Excavation

Day Two. Janan Pacha

Tuesday, August 21, 7:12 A.M.

Regency Hotel Baltimore,

Maryland

As early-morning sunlight pierced the gaps in the heavy hotel curtains, Henry sat at the small walnut desk and stared at the row of artifacts he had recovered from the mummy: A silver ring, a scrap of faded illegible parchment, two Spanish coins, a ceremonial silver dagger, and the heavy Dominican cross. Henry sensed that clues to the priest’s fate were locked in these few items, like a stubborn jigsaw puzzle. If only he could put it all together…

Shaking his head, Henry stretched a crick from his back and rubbed at his eyes under his glasses. He must look a mess. He still wore his wrinkled grey suit, though he had tossed the jacket on the rumpled bed. He had been up all night studying the items, managing only a short catnap around midnight. The artifacts kept drawing him back to the hotel-room desk and the array of books and periodicals he had borrowed from the library at Johns Hopkins. Henry simply could not quit working at the puzzle, especially after his first discovery.

He picked up the friar’s silver ring for the thousandth time. Earlier, he had gently rubbed the tarnish from its surface and uncovered faint lettering around a central heraldic icon. Henry raised his magnifying lens and read the name on the ring: “de Almagro.” The surname of the Dominican friar. Just this one piece to the puzzle brought the man to life in Henry’s mind. He was no longer just a mummy. With a name, he had become flesh and blood again. Someone with a history, a past, even a family. So much power in just a name.

Laying the magnifier down, Henry retrieved his pen and began adding final details to his sketch of the ring’s symbol. A part of it was clearly a family crest—surely the de Almagro coat of arms—but a second image was incorporated around the family heraldry: a crucifix with a set of crossed sabers above it. The symbol was vaguely familiar, but Henry could not place it.

“Who were you, Friar de Almagro?” he mumbled as he worked. “What were you doing at that lost city? Why did the Incas mummify you?” Chewing his lower lip in concentration, Henry finished the last flourishes on his drawing, then picked the paper up and stared at it. “This will have to do.”

He glanced to his watch. It was almost eight o’clock. He hated to call so early, but he could not wait any longer. He swiveled his chair and reached for the phone, making sure the portable fax unit was hooked in properly. Once satisfied, he dialed the number.

The voice that answered was officious and curt. “Archbishop Kearney’s office. How may I help you?”

“This is Professor Henry Conklin. I called yesterday to inquire about gaining access to your order’s old records.”

“Yes, Professor Conklin. Archbishop Kearney has been awaiting your call. One moment please.”

Henry frowned at the receptionist’s manner. He had not expected to reach the archbishop himself, but some minor clerk in their records department.

A stern but warm voice picked up the line. “Ah, Professor Conklin, your news about the mummified priest has caused quite a stir here. We’re most interested in what you’ve learned and how we might be of help.”

“Thank you, but I didn’t think the matter would require disturbing Your Eminence.”

“Actually, I am quite intrigued. Before entering the seminary, I did a master’s thesis in European history. A chance to participate in such a study is more of an honor than a bother. So, please, tell me how we can be of assistance.”

Henry smiled inwardly at his luck in finding a history buff among these men of the cloth. He cleared his throat. “With Your Eminence’s help and access to Church archives, I had hoped to piece together the man’s past, maybe shed light on what happened to him.”

“Most certainly. My offices are fully at your disposal, for if the mummy is truly a friar of the Dominican order, then he deserves to be sanctified and interred as befits a priest. If descendants of this man still survive, I would think it fitting that the remains be returned to the family’s parish for proper burial.”

“I quite agree. I’ve tried to glean as much information as I can on my own, but from here, I’ll need to access your records. So far, I’ve been able to determine the fellow’s surname—de Almagro. He was most likely a friar in the Spanish chapter of the Dominicans dating back to the 1500s. I also have a copy of the man’s family coat of arms that I’d like to fax you.”

“Hmm… the 1500s… for records that old, we might have to search individual abbeys’ records. It might take some time.”

“I assumed so, but I thought to get started before I headed back to Peru.”

“Yes, and that does give me an idea where to start. I’ll forward your records to the Vatican, of course, but there is also a very old Dominican enclave in Cuzco, Peru, headed by an Abbot Ruiz, I believe. If this priest was sent on a mission to Peru, the local abbey there might have some record.”

Henry sat up straighter in his chair, excitement fueling his tired body. Of course! He should have thought of that himself. “Excellent. Thank you, Archbishop Kearney. I suspect your help will prove invaluable in solving this mystery.”

“I hope so. I’ll have my secretary give you our fax number. I’ll be awaiting your transmission.”

“I’ll forward it immediately.” Henry barely paid attention while he was passed back to the receptionist and given the fax number. His mind spun on the possibilities. If Friar de Almagro had been in Peru long, surely there might even be some of the man’s letters and reports at the abbey in Cuzco. Perhaps some clue to the lost city might be contained in such letters.

Henry replaced the receiver with numb fingers and slid his sketch of the ring into the fax machine. He dialed out and listened to the whir and buzz as the fax engaged.

As the drawing was forwarded, Henry forced his mind to the other mystery that surrounded the mummy. He had spent the night pursuing this fellow’s past, but with such matters out of his hands, he allowed himself to speculate on the last puzzle concerning the mummy. Something he had not related to the archbishop. Henry pictured the explosion of the mummy’s skull and the splatter of gold.

What exactly had happened? What was that substance? Henry knew the archbishop could shed no new light on that matter. Only one person could help him, someone whom he had been looking for an excuse to call anyway. Since meeting her again for the first time in almost three decades, he could not get the woman out of his mind.

The fax machine chimed its completion, and Henry picked up the phone. He dialed a second number. It rang five times before a breathless voice answered. “Hello?”

“Joan?”

A puzzled voice. “Yes?”

Henry pictured the pathologist’s slender face framed by a fall of hair the shade of ravens’ wings. Time had barely touched her: just a hint of grey highlights, a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose, a few new wrinkles. But her most delightful features remained unchanged: her shadowy smile, her amused eyes. Even her quick intelligence and sharp curiosity had not been dulled by years in academia. Henry suddenly found it difficult to speak. “Th… this is Henry. I’m… I’m sorry to disturb you so early.”

Her voice lost its cold dispassion and warmed considerably. “Early? You just caught me arriving home from the hospital.”

“You worked all night?”

“Well, I was reviewing the scans of your mummy, and… well…”—a small embarrassed pause—“I sort of lost track of time.”

Henry glanced down at his own wrinkled clothing and smiled. “I know what you mean.”

“So have you learned anything new?”

“I’ve put together a few things.” He quickly related his discovery of the friar’s name and his call to the archbishop. “How about yourself? Anything new on your front?”

“Not much. But I’d like to sit down and go over some of my findings. The material in the skull is proving most unusual.”

Before Henry could stop himself or weigh such a decision, he pushed forth. “How about lunch today?” He cringed as the words came out. He had not meant to sound so desperate. His cheeks grew heated with his awkwardness.

A long pause. “I’m afraid I can’t do lunch.”

Henry kicked himself for being so unprofessional. Surely she saw through his words. Ever since Elizabeth had died, he had forgotten the knack of approaching a woman romantically—not that he’d ever had much of a desire to do so before now.

Joan continued, “But how about dinner? I know a nice Italian place on the river.”

Henry swallowed hard, struggling to speak. Dare he hope that she was suggesting more than just a meeting of colleagues? Perhaps a renewal of old feelings? But it had been so long. So much life had passed between their college years and now. Surely whatever tiny spark that had once flared between them had long gone to ash. Hadn’t it?

“Henry?”

“Yes… yes, that would be great.”

“You’re staying at the Sheraton, yes? I can pick you up around eight o’clock. That is, if a late dinner is okay with you?”

“Sure, that would be fine. I often eat late, so that’s no problem. And… and as a matter of fact, um…” Henry’s nervous blathering was thankfully interrupted by the beep of an incoming call. He awkwardly coughed. “I’m sorry, Joan. I’ve got another call. I’ll be right back.”

Henry lowered the receiver, took a long calming breath, then clicked over to the other line. “Yes?”

“Professor Conklin?”

Henry recognized the voice. His brow crinkled. “Archbishop Kearney?”

“Yes, I just wanted to let you know that I received your fax and took a look at it. What I saw came as quite a surprise.”

“What do you mean?”

“The emblem of the crossed swords over the crucifix. As a former European historian, it’s one I’m quite familiar with.”

Henry picked up the friar’s silver ring and held it to the light. “I thought it looked familiar myself, but I couldn’t place it.”

“I’m not surprised. It’s a fairly archaic design.”

“What is it?”

“It is the mark of the Spanish Inquisition.”

Henry’s breath caught in his throat. “What?” Images of torture chambers and flesh seared by red-hot irons flashed before his eyes. The black sect of Catholicism had long been disbanded and vilified for the centuries of deaths and tortures it had inflicted in the name of religion.

“Yes, from the ring, it seems our mummified friar was an Inquisitor.”

“My God,” Henry swore, forgetting for a moment to whom he was speaking.

An amused chuckle arose from the Archbishop. “I thought you should know, but I must be going now. I’ll forward your information to the Vatican and to Abbot Ruiz in Peru. Hopefully we’ll learn more soon.”

The archbishop hung up. Henry sat stunned, until the phone rang in his hand, startling him. “Oh, God… Joan.” Henry clicked back to the pathologist he had left on hold. “I’m sorry that took so long,” he said in a rush, “but it was Archbishop Kearney again.”

“What did he want?”

Henry related what he had learned, still shaken by the revelation.

Joan was silent for a moment. “An Inquisitor?”

“It would appear so,” Henry said, collecting himself. “One more piece to an expanding puzzle.”

She replied, “Amazing. It seems we’ll have even more to ponder over dinner tonight.”

Henry had momentarily forgotten their supper arrangements. “Yes, of course. I’ll see you tonight,” he said with genuine enthusiasm.

“It’s a date.” Joan quickly added her good-byes, then hung up.

Henry slowly returned the receiver to its cradle. He did not know what surprised him more—that the mummy was a member of the Spanish Inquisition or that he had a date.

Gil climbed the stairs of the only hotel in the jungle village of Villacuacha. The wooden planks creaked under his weight. Even in the shadowed interior of the inn, the late-morning heat could not be so easily escaped. Already a sweltering warmth wrapped itself around Gil like a heavy blanket. He swiped the dampness from his neck with the cuff of his torn sleeve and swore under his breath. The night-long flight through the jungle had left him scratched and foul-tempered. He had managed only a short nap after arranging this meeting.

“He had better not be late,” Gil grumbled as he climbed to the third landing. After fleeing the campsite of the Americans, Gil had reached a dirt track in the jungle just as the sun finally rose. Luckily, he stumbled upon a local Indian with a mule and a crooked-wheeled wagon. A handful of coins had bought him passage to the village. Once there, Gil had telephoned his contact—the man who had arranged for Gil’s infiltration onto the Americans’ team. They had agreed to a noon meeting at this hotel.

Gil patted the golden cup secured in his pocket. His contact, a dealer in antiquities, should pay a tidy sum for such a rare find. And this broker in stolen goods had better not balk at Gil’s price. If Gil had any hopes of hiring a crew to return to the dig and commandeer the site, he would need quick funding—all in cash.

Gil ran a hand over the long knife at his belt. If it came down to it, he would persuade the fellow to meet his price. He would let nothing stand between him and his treasure, not after how much it had cost him already.

Atop the stairs, Gil pushed the taped bandage covering his burned cheek more firmly in place. He would be rewarded for his scarring. That he swore. Teeth gritted with determination, Gil walked down the narrow corridor. He found the right door and rapped his knuckles on it.

A man’s firm voice answered. “Come in.”

Gil tried the door. It was unlocked. He pushed his way into the room and was instantly struck by two things. First, the refreshing coolness of the room. Overhead, a ceiling fan turned languidly creating a gentle stir to the air that seemed to wash away the humidity. A double set of French doors were swung wide open upon a small balcony overlooking the hotel’s shaded garden courtyard. From somewhere beyond the steamy warmth of the jungle, a cool breeze flowed through those open doors into the room. White-lace curtains drifted in the gentle breezes, while thin mosquito netting around the single bed billowed softly like the sails of a ship.

But more than the breezes, the room’s occupant struck Gil as the source of the room’s coolness. It was the first time Gil had ever met his contact in person. The tall man sat in a cushioned rattan chair, facing Gil, his back to the open double doors. Dressed all in black, from shoes to buttoned shirt, the fellow sat with his legs casually crossed, a drink clinking with ice in one hand. From his burnished complexion, he was clearly of Spanish descent. Dark eyes stared at Gil, appraising him from under clipped black hair. A thin mustache also traced the man’s upper lip. He did not smile. The only movement was a flick of the man’s eyes toward the other chair in the room, indicating Gil should sit.

Still wearing his ripped and sweat-stained clothes, Gil felt like a peasant before royalty. He could not even manage to roil up a bit of righteous anger at the man’s attitude. He sensed a vein of hardness in the man that Gil could never match, nor dare challenge. Gil forced his tongue to move. “I… I have what we talked about.”

The man merely nodded. “Then we need only discuss the price.”

Gil lowered himself slowly to the chair. He found himself perched just at the edge of the seat, not comfortable enough to lean back. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to be done with this deal, no matter what the price. He longed to leave the chill of the room for the familiar swelter of the bustling town.

Gil could not even meet the other man’s eyes. He found himself staring out the window at the town’s church steeple, the thin white cross stark against the blue sky.

“Show me what you found,” the man said, his drink still clinking as he gently rocked his glass, drawing back Gil’s attention.

“Yes, of course.” Swallowing the dry lump in his throat, Gil fished out the dented chalice and placed it on the table between them. Rubies and emeralds flashed brightly against the gold setting. Gil felt a resurgence of his resolve as he eyed the jeweled dragon wrapped around the thick gold cup. “And… and there’s more,” Gil said. “With enough men and the right tools, by week’s end, I could have a hundred times as much.”

Ignoring Gil’s words, the man lowered his drink to the table and reached to the Incan cup. He picked up the chalice, raised it to the sunlight, and examined its surface for an excruciatingly long time.

Gil’s hands wrung in his lap as he waited. He stared at the dent along the cup’s lip as the man studied the workmanship on the chalice. Gil feared such a blemish might significantly reduce the price. The fellow had insisted any artifacts be brought to him intact.

As the man finally lowered the cup back to the table, Gil dared meet his eyes. He saw only anger there.

“The dent… it… it was already there,” Gil stammered quickly.

The man stood silently and crossed to a small bar behind Gil. Gil listened as the man added more ice to his glass. He then stepped behind Gil.

Gil could not bring himself to twist around. He just stared at the treasure atop the table. “If you don’t want it, I… I will not hold you to any obligation.”

Without turning, Gil knew the man leaned toward him. The small hairs on the nape of his neck quivered with the instinct of his cave-dwelling ancestors. Gil then felt the man’s breath at his ear.

“It is only ordinary gold. Worthless.”

Sensing the danger too late, Gil’s hand snapped toward the knife at his belt. His fingers found only an empty sheath. Before Gil could react, his head was yanked back by the hair; he saw his own knife gripped in the man’s hand. He did not even have time to wonder how the blade had been snatched from his side. A flick of the man’s wrist, and the dagger sliced open Gil’s throat, a line of fire from ear to ear. Gil was tossed forward and fell to the floor as his blood spilled across the whitewashed planks.

Rolling to his back, Gil saw the man return to the bar for his abandoned drink while Gil choked on his own blood. “P… Please…” he gurgled out, one arm raised in supplication as the light in the room began to dim. The man ignored him.

Eyes filled with tears, Gil again turned to the open window and the bright crucifix in the blue sky. Please, not like this, he prayed silently. But he found no salvation there either.

Finished with his drink, the man eyed the still form of Guillermo Sala. The pool of blood appeared almost black against the white floor. He felt no satisfaction in the killing. The Chilean had served his purpose and was now more a risk than a benefit to his cause.

Sighing, he crossed the room, careful not to foul his polished shoes with blood. He retrieved the Incan treasure from the table and weighed it briefly, judging its worth once the gems had been pried free and the cup melted into a brick. It was not the discovery his group had hoped to find, but it would have to do. From Gil’s description of the underground vault, there was still a chance of a more significant strike. Stepping back to the room’s bed, he collected the small leather satchel and secured the cup inside.

He studied the room. It would be cleaned up by nightfall.

Satchel in hand, he left the room and its cool breezes for the moist heat of the narrow corridor and the stairs. Sweat quickly broke across his forehead. He ignored it. He had grown up in these moist highlands and was well-accustomed to the swelter. Born of mixed blood, Spanish and local Indian, he was a mestizo, a half-breed. Neither Spanish nor Quechan. Despite carrying this mark of dishonor among the highland people, he had managed to fight his way to a place of respect.

Once through the hotel’s small lobby, he crossed into the midday sunlight. The steps outside were blinding in the bright light. Shading his eyes against the glare, he worked his way down the steps and almost stumbled over an Indian woman and her babe near the foot of the stairs.

The woman, wearing a rough-spun tunic and shawl, was as startled by him as he excused himself. But she fell to her knees before him, snatching at his pant leg and raising her baby, wrapped in a brightly colored alpaca blanket, toward him. She beseeched him in her native Quecha.

He smiled benignly at her and nodded in answer. Placing his bag on the last step, he reached to his throat and slipped out his silver pectoral crucifix. It stood stark against his black raiment. He raised a hand over the babe’s head and gave a quick benediction. Once done, he kissed the baby on the forehead, collected his bag, and continued down the village street toward his church, the steeple overhead guiding him home.

The small Indian woman called after him, “Gracias! Thank you, Friar Otera!”

In the darkness of the collapsed temple, time stretched. Maggie was sure entire days had passed, but if her watch was accurate, it was only the following morning, close to noon. They had been trapped for less than half a day.

Arms across her chest, Maggie studied the others as she stood a few paces down the main corridor. With his rifle slung over a shoulder, Sam stood by the rockfall, the walkie-talkie glued to his lips. Since dawn, the Texan had been in periodic contact with Philip, conserving the walkie-talkie’s battery as much as possible but trying to aid their fellow student in his appraisal of the ruined site.

“No!” Sam yelled into the walkie-talkie. “The debris pile is all that is holding up this level of the dig. If you try to excavate the original shaft, you’ll drop the rest on top of us.” A long pause where Sam listened to Philip’s response. “Shit, Philip! Listen to me! I’m down here. I can see how the support walls are leaning on the blockade of stone. You’ll kill us. Find where those looters had been tunneling into the dig. That’s the best chance.”

Sam shook his head at the walkie-talkie. “The bastard is spooked up there,” he told her. “He’s looking for the quickest fix as usual.”

Maggie offered Sam a wan smile. Personally, she was looking for the quickest fix, too.

Ralph and Norman were huddled around their only light source, Denal’s flashlight. Ralph held it for Sam to survey the destruction and the state of their crumbling roof. Norman had snapped a few photographs after the short naps they had managed overnight. He now stood with his camera hanging by a strap, clutched to his belly. If they survived this, Norman was going to produce some award-winning footage of their adventure. Still, from his pale face, Maggie was sure the photographer would gladly trade his Pulitzer for the chance to escape alive.

“Watch out!”

The call from behind startled Maggie. She froze, but a hand suddenly shoved her off her feet. She stumbled a couple steps forward just as a large slab of granite crashed to the stones behind her. The entire temple shook. Dust choked her for a few breaths.

Waving a hand, Maggie turned to see a dusty Denal crawling to his feet. The chunk of loosened rock stood between them. Maggie was dumbstruck by how close she had come to being crushed.

Sam was already beside her. “You need to keep an eye on the ceiling,” he admonished her.

“No feckin’ kidding, Sam.” She turned to the boy as he clambered over the slab. Her voice softened with appreciation. “Thank you, Denal.”

He mumbled something in his native tongue, but he could not meet her eyes. If the light were better, Maggie was sure she’d find him blushing. She lifted his chin and kissed him on the cheek. When she pulled away, his eyes had grown wider than saucers.

Maggie turned to spare Denal further embarrassment. “Sam, maybe we should retreat down another level.” She waved a hand to the fallen rock. “You’re right about the instability of this area. We might be safer a little farther away.”

Sam considered her suggestion, taking off his Stetson and finger-combing his hair as he studied the ceiling. “Maybe we’d better.”

Ralph stepped forward, raising the light toward the ceiling. “Look how all the roof slabs are out of alignment.”

Maggie studied the roof. Ralph had keen eyes. Some of the square stones were tilted a few centimeters askew from the others, displaced by the explosion. As they watched, one of the stones shifted another centimeter.

Sam must have seen it, too. His voice was shaky. “Okay, everybody, down another floor.”

Ralph led the way with the flashlight.

Norman followed. “Right now, I’d love a large glass of lemonade, filled to the brim with ice.”

Sam nodded his head. “If you’re taking orders, Norm, I’ll take something with a bit of a head on it. Maybe a tall Corona in a frosted mug with a twist of lime.”

Maggie wiped the dust and sweat from her forehead as she followed. “In Ireland, we drink our pints warm… but right now, I’m even willin’ to bow to your crass American custom of drinkin’ it cold.”

Ralph laughed as they reached the ladder. “I doubt the Incas left us a cooler down there, but I’m willing to search.” Ralph waved his flashlight for Maggie to mount the ladder first while he lit the way.

Maggie’s smile faded from her lips as she climbed away from Ralph’s light and into the gloom of the next level. Their banter in the face of their predicament did little to fend off the true terror; the darkness beyond the brightness was always there, reminding them how precarious their situation was.

As she awaited the others, she considered Ralph’s last words. Just what had the Incas left them down there? What lay within the chamber beyond the sealed door, and what had happened to Gil’s two companions?

By the time the others had regrouped at the foot of the ladder on the second level, Maggie’s curiosity had been piqued. Also by focusing on these mysteries, her fear of being buried under fifty feet of collapsing temple could be somewhat allayed. If the anxiety grew too intense…

Maggie shook her head. She would not lose control again. She watched Sam climb down the ladder with a twinge of guilt. After her attack last night, she had not been totally honest with him. She had failed to explain that the onset of her “seizures” had begun after witnessing the death of Patrick Dugan in the roadside ditch in Belfast. Afterward, the doctors had not been able to find any physiological cause for her attacks, though the consensus was the seizures were most likely a form of severe panic. She shoved back the growing guilt. The details were not Sam’s business. After the initial entrapment, she had come to grips with their situation. As long as she could keep herself distracted, she would be okay.

Nearby, Sam tried his walkie-talkie. The radio still worked, but the static was a bit worse this much deeper. He let Philip know about their repositioning.

Once he was done, Maggie crossed to Sam. She wet her lips. “I’d like to borrow your ultraviolet lamp.”

“What for?”

“I want to go see what damage Gil and the others did to the dig.”

“I can’t let you go traipsing about on your own. We need to stick together.” He began to turn away.

She grabbed his shoulder. “It wasn’t a request, Sam. I’m going. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

Denal stood a few steps away. “I… I go with you, Miss Maggie.”

Sam faced them and seemed to recognize her determination. “Fine. But don’t be gone longer than fifteen minutes. We need to conserve our light sources, and I don’t want to be hunting you both down.”

Maggie nodded. “Thanks, Sam.”

“I’m coming with you two,” Norman said, snugging his camera around his shoulder.

Ralph also had a gleam of interest, but Sam squashed it. “The three of you go on. Ralph and I will go through this level with the flashlight and assess the structural integrity.” He dug his lamp out of his pocket and held it toward Maggie, but he did not release it without a final word of caution. “Fifteen minutes. Be careful.”

She heard the worry in his stern voice, and that dulled the annoyance in her own response. “I know, Sam,” she said softly, taking the Wood’s lamp from him. “You needn’t worry.”

He grinned, then returned to his walkie-talkie and ongoing argument with Philip.

Maggie clicked on the ultraviolet light and signaled for her two companions to follow her to the next ladder. As they abandoned the brighter light, the darkness of the temple wrapped close around them. Ahead, the purplish glow lit up the quartz in the granite blocks, creating a miniature starscape spreading down the passage. Maggie led them onward, the others sticking closer to her side.

As they traversed the series of ladders to the deepest level of the dig, Maggie’s heart began thudding louder and louder in her own ears. Soon her heartbeat seemed almost to be coming from beyond her chest.

“What’s that noise?” Norman asked as he stepped off the rung of the last ladder.

Denal answered, his voice a whisper. “I hear it before. After Señor Sala crawled through that doorway.”

Maggie realized the beating in her ears wasn’t her own heart but the external thudding of something deeper in the temple. It even reverberated through the stones under her feet.

“It sounds like a big clock ticking,” Norman said.

Maggie raised her light. “Let’s keep going.” Compared to the sonorous beat from below, her own voice sounded like the squeak of a mouse.

Winding past the last of the tunnels, Maggie soon stood before the violated doorway. Broken bolts marked where the seals had been shattered. In the dirt to the sides of the threshold, the three bands of etched hematite lay discarded, all of them cracked and chipped from the crowbar used to pry them loose. The offending tool still leaned against the wall.

Denal bent and picked up the crowbar, hefting it in his grip. He glanced to Maggie. She did not begrudge him a weapon.

The doorway ahead lay partially blocked by the toppled stone that had once sealed the section of the temple ahead. Norman knelt a couple spaces back from the opening. He nudged his glasses higher on his nose and tried to peer inside. “I can’t see anything.”

Maggie moved beside him. Neither seemed willing to draw closer to the door. She remembered the terror in Gil’s eyes and the bloody blistering across his cheek. What lay ahead?

Norman exchanged a glance with her. She shrugged and stepped forward, the lamp held before her like a pistol. She paused just at the edge of the doorway, then extended her arm through the threshold. The glow stretched down the throat of a short passage. The deep ticking sounded much louder there. Maggie spoke quietly. “There seems to be a large room just ahead. But the light doesn’t quite reach it.” She glanced over her shoulder back to Norman.

“Maybe we’d better wait for the others,” the photographer whispered.

Maggie was about to suggest exactly the same thing, but since Norman suggested it first, she now balked. She could picture Sam’s smug expression if she didn’t at least take a peek. They had wasted the battery of the Wood’s lamp to come this far; they should at least have something to show for the expenditure. “I’m going in,” she said, moving forward before fear slowed her. She would not be ruled by the paralyzing terror of her childhood.

“Then we’d better all go,” Norman said, closing in to crowd her rear as she began to crawl over the toppled stone door.

Maggie scrabbled over the obstruction and stood in the hall. Norman and Denal joined her. “Look,” she said, pointing her lamp. “There’s somethin’ ahead, reflecting back the glow.” Intrigued, she crept ahead slowly.

“Wait,” Norman said. “Let’s see what’s out there first.”

Maggie turned to see the photographer raise his camera.

“Don’t look at the flash directly,” he warned.

She swung back around just as the camera exploded for a briefest second. She gasped. After so long, such brightness stung. But her shocked response wasn’t all due to the pain. Blazed for just a fractured second, an image of the room had branded her retinas. “D… Did you see that?” she asked.

Denal mumbled something in his native tongue, clearly awed.

Norman coughed to clear his throat. “Gold and silver everywhere.”

Maggie raised her own light, its purplish glow now seeming so feeble. “And that statue… did you see it? It had to be at least two meters tall.”

Norman moved next to her as Maggie edged forward again. Denal kept to their side with his crowbar. Norman whispered, “Two meters. It couldn’t have been gold, too. Could it?”

Maggie shrugged. “When the Spanish first arrived here, they described the Temple of the Sun found in Cuzco. The Coriancha. The rooms were said to have been plated with thick slabs of gold and, in the innermost temple, stood a life-size model of a cornfield. Stalks, leaves, ears, even the dirt itself… all of gold.” By now, they had reached the room’s entrance. Maggie knelt down and ran a hand gently over the gold plate at her feet. “Amazing… we must have uncovered another Sun Temple.”

Norman stood still. “What’s that out there? Out on the floor.”

Maggie pushed back up. “What do you mean?”

He pointed to a dark shadow at the edge of her light’s reach. She raised her lamp. Its glow reflected across the gold and silver like moonlight spilling on a still pond. Some dark island lay out there, a ripple on the pond. Maggie began to step closer with her light, one foot on the edge of the metal floor.

Denal stopped her, holding his crowbar across her path. “No, Miss Maggie,” he murmured. “Smells wrong here.”

“He’s right,” Norman said. “What’s that reek?”

Now brought to her attention, Maggie noticed an underlying stench that penetrated through the cloying scent of wet clay and mold. She nodded to the camera. “Do it again, Norman.”

Nodding, the photographer raised his camera as Maggie turned her eyes back to the floor. The flash exploded out into the room. Maggie swore and stumbled away from the tiles. “Sweet Jesus!”

She covered her mouth. She had been staring at the dark island on the room’s floor when Norman’s flash had burst forth. The tortured face still blazed in her mind’s eye. The torn and twisted body, the eyes wide with death, and the blood… so much blood. Another body lay beyond the first, close to the far wall.

“Juan and Miguel,” Denal mumbled.

There was a long stretch of silence.

“Gil didn’t do that to them, did he?” Norman asked. “Murder them for the gold?”

Maggie slowly shook her head. Juan’s mutilated form had become just a shadowed lump again. As she stared, the thudding heartbeat of some great beast still echoed across the treasure room. She now recognized it for what it was—the ticking of large gears behind the walls and floor of the room.

The warning etched on the chamber’s seals suddenly wormed through Maggie’s skull: We leave this tomb to Heaven. May it never be disturbed.

“Maggie?”

She turned to Norman. “No. Gil didn’t murder them. The room did.”

Before Norman could react, the chamber shuddered violently, throwing them all down. Maggie landed hard upon the edge of the plated floor, knocking the wind from her chest. Gulping air, she scrambled back, sensing the danger.

“What was that?” Norman yelled.

Maggie swung her lamp around. Through the entrance to the tomb, a thick cloud of dust rolled toward them. She fought to speak. “Och! Jesus! Up… up… !” Maggie urged them all.

“What’s going on?” Norman pressed, panic edging his voice.

Maggie pushed him toward the exit. “Goddamm it! Move, Norman! The bloody temple is collapsing!”

Sam checked on Ralph. The large black man pushed groggily up on his arms. His scalp had been clipped when a section of the roof had given way. Luckily a grinding from above had warned them before the sky came crashing down. “Are you okay?” Sam asked, dusting off his Wranglers.

Ralph rolled to his knees. “Yeah, I think.” He gingerly touched a bloody bump on his forehead. “I never been tackled by a slab of granite before.”

“Don’t move,” Sam warned. He collected the flashlight from where it had fallen. “I’m gonna check on what happened.”

Ralph scowled and climbed to his feet. “Like hell. We stick together.”

Sam nodded. Truthfully, he didn’t want to investigate on his own. This level of the temple was now almost a solid cloud of drifting silt and dust. Sam coughed, covering his mouth and nose with the crook of his elbow. “This way,” he mumbled. He led them back to the shaft leading up to the first level of the temple.

Ralph groaned as the remains of the shattered ladder came into view ahead. “This can’t be good.”

And it wasn’t. The way up was blocked by a jumbled pile of hewn boulders, like tumbled children’s blocks. “The first level must have entirely collapsed,” Sam said.

Sam’s walkie-talkie squelched static at his waist. He collected it and heard Philip’s frantic voice. “… okay? Report, goddamm it! Over!”

Sam pressed the transmitter. “Philip, Sam here. We’re okay.” Overhead, the roof moaned ominously; dirt drizzled down. “But I don’t know for how long. How’re you coming with tunneling in a new entrance from the base of the hill?”

Static… then… “… just found the looter’s shaft. It’s barely begun… at least two days… sent for help, but don’t know how long…” Static overwhelmed the tinny voice of their fellow student, but Sam had still heard the panic.

“Shit, two days…” Ralph grumbled. “The temple will never last that long.”

Sam tried to get more information from Philip, but only snatches of words made it through. “I’ll try to reposition for better reception,” Sam yelled into the radio. “Stand by!”

He slipped the walkie-talkie away. “Let’s find the others. Make sure they’re safe.”

Ralph nodded. “Maybe it’s best if we holed up in the lowest level anyway.” Another small groan sounded overhead. “It looks like this place is going to crumble one level at a time.”

Sam led the way through the corridors. “Let’s just hope we’re rescued before we run out of levels.”

Ralph had no rebuttal and followed in silence.

Just as they reached the ladder that led down to the third level, Sam saw Norman pop out of the shaft, his eyes wide in the flashlight. The photographer held a hand against the glare. “Thank God, you’re okay!” Norman said in a rush. “We didn’t know what we’d find.”

Denal came next. Sam noted the crowbar in the teenager’s hand, but didn’t comment on it.

Maggie climbed out last. “What happened?” she asked tersely, clicking off the Wood’s lamp.

“The top level collapsed,” Sam said, and quickly recounted their narrow escape. “With the upper levels so shaky, we thought it best to shelter in the fifth level. Just in case.”

“So we keep our heads as low as we can,” Maggie said.

Norman eyed the ladder. “That means back down again.”

Sam saw a worried glance pass between Maggie and Norman. “What is it?”

“We found Juan and Miguel down there,” Norman said.

Sam knew from his tone and manner that the men were not alive. “What happened to them?”

Maggie answered, “You’d better see for yourself.” She turned away.

In silence, the group clambered down the ladders to the deepest level of the temple. Sam soon found himself staring at the scattered seals of the door. “The bastards…” he mumbled under his breath as he bent by the doorway.

“They’ve paid for their crimes, Sam,” Maggie said dourly. “Come on.” She ushered him into the next room, then followed herself, sticking close to his side.

With his flashlight, Sam quickly took in the scene in the next chamber. He did not let the light’s beam linger too long on either broken body. For a moment, he had a sudden flash-back to seeing his own parents’ bloody bodies being carried away on stretchers. Safely buckled into the backseat of the family Ford, Sam had escaped the fatal crash with only a broken arm. He rubbed his forearm now. “Wh… what happened to them?”

“The tomb’s booby-trapped,” Maggie said, then nodded ahead. “Listen to the winding of winches under the floor. Some bloody contraption meant to catch looters.”

“I didn’t think the Incas had such technology.”

“No, but some of the coastal Indians were fairly advanced in pulley construction for their irrigation systems. If they helped here…?” She shrugged.

Sam’s light beam focused on the gold Incan king as it stood against the wall of black granite. “Either way, there’s the lure. One look at that prize and who wouldn’t rush over.” Sam played his light over the pattern of gold and silver tiles. He knew a trap when he saw one. “Here’s a game I wouldn’t want to play.”

The stones rumbled underfoot, and a grinding roar echoed down from the levels above. “We may be forced to,” Maggie said. “Buttressed by the trap’s machinery, this may be the safest room if the rest of the temple collapses.”

Ralph’s voice called back to them from the threshold. “Sam, try to reach Sykes again! Light a fire under him! This place is coming apart!”

Sam unhooked the walkie-talkie and switched it back on. Static screeched from the speakers. It was silenced as Sam hit the transmitter. “Philip, if you can hear me, come in. Over.”

White noise was his only answer, then a few words came through: “… trying to widen the shaft so more workers can dig… will work around the clock…”

“Speed it up, Philip!” Sam insisted. “This place is a shaky house of cards.”

“… doing the best… damn workers don’t understand…” A long stretch of static followed.

“This is useless,” Sam mumbled to himself with a shake of his head. He raised the radio to his lips. “Just keep us informed on the hour!” He switched the walkie-talkie off and turned to Maggie. “We’ve a long wait ahead of us.”

Maggie stood with her head cocked, listening to the moans of the strained temple. “I hope we have a long time,” she said with clear worry. Sam tried to put an arm over her shoulders, but she shrugged it off. “I’m okay.”

Sam watched Maggie retreat from the room. With a final pass of his light over the deadly chamber, Sam turned to follow, but the pattern of gold and silver fixed in his mind. It was no plain checkerboard, but a complex mix of zigzagging steps with two patches of rectangular gold islands, one at the upper left of the room, and one at the lower right.

Sam stopped, pondering the pattern. It was naggingly familiar. He turned back to the floor, shining his light across it.

“What’s wrong?” Maggie called back to him.

“Just a sec,” Sam stepped to the edge of the chamber. He stood silently, letting his mind calm. There was a clue hidden here. He just knew it. The two men’s corpses had distracted him, shocked him from noticing before. “My god,” Sam mumbled.

Maggie had returned cautiously to his side. “What?”

Sam waved his light across the thirty rows of yard-wide tiles. “You were right about other Peruvian Indians being involved here. This isn’t Incan.”

“What do you mean?” Maggie asked. “That statue sure looks Incan.”

“I don’t mean the statue. The Incas probably added that later. I meant the floor, the room itself. The booby trap.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Look at the pattern. It’s so large that I almost missed it.” Sam pointed with his flashlight’s beam. “The various tribes in ancient Peru—the Paracas, the Huari, the Nasca, the Moche, even the Incas—none of them had a written language. But their pictographs and ideograms, found in drawings and woven in their textiles, were elaborate and unique to each tribe. Look at this pattern. The two golden rectangles at opposite corners connected by snaking zigzagging lines. Where have you seen that before?”

Maggie took a step closer. “Sweet Jesus, you’re right. It’s a huge pictograph.” She turned to face Sam, eyes bright with excitement. “It is Moche, not Inca.”

“It’s just like Uncle Hank had figured,” Sam mumbled, his voice awed. “We’re in a Moche pyramid.”

“What? When did Professor Conklin mention anything about the Moche?”

Sam realized he had misspoken, letting out his uncle’s secret. Sam sighed. Considering their circumstances, any secrets now seemed ludicrous. “Listen, Maggie, there’s something my uncle’s kept from you all.” Sam quickly recounted how the professor had discovered that the SunPlaza here matched the tip of a Moche pyramid found along the coast. “He made the discovery just before he left with the mummy.”

Maggie frowned. “So I wasn’t the only one keepin’ secrets…”

Sam blushed, remembering his own lambasting of Maggie for keeping facts hidden. “I’m sorry.”

A long stretch of silence ensued. Maggie finally spoke. “It makes rough sense. Considering the complexity of the room, the Moche were better at metallurgy than the Incas. They also built elaborate canals and irrigation systems for their lands, with crude pumps and gearwork. If any of the tribes was capable of constructing this trap in precious metals, it would be the Moche.” Maggie nodded toward the pattern. “You’re the expert epigrapher. What does it mean?”

Sam explained, using his flashlight as a pointer. “See how the stair-step pattern connects the two gold rectangles. It depicts the rising of a spirit from this world to the realm of spirits and gods.” Sam turned to Maggie. “It basically means this is the gateway to Heaven.”

“Jesus…”

“But that’s not all.” Sam shone his light on the ceiling, where an inverted image of the floor’s pattern was depicted in tile. “Each gold tile on the floor has a matching silver tile above it and vice versa. The Moche… and the Incas for that matter… believed in dualism. In the Quechan language, yanantin and yanapaque. Mirror imagery, light and dark, upper and lower.”

“Yin and yang,” Maggie mumbled.

“Exactly. Dualism is common in many cultures.”

“So what you’re saying…” Maggie found her eyes drifting to the two mutilated corpses.

Sam finished her statement, “Here also lies the gateway to Hell.”

From across the ruins, Philip stared at the collapsed hilltop. The entire roof of the subterranean temple had caved in on itself, leaving a clay-and boulder-strewn declivity ten feet deep. A smoky smudge still hung over the sunken summit like some steaming volcano, silt forever hanging in the moist air.

Philip remained near his post by the communication tent, but he wasn’t due to contact Sam for another half hour. Philip hugged his arms around his chest. The Quechan workers were all but useless. Pantomiming and drawing out his instructions were the only ways to communicate with the uneducated lot—and still, they often mistook his orders.

However, Philip was beginning to suspect some of their “misunderstandings” were deliberate, especially after he had insisted the Indians attempt to redig the original shaft, defying Sam’s own warnings. The Texan’s assessment had quickly proven valid; the temple had collapsed further when some of the laborers attempted to pry loose a particularly large slab of granite. One of the Indians had broken his leg when the roof gave way. Ever since, the Quechans had grown sullen and slow to respond to his orders.

Upon reaching Sam earlier, Philip had deliberately sidestepped mentioning his own culpability for their near tragedy. Luckily, poor communications had saved him from having to explain in detail.

Philip glanced to the jungle’s edge. If nothing else, at least the workers had discovered the partially excavated tunnel of the looters near the foot of the jungle-shrouded hill. From his calculations, he estimated another forty feet of tunnel would have to be dug before reaching the temple itself—and at the current pace, it would take closer to four days, rather than the two-day estimate he had given Sam.

“That is, unless help arrives first,” he grumbled. If not, the others were doomed. Even if the temple remained standing, which was doubtful, water would become more and more crucial. Even in this humidity, death by dehydration posed a real danger. Help must come. He would not have the deaths of the others on his hands—or his résumé. If such a scandal broke with his name associated with it, he risked losing any chance of a future position at Harvard.

Philip shadowed his eyes against the late-afternoon sun. A pair of workers had left at dawn to seek help, running on long, lean legs. The two young men looked capable of maintaining their pace all day long. If so, they should be reaching the tiny village of Villacuacha and a telephone anytime, and with an expedient response, a rescue operation could be under way within the next two days.

Philip pinned all his plans on this one hope—rescue. With others around, he would be relieved of any direct culpability. Even if the other students died, it would not be his sole responsibility. Shared blame could weaken the blemish on his own record.

But there was one other reason he prayed for the appearance of rescuers. The sun was near setting, and Philip feared another long black night with the forest screeching around him. Guillermo Sala was out there somewhere, surely waiting for the proper time to attack.

Staring off toward the distant village of Villacuacha, Philip sent a whispered prayer to the two Indian runners. “Hurry, you bastards.”

Along a jungle trail, Friar Otera glanced toward the setting sun, then pulled the cowl of his robe higher over his head, shadowing his features. They should be at the ruins by midday tomorrow. “Come,” he ordered, and led the way.

Behind, a row of five brown-robed monks kept pace with him. The brush of their robes was the only sound disturbing the twilight forest. The jungle always grew strangely quiet as the sun began to set, hushed as if the creatures of the forest held their breath against the dangers of the approaching night. Soon the dark predators would be loose again for the hunt.

It was this pregnant silence that allowed the black-haired friar to hear the snap of a branch and the ragged huffing breath of someone approaching. He cocked his head. No, two men approached. Friar Otera held up an arm and, without a word, the others stopped. The Church had trained them well.

Soon two bare-chested Indians appeared along the trail ahead. Sweat shone off their sleek bodies as if they were aglow in the last rays of the sun. On closer inspection, it was clear the two, thorn-scratched and shaky of limb, had traveled far and at a hard pace.

Within his cowl, the friar’s lips drew to hard lines of satisfaction. Though he hated his poor upbringing here among the Indians, it now proved useful. As a boy, he had been chased and tormented because he was of mixed blood, a half-bred mestizo. The shadowy jungle trails became his only sanctuary from the constant ridicule and he knew these jungle trails as well as any. He also knew any attempt to call for help must travel this trail—and he had his orders. Friar Otera raised a palm in greeting.

The first of the Indians seemed wary of the group of strangers. Wisely so, since the jungles were the haunts of many guerrillas and marauders. But soon recognition of their robed raiments and silver crosses filled the Indian’s eyes. He dropped to his knees, chattering his thanks in guttural Quecha.

Friar Otera bowed his head, crossing his wrists within the long folds of his sleeves. One hand reached the dagger’s hilt in his hidden wrist sheath. “Fear not, my child. Calm yourself. Tell me what has happened.”

“Friar… Father, we have run far. Seeking help. We are workers for some norte americanos high in the mountains. There was an accident. A horrible accident.”

“An accident?”

“An underground tomb has collapsed, trapping some of the americanos. They will die unless we hurry.”

Friar Otera shook his head sadly. “Horrible indeed,” he muttered in his native Quecha, though inwardly it galled him to do so. The old language, a crude derivation of the Incan language called runa simi, was so plain and base, the language of the poor. And he hated to be reminded of his own roots by speaking it so fluently. A spark of anger rose in his heart, but he kept it hidden within the shadows of his robe. Friar Otera listened in silence as the frantic Indian finished explaining about the explosion and the damaged satellite phone. He just nodded in understanding.

“So we must hurry, Father, before it’s too late.”

Friar Otera licked his lips. So only one of the americanos was still loose among the ruins. How fortuitous. “Yes, we must hurry,” he agreed with the panting Indian. “You have done well bringing us this news, my child.”

The Indian lowered his head in thanks and relief.

Friar Otera slipped past the kneeling Indian and approached the second fellow. “You have done well, too, my child.”

This other Indian had remained silent during the exchange and had not knelt. His dark eyes had remained wary. He backed up a step now, somehow sensing the danger, but he was too late.

Friar Otera lashed out with the long blade hidden at his wrist, slicing cleanly. The man’s hands flew to his slashed throat, trying to stanch the flow of blood. A spraying spurt struck the friar’s robe as the Indian fell to his knees. Too late to pray now, heathen. With a scowl, Friar Otera used his booted foot to topple the gurgling man backward.

Stepping over the body, Friar Otera continued on his way down the trail. He had not even heard a sound as the other monks dealt with the first Indian. He nodded in satisfaction.

The Church had certainly trained them well.

Joan tried the wine. It was a decent vintage Merlot, not too dry, with a sweet bouquet. She nodded, and the waiter filled her glass the rest of the way. “It should accent the porterhouse nicely,” she said with a shy smile.

Across the candlelit table, Henry returned her smile. “A forensic pathologist and a wine connoisseur to boot. You’ve grown to be a woman of many surprises. As I recall, you used to be a beer-and-tequila woman.”

She stifled a short laugh. “Time has ways of refining one’s taste. As does a stomach that can no longer tolerate such excesses.” She eyed Henry. He still filled his dark suit well, a double-breasted charcoal jacket over a crisp white shirt and pale rose tie. The colors accented perfectly the salting of silver-grey in his dark hair. Clean-shaven and impeccably attired, it was hard to believe this fellow had been tromping through the Peruvian jungles just last week. “And I must say you’re full of surprises, too, Henry. Your years in the field have done you no harm.”

Henry, fork in hand, glanced up from the remains of his Caesar salad. He wore a roguish grin, an expression that took Joan back to her college years. “Why, Dr. Engel,” he teased, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to pick me up?”

“It was a simple compliment, Professor Conklin. That’s all. Just a professional courtesy. I say it to all the visiting doctors.”

“Ah… so that explains your current academic popularity.” Henry stabbed a crouton, hiding a smile.

Joan feigned insult and snapped her napkin toward his hand.

“Ow.” Henry rubbed his knuckles as if they stung. “Okay, okay… then I guess we’d best stick to business.”

“Maybe we should,” she said with a tired smile.

Thus far, their evening had been spent catching up on each other’s pasts. Joan had nodded when Henry mentioned the death of his wife from cancer. Joan had heard the news from mutual friends. It was about the same time her own marriage had ended in a bitter divorce. Afterward, it seemed both had immersed themselves completely in their respective professions, becoming renowned in their fields. During this time, neither had sought out any intimate relationships, still shy from their wounded hearts. It seemed pain was pain, no matter what the circumstance.

“Have you learned anything new about the gold debris found inside the mummy’s skull?” Henry asked more soberly.

Joan sat straighter, switching to her more professional demeanor. “Not much. Just that it’s certainly not gold. It’s more of a dense viscid liquid. At room temperatures, it’s moldable, like warm clay. I suspect it’s some type of heavy metal amalgam, perhaps mercury mixed with something else.” She shrugged.

Henry’s brows furrowed, and he shook his head slightly. “It doesn’t make sense. The Incas’ skill with metals was not considered advanced. Even smelting iron was beyond them. I find it strange they could create a new amalgam.”

“Well, they must have learned something. They filled the mummy’s skull full of the odd metal.”

“Yes, I suppose…”

“But why do you think they did that?” she asked. “Fill his skull?”

“I can only theorize. The Incas revered the braincase as a source of power. They even made drinking mugs from their slain enemies’ skulls. My guess is that the Incas feared the friar’s Christian god and performed this odd rite to avoid the wrath of this foreign deity.”

Joan curled her nose. “So they drilled holes in the man’s skull, removed the brain, and filled the space with the amalgam as an offering to the stranger’s god?”

Henry shrugged and nodded. “It’s a theory. The Incas seemed to have a fascination with trepanation. If you took all the skulls from around the world, they would not equal the number of Incan skulls found with such mutilations. So I wager there must be a religious significance to the act. But it’s only a theory so far.”

“And not a bad one, I suppose,” she said with a smile. “But perhaps tomorrow I’ll have more answers for you about the amalgam itself. I contacted Dr. Kirkpatrick at GeorgeWashingtonUniversity, a metallurgy specialist. He owes me a favor. He’s agreed to come by tomorrow and take a look at the substance.”

Henry brightened with her words, his eyes glinting. “I’d like to be there when he examines the material.”

“Sure…” Joan was momentarily flustered. She had been considering some way to arrange a meeting with Henry again before he left, and here he was dropping it in her lap. “Th… that would be wonderful… your company would be welcome anytime.” Joan mentally struck her forehead with the heel of her hand. Why was she acting like a tongue-tied adolescent? She was forty-eight years old, for Christ’s sake. When would these games between men and women ever grow more comfortable?

Joan found Henry smiling at her. “I’d enjoy working beside you again, too.”

She blushed and wiped her hands on her napkin in her lap. She was saved from having to speak by the server’s arrival with two platters of sizzling steaks. The two waited silently as dishes and silverware were exchanged. Once the waiter left, Joan spoke up, “So what about your end of the deal? Anything new on this Friar de Almagro?”

Henry’s voice was subdued. “No… I’m still waiting to hear back from the archbishop’s people.”

She nodded. “When I was working on the metal, I got to thinking about the Dominican cross you found. I was wondering if it was really gold, or maybe another amalgam like the debris in the skull.”

Henry glanced up quickly. “By God, I never considered that!”

She enjoyed his surprise and the look of admiration in his eyes. She continued, “Maybe it wasn’t the Incas who created this metal. Perhaps it was their Spanish conquerors.”

Henry nodded. “Now that’s something I could more easily believe. The Spanish conquistadors! Maybe when this metallurgist reviews the material, we can at least put this part of the mystery to rest.”

Joan grinned at his enthusiasm. There was nothing more attractive than a man who could share her passion for the mysteries of science—especially one as handsome as Henry.

“First thing when I get back to the Sheraton,” Henry continued, “I’m gonna take a closer look at the cross again.”

Joan tested her steak. It was a perfect medium rare. The chefs here never disappointed. “If you do, I’d like to know what you think as soon as possible.”

“In that case… if you’d like, since you’re dropping me off at the Sheraton, why don’t you come up to the room and see for yourself. After working with the amalgam all day, you’d be the better one to judge it anyway.”

Joan looked up from her steak to see if there was more of an invitation behind his words. She was not one to bed any man who happened to pique her interest, even an old friend… but she wouldn’t mind extending their evening together.

Henry was working at his own steak with studied concentration. He glanced at her from above his glasses, his eyes questioning her hesitation.

Joan made her decision. “Why… yes, I’d love to take another peek at the cross.”

Henry bobbed his head, returning to his steak. “Excellent.”

Joan saw how his smile widened. She found her own grin growing brighter. They might as well be two teenagers out on a first date.

With the matter settled, both turned their attention to the table and the quality of the dinner. The remainder of the conversation consisted of the simple pleasantries of two diners: a review of the meal, shared stories of their different professions, even a discussion on the pending stormfront aiming at the coast from the Great Lakes. By the time dessert was served—a delightfully rich vanilla crême brûlée shared with two spoons—both had grown out of their awkwardness and into a comfortable warmth.

“Whatever happened to us back at Rice?” Joan finally asked, feeling comfortable enough to broach an awkward topic. “Why didn’t we work out?”

Henry fingered his cup of coffee. “I think there was too much life ahead of us. You wanted to pursue medicine. I wanted to get my masters at Texas A&M. I think at the time there was not much room for anything else, especially not a committed relationship.”

“The woes of the career-driven,” she mumbled. Joan’s thoughts drifted to her own husband. It was his common complaint about their marriage. She was never home, never there for him.

Henry sipped his coffee. “Maybe. I suppose. But then eventually I met Elizabeth and you met Robert.” Henry shrugged.

“Hmm…”

Henry sighed and set his cup down. “Maybe we should be going. It is getting near time for me to contact the team in Peru.”

Joan glanced at her watch. It was almost ten o’clock. Where had the time gone? “And I’ve got an early day tomorrow myself. If we’re to take a peek at that cross tonight, we ought to be going.”

Henry insisted on paying the bill after a mild protest from Joan. “It’s the least I can do after all you’ve done,” he said, pulling out his wallet. “Besides, the tab will be coming out of my research grant anyway.” He offered her a quirked grin.

Joan held up her palms, relinquishing any claims on the check. “If the government is paying, it’s all yours.”

Shortly thereafter, following a short car ride, Joan found herself sharing an elevator with the professor. A degree of nervousness set in again as silence enveloped them. Henry fidgeted with the buttons on his suit. The doors chimed open on the seventh floor, and the two crossed down to Henry’s hotel room.

“Excuse the mess,” he said as he keyed open the door. “I wasn’t expecting company.” Henry held open the door for Joan to step through.

Joan stared at the ruins of the professor’s hotel room. The bed had been overturned and the mattress shredded. Every drawer had been pulled and dumped; even the television lay on its side on the rug, its back panel unscrewed.

“My God!” Henry exclaimed, stunned.

“You said it was a mess, but I wasn’t expecting this,” Joan said in a halfhearted attempt at a joke.

Henry dashed into the room, giving it all a quick glance around. He sifted through some papers by the toppled desk and uncovered his laptop. He picked it up and tested it. A beep as it turned on revealed it had been undamaged. A sigh of relief escaped him. “All my research… thank God.”

Joan cautiously entered the room. “You shouldn’t touch too much. I’ll call hotel security. Whoever burglarized the room might still be around.”

Henry righted the desk and put the computer down. “Why didn’t they take my laptop?”

Dialing the front desk, Joan spoke, “I suspect they were after bigger game. I wager that reporter’s piece in the Baltimore Herald this morning caught the eyes of some petty thieves.”

Henry seemed to jolt with her words. “The cross!” He strode across the room.

“Tell me you left it in the hotel safe,” Joan said.

Shaking his head, Henry moved to one of the sconces on the wall. “After traveling through so many foreign countries, I’ve developed my own system of security.”

As Joan related the burglary to the front desk, Henry used a Swiss army knife to unscrew the fixture from the wall and reached to the niche behind it. He retrieved a small velvet pouch, heavy with whatever was inside. He spilled out the large Dominican cross and silver ring into his palm.

Joan replaced the phone. “Security is on its way. You were lucky this time, Henry. Next time use the hotel’s safe.”

Henry looked around the room. “I think you’re right. These thieves were damned thorough.” Joan stayed silent as Henry examined the disheveled room. “Welcome back to America,” he muttered sourly.

Joan’s eyes strayed to a suit box from Barney’s tossed in a corner. A register receipt was still taped to its cover. She eyed Henry’s handsome suit. So it seemed the professor had done some last-minute shopping for their “date.” She forced down a small smile and silently cursed the thieves that had ruined their evening.

Soon two large men in blue suits appeared at the open door. They flashed identification and entered. “We’ve called the police. They’ll be here in a moment to take a statement. Another room is already being prepared for you.”

Henry turned to Joan. “Why don’t you head home. I can take care of matters here.”

“I suppose I’d better. But tomorrow bring the crucifix with you to the lab. I’ll have Dr. Kirkpatrick look it over. He’ll know for sure if it’s gold or not.”

Henry looked about the room with a forlorn expression. “Thanks, I’ll do that.”

She moved to leave, but he stopped her with a touch on her arm. She turned to find him smiling at her. “As weird as this may sound considering the state of my room, I had a nice night.”

She squeezed his hand and held it a fraction longer than professionally necessary. “I did, too.” She returned his smile, if only a bit more shyly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He nodded, and as she stepped from the room, he added softly, “I look forward to it.”

Joan didn’t turn, pretending not to have heard, when actually she feared her reddening face would reveal too plainly her heart. Only when she was safely in the elevator and the doors had closed did she let out a long sigh of relief. “Get ahold of yourself,” she warned the empty elevator. “He’s an old friend. That’s all.”

Still as the elevator headed down, a small shiver of pleasure passed through her. Tomorrow could not come soon enough.

As another tumble of rocks echoed down from above, Sam glanced up from where he knelt. His eyes flicked to the others gathered around the three bands of hematite. Norman stared up toward the roof with a small flinch of his shoulders. Ralph only grumbled and continued swathing the yellow dye across his band with a small paintbrush. Denal sat to one side, running his hands slowly up and down the crowbar in his lap.

Only Maggie met his eyes. “The second level must be collapsed by now,” she whispered.

Sam nodded with a deep sigh. None of them wanted to consider what that meant. He glanced to his watch. It was a little after ten in the evening. At this rate, there was little chance the pyramid would remain intact for another two days. To distract from the weight of rock slowly crumbling down upon them, they had attempted to keep busy. Sam’s suggestion that they test his experimental dyes on the hematite bands had been grudgingly accepted.

“Now what?” Ralph asked. He stretched a kink from his back where he bent over his band.

Sam scooted closer. “Next you need to sponge the excess dye gently away with this lipophilic agent.” He passed Ralph a dry sponge and a jar of clear solution.

“I’m ready, too,” Maggie said, and reached for a second sponge.

With Sam directing, the other two students soon had the bands prepped for deciphering. Sam lifted the black Wood’s lamp and switched it on. “Okay, extinguish the flashlight.”

Once done, darkness suddenly collapsed tighter around them. A pool of purplish light was all that stood between them and absolute blackness. Bathed within the glow, the two bands fluoresced a soft green. The group clustered tighter.

“Amazing,” Maggie exclaimed.

Under Sam’s ultraviolet lamp, the ancient writing stood in stark relief, the green lettering glowing brightly, as crisp as the day it had been etched into the metal.

“Cool,” Ralph said, patting Sam on the shoulder.

Holding back his own whoop of pride, Sam ran a finger along the lettering, carefully reading the writing on the first band. “Nos Christi defenete. Malum ne fugat.” Sam concentrated intently as he translated the scrawled Latin. “ ‘Christ protect us. May the evil never escape.’ ” A chill passed down Sam’s spine.

“Not the words you want to hear trapped in a collapsed tomb,” Ralph said.

“Especially when we’re sitting right outside the cursed chamber,” Norman added, eyeing Sam. “What was that you said about the pictograph in the next room? The gateway to Heaven, the gateway to Hell?”

Sam waved the photographer’s fears away. “That’s just a rough interpretation from a Judeo-Christian viewpoint. The ancient Peruvians didn’t believe in a biblical heaven or hell, but in three distinct levels of existence: janan pacha, the upper world; cay pacha, our world; and uca pacha, the lower or interior world. They believed these three worlds were closely linked, and that certain sacred areas, named pacariscas, were where the three worlds came together.” Sam glanced over his shoulder. “From the pictographs next door, I suspect that chamber was revered and protected as a pacariscas.”

Norman stared toward the open doorway to the booby-trapped chamber. “A gateway to both the lower and upper worlds.”

“Exactly.”

Maggie elbowed Sam. “Enough already! Get on with the second band.”

Sam cleared his throat and bent over the etched hematite, this time translating as he ran a finger along the Latin scribblings. “ ‘Lord above, keep us safe. We beseech you. We leave this tomb to Heaven. May it never be disturbed. Beware… ‘ ” Sam read the last two lines and his breath caught in his throat. He leaned away. “Oh, God!”

Maggie leaned nearer. “What?”

Sam glanced at the others. “ ‘Beyond lies the workings of Satan, the will of the Devil. I seal this passage against the Serpent of Eden, lest mankind be damned forever.’ ”

Five pairs of eyes turned to the open doorway.

“The Serpent of Eden?” Norman asked nervously.

Maggie explained, voice hushed. “Genesis. The corrupter of mankind, a tempter of forbidden knowledge.”

“It’s signed,” Sam said, returning their attentions to the hematite bands. “Friar Francisco de Almagro, servant of our Lord, 1535.”

Ralph glanced over Sam’s shoulder. “Didn’t your uncle say he thought the mummy was probably a Dominican friar?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. This may be the fellow’s last written testament. After sealing the tomb here, he must’ve been killed for some reason. But why?” Sam knelt back upon his heels. “What happened here? What was it about the next room that scared the man so much? It couldn’t have just been the booby traps. Not with that reference to the Serpent of Eden.”

Maggie nodded toward the open doorway. “Whatever the answer, it lies in there somewhere, maybe something the Moche discovered and the conquering Incas usurped. Something that spooked the bejesus out of our dead friar.”

“I wish my uncle were here,” Sam muttered. “We could use his expertise.”

More boulders shifted overhead, grinding like old bones. “I don’t think your uncle would share that wish,” Norman said, eyeing the roof.

Maggie suddenly stood up and collected the flashlight. “I want to see that chamber again.”

Sam noticed how her legs trembled for a second before she was able to take a step away. He suspected most of her stated curiosity was just a desire to move, to keep busy and distracted. He pushed to his feet. “I’ll go with you.”

Ralph stood up, too. “Norman and I’ll go check the next level up.”

Norman’s eyes widened. “I will?”

Ralph glowered at the photographer. “Quit being such a pantywaist.”

Norman scowled and rolled to his feet. “Oh, all right.” He fished out the second flashlight. Denal had found the extra handlamp among the bag of tools abandoned by Gil’s gang.

“Be quick,” Sam warned. “It’s not safe up there, and we need to conserve the batteries.”

“Trust me,” Norman said. “Between Ralph’s company and falling slabs of granite, I’ll be damned quick.”

Denal also stood. He moved alongside Sam and Maggie, making his own decision on where to go.

With a wave, Norman and Ralph set off.

“C’mon,” Maggie said behind him.

Sam and Denal followed her as she ducked through the doorway. Sam noticed Denal quickly touch his forehead and make the sign of the cross, a whispered prayer on his lips, before passing through the threshold.

In silence, the trio returned to the edge of the tiled floor. Gold and silver reflected their light brightly. The Incan king stood bright as a yellow star against the black granite stonework. The ticking of the machinery echoed in muffled time to Sam’s own heartbeat. Tilting his Stetson, he studied the pictograph, tracing the flashlight’s beam from the golden rectangle that represented the physical world, cay pacha, to the distant square that represented the upper world, janan pacha. A zigzag of gold tiles connected the two bases. “Well?” he asked. “What now?” Sam purposely kept the light away from the two bodies upon the floor.

Like a caged lioness, Maggie stalked back and forth before the puzzle. “There has to be a way across,” she muttered. “Solve that and whatever prize lies here will most likely be revealed.”

“The Serpent of Eden?” Sam asked.

Maggie turned to him, eyes bright in the reflected glow. “Don’t you want to know what he meant?”

“Honestly, right now I’d just prefer to get our butts out of here.”

“Well, until then…” Maggie swung back to the tiled pictograph. “I’m going to keep working.” Without another word, Maggie stepped upon one of the gold tiles that made up the rectangle of gold at this edge.

“No, Miss Maggie!” Denal shouted.

Sam reached for her at the same time, but Maggie stepped onto a neighboring gold tile, out of his reach. “What are you doing?” he yelled.

She turned back—not to Sam, but the boy. “What’s the safest path, Denal?”

Sam glanced to his side. The young Quechan stood trembling by the edge of the floor, eyes wild. “Maggie, what are you talking about?” Sam asked. “He doesn’t know.”

“He knows,” she said. “He warned me from stepping on the floor the first time here.” She stared intently at the boy. “I saw a look of recognition on your face, Denal.”

The boy backed a step away.

Maggie continued. “I’ve solved part of the riddle. I stand on the section of the pictograph that represents our world.” She pointed a hand toward the distant rectangle of gold on the far side of the room. “And I must reach janan pacha, the upper world. Isn’t that so? But how do you move across the floor safely? The gold path is too obvious.”

Denal just shook his head vehemently.

Sam lowered his flashlight. “Maggie, Denal can’t know—”

Maggie’s face hardened, and she swung away. She moved to step on one of the gold tiles that stair-stepped toward the distant rectangle.

“No!” Denal called out suddenly. Tears in his eyes. “I’ll tell you.”

Stunned, Sam stared at the teenager.

He seemed to sag under his gaze. “The old amautas of my people. They speak stories of a bad place like this. Very old stories. I no know for sure. But they say that life be balanced between janan and cay. To walk between them, you must balance the sun and the moon.”

“The sun and moon?” Maggie said. She turned to the floor. “Ah sure! Of course.” Maggie stepped onto a neighboring silver tile.

“Maggie! Don’t!”

She ignored Sam and moved back to a gold square. “To follow the gold staircase of tiles, you have to alternate each step with a silver one. Balance the silver an’ gold, the moon an’ the sun.”

Sam called out. “You can’t know that for certain.”

“I’m sure.” Maggie continued across the room, stepping from silver to gold and back to silver again. She spoke hurriedly as she worked across the pattern. “Gold was considered by the Incas to be the sweat of the sun, while silver was the tears of the moon. Sun an’ moon… gold an’ silver…”

Sam stood at the edge of the floor, unable to breathe.

Denal mumbled in his native tongue, fear strong in his voice. “She goes… she no come back.”

Sam barely heard him, his heart in his throat.

He tugged on Sam’s arm. “Miss Maggie must stop,” he beseeched. “The amautas say who travels to janan pacha can never return. She must stop!”

The boy’s warning finally sank into Sam. He jerked as if he had touched flame. “Maggie!”

The surging panic in his voice drew her gaze.

“Denal says that if you cross the room, you can’t come back!”

Maggie glanced toward the far wall, then back at Sam. She still stood on the same tile, but her voice shook. “Th… that makes no bloody sense. Why would the room be one-way?”

“I don’t know. But now is not the time to test it.”

Maggie sighed. “Maybe you’re right…” She stepped back onto the silver tile she had just vacated.

“No!” Denal yelled.

The boy’s scream saved Maggie’s life. Flinching, she yanked back her leg just as the silver tile hinged open under her boot.

“Watch out!” Sam yelled. “Above you!” He had spotted the corresponding gold tile on the roof drop open. A thick rain of spears shot out, whistling, and disappeared into the pit opened under the silver tile.

Maggie had backed from the cascade of blades, legs trembling fiercely. She fell to her knees as the silver tile swung closed again. “Sam…?”

Gesturing wildly, Denal explained, “She must no come back. If starts, Miss Maggie must finish.”

The woman’s eyes were wide with fear as she stared back at Sam across the six yards of floor. Sam could see a glaze of panic beginning to set in. What was he to do?

Suddenly the entire room shook violently. A thunderous roar accompanied it. Sam was thrown to the floor. Maggie ducked, covering her head with her arms. Two metal tiles dislodged from above and crashed with loud clangs.

Only Denal managed to keep his feet. The Quechan boy glanced toward the room’s entrance. Dust and clouds of silt rolled toward them. “The temple! It falls!”

Sam rolled back to his feet as the floor settled. “Oh, God… Norman and Ralph…”

As if hearing his call, two figures suddenly burst through the cloudy silt. Coughing, Ralph skidded to a stop beside Sam. From head to foot, the large black man was grey with granite dust, as was Norman behind him. The photographer sneezed loudly.

Ralph was out of breath. “It’s all coming apart!”

The groan of shifting stones seemed to come from all around them. Occasional loud crashes still erupted regularly, as close as the antechamber next door.

Norman wiped his nose on his sleeve. “There’s nothing above us now.”

Ralph pulled Sam to the neighboring wall of the short passage. “Feel.”

Sam placed his hand on the wall of stacked granite stones. It trembled under his palm as the stresses from the tons of granite blocks and clay strained these last bulwarks. “All that’s holding this place together is a lick and a promise,” Sam realized aloud.

Norman suddenly drew their attention with an urgent call. He pointed toward the patterned floor. “Maggie!”

Sam swung around. Across the tiles, he spotted the Irish student sprawled on her side on the same gold tile. Her limbs twitched and spasmed. She was having another seizure.

“What the hell is she doing out there?” Ralph asked angrily.

“I don’t have time to explain.” Sam unslung his rifle and passed it to Ralph. “Stay here!” He darted onto the gold tiles.

Denal yelled a warning, but Sam ignored the boy. Sam danced from silver to gold as he climbed the staircase pattern toward janan pacha. Reaching Maggie’s tile, he knelt beside her and cradled her head in his lap. His touch seemed to calm her slightly. Using this cue, he stroked her hair and called to her softly. Her trembling limbs quieted. “Maggie… if you can hear me, come to me. Follow my voice.”

A small moan escaped from her lips.

“C’mon, Maggie… we need you… this is no time to be napping.”

Her eyelids fluttered, and then she was staring at him. “Sam…?”

He leaned down and hugged her tightly. The smell of her hair and sweat sharp in his nose. “Thank God!”

Maggie pushed from his embrace and quickly took in the scene. “You shouldn’t have come out here,” she scolded, but there was no heat in her voice, only relief. “The temple?”

“It’s comin’ down around our ears. This is the last level intact.”

Maggie glanced up at Sam, an unspoken question in her eyes.

Sam answered, “An hour at most, I’d guess.”

“What are we to do?”

Helping her to her feet, Sam stood. Maggie had to lean on his arm for support, her legs still weak. Her palms were hot on his bare skin. “You got me thinking earlier. Just why did the Moche or Incas build this room so it was one-way only?”

Maggie shook her head.

Sam glanced to the far wall. “It makes no sense… unless… unless there was another way out.”

“A secret passage?”

“There must be more than just this booby-trapped room. Why the dire warning from the mummified friar? There’s nothing here. Something must lie beyond this chamber.”

“But if you’re right, where’s the entrance?”

Sam pointed to the large statue of the Incan king. It seemed to glower at them, gold against the dark stones. “If anybody would know, he would. A clue must lie with him.” Sam met Maggie’s eyes.

“So we’ll have to cross over there,” she said, swallowing hard. She offered Sam a wavery half smile. “One last puzzle.”

The roof again rumbled ominously. “Right. We either solve it, or we kiss our asses good-bye.”

Ralph called over to them. “What’re you two doing? We’re running out of time!”

Sam quickly related what they planned to do.

“That’s insane! You’re risking your lives on pretty thin guesses!”

Sam nodded toward the roof. “I’d rather take my chances than just wait for the sky to fall.”

Ralph had no answer. He just shifted from foot to foot nervously. “Okay, boss, but be careful,” he finally conceded.

Denal stepped onto the tile floor, his face ashen. “I come with.”

“No!” Maggie and Sam called out in unison.

Denal just continued onward. “I know old stories. I help. I no die without a fight, too.” He followed their path to join them. He glared up at Sam. “My mama, before she die, she teach me to be brave. I no shame her.”

Sam stared for a moment, then clapped the boy on the shoulder. “Thanks, Denal.”

He smiled weakly, but his eyes kept flicking between the Incan king and the patterned floor. With shaky fingers, he fished out a bent cigarette from a pocket and slipped it between his lips. He caught Sam eyeing the unlit cigarette and stared back defiantly. “Let’s go.”

Sam turned to leave. “You know those things will stunt your growth.”

“Not if I don’t light them,” Denal said sourly.

“You find a way out of here,” Sam said, “and you can smoke your lungs black.”

Maggie trailed behind them. “Keep moving. This roof isn’t goin’ to last forever.”

Sam continued in silence. Each step onto a new tile brought an ever-growing sense of dread. But nothing happened. Between Maggie and Denal, they seemed to have solved the riddle of the tiles, but what then?

Sam came to the midpoint of the floor and froze.

Maggie called from a couple rows back. “Why’ve you stopped?”

He stepped aside so she could see.

“Oh.”

Sam was extra careful proceeding onto the next gold tile. The blood made the surface slick. He was mindful not to touch the torn and fouled body of Juan that shared the tile. The dead man’s eyes seemed to track him as he passed. Sam glanced away, but the smell was strong this close, the metallic tang of blood mixed with the more earthy smell of decay. He continued on, sighing loudly once he stepped onto the next tile.

For a few rows, he sped faster, glad to escape the dead man. Neither of the other two spoke as they followed. Only the scuff of boots indicated they continued behind him. Farther across the room, he could hear Ralph and Norman mumbling nervously, but their words were too quiet to make out.

At last Sam stepped onto the four gold tiles that made up the pictograph of janan pacha. Bending in relief, Sam leaned his hands on his knees. He closed his eyes and thanked the heavens for his safe passage.

Maggie and Denal joined him.

“You both okay?” Sam asked, straightening.

Maggie could only nod. Her face shone with a sheen of sweat. Denal’s cigarette trembled between his lips, but he bobbed his head, too.

Sam glanced to the wall. They were now grouped at the upper left of the pictograph. The last row of tiles was all silver. Only the statue itself, in the middle of the wall, stood upon a gold tile amid a small pile of gold and silver trinkets and offerings. “Now what? How do we reach the statue from here?”

Maggie turned in a slow circle. “Listen.”

Sam frowned. “What—?” Then he realized what she meant.

Denal did, too. “It stopped.”

Sam cocked his head. There was no trace of the ticking machinery that geared the booby trap.

“It ended as soon as we arrived here,” Maggie said.

Sam nodded. “Our following the path correctly must have deactivated it.”

“So it should be safe to follow the silver tiles to the statue?” Maggie asked, glancing toward Denal.

The Quechan boy shrugged. “I no know.”

Sam took a girding breath and stepped off the gold tiles and onto the row of silver. He cringed for a heartbeat, but nothing happened. He glanced to Maggie.

“The gears are still silent,” she said, meeting his eyes. “It must be okay.”

Sam continued tile by tile to the golden statue. The others followed. Soon they stood before the Incan warrior. He seemed to be glaring down at them from under a headdress. The three studied their adversary.

The statue stood almost a full two yards taller than most men, posted with his back to a narrow silver archway in the granite wall. He bore a staff in one hand and a typical Incan bola in the other, three stones slung on llama tendon.

“Look at his llautu crown,” Sam said, pointing to the figure’s braided headdress topped by three parrot feathers and a fringe of tassels. “It definitely marks this one as a Sapa Inca. One of their kings.”

“Yes, but the facial detail an’ depiction of realistic musculature is unlike the Incas’ usual stylization,” Maggie whispered. “It’s as perfect a work as Michelangelo’s David.”

Sam leaned closer to study the ancient king’s face. “Strange. Whichever Sapa Inca is represented here was clearly worshiped as no other.”

A step away, Denal cleared his throat. “The wall… it is not stone.”

Sam turned away from the statue. The boy’s gaze was not on the golden idol, but the black wall behind it. Sheer granite spread all around. “What do you mean?”

Maggie gasped. “Denal means it’s not stonework. Look there are no seams or joints. It’s not stacked stone blocks like the temple.”

Sam moved to the rock and ran a palm along it. “It’s a wall of solid granite.”

A voice called from across the room. “Did you find anything?” It was Norman.

Sam turned his head and yelled, “We found the mountain!” Sam arched his neck and examined the wall. “The pyramid must have been built at the base of this cliff face.”

“But why?” Maggie asked.

Sam thought out loud. “The Incas revered mountains. But why build a huaca, or holy place here? What was so special about this cliff?”

Maggie answered after a moment, “Wh… what if there was a cave?”

Sam slapped his hand against the granite wall. “Of course. Caverns were considered to be pacariscas, mystical places joining the three worlds of their religion. They were often used as places of ritual. It makes sense!”

“But where’s the entrance?” Maggie asked.

“I don’t know, but the statue must be a key. Did you notice the silver archway behind the statue? It’s large enough to cover a narrow opening.”

Maggie and Sam returned to the statue. Sam leaned his shoulder against it and tried to shove the idol aside.

“Be careful,” Maggie warned.

Denal stood with one fist clenched at his throat.

But nothing happened. The statue could not be budged. “Damn it,” Sam swore, taking off his Stetson and swiping his damp hair back. “The thing must weigh close to a ton.”

Maggie frowned at him. “Brute force isn’t the answer. With the complexity shown here, there has to be a mechanism to unlock the pathway.” She elbowed Sam aside and approached the statue. Stretching on the tip of her toes, she examined it closely, her nose only inches from the golden surface. Slowly she worked her way down the statue’s physique.

Sam grew impatient, especially when the floor began to tremble again. “This place isn’t going to stand much longer,” he mumbled.

“Aha!” Maggie exclaimed. She turned to Sam, her face at the Incan king’s waist. “Here’s the answer.” She pointed to the statue’s belly button.

“What are you talking about?”

Maggie reached and pushed her finger through the hole. Her entire finger was swallowed up. “The Incas considered the navel to be a place of power. They believed the umbilicus once joined the physical body of man to the gods of creation.”

Sam crouched with Denal. “Another fusion of worlds.”

Maggie slipped her finger out. “It’s a keyhole. Now we just need to find the key.”

Sam straightened, thinking aloud. “The navel links the gods of janan pacha to mankind in the physical world… to cay pacha. If this chamber is a point where all three worlds unite… then the key must be something from the lower world, from uca pacha.”

Maggie clutched his elbow in understanding. “By inserting the key into the navel lock, then all three worlds would be united.”

“Yeah, but where do we find such a key?”

Denal nudged Sam. He pointed to the statue’s feet, to where a small mound of gold and silver offerings were piled. “Uca pacha lies at bottom of feet.”

“Och! We’ve been feckin’ fools for sure.” Maggie dropped to her knees and began sifting through the objects. “The lower world! Sometimes it’s best to hide somethin’ in plain sight.”

Sam joined her. Working through the pile, he held up a golden figurine of a panther with ruby eyes, then cast it aside. “There’s enough wealth here to finance a small nation.”

“And it’ll do us not a nit of good if we don’t survive.”

As if to remind them further, the temple rumbled and shook as another section gave way. The tiles overhead trembled and clanged. One of the booby traps sprang on its own, triggered by the roof’s shaking: a huge granite block carved with a demon’s face crashed to the floor and embedded itself in the silver tile below.

Maggie and Sam eyed each other grimly.

Ralph called from behind them, coughing slightly. “That’s it! We’re sealed in, folks! If there’s another way out, I suggest you find it damn quick!”

Maggie whispered, “The structure of the floor and trap is coming apart. If Norman and Ralph are goin’ to join us—”

“You’re right. Keep searching.” Sam stood up. “Ralph! Norman! Come on over! Now!” The two other students were obscured in a cloud of granite dust. But Ralph waved his flashlight in acknowledgment and started toward them.

Sam returned to Maggie. “They’re coming. Any luck?”

She shook her head; her hand trembled as she picked through the pieces. “I can’t think clearly. What if I miss a clue? We won’t have a second chance.” A small sob escaped her throat.

Sam knelt beside her. “We’ll get out of here.” He put an arm around her shoulders and held her tight.

She leaned into his embrace, silent for several heartbeats. Then a final shudder passed through her, and she seemed to relax again. Slipping from under his arm, she turned to Sam, her dusty face marred by trails of tears. She wiped at her cheeks and mumbled, “Thanks, Sam.”

No words were needed. He nodded and returned to his own search alongside her. They worked as a team, sifting through the pile of objects. Sam almost tossed aside their salvation, but Maggie stopped him, grabbing his wrist.

Sam held a foot-long golden dagger with a silver handle. “What?”

“Look at the carving on the hilt.”

Sam raised it into the beam of the flashlight Denal was holding. It bore the figure of a man with prominent fangs. Sam recognized the figure from ancient ceramic pottery. “It’s the fanged god Aiapaec.”

Maggie nodded. “A god of the Moche tribes!”

Sam remembered his uncle’s assessment of this buried pyramid. It was clearly Moche. Here was more proof. “This will make Uncle Hank happy… that is, if we get out of here to show it to him.” He began to place the dagger aside.

Maggie stopped him again. “Wait, Sam. Some scholars say that the Incas may have incorporated the Moche god, Aiapaec, into their own pantheon of gods. But the Inca’s renamed him—Huamancantac!”

“The god of guano… bat dung?” Sam stared at her as if she were mad. What was her point? Then understanding dawned on him. “The god of bats… and caverns! A spirit from the lower world, uca pacha!”

Sam sprang to his feet, dagger in hand.

“It must be the key!” Maggie exclaimed.

Just then Ralph and Norman joined the trio by the statue. “I don’t know what you’re all excited about, but I’d suggest we get out of here.” He pointed toward the rear of the chamber.

Sam turned. There was no rear of the chamber. With the dust settling from the last of the major rumbles, the back of the room was a tumbled pile of blocks. “Christ!” Overhead, a quarter of the heavy roof tiles hung crooked or tilted. And in the background, the continual groan of tons of granite sounded from above their heads.

Norman’s voice was a squeak. “There’s no place else to run.”

“Maybe there is,” Sam said. He turned and stabbed the dagger into the statue’s belly. It sank to the level of the hilt.

Nothing happened.

Norman shifted his feet, staring at the impaled knife. “Okay, Brutus, you’ve stabbed Caesar. What now?”

Sam tried turning the knife like a key, but it refused to move. He pulled the dagger back out, his eyes on Maggie. “I was sure you were right.” He held the gold dagger between them, clutching it tightly. “Th… this has to be the key!” he said between clenched teeth, frustration trembling his voice. “It must be!”

As he spoke the last word, the dagger shifted in his hands. The length of gold blade molded itself into a jagged lightning bolt. It shone brightly in the beam of the flashlights. Sam almost dropped the knife, but his left hand steadied his right, both palms now clutching the hilt. “Did anyone else see that? Or did my mind just snap?” Sam ran his fingers over the knife, searching for the catch that had triggered the transformation. He found nothing.

Another cascade of rock tumbled behind them. It was the chamber’s roof collapsing, taking out half of the roof tiles. The clang of rock and metal echoed sharply. Death rolled toward them in a gnash of rock, but none of them moved.

Instead, Maggie raised her hands toward the dagger, then lowered them back again, clearly afraid of disturbing the miracle. “It’s now the symbol of Pachacamac. The Incan god of creation.” She met Sam’s wide eyes. “Use it!”

Sam nodded and turned back to the statue. With the tip of the dagger trembling, Sam edged the knife into the belly of the Incan king. It took a bit of rocking back and forth to insert the jagged blade fully, but with one final push, the knife slid home.

A cracking grind of gears exploded, loud enough to vanquish the crash of boulders behind them.

As Sam held tight to the hilt of the dagger, the Incan statue split neatly in half, from crown to feet, a seam appearing from nowhere. The two halves pulled apart from the dagger’s hilt, along with the silver archway behind it. Beyond the statue, a natural fissure in the rock was revealed.

Sam stood frozen before the split statue, the knife still in his grip, the blade now pointing toward the cavern entrance. “Holy shit!”

Stunned, Sam raised the dagger. It was once again just the straight blade he had first found. He let his arm drop and turned to the others. A blinding flash of Norman’s camera caught him off guard. Sam rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Warn a guy next time,” he complained.

“And ruin that natural expression of awe,” Norman answered. “Not a chance.”

The others all began talking at once—amazement, wonder, and relief ringing brightly. Ralph shone his flashlight down the throat of the fissure. It delved deep into the cliff face, beyond the reach of Ralph’s light. “I hear what sounds like running water,” he said. “The cavern must be plenty deep.”

“Good,” Sam said. He finally held up his dagger, getting the others’ attention. “I have no idea what just happened here, but let’s get our asses out of this temple before it crushes us flat as pancakes.”

With more of the roof falling behind them, no one argued. They filed quickly past Sam and into the coolness of the natural cavern.

As Ralph slid by, he returned Sam’s Winchester. “I have my own now,” the large man said, lifting a snubby lever-action rifle.

Sam recognized it as Gil’s weapon. “Where?”

Ralph jerked his thumb back at the tile floor. “I picked it up when Norm and I crossed. Gil must have run off in too big a hurry, abandoning it.” Ralph hefted an ammo belt from his shoulder. “His loss… our gain.”

“Hopefully we won’t need either,” Sam said.

Ralph shrugged and continued into the tunnel.

“You’d better try one last time to reach Philip,” Maggie said, glancing back at the crumbling room. “Let him know we’re safe and not to give up on us. With water and shelter, we should be able to survive until help arrives.”

“You’re right. In the caves, I might not be able to reach him.” Sam had forgotten all about Philip Sykes. He pulled the walkie-talkie free, stepped away from the threshold, and switched it on. Static immediately squealed when Sam hit the transmitter. “Sykes, can you read us? Over?”

The answer was immediate and choppy. “… alive? Thank God… the whole hill is gone… We’re… as fast as we can! Over.”

Sam smiled. He quickly summarized their discovery and the miracle of the dagger. “So we’re gonna hole up in the caves here until you can free us. Did you get all that? Over.”

The answer was scratchier as the walkie-talkie’s battery weakened. “… caves? Don’t wander too far. I’ll try and…” Static drowned the rest.

Sam turned to stare at the pale faces of his friends. “Just hurry your ass, Philip!” he yelled into the walkie-talkie. “And get word to Uncle Hank as soon as possible!”

Static was his only response. The battery was too weak to send a signal through all the jumble of rock and clay overhead. Sam swore under his breath and turned off the walkie-talkie, conserving the little juice that was left. He prayed Philip had got all that.

Biting his lower lip, he joined the others. Beyond them lay a well of darkness. Though Sam was relieved at the escape from the crumbling pyramid, Friar de Almagro’s warning still echoed in his head: The Serpent of Eden… may it never be disturbed.

Sam motioned them toward the black caverns. “Let’s go.”

The path through the rock was tight, so they proceeded single file. Ralph took the lead, and Sam brought up the rear. In the cramped space, Sam felt as if the rock were squeezing closed around him. At one point, they had to slide sideways, crushed between two walls of granite. Once through the jam, they could hear the echoing sound of rushing waters growing. The sound whetted Sam’s thirst. His tongue felt like dry burlap in his mouth.

Ralph called back from the lead. “I think it opens up just ahead. C’mon.”

Sam hurried forward, stepping almost on Maggie’s heels. They had been climbing and scraping their way through the passage for close to an hour by then. At last, Sam felt a stirring of the air. He sensed a large space ahead. It coaxed them all to a faster clip.

The passage widened at last. The team could now proceed as a group. Ralph, a step ahead of the rest, held one of the flashlights. “There’s something ahead,” he mumbled.

Their pace slowed as the passage came to an end. Ralph raised his flashlight. “I don’t believe it!” he gasped.

Sam agreed. The others stood silent beside him. Ahead lay an open chamber, a cavern with a river channel worn through the center of the floor. But that was not what triggered the stunned reactions from the others. Pillars linked roof to floor, their lengths carved with intricate images and fantastic creatures. In the stone, embedded silver reflected the flashlight, eyes from thousands of carved figures, sentinels from an ancient world.

Ralph lowered the light. “Look!” Across the floor of the dark cavern, a path of beaten gold wound from the passage’s opening over to the rumbling river and followed the course deeper into the warren of caves. The bright path disappeared around a curve in the cavern wall.

“Amazing,” Sam said.

Ralph spoke at his shoulder. “The other chamber must have been a decoy, a trap protecting what lies ahead.”

Sam stepped forward, tentatively placing a boot on the gold path. “But what have we discovered?”

Maggie moved to his side as Norman snapped a few pictures. “We’ve found a place to rest. And that’s enough for now.”

The others mumbled their agreement, thirst and exhaustion overwhelming wonder and mystery.

Even Sam agreed. The mysteries could wait ‘til morning. Still, as the others moved forward down the curving gold path toward the river, Sam could not help but notice how the shining track bore a distinct resemblance to a winding snake.

A golden serpent.

Henry sat by his computer and watched the on-screen phone connections whir through their internet nodes, the modem buzzing and chiming in sync. “C’mon, Sam, pick up the damn phone,” he muttered to himself. It was at least the tenth time he had tried to reach the camp in Peru.

Various scenarios played in his head—from the mundane, such as a glitch in the site’s satellite feed, to the more frightening scene of an armed attack on the camp by looters. “I should never have left.”

Henry glanced to the clock in the upper right-hand corner of his laptop’s screen. It was after eleven. He took a deep breath, calming his war of nerves. There might even be a simpler reason for the lack of response. Because of the burglary and the ensuing paperwork with hotel security, Henry had been over twenty minutes late in making his call. The students probably gave up on him and were already sound asleep in their bunks.

Still, Henry waited one last time for the line to feed through to Peru. He watched the screen icon appear, indicating the satellite had been reached. The signal leaped for the metal transmitting dish at the Andean site. Henry held his breath. But again the signal died, no connection.

“Damn!” Henry slammed his fist on the desk as the modem switched off. Though there were a thousand other excuses for the lack of connection, Henry knew in his heart something was wrong. A creeping dread. Once before, he had experienced a similar fear, the day his brother Frank—Sam’s dad—had died in the car crash. He recalled that phone call at four in the morning, the cold sensation of terror as he had reached for the receiver. He now felt a similar dread.

Something had happened down in Peru. He just knew it.

Henry reached for the computer once again, but before his hand touched a key, the phone beside the laptop rang loudly, startling him. His heart in his throat, he stared at the receiver, flashing back to that horrible morning years ago. He clenched his fist. “Get ahold of yourself, Henry,” he said, forcing his fingers to relax. Closing his eyes and girding himself, he picked up the phone and raised it to his ear. “Hello?”

A woman’s voice answered. “Henry? It’s Joan.”

Though relieved it was just his colleague, Henry recognized the stress in her voice. This wasn’t a casual call. “Joan, what’s wrong?”

His sudden worry must have caught her off guard. She stuttered for a moment, then spoke. “I… I just thought you should know. I dropped by my office after our date… um, evening together… and discovered someone had tried to break into the morgue where the mummy’s remains are stored. The security guard startled them off, but he was unable to catch them.”

“The mummy?”

“It’s fine. The thieves never even got through the door.”

“It seems that Herald reporter’s story drew more flies than we suspected.”

“Or maybe the same ones,” Joan added. “Maybe after failing to find anything in your hotel room, they came here next. What did the police say?”

“Not much. They didn’t seem particularly interested since nothing was stolen.”

“Didn’t they dust for prints or anything?”

Henry laughed. “You’ve been watching too many cop shows. The only thing they did was check the tapes from the security cameras in the hallway.”

“And?”

“No help. The camera lenses had been spray-painted over.”

Joan was silent for several breaths.

“Joan?”

“They did the same here. That’s how the guard was alerted. He noticed the blacked-out monitor.”

“So you think it was the same team of thieves?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, hopefully the close call with the security guard will keep them from any further mischief.” But Henry was not convinced.

Joan sighed loudly. “I hope you’re right. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“It was no bother. I was up.” Henry avoided telling her about his inability to reach Sam. Though it made no sense at all, Henry had a feeling that tonight’s events were somehow intertwined: the burglary at the hotel, the attempted break-in at the morgue, his difficulty in reaching Sam. It was nonsense, of course, but the small hairs on the back of Henry’s neck stood on end.

“I should let you go,” Joan said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Henry frowned in confusion, then remembered his schedule to meet with Joan at the lab. After the night’s hubbub and his nagging worry over his nephew, Henry had momentarily forgotten about the planned rendezvous with Joan. “Yes, of course. I’ll see you then. Good night.” Just before he hung up the phone, he added a quick, “Thanks for calling,” but the phone line was already dead.

Henry slowly hung up the receiver.

He stared at his computer screen, then clicked it off. There was no further reason to keep trying to reach the camp. He knew he would fail. Snapping shut the laptop, he made a whispered promise to himself. “If I can’t reach the camp by tomorrow night, I’m on the first red-eye out of here.” But even that decision did not calm his twanging nerves.