Into the Wild

by Beth Ciotta

  Who knows what misconceptions she has about yellow fever and malaria?”

  “I’m sure she did her homework.” She’d made a point of letting him know she’d researched and prepped for this trip even though it had been spontaneous.

  “Speaking of homework, since I couldn’t find much on the Internet, I e-mailed a friend, a P.I. who has some shifty ways of obtaining background information.”

  “And?”

  “I’ve been waiting to hear back and, lucky you,” Gordo said, sounding distracted, “I just got an e-mail.”

  “What’s it say?”

  “Hold on. I’m reading.”

  Spenser massaged the back of his neck and watched as River photographed the distant slopes of the Cotopaxi Volcano. She was so intent on her subject, she didn’t notice various men looking her way.

  Even though her attire was far from provocative—cargo pants, crew-neck T-shirt, denim jacket and a looped scarf—she was a damned beautiful sight. Ivory skin, golden curls, wide green eyes. An angelic aura that drew some devilish attention. Spenser tensed when one of the men approached. He couldn’t blame the guy for wanting to make time with River, but if he laid a hand on her…

  “Not a lot here,” Gordo said, “but it’s interesting. I’ll forward it to you so—”

  “Hold on,” Spenser said. “I’ve got an incoming call.” He thumbed over. “Morning, kitten. What have you got?”

  “Not much. I heard back from Ella. She said River got a package the day before yesterday. It was postmarked Baños, Ecuador. Knowing River’s ex was in South America, Ella assumed it was from him.”

  “What was in it?”

  “Don’t know. River wanted to open it in private. But Ella said it felt like a book. Less than an hour later, River called Ella and told her the same thing she told me. That she was flying to South America to get back the man she loved.”

  Spenser flexed his hands on the wheel. A decent night’s sleep hadn’t cured him of his infatuation.

  Knowing River pined for the guy who’d dumped her made his balls twitch, and not in a good way.

  “If the package was from David,” Kylie went on, “why did River tell me David was in Peru?”

  “Don’t know, hon.” He watched as River sidestepped the touch of the man who’d been speaking with her for the last three minutes. When she turned to leave, the creep made a lewd gesture to his friend.

  Spenser reached for his door handle, then eased off. Get a grip, McGraw. “Listen, I gotta go, Kylie.

  Gordo’s on the other line.”

  “Promise me you’ll look out for River.”

  “I already did.”

  “Yes, but that was before you knew you’d end up in Ecuador. I know this can’t be easy, Spenser, but—”

  “I promise.” Not wanting to have the conversation, he said goodbye and transferred over to Gordo.

  “What’s the scoop?”

  “All I can say is, this is one fricking small world.”

  Bothered by the surge of jealousy he’d just experienced, Spenser snapped at his friend, even as River hotfooted it back onto the bus. “Spit it out, dammit.”

  “River’s dad.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s Professor Henry Kane.”

  Spenser frowned. “Our Professor Henry Kane?”

  “Looks like.”

  They’d crossed paths with the eccentric archaeologist three years ago. They’d had dinner and drinks in a desert cantina. He hadn’t mentioned a daughter. Then again, Kane had talked of nothing but the Seven Cities of Cibola. The man was obsessed with legendary treasure.

  Llanganatis.

  Baños.

  “Shit.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Quito, Ecuador Altitude 9,214 feet

  “CAN’T…BREATHE.”

  “Don’t. Care.”

  Gator tried to pry his employer’s fingers from his throat. It was the first time he’d come face-to-face with the man known to him only as The Conquistador. It could well be his last.

  “I don’t care that you had to kill Bovedine,” the eccentric man said. “Collateral damage. But you only brought me half of the damned map.”

  “All there…was.”

  The Conquistador tightened his grip. “Atahualpa’s ransom eluded Valverde. It eluded Guzmán and Spruce and Blake. Generations of adventurers. It’s inconceivable that a bleeding-heart archaeologist succeeded where they failed. That he’ll profit from the historical find.” He rammed Gator’s head against the wall. “If anyone profits, it will be me!”

  Gator knew nothing of this Atahualpa or those other three fucks. He didn’t care about a historical find.

  He just wanted to live. “Boss,” he croaked. Asshole, he thought. But speaking his mind would be deadly. Gator was a lot of things—most of them bad according to good folk—but he wasn’t stupid.

  With a vicious curse, The Conquistador eased his grip.

  Gator slumped to the floor. He was as quick and strong as his attacker, but cold fury and a touch of in sanity gave The Conquistador a powerful edge. Sucking air into his burning lungs, Gator massaged his bruised neck and watched in anxious silence as his employer snatched up the box he’d stolen from that pompous ass Bovedine.

  The Conquistador sank down on the hotel suite’s brown leather couch and reexamined the contents: half of a treasure map and a silver sacrificial ceremonial knife. “Tears of the moon,” he’d said, when he’d first opened the package. “Proof Kane’s discovered genuine Incan treasure.” Then he’d gone for Gator’s throat.

  “Let’s review your previous trip to Baños,” he said, while stroking the hilt of the intricately decorated knife. “You interviewed Kane’s guide.”

  “One of his guides,” Gator rasped, wondering how he was going to get out of here with his skin intact.

  “Alberto.”

  “After some…persuading, Alberto admitted to mailing a package to Professor Bovedine. He said Kane had sworn him to secrecy. He assumed it had to do with the location of the treasure. You thanked Alberto by stabbing him to death.”

  Gator nodded, coughed. Pain ravaged his throat. Had the bastard damaged his windpipe?

  “No loose ends or tongues. I appreciate that.” His employer frowned. “But it seems there’s more to the story. The other half of the map. Someone must have it. Who?” How the hell would he know? Gator shrugged. “Maybe it’s still with Professor Kane.”

  “Or maybe Kane mailed it to another for safekeeping. If that person knows Bovedine, if they know he’s dead and suspect foul play, they may feel the need to contact Kane. Tracking Kane means tracking the treasure. My treasure.”

  “But no one knows where Kane is,” Gator said, ignoring the wild look in the other man’s eyes.

  Someone had to be the voice of reason.

  “He’s wherever the X is on the second half of the map. That old codger couldn’t possibly move seven hundred and fifty tons of gold and silver single-handedly. And if my sources are correct, Kane is very much alone.”

  “X marks the spot,” said Gator as he awkwardly rose to his feet. Seven hundred fifty tons of treasure?

  Maybe this precarious association with a madman was worth pursuing.

  The Conquistador narrowed his eyes. Deep in thought? Crazy as a shithouse rat? Did it matter? Did Gator care? Hell, no. Not considering the windfall.

  “I have eyes and ears in Quito, Baños and the Cotopaxi region,” the other man said. “If any outsider expresses interest in Kane or Atahualpa’s ransom, I’ll know about it.”

  “I’d like a chance to redeem myself,” Gator said. He didn’t mind groveling. Not with a fortune at stake.

  The Conquistador eyed the knife, the partial map.

  Gator braced himself for another attack, but then his employer’s cell phone rang.

  “Talk to me,” he said into the phone, then angled away as he listened. “Kane’s daughter? Are you sure?

  Is she alone?” His shoulders tensed. “I’ll be
damned.” He exchanged muffled words, then disconnected. He faced Gator and smiled. “This is your lucky day.” CHAPTER SIX

  Baños, Ecuador Altitude 5,905 feet

  RIVER’S HEAD SPUN and it wasn’t due to altitude sickness.

  No one knew anything about her father’s whereabouts. More accurately, no one had even heard of Professor Henry Kane. Either they were lying or she’d asked the wrong people.

  Henry had mentioned Baños in his journal. He’d mailed the package containing the journal from Baños.

  Gateway to the Amazon—a prime location for stocking up on supplies before setting off on a jungle expedition. He’d definitely been in this quaint, colorful town. Yet, when River had flashed his picture at the post office, no one recognized him.

  “What about a package addressed to Maple Grove, Indiana, in the USA?” she’d asked, adding the date of the postmark to give them a time frame. Ben remembered everything about the mail he carried and delivered. He’d definitely remember a package from a foreign country. It’s not like Baños was a sprawling metropolitan city. It was pretty dinky, not a whole lot larger than Maple Grove. But no one remembered the package.

  Disappointed, she’d moved on to a few cheap hotels, bars and restaurants. Her father was always broke or close to it. He wouldn’t hang out anywhere upscale. Even though he had his head in the clouds, Henry Kane was a down-to-earth man.

  Frustrated, she grabbed a vacant seat in an outdoor café. It was late afternoon and she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She was in need of sustenance and a few moments to gather her thoughts. Although the café served Ecuadorian fare, the waiter was Italian and, luckily, spoke fluent English. That had been another problem for River in her search for her dad—a language barrier. Although there was plenty of written information available in English—maps, menus, signs—the locals she’d encountered didn’t speak her native language well. Either that or they pretended not to speak it well. She’d gotten the distinct impression they’d been annoyed with her and her questions. More than once she’d wondered if Spenser would have made more headway.

  Don’t think about Spenser McGraw.

  After Antonio took her order, River focused on the scenery rather than the hunky treasure hunter, Bovedine’s funeral or Henry’s well-being. She’d been in Baños, this small town tucked in a lush, humid valley, for several hours. Her breathing had eased at this lower altitude, but she’d yet to adjust to the spectacular view. She was still riding high from the bus trip down.

  Ecuador, in the light of day, was captivating.

  River had lied when she’d told Spenser she’d opted to travel by bus in order to soak in the scenery.

  She’d chosen the bus because it had been the only way to get to Baños aside from renting a car or hiring a private plane. She wasn’t keen on soaring over the wild in a puddle-jumper and, even though she had her GPS unit, she preferred to leave the driving to someone who knew the area.

  Still, even though safety had been her main motivator, she’d been unable to tear her gaze from the window as the tour bus had whizzed south on the Pan-American Highway.

  The bustling city of Quito had soon given way to a rugged landscape, and then eventually to vivid green mountains whose peaks jutted into the clouds. An odd and arresting sight.

  Then there were the volcanoes. From what she’d seen so far, Ecuador was a flipping volcanic chain.

  The Pan-American Highway meandered between the snowcapped wonders on a plateau that ran north to south down the middle of the country. As a photographer, River was drawn to the visual splendor.

  Unfortunately, she had minimal experience photographing landscapes. She photographed people.

  She’d felt like an amateur, snapping shot after shot, without her usual practiced forethought to lighting and composition, but she’d been unable to stop herself. She’d never seen a volcano. Today, she’d seen three. Two on the ride down. One here in Baños. The latter, Tungurahua, was the largest and most awe-inspiring because it was active and therefore potentially dangerous. Odd that she had been attracted to danger since landing in South America.

  Or maybe it was simply the need to push herself beyond what anyone expected of her. Beyond what her family, and David, believed her capable of.

  The longer she was in this unfamiliar region, the more intense her ingrained fears, the greater the need to slay them. Even now she ignored the creepy feeling that she was being watched. She’d had that feeling earlier today. But instead of obsessing, instead of looking over her shoulder, she chalked the sensation up to paranoia. She was out of her element and prone to old issues. She shoved them down and focused on her agenda.

  Find Henry. Save Henry. Maybe salvage their relationship.

  Find David…and talk.

  Closure one way or another in order to move forward.

  Antonio returned with her meal. River tore her gaze from the town’s famous basilica and, beyond that, Tungurahua. She took advantage of the waiter’s friendly smile and language skills. “I’m wondering if you can help,” she said. “I’m in need of a translator and guide. Someone who knows the area.

  Someone who knows the jungle.”

  She offered as little information as possible. Just as she’d been doing all day. Henry had insisted she not share his journal with anyone except Bovedine. She assumed that meant the information inside.

  Not that she’d been able to dissect his cryptic notes, but she was pretty sure the treasure he spoke of was connected to a place or person named Llanganatis. The one time she’d mentioned the word today, the old woman she’d been trying to speak with had scurried away, muttering, maldición. River still didn’t know what that meant.

  Antonio flashed a smile that said he got this question a hundred times a day. “Baños is a popular starting place for expeditions into the Amazon rain forest and Andes Mountains. There are several tour companies—”

  “I’m not interested in a group tour.” River moistened her lips and tried not to betray the panic whispering through her veins at the thought of navigating a jungle. “I need a private guide.” The waiter raised a brow. He assessed her petite form and, as David had called them, dainty features.

  River sighed. “I know. I don’t look like I’m cut out for primitive situations.” If she had a nickel for every time she’d heard some variation on that theme. “Regardless, I’m on a mission.”

  “If I may be so bold, signorina.” Antonio looked over both shoulders before continuing in a lower voice.

  “In Ecuador, Americans are increasingly targeted for crimes. Robberies and assaults—”

  “And worse. I know. I read the warnings on a few travel sites. I’ll be careful.”

  “It is just that you are a woman. A very pretty, very—”

  “Please don’t say delicate.”

  He chuckled. “Ah, sí. Perhaps there is more to you than meets the eye.” She was counting on it.

  “Check with the tourist center, two blocks down on the right,” he said. “If not there, try El Dosel. It is a popular drinking hole for guides and treasure seekers.”

  “Treasure seekers?”

  Beware of the hunters.

  River forked her rice and chicken and tried her best to look nonchalant.

  “Professionals and amateurs. We get them all.”

  “What are they looking for?”

  “Inca gold. You have not heard of the Lost Treasure of Llanganatis?” Not directly. “No.” River unconsciously palmed her chest. Beneath her layered tees, she felt the amulet she’d secured on a black cord and looped around her neck. Not knowing its meaning or worth, she’d kept it hidden. Just now it burned into her breastbone.

  “Google it,” Antonio said. “Interesting theory. If I thought there was a chance it was true, I’d be searching, too.”

  She sipped juice to soothe her constricted throat. “So, you think it’s a myth.”

  “It is safer that way.”

  An odd choice of words. “Wait,” she called when he turned to leav
e. “Do you know what maldición means?”

  He angled his head, processed. “I think so, sí. Cursed.”

  River’s stomach twisted. “As in a bad word?”

  “As in evil.”

  SPENSER’S TEMPLES throbbed. He’d been blocking memories and emotions ever since he’d pulled into Baños. He’d joked with Gordo about facing his demons, but that would require wrestling with a shitload of suppressed guilt. He wasn’t sure if he could do that without getting drunk and staying drunk for a good week. Right now he needed to be sober and focused. He’d be damned if he’d lose another person to the curse and, the way things were going, River Kane was a prime candidate.