Excavation

Henry did not have time to explain. Danger signals reverberated up and down his spine. “Run!”



But it was too late.



Behind Dale’s shoulder, a dark figure appeared in the doorway to Joan’s office. “Don’t move,” the trespasser ordered coldly.



Startled, Dale swung around, his face draining of color. He backed several quick steps in the opposite direction from Henry and Joan.



The man moved forward into the hall. He wore a charcoal suit over a black shirt and tie; his skin was coppery with Spanish features, ebony hair, dark eyes. But what drew most of Henry’s attention was the large pistol, outfitted with a thick silencer, in his right fist. He brandished it back and forth, covering both sides of the hallway. “Which of you has the gold crucifix? Relinquish it and you’ll live.”



Dale quickly pointed to Henry.



The assailant swung the barrel in his direction. “Professor Conklin, do not make me shoot you.”



At that moment, the metallurgist’s courage ran out. With the gunman’s back turned, Dale made a run for it. His expensive shoes betrayed him, hard heels striking loudly on the waxed linoleum. The gunman did not even turn. He simply pointed his pistol back and fired; the shot was muffled by the silencer—but its effect was not. The force of the bullet knocked Dale off his feet. He went flying headfirst to the floor, skidding several feet before stopping, leaving a trail of blood across the white tiles. He tried to push up once, then collapsed back down, a dark pool spreading under him.



“Now, Professor Conklin,” the burglar said, holding out his free hand. “The cross, please.”



Before Henry could respond, a second dark-suited man stepped from Joan’s office. He glanced at the fallen metallurgist, then back to the shooter. He spoke rapidly in Spanish, but Henry understood. “Carlos, I’ve destroyed all the paperwork and files.”



The leader, Carlos, glanced to the other man. He lowered the pistol slightly. “And the computer?”



“The hard drive has been wiped and purged.”



Carlos nodded.



Henry used the momentary distraction of the newcomer to slip the Dominican crucifix from his jacket pocket and flip it into the toppled janitor’s bucket. Only Joan noticed. Her eyes were huge with fear.



Raising the pistol, Carlos turned to Henry. “I’m losing patience, Professor. The cross, please.”



Henry stepped forward, placing himself between the shooter and Joan. He held out the beaker with the crude cross. He hoped the shape and the color would fool these thieves. He refused to lose the ancient relic.



The man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. He took the beaker and held it before him. Even distracted, the pistol never wavered from where it pointed, straight at Henry’s heart.



The shooter’s accomplice stood at the man’s shoulders. “Is it…?”



Carlos ignored the man, still staring at the mock-up of the original crucifix. Whispered words of a Spanish prayer flowed from his lips, a benediction. Then the cross in the beaker changed, melting before the man’s gaze into a perfectly symmetrical pyramid.



Henry gasped.



The second man fell to his knees. “Dios mio!”



Carlos lowered the beaker, his hand shaking. “We’ve found it!” Exultant, he turned to his captives.



Henry backed into Joan. She clutched his hand fiercely. Henry sensed he had made a grave miscalculation. The thieves hadn’t been after the Dominican crucifix because it was gold, but because they had suspected it was made of Substance Z. Henry had inadvertently handed them the very prize they had sought. Who were these people?



Carlos nodded toward Henry and Joan, but his brusque orders were for his companion. “Silence them.”



The second man stood, pulling his own gun, much larger and more intimidating than the leader’s weapon.



“Wait!” Henry begged.



Ignoring him, the man aimed his pistol at Henry and fired. Henry’s chest exploded with fire. Joan screamed. Henry fell to his knees, his hand slipping from Joan’s. He glanced up in time to see the man twist the gun toward Joan.



“No!” he moaned, raising one hand futilely.



Too late. A muffled shot.



Joan clutched her own chest and fell. She turned stunned eyes to Henry, then glanced down. Henry followed her gaze. Her fingers pulled out a feathered barb from between her breasts, then she fell backward.



Henry glanced to his own chest. There was no bleeding bullet hole, only a red-feathered spot of agony. Tranquilizing darts?



Words, in Spanish, floated around him as the drug took effect.



“Get the men up here now.”



“What about the dead one?”



“Leave him in the office along with the janitor’s body.”



Carlos’s face suddenly bloomed close to Henry’s. His wavery dark eyes were huge. Henry felt lost in them. “We’re going for a short ride, Professor. Pleasant dreams.”



Henry slumped, but not before noticing the tiny silver cross dangling from a chain around the man’s neck. He had seen it before. It was an exact match to the one found on the mummified friar.



A Dominican cross!



Before he could ponder this newest mystery, the black grip of the drug hauled him away.



Day Four.



Necropolis



Thursday, August 23, 7:45 A.M.



Caverns



Andean Mountains, Peru



Sam awoke on the stone floor of the cavern as someone nudged his side with a toe. Now what? Groaning a protest, he rolled away from the fire and found Norman standing nearby, staring out at the dark necropolis. The photographer had pulled the last guard shift. Even though the bat cave stood between them and the tarantula army, no one had been willing to take any chances.



“What is it?” Sam asked groggily, rubbing his eyes. After yesterday’s labors and near deadly swim in the icy stream, he wished for nothing more than another half day beside the warmth of the crackling flames. Even the smell was rather pleasant, considering the source of the fuel—almost a burnt cinnamon. From the heart of the bonfire, a charred skull glared through the flames at him. Stretching, Sam pushed up. “Why did you wake me?”



Norman kept staring at the shadowed tombs of the Incan dead. “It’s getting lighter in here,” he finally said.



Sam frowned. “What are you talking about? Did someone throw another log on the fire?” He glanced to the three bundled mummies stacked nearby like cords of wood, waiting to stoke the flames.



Norman swung around; he held a small device in his palm. It was his light meter. “No. While on guard, I checked a few readings. Since five o’clock this morning, the meter has been reading rising footcandles.” Norman’s glasses reflected the firelight. “You know what that must mean?”



Sam was too tired to think this early, not without at least a canteen of coffee. He pushed to a seated position. “Just spill it already.”



“Dawn,” Norman said, as if this made it all clear.



Sam just looked at him.



Norman sighed. “You really aren’t a morning person, are you, Sam?”



By now the others were stirring slowly from their makeshift beds. “What’s going on?” Maggie asked around a wide yawn.



“Riddles,” Sam said.



Norman shot Sam a sour look and stepped closer to encompass the entire group as he spoke. “My light meter’s been registering stronger and stronger signals since dawn.”



Maggie sat up straighter. “Really?” She glanced beyond the firelight at the dark cave.



“I waited a couple hours to be sure. I didn’t want to give anyone false hope.”



Sam pushed to his feet. He wore only his pants. His vest still lay drying beside the fire. He had been using it as a pillow. “You’re not suggesting—?”



Maggie interrupted, her words laced with excitement. “Maybe Norman’s right. If the readings are stronger as the morning progresses, then sunlight must be getting down here from somewhere.” She clapped Norman on the shoulder and shook him happily. “By Jesus, there must be a way out nearby!”



Her words sank into Sam’s consciousness. A way out! Sam stepped to the pair. “You’re sure the meter is not just registering flare-ups in the campfire?”



Norman frowned as Ralph and Denal edged around the fire to join the group. “No, Sam.” He lifted his device. “It’s definitely picking up sunlight.”



Sam nodded, satisfied with the photographer’s expertise. Norman was no fool. Sam squinted at the dark cavern. Firelight basked the walls and reflected off the monstrous gold statue in the center of the city. Sam prayed Norman was correct in his conclusions. “Then let’s find out where that light’s coming from. Can you use the meter to track the source?”



“Maybe…” Norman said. “If I keep it shielded from the torches and widen the f-stop…” He shrugged.



Ralph volunteered a suggestion. He seemed back to his old self since yesterday’s trials, only perhaps slightly more subdued. “Maybe Norm and I could circle the camp and search out where the light reads the strongest. It should give us a direction to start.”



Sam nudged the photographer when he did not immediately respond. “Norman?”



The thin man glanced at the wall of darkness at the edge of the fire’s pool of light. He did not look like he cared for Ralph’s idea, but he finally admitted reluctantly, “It might work.”



“Good.” Sam rubbed his hands and put a plan together. “While you reconnoiter, we’ll finish breaking down the camp. Take the flashlight. You can click it on and off as you take your readings. But be careful, the batteries on this one are wearing down, too.”



Ralph took the flashlight and tested it, thumbing the switch. “We’ll be careful.”



Norman glanced to the fire, then back to the darkness. “If we’re gonna do this, we’d better hurry. There’s no telling when we might lose the sunlight. Even passing clouds could block the footcandles stretching down to us.” Contrary to his own words, Norman still hesitated, his face tight.