The Smoke Hunter

by Jacquelyn Benson

  Ellie’s irritation rose with the humidity as the sweat poured down her back, soaking the shirt she wore under Tibbord’s field jacket. She envied Adam, who she was fairly certain hadn’t worn a jacket in days. It didn’t seem to matter. His shirt, too, was soaked, either from sweat or from the moisture constantly dripping off the leaves of the thick foliage they moved through.

  “Why is it that you’re always in the lead?” she demanded, following behind as Adam trudged along, hacking at the brush.

  “Because I know where we’re going.”

  “I’m just as capable of reading a compass,” she retorted.

  “Probably not so handy with a machete, though.” Adam severed a vine, which fell to the ground in front of him with a thud.

  “It looks rather straightforward. Walk and hack at anything that has the misfortune to be in your way.”

  “It’s a bit more complicated than that, princess. Just like navigating the bush means more than reading a compass.”

  “You could at least let me try.”

  “Maybe later.”

  “Why not now?”

  “Because I’d like to cover some distance before nightfall, not stand around watching you saw at the underbrush.”

  “I know better than to saw,” Ellie huffed.

  Adam held up his hand.

  “Quiet.”

  The retort died on her lips, and she felt a momentary fear that they were about to encounter another herd of angry boars. Then Adam grinned.

  “Come on.”

  He pushed through the brush to his left, and Ellie hurried after him.

  The undergrowth was particularly thick in this part of the jungle. She moved blindly, keeping Adam just within sight ahead of her. Ferns brushed against her face, leaving cool trails of moisture behind, but it was more than that relieving the unrelenting heat. The air itself seemed to be growing fresher, and she realized she could hear a soft rushing underneath the more immediate rustle of the foliage.

  Then she stepped out of the brush, and the rushing turned to a roar.

  She stood on the banks of a stretch of ferocious rapids. Water leaped and splashed over tumbled boulders, the spray turning to a cool mist that grayed the overhanging branches of the canopy.

  Ellie held out her arms, shamelessly relishing the feel of the spray on the skin exposed by her rolled-up cuffs. Adam stood beside her, eyes closed, an expression of deep satisfaction on his face.

  “This might be heaven,” she admitted.

  “Pretty sure it’s a tributary of the Belize. We’ve wandered back onto the map.”

  The idea was surprisingly uncomfortable.

  “Is that a good thing?”

  He glanced over at her, sensing the shift in her mood but misinterpreting the reason.

  “We’re right where we’re supposed to be. We’ll follow this to another fork, then cut overland to the northwest and look for that ridge.”

  The “river of smoke.” Ellie remembered the enigmatic description from the map. The “river” was supposed to mark the face of a cliff that signaled the hidden entrance to the city. She hadn’t the first idea what a river on a cliff might look like, but she would find out. Soon.

  The idea was as breathtaking as the view.

  Adam cut a path for them along the course of the rapids. It made the walk far more pleasant. Being soaked to the bone was a relief compared to sweltering in the deeper jungle, and Ellie would happily put up with being virtually deafened by the rushing water to enjoy it. With conversation reduced to an occasional shout over the roar to watch out for a slippery patch of ground, there was little for Ellie to do but watch her footing and enjoy the view. Somehow the sight of the muscles moving under the soaked fabric of Adam’s shirt and trousers continued to draw more of her attention than the soaring trees and mist-shrouded water. She forced herself to look elsewhere. Just because she was in the deep jungle didn’t mean she had to give in to base animal instinct.

  She was putting such a concerted effort into ignoring Adam, she didn’t realize he had stopped moving until she nearly walked into him. He stood at the edge of a rise, looking at a stunning trick of geography. A natural arch of stone hung over the river, covered in tenacious ferns and trailing vines.

  A bridge of stone. Hollowed by the hand of God.

  It was just as the map had described. It framed the view beyond, a broad curve where the rapids seemed to end, the water mud-hued but calm.

  And thronged with boats.

  Ellie counted three enormous steamships. A small fleet of rafts and canoes paddled back and forth between the steamers and the riverbank, ferrying men and crates of supplies. A large herd of mules was braying from the animals’ place in a makeshift corral, and tents covered the shore like a patch of toadstools.

  It was an expedition. A very large expedition, from the look of it. Voices called back and forth, and the blast of a steam whistle shook a colorful explosion of birds from the trees.

  But who would mount an undertaking like that with the rains just around the corner?

  “Get back into the bush,” Adam ordered, his voice low but absolute. Ellie felt the first pang of fear and took a step backward.

  Something hard and cold pressed against the back of her neck.

  “Stay very still, now. You don’t want to give me a reason to pull this trigger.”

  Adam whirled. She saw his hand flicker toward the machete, and the pressure on her neck increased.

  “Uh-uh. Hands in the air, if you want the lady to stay pretty. You can come out, Flowers!”

  The brush to Adam’s right shifted, and a very large, dark-skinned man emerged. He pointed a shotgun at Adam.

  “Afternoon,” he greeted them amicably. “Should I ask for his rifle, Mendez?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Do you mind?” the big man asked politely. Ellie saw Adam’s eyes move from their captor’s shotgun to his face, and then to Mendez, who stood behind Ellie, his gun barrel prodding sharply against the back of her head. With a smooth, resigned movement, he swung the rifle off his shoulder and handed it over.

  “Don’t forget his bag, and that knife,” Mendez ordered.

  Ellie felt her own pack yanked from her shoulders as Adam released his machete and bag to Flowers.

  “We’re just passing through…,” Ellie started lamely.

  “Now you’re ‘passing through’ to the jefe,” Mendez retorted.

  Ellie contemplated their chances of escape, but the feel of cold steel against her skin quickly overruled the idea.

  As though he sensed her thought, Adam met her gaze steadily.

  “It’s all right, princess,” he said. His voice was calm, but Ellie could see the sharp tension in the line of his shoulders. In a way, it relieved her. He would think of a way to get them out of this, whatever it was they had stumbled into.

  “Walk,” Mendez ordered, jabbing her with the gun. Ellie stumbled forward, coming to Adam’s side as Flowers led them through the jungle toward the camp below.

  “The damned rapids,” he said, his voice low and angry.

  “Sorry?”

  “I would have heard them coming if it weren’t for the rapids. The water drowned them out.”

  His words surprised her.

  “You can hardly expect yourself to have predicted something like this.…”

  Her voice trailed off. From the expression on his face, that was exactly what Adam believed. She sensed the futility of trying to talk him out of it.

  “Just keep quiet and leave the talking to me.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of—”

  Adam shot her a warning look.

  “Fine,” she whispered in agreement.

  Then Mendez was at her back, forcing them down the slope.

  Their captors marched them to the far side of the camp, which already stretched for some distance along the riverbank and was continuing to grow. Ellie counted at least thirty men at the site and was sure there were more still on the boats or co
ncealed by the tents.

  What could it be? An official expedition of some sort? But given her own difficulties securing a guide, it seemed impossible that any government department would have put something so substantial together when the rains would set in any day. Yet who else but the government would be responsible for such a massive undertaking?

  It was not a comforting thought.

  With a rifle at their backs, they wove through the crowd. The population of the camp appeared to be a genuine melting pot. She saw men of all colors from the city mingling with the slight forms of Mayans, like the people of the village they had left that morning. She heard English and Spanish spoken alongside something that sounded both like and unlike French, along with other languages she couldn’t recognize at all. She even saw a small group of Chinese, keeping to themselves by one of the campfires.

  Whatever the object of this massive undertaking, it was as well equipped as it was thoroughly manned. Ellie saw piles of crated goods and ammunition. There was even a stack of steel canisters, the sort used to hold the gas at soda fountains. But surely they weren’t here for mixing beverages. She got a closer look as they moved by, catching the letter painted onto the side of the cylinders: H. For hydrogen.

  She had no time to think about it. They passed the tanks and reached their destination, a large tent on the far end of the encampment. The smaller of their two captors—the one called Mendez—lifted the tent flap and motioned them inside.

  The crates within were obviously in the process of being unpacked, their contents half-spilled out in every corner. A field desk had been set up, along with a folding camp chair. But it was the pile of gear beside it that caught her eye: a pair of trowels, a pickax, a canvas roll of brushes of various sizes. An archaeologist’s kit.

  Whoever was behind this, they had come to excavate. But excavate what? The implication sent a chill through her, which only deepened as she looked to Adam and saw from his expression that he had drawn the same conclusion. She saw the unspoken accusation in his eyes.

  Who else knew?

  The flap behind them rustled, and the answer stepped into the room.

  It was Professor Dawson.

  Ellie’s heart lurched, and her eyes flew to the exit. But what would she do if she got outside? There were dozens of men between her and escape. And Jacobs would be out there somewhere. She was sure of it.

  Dawson was looking at her with what seemed remarkably like dismay.

  “I told you to disappear,” he blurted.

  “I tried,” she snapped in reply.

  “You know this guy?” Adam demanded.

  The realization hit her like a slap, and one fear was quite suddenly replaced by another. Ellie saw what was coming, but there was no possibility of avoiding it.

  Dawson’s look went from his face to hers, his eyes wide.

  “You didn’t tell him?”

  “Tell him what?” Adam demanded.

  “This is dreadfully awkward. We are… Well, I suppose you would call us the competition.”

  “Competition,” Adam echoed. He turned to Ellie, his expression cool. “Would have appreciated knowing about that.”

  She felt a quick spike of fear, and fought it.

  “There wasn’t anything to know.” She turned her glare on Dawson. “You didn’t have the map. You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I had already transcribed the route onto a modern map when you relieved me of the original. Of course, once I did so, I saw that there was a better route than the one the monks had taken, coming up the Belize instead of the Sibun.”

  “Your map wasn’t from the British Museum, I’m guessing,” Adam said dryly.

  “No. I acquired it at the colony’s survey office. It was the most up-to-date.…” Dawson’s voice trailed off as Adam started to laugh.

  “My own damned map.” He shook his head.

  “I’m sorry—your map?”

  “The one he drew. He works for the survey office,” Ellie said flatly. The irony of it left her feeling vaguely numb.

  Dawson blinked rapidly. “I’m sorry—but you are…?”

  “Adam Bates.”

  He stared at Adam wonderingly.

  “Adam Bates who drew the map. Adam Bates the Mayanist.”

  “You’ve heard of me?”

  Dawson ignored the irony Ellie could hear in Adam’s tone.

  “I read your report of the excavation of Actun Punit. Your conclusions were remarkably insightful.”

  “Nice of you to say so.”

  Ellie fought the impulse to intervene. Something had shifted in the room. She could feel it. Dawson appeared to be making some sort of furious calculation, one that reached a conclusion as the tent flap behind him lifted and Jacobs stepped into the room.

  Ellie tensed, but before he could make a move, Dawson was speaking.

  “Ah! Mr. Jacobs—you’ve heard, undoubtedly, that our young friend has returned. And she has brought with her, as it happens, the premier Mayanist this side of the Yucatán.”

  Jacobs’s gaze moved smoothly from Ellie to Adam, then back to Dawson again.

  “But I’ve been terribly remiss.” Dawson hurried over to Adam, offering his hand. “Professor Gilbert Dawson, formerly of Saint Andrews. Very pleased to make your acquaintance. And this is my colleague, Mr. Jacobs.”

  “We’ve met,” Adam said, frowning.

  “You have?”

  “When I was searching the hotel,” Jacobs offered placidly.

  “Oh, yes. Of course. I suppose Miss Mallory must have spun quite a story for you about that little mess.”

  “Mallory?” Adam’s frown deepened as the bottom dropped out of Ellie’s stomach. She looked to Dawson and saw first bewilderment, then comprehension, and finally something even less expected: a flash of sympathy.

  “Oh, dear,” he said

  “Who’s Mallory?” Adam demanded.

  Ellie could feel it coming and knew it was unavoidable. She braced herself as Dawson answered.

  “She is. That’s her name. Eleanora Mallory.”

  The room was awkwardly, painfully silent. Adam turned to her.

  “That true?”

  That look in his eyes—it was a coldness she had never seen in them before. Fear shot through her, stealing her voice.

  Dawson spoke for her, rambling and awkward.

  “Tyrrell—that’s what she must have told you, of course. Constance Tyrrell is an acquaintance of hers in London who abetted her escape the first time she stole the map. Our map,” he added with a quick glance at Jacobs, who was watching the exchange impassively.

  Ellie felt the ground slipping out from beneath her feet as she saw the suspicion growing in Adam’s face, and the anger. She scrambled for some semblance of control over a situation that was rapidly growing dangerous.

  “I only ‘stole’ it from them when I took it back after they robbed it from my room.”

  “Recovered it,” Dawson countered. The retort seemed transparent, but when Ellie looked to Adam, his expression was closed. She realized what was happening. This was a battle, one for Adam’s trust. It was her against Dawson—though God only knew why he felt any need to win that particular prize. But what would happen to them if she lost?

  “Then where did you get it?” Adam demanded.

  Ellie knew there was nothing else for it. She would have to tell the truth, and hope like hell he understood.

  “I took it. From the Public Record Office, where I worked.” She glared at Dawson, daring him to contradict her. “It didn’t belong to anyone.”

  “We had sent it there for authentication—to an acquaintance of our employer, a Mr. Henbury,” he explained, more smoothly this time, ready with the lie.

  “Henbury couldn’t authenticate his way out of a paper bag.” It was a ludicrous suggestion to anyone who had known the man, whose skills Ellie knew ended at taking cigar breaks and delegating.

  “He is the assistant keeper of the rolls in the department charged with caring for the a
rchives of the kingdom,” Dawson countered.

  “They’re lying,” Ellie asserted. She stared at Dawson, challenging him with her eyes. But her enemy was only growing more confident.

  “My dear girl,” he said. “We are not the ones in this room using false names.”

  It hit her how perfectly she had set the trap for herself. She had lost before she walked into the tent. It was impossible for Adam to take her word over theirs when she had been revealed as a liar over the most fundamental things: the history of the map, the presence of enemies—her own name.

  She didn’t want to look in his face, to see the mistrust that must be taking root there. The betrayal and disappointment. All because she hadn’t trusted him, even after everything he’d done to prove to her that he was worthy of it. Instead she turned from Dawson, who had manufactured a very believable expression of pity, to Jacobs, who was watching the whole exchange with a sort of wry amusement. Catching her look, he raised an eyebrow, as if challenging her to find a way out of the mess she had gotten herself squarely into. But Dawson’s next words only sealed the trap still more closely.

  “I presume you still have the map. You may certainly hold on to it if you like—my copy was very carefully made. However, there is one other part of our property that I would like returned, if at all possible. A black medallion, rather intricately carved.”

  Of course they would know about it. If Henbury had hoped to intrigue them into a sale, he would hardly have neglected to leave out the most enticing proof in the bargain. But Adam would not know that. To him it would only make Dawson’s story sound all that much more plausible.

  “If you do still have it, Miss Mallory…,” Dawson continued awkwardly.

  “Give it to him,” Adam said coldly. The words hit her like a knife thrust. She turned to him, shocked, but he did not meet her eyes.

  Her hand went to the medallion. She clutched it beneath the fabric of her shirt, then forced herself to take a breath. She had to hold herself together. What good would the medallion do her if both of them were dead?

  Forcing herself, she calmly pulled the ribbon over her head, then strode over to Dawson and placed it in his hand.

  As it touched his palm, he looked down at it with apparent surprise. Ellie saw his fingers move over the dark, shining surface wonderingly, and it seemed as though he had to remind himself that he was not alone in the room.