The abbot, wearing a radio headpiece, yelled over the roar of the rotors. “We’re here, Professor Conklin! I assume that I do not need to remind you what will happen if you fail to cooperate fully!”
Henry shook his head. Joan. She was still being held hostage at the Abbey. Any punishment for failings on his part would be exacted against her. Henry cleared his throat and pointed to the abbot’s radio headpiece. “Before we land, I want to speak to Dr. Engel. To make sure she’s unharmed.”
The abbot frowned, not in anger but in disappointment. “I am faithful to my word, Professor Conklin. If I say she will remain safe, she will.”
Only until you have what you want, Henry thought dourly. His eyes narrowed. “Excuse me if I doubt your hospitality. But I would still like to speak to her.”
Abbot Ruiz sighed and shrugged his large bulk. He slipped his headset off and passed it to Henry. “Be quick. We’re landing.” The abbot nodded toward a cleared square not far from the students’ tents.
The helicopter righted its banking turn and began to settle toward the flat stone plateau. Below, Henry spotted men with flashlights positioned at the periphery of their landing site, guiding the chopper down. Henry did not fail to notice the mud brown robes the flashlight-bearers wore. More of the abbot’s monks.
Henry pulled the headpiece in place and positioned the microphone.
The abbot leaned forward and was talking to the pilot, pointing to the radio. After a minute of static, a scratchy voice filled his earphones. “Henry?”
It was Joan! He held the microphone steady. “It’s me, Joan. Are you okay?”
Static blazed, then words trailed through. “… fine. Have you reached the camp?”
“Just landing now. Are they treating you well?”
“Just like the Hyatt here. Only the room service is a little slow.”
Despite her light words, Henry could hear the suppressed tension in her voice. He pictured those tiny crinkled lines that etched her eyes when she was worried. He had to swallow hard to speak. He would not let anything happen to her. “Slow room service? I’ll see what I can do from here,” Henry said. “See if I can light a fire under hotel management.”
“Speaking of fire, Henry, remember back at college we shared that classical mythology class together. I was in the Abbey’s library today. They have the professor’s book here. Can you believe that? Even that chapter I helped him write about Prometheus.”
Henry’s brows drew together. “Small world, isn’t it?” he answered blandly, going along with her ploy. Back at RiceUniversity, the two had never shared such a class. Clearly Joan was trying to get a message to him. Something about the myth of Prometheus, a definite reference to Friar de Almagro’s etched warning.
He heard the heightened tension in her voice. “Remember the difficulty we had in translating the line Prometheus holds our salvation?”
Henry chuckled with false mirth. “How could I forget it?” He clenched his hands in his lap. What was Joan hinting at? Something about fire. But what? What does fire have to do with salvation? And time was running short. The helicopter was about to land.
Joan must have sensed his confusion. She spoke rapidly, practically just blurting it out. “Well, I also reread the section where Prometheus slays the great Serpent. Do you remember that? Where fire was the final solution?”
Henry suddenly tensed as he realized what she was saying. The Great Serpent. The Serpent of Eden. Understanding dawned in him. She was offering him a way of destroying el Sangre del Diablo. “Sure. But I thought that event was said to be done by Hercules. Are you sure your interpretation is accurate?”
“Definitely. Prometheus packed a vicious punch. You should have seen the picture in the book. Think plastic explosive.”
“I… I understand.”
A shudder suddenly shook through the helicopter’s frame. Henry jumped in his seat, startled. Outside, the helicopter’s skids bumped on the granite stones, then settled to a stop.
The abbot’s face appeared before Henry’s, yelling to be heard above the slowing rotors. “You’ve talked long enough. We’ve landed!” He turned to the pilot and made a slashing motion across his neck.
Henry was about to be cut off. “Joan!”
“Yes, Henry!”
He clutched his microphone tightly, struggling with words he thought he’d never speak to another woman. “I just wanted to tell you that… that I—” Static blasted in his ears as the radio contact suddenly ended.
Wincing, Henry stared at the radio. What had he wanted to say to Joan? That he was falling in love with her? How could he presume she shared any deeper feelings than mere friendship?
The radio was taken from his numb fingers.
Either way, the chance was gone.
As two Incas stood guard, Sam struggled with the woven grass ropes that bound his hands behind his back, but he only succeeded in tightening them.
Beside him, Norman sat on the stones of the plaza, shivering slightly. The photographer had long given up trying to free himself, resolved as he was to the inevitability of their deaths.
Already the skies paled to the east, heralding the approach of dawn, but the village still lay cast in grays and blacks. Once the sun fully rose and the streets were bathed in golden light, the two would be sacrificed to the sun god, Inti.
But at least, it was just the two of them.
Maggie and Denal had managed to escape. All night long, men had been searching the terraced village and surrounding jungle, but with no luck. Maggie must have heard the commotion from Sam’s capture and run off with the boy, disappearing into the dark jungle. But how long could the two remain hidden once the sun was fully up? Sam prayed Denal and Maggie could avoid capture until his uncle arrived with help. But when would that be? He had no way of knowing. His walkie-talkie was still inside his vest, but with his arms bound behind him, there was nothing he could do.
He yanked on his bonds. If he could only free a hand…
A rifle blast suddenly pierced the quiet dawn. The crack echoed over the valley, but it clearly came from the east. Maggie! She must have been discovered.
Both guards turned in the direction of the rifle shot. They spoke hurriedly as more men poured into the square, led by Kamapak. With much chattering, the group of barefooted hunters took off toward the forest’s edge. The tattooed shaman waved even the two guards away to aid in the search.
Bound tight, Sam and Norman were not a threat.
Once the square was empty, Kamapak crossed to them. He wore a worried expression.
Sam suspected the shaman feared his god’s wrath if all these foreigners were not slain at dawn.
In his hands, Kamapak bore small bowls of paint. He knelt beside Norman and spoke to the photographer as he placed down his dyes, then slid a long narrow flint knife from his sashed belt.
As the man spoke, Sam stared hungrily at the shard of sharpened stone. How he longed to grab that weapon.
Norman groaned after the shaman finished his explanation.
“What is it?” Sam asked.
“It seems the shaman has come to prepare us for the sacrifice,” Norman said, meeting Sam’s eye. He nodded to the dyes. “Marks of power are to be written on our bodies.”
The shaman dipped a finger in the red dye, intoning a prayer loudly, then picked up the splinter of flint.
Norman’s gaze followed the blade, his face paling. He glanced sidelong at Sam, but he kept one eye on Kamapak.
“What else?” Sam asked, sensing something unspoken.
“Before the sun rises, he also plans to cut out our tongues… so our screams don’t offend Inti.”
“Great…” Sam said sourly.
Kamapak raised his knife toward the growing dawn. As he continued his chanted prayer, the bright edge of the sun rose above the eastern lip of the volcanic cone. Like an awakening eye, Sam thought. For a moment, he understood the Incas’ worship of the sun. It was like some immense god peeking down on their lowly world. Kamapak sliced his thumb with his knife, greeting the sun with his own blood.
Even though Sam’s own life was threatened, a small part of him watched the ritual with clear fascination. Here was an actual Incan sacrificial rite, a dead tradition coming to life. He studied the tiny pots of natural dyes: red from rose madder, blue from indigo, purple from crushed mollusks.
As Kamapak continued his prayers, Norman suddenly stiffened beside the Texan. Sam glanced up from his study of the dyes to see a figure break from the cover of a nearby doorway. He almost gasped as he recognized the figure: It was Maggie.
Behind Kamapak’s back, she dashed across the stones, barefooted like the hunters—but, also like the warriors, she was armed. In her right hand was a long wooden cudgel.
Kamapak must have sensed the danger. He began to turn, but Maggie was already there. She swung the length of hardened wood and struck a fierce blow to the side of the shaman’s head. The blow sounded like a softball struck by a Louisville Slugger. Kamapak was knocked to his hands, then fell to his face, unmoving. Blood welled through the man’s dark hair.
Sam stared, too shocked to react for a few seconds. He turned to face Maggie. She seemed equally stunned by her act. The cudgel fell from her limp fingers to clatter on the granite cobbles.
“The knife,” Sam said, drawing her gaze from the limp form of the shaman. He nodded toward the sliver of flint and twisted around to indicate his roped wrists.
“I’ve got my own,” Maggie said, alertness returning in a rush. She glanced around the plaza and drew forth the gold dagger from her belt. She hurriedly sliced Sam’s lashed wrists.
Sam jumped to his feet, rubbing his wrists. He stepped over to check on Kamapak. The shaman lay unmoving, but his chest did rise and fall. Sam let out a relieved breath. The man was just unconscious.
Maggie passed Sam the gold dagger after freeing Norman, then helped pull the photographer to his feet. “Can you both run?”
Norman nodded weakly. “If I have to…”
Voices sounded from nearby. Somewhere a woman’s voice was raised in alarm. “It looks like you’ll have to,” Maggie said.