Excavation

Maggie gasped.

Sam’s brow crinkled at her reaction, and he dared stare more openly at the man—then it struck him, too. “My God…” he mumbled, stunned. This close, there could be no mistaking the resemblance, especially with the torch bathing the king’s countenance in a golden light. They had all seen this man before. He matched the figure sculpted in gold back in the caverns, both the life-size idol guarding the booby-trapped room and the towering statue in the center of the necropolis.

The Sapa Inca took one step closer. With the torchlight gone from his face, he became just a man again. He studied them all for several silent moments. The plaza was as quiet as a tomb. Finally, he lifted his staff and greeted them. “I am Inca Inkarri,” he said in English, his voice coarse and guttural. “Welcome. May Inti keep you safe in his light.”

Sam remained kneeling, too stunned to move.

The king tapped his staff twice on the stone, then raised it high. On this signal, warbling cheers rose from a hundred throats. Men and women leaped to their feet, the drums thundered, flutes and tambourines added their brightness.

The Sapa Inca ignored the commotion and lowered his staff.

Kamapak appeared like a ghost from the dancing crowd. The shaman’s face beamed with radiant awe, his tattoos almost glowing against his flushed skin. “Qoylluppaj Inkan, Inti Yayanchis,” he intoned, bowing slightly at the waist, and continued to speak. Even without any translation, Kamapak was obviously begging some boon from this king.

Once the shaman was finished, the Sapa Inca grunted a terse answer and waved Kamapak away. The shaman’s smile broadened, clearly having obtained a favorable answer, and stepped back. The king nodded soberly at Sam’s group, his eyes lingering a moment on Denal; then he swung back around and followed the shaman through the clusters of celebrants.

“I guess we passed muster,” Sam said, breathing again.

“And were summarily dismissed,” Maggie added.

Sam turned to Norman. “What were they saying?”

The photographer leaned back on his heels, his eyes narrowed. “Kamapak wanted to talk in private with the king”—Norman faced Sam—“about us.”

Sam frowned. “What about us?”

“About our future here.”

Sam did not like the sound of that. He watched the shaman and the king cross the plaza toward a large two-story home to the left of the square. “What do you make of this Sapa Inca fellow?” he asked Maggie.

“He’s obviously had some exposure to the outside world. Learned a little English. Did you notice his face? He must be a direct descendant of that ancient king of the statues.”

Sam nodded. “I’m not surprised at the similarity. This is a closed gene pool. No outsiders to dilute the Incan blood.”

“Until we arrived, that is,” Norman said.

Sam ignored the photographer’s words. “But what about him claiming to be the mythic Inkarri?”

Maggie shook her head.

“Who’s this Inkarri?” Norman asked.

Maggie quickly explained the story of the beheaded king who was prophesied to rise again to lead the Incas back to glory.

“The Second Coming, so to speak,” Norman said.

“Right,” Maggie said, frowning slightly. “Again clear evidence of Christian influence. Further proof of some Western intrusion here.”

Sam was less convinced. “But if they’ve been out of the valley, why do they continue to hide?”

Maggie waved a hand toward Norman. “They obviously discovered something here. Something that heals. A volcanic spring or something. Maybe they’ve been protecting it.”

Sam glanced at Norman, then back to the Incan king who disappeared into the home along with Kamapak. All the mysteries here seemed to start and end at the temple. If only Norman could remember what had happened…

“I’d love to be a fly on the wall during their conversation,” Maggie muttered, staring across the plaza.

Norman nodded.

Sam sat up straighter. “Why don’t we?”

“What?” Maggie asked, turning back to him.

“Why not eavesdrop? They have no glass on their windows. Norman can understand their language. What’s to stop us?”

“I don’t know,” Norman said sourly. “Maybe a bunch of men with spears.”

Maggie agreed. “We shouldn’t do anything to make ‘em mistrust us.”

Sam, though, continued to warm to his idea. After a day spent wringing his hands over Norman’s fate, he was tired of operating in the dark. He cinched his Winchester to his shoulder and stood. “If the shaman and king are discussing our fate, I want to know what they decide.”

Maggie stood, reaching for his elbow. “We need to talk about this.”

Sam stepped away from her grip. “What do you say, Norman? Or would you rather be dragged to the altar in the morning? And I don’t mean to be married.”

Norman fingered his thin neck and stood. “Well, when you put it that way…”

Maggie was now red-faced. “This isn’t the way we should be handling this. This is stupid and a risk to all our lives.”

Sam’s cheeks flushed. “It’s better than hiding in a hole,” he said angrily, “and praying you’re not killed.”

Maggie stepped away from him, blinking in shock, a wounded look on her face. “You bastard…”

Sam realized Maggie thought he had been referring to her incident in Ireland, using her own trauma to knock aside her arguments. “I… I didn’t mean it that way,” he tried to explain.

Maggie pulled Denal to her side and turned her back on Sam. Her words were for Norman, dismissive. “Don’t get yourself killed.” She stalked off toward the row of homes.

Norman stared at her back. “Sam, you’ve really got to watch that mouth of yours. It’s no wonder you and your uncle are bachelors.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah, I know… but still… next time think before you speak.” Norman led the way around the edge of the plaza. “Come on, James Bond, let’s get this over with.”

Sam watched as Maggie ducked into her room; then he turned to follow Norman. His heart, on fire a moment ago, was now a burned cinder in his chest. “I’m such a jackass.”

Norman heard him. “No argument here.”

Sam scowled and tugged at the brim of his Stetson. He passed Norman with his angry stride. “Let’s go.”