he finished his doctorate," Leo said. "I even had them engraved with his initials."

He tilted the sharp hammer so that Colton could see the HSG in flowery script.

Colton rose without another word and struck off away from the camp toward where his men combed the surrounding area. Flashlights strobed between trees and diffused into the impregnable snarls of shrubs and vines as they searched for the painted native.

They were never going to find him. Not until he wanted to be found.

The man knew this jungle far better than any of them and had spent his entire life avoiding detection. At the same time, Leo was certain that he wouldn't run either. He was a specter capable of hiding in their midst, and he was still somewhere out there.

Watching.

His thoughts returned to his son. What happened during Hunter's final days before his body was dumped in the river?

He had to piece together that seventy-two hour span, during which Hunter had obviously reached his quarry, as evidenced by the placers in his rucksack.

And it all started with this hammer.

During his last satellite communication, Hunter had made no mention of natives, nor had he so much as hinted that he suspected his party was being followed, which meant that the natives had shown themselves for the first time after that fateful call and before the next was scheduled the following evening. That left a twenty-four-hour window of opportunity for ambush, and another forty-eight that would prove to be the final two days of his son's life. The only variable he could rule out with any sort of certainty was that Hunter's terminal wounds had not been inflicted by arrows based on the ME's assessment that the object with which he'd been stabbed had been hooked.

He heard one of the men holler to the others from somewhere out of sight, but when no further shouting or gunfire ensued, he returned his gaze to the orphaned rock pick.

"They didn't kill him," Sam said. Leo hadn't heard her approach. She stood to the side of the fire with an empathetic expression on her drawn face, and gestured to the trunk beside him. "Do you mind?"

Leo shook his head and she eased onto the log beside him. Had she been anyone else, he would have told her to leave him alone, but she was his link to the past, and in many ways an extension of the memories of his son. He cherished the years he had spent in pursuit of fortune and adventure with this grown woman's deceased father, the best friend he had ever had. He missed the challenge, the camaraderie, the feeling of belonging to a family. Ever since his wife left him and his son went off to college, he had felt an emptiness that couldn't be filled, only ignored by throwing himself into the conquest of the business world. And now, here he was again, no wife, no son, sitting with the adult version of the pigtailed child from a better time, who undoubtedly despised him nearly as much as he despised himself.

"How can you be so sure?" Leo asked.

"Because he drowned," Sam said. "At least that's what you told me..."

Leo looked quickly at her from the corner of his eye. She had turned to face him so she could scrutinize his reaction. It had been a test, and he had failed miserably. He shook his head and inwardly chastised himself.

"What haven't you told me?" she asked in little more than a whisper. "How did Hunter really die?"

"He drowned, Sam. Just like I said."

"You're lying."

Leo shifted so that he faced her. She reminded him so much of her mother, but at the same time, her father's inquisitive spark shined behind her eyes like the lamp in a police interrogation room. And if she were anything like her old man, she wasn't going to let this drop without some small concession. At least for now.

"He did drown, Sam. Two medical examiners worked the autopsy, and I made sure I was standing right there to watch it. That's the God's honest truth. But you know as well as I do that Hunter was an excellent swimmer. You two grew up in jungles just like this one, swimming in rivers and lakes filled with any number of things that could probably have killed you on any given day. I just can't seem to swallow the idea of accidental drowning. Can you?"

Sam looked away and didn't answer. Perhaps she feared wounding an old man who had lost his only child, or maybe a part of her had suspected as much all along. He hadn't been forced to divulge the truth, but had given her something to think about until he eventually had to come clean about the stab wounds. She would hate him when that time came, but she probably already did anyway.

"Do you want to know what I think?" Sam finally asked after a long moment of silence.

Leo nodded. He could see the camera crew hovering on the far side of the campfire, presumably waiting for him to set down the hammer long enough for them to film it. While he admired their tenacity, and had brought them along specifically for this purpose, he had the urge to bludgeon them both with it.

"I don't think the natives intend to harm us," Sam said. "They've undoubtedly had ample opportunity to do so already. And Merritt said the man he saw had a bow and arrows. They could have easily picked us off from the cover of the trees a hundred times over, especially considering how accurate they would have to be in order to survive out here for so long." She paused. "I do, however, think that the man made sure he was seen. They've followed us this far without us noticing. They could have continued like that for a long time. He wanted Merritt to see him, to see his weapon. I believe it was a message of sorts."

"A message? What was he trying to purvey? That if we don't turn back they'll shoot us?"

"Perhaps, but they've already had infinite chances to do so already. If they wanted us dead, they never would have betrayed their presence."

Her theory made sense, yet it did little to calm the turmoil inside of him. True, any marksman of the caliber she suggested could easily have sniped them from a distance, invisible in the forest. The problem remained that these people had come in direct contact with his son, and now he was dead.

"Hey," Merritt called from the edge of the forest. He jogged over to where they sat. "Have either of you seen our guides? No one can remember seeing them since shortly after nightfall. And I can't find my backpack either."