by Beth Ciotta
He nodded. “I just recovered more quickly than you.”
“As for this,” she said, supporting her injured arm, “I didn’t sustain a broken wrist because I’m a lightning rod for disaster. It’s the result of trying to break my fall when I plunged into a pit. It could’ve happened to anyone.”
Henry quirked a brow. “You’ve changed.”
“I’m still me,” she countered. “It’s just that I’ve learned to recognize my potential, as opposed to believing what was pounded into my head for years. I’m not cursed. I’m not compromised. I’m River Kane and, at heart, I’m an adventurer. As soon as I get out of here, I’m going to…explore infinite possibilities!”
Spenser squeezed her good hand and kissed her temple.
Henry looked back and forth between them. “It’s like that, is it?” He shook his head. “The irony.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” River snapped.
“You hate me, my profession and my passion, yet you hooked up with someone exactly like me.” She flushed for a dozen reasons. “We didn’t hook up. We’re just friends.”
“The hell we are,” Spenser said as he dug a water bottle from his pack, “and I’m sure as hell not a carbon copy of you, Henry.” He handed River the bottle.
She didn’t refuse. She drank deeply, knowing she needed to hydrate. She felt weak and sick. Damn drug. Damn altitude. Goddamn Henry Kane.
Henry zoned in on Spenser. “Not like me, huh? Tell me you’re not dying to see Atahualpa’s ransom.” Spenser didn’t answer, but River felt his body tense. “Of course, he is,” she said. “We both are. Who wouldn’t want to see a treasure that’s eluded the world’s greatest explorers for centuries? But mostly,” she said, “I’m curious to see what you’re willing to sacrifice your life for.”
“You already have. In part, anyway.”
River blinked.
“The two indigenous people we saw, the men who killed the bandit?” Spenser speculated.
“They, and others like them, patrol the region,” Henry said, “and when people get too close or pose a threat…” He spread his hands wide.
“They meet some debilitating accident or grisly end,” River said with a shiver. “How did Spenser and I luck out?”
“They recognized you,” Henry said. “One day when trying to establish communication and trust, I showed them your picture. They protect family as fiercely as the treasure. And they consider me, and by extension you, family. Apparently they’ve been watching over you for a couple of days.”
“That would explain the sensation of being followed,” Spenser said. “Amazing. I never saw them.”
“They move like ghosts,” Henry said.
“Where are they now?” River asked.
“Patrolling. Always on the move. Always watching.”
“I still don’t understand. They’re the precious treasure you mentioned in your letter?”
“They’re part of a lost tribe,” Henry said. “Direct descendents of General Rumiñahui and a few of his most courageous warriors.”
“Holy shit,” Spenser said. “If that’s true—”
“It’s true.”
“How can you know for sure?”
“I’ve been living with them for months,” Henry said. “Learned their language. Listened to their stories, saw…” He trailed off, worked his jaw. “I’m sure.”
River gestured to Henry, then the rotting log. “Sit. I don’t want tea or rest. I want details.” Not just for herself, but for Spenser. He’d risked so much to bring her this far, and now Henry’s claims had ignited his curiosity and stoked the fever. The suppressed excitement and anxiety rolling off Spenser knotted River’s already nervous stomach. Desperate to somehow quench the treasure hunter’s thirst, she narrowed her eyes on her father. “Details.”
“Details are in my journal.”
Her cheeks flushed. The journal he’d trusted her with. The journal she’d lost to the murdering thief who’d been speared. She noted her sling pack was near the fire. Maybe the journal was with her belongings. She resisted the urge to look. “I want to hear it from you,” she told Henry. That much was true.
He mulled that over for a second, then sat on the log.
River, with Spenser’s help, sat, too. She felt weaker by the second, but refused to pass out. She tuned out the exotic sights, sounds and scents and zoned in on Henry. She wanted to understand his obsession and motivation. She desperately needed closure, and this could well be her only means.
“They’ve lived on Cerro Hermoso for centuries,” he said, lowering his voice and leaning forward. Even though it was dusk now she could still see excitement dancing in his eyes. “Successfully sequestered from civilization, the tribe lives to protect the legendary lost Inca treasure. They practice the ancient traditions and speak a form of Quechua. They live…” His face glowed with wonder as he spread his arms wide. “Imagine a working village similar to the ruins of Machu Picchu, but on a much smaller scale.”
River had seen pictures. Master stonemasons, the Incas had built impressive structures—temples, sanctuaries, residences, water fountains and irrigation systems…
“For a primitive culture, they’re quite advanced,” Henry said, sounding almost giddy. “Communal, highly structured.”
Spenser angled his head. “Fascinating.”
River raised a skeptical brow. “How is it no one’s ever stumbled upon this village?”
“There are parts of the Llanganatis—so wild and remote—that have never been mapped. Aerial views are faithfully obscured by a massive, thick blanket of clouds. The village is well hidden.”
“Like the treasure.”
Henry smiled.
“You honestly expect us to believe that you’ve been living in an ancient village with a lost tribe, guardians of a legendary treasure?”
“If you had read my journal—”
“I tried. It was too cryptic. I didn’t recognize half the words—”
“Bovedine would have translated.”
River refused to blow her top, refused to waste the energy. She was already operating on fumes. “Then why didn’t you send it to him in the first place?”
“Because I wanted you to have it. It was a gift.”
“The family photos were a gift,” River gritted out. “The journal, that was your way of trying to convince me, or maybe yourself, that your chosen lifestyle, one without me, was justified. A discovery of a lifetime. Eureka!” River’s head was going to explode. Overall, none of this made sense and Spenser wasn’t helping to work the puzzle. He was just soaking it all in, apparently taking Henry on his word.
“Since we’re discussing your journal,” she snapped, “just so you know—”
“It was stolen,” Henry said.
“I filled him in before you woke up,” Spenser said.
“Maybe it’s in my bag,” River said, gesturing to her recovered sling pack.
Spenser shook his head. “I looked. And according to Henry, the guardians searched the thief who attacked us and found nothing of consequence, except his wallet.”
“His name was Gator Wallace,” Henry said.
The name meant nothing to River. “Did you know him?” she asked both men, and both responded no.
“At least you thought to tear out the map,” Henry said. “Hopefully, whoever is in possession of my journal will chalk up the contents to gibberish. If they do break my code, then we must hope they consider my data a hoax, or at the very least, the ravings of a lunatic.”
“Everyone we’ve encountered so far definitely thinks you’re mad,” River said.
“Or dead,” Spenser said.
He rubbed his hands together in a maniacal fashion. “Another victim of the ancient curse. Excellent.”
“How so?” River asked.
“If they think your dad’s crazy or dead,” Spenser said, “no one will bother to look for him.” Oh, right. She knew that. She massaged her temples, alarmed by her muddled thoughts. She squinted
at Henry. “So your secret’s safe. Maybe.”
“Hopefully.” Henry wiggled his fingers at River. “I want my map back.”
“I only have the second half.”
“The most important half.”
“If you didn’t want me to have it, why did you send it to begin with?” She struggled with her jacket zipper. Her right hand was useless. Her left was shaky. Finally she ordered Henry to look away so Spenser could retrieve the map from her bra. Her skin tingled when his fingers brushed it. She would have cursed herself as shallow, except she had a weird tingling sensation head to toe. Nothing sexual.
Just pins-and-needles. As if her whole body was falling asleep.
She nailed Henry with bleary eyes. “If it’s such a big stinking secret, why did you document the location of the gold?”
“I documented the location of the lost village and I did so because that’s what scientists and explorers do.”
She felt sick when Henry took the map and tossed it into the campfire. She wondered how Spenser felt. Wondered why he didn’t protest. Then remembered they had backup. Somewhere.
Can’t think straight.
Henry regarded River with a bizarre mixture of pride and anger. “You weren’t supposed to come here, River.”
Of all the insensitive… “Bastard,” she mumbled. She realized suddenly that, deep down, she’d hoped for some sort of emotional, affectionate reunion with her dad. To form some sort of father-daughter bond. She’d been an optimistic fool. She’d risked so much, and for what?
Her thoughts and emotions grew more chaotic. Losing control wouldn’t do. Not here. Not now. “I came because I thought you were in danger,” she rasped. “I wanted to help. And I wanted I wanted to say I’m sorry. Sorry for damning you to hell when Mom died. Sorry for not being the son you wanted. Sorry for…” Her mind went blank. She palmed her forehead. “I know there was more. I know…” She focused on Spenser, saw the anguish in his eyes. “I’m sorry about Cy,” she managed before twisting in his arms and retching into the dirt.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
SPENSER SOAKED A BANDANNA with water and wiped River’s clammy face. “You’re okay, angel. Hang on.”
“Tougher than I look,” she mumbled.
“Fucking superwoman,” Spenser said close to her ear.
Henry, the eccentric bastard, at least had the decency to look concerned. “Is it a reaction to the guardians’ tranquilizer,” he asked, “or severe altitude sickness?”
“Don’t know.” Spenser eased River back on the blanket. “Maybe a combination. She definitely exhibited signs of AMS earlier today.”
He’d been watching her closely for the past few minutes, more focused on her well-being than Henry’s discovery. It’s not that he wasn’t intrigued. He burned to see that Inca village—if it truly existed—and to meet that lost tribe. As for the treasure, the air vibrated with an unusual energy. An energy that twisted Spenser into a feverish knot. His gut said Atahualpa’s ransom was buried nearby. That the lost tribe and village existed. His mind warned there was no proof, no evidence to support any of this. Just Henry’s word, and the professor didn’t strike him as wholly competent. His daughter, on the other hand, struck him as fully compromised.
“Can’t afford to wait until tomorrow. Need to get River to a lower altitude now.” Spenser surveyed the area. He couldn’t distinguish familiar landmarks. Given the dense forest, the darkening sky and disorienting mist, he couldn’t even determine east from west. The guardians had carried them here, wherever here was. Though he hadn’t been unconscious as long as River, he’d definitely lost track of time and direction. “I don’t know where I am, Henry.”
“As was intended by the guardians. They meant to disorient you. The village isn’t far from here, but the location—”
“Is secret. Got it.”
“They brought you this far as a courtesy to me. I can’t direct you.”
“You realize that’s warped, considering two minutes ago we were in possession of a map you charted.”
“A map intended for River and Bovedine’s eyes only.”
“Bullshit.”
“Fine. A map intended for future generations. Later down the line. Just as there was Valverde’s guide and Brunner’s map and—”
“At some point you wanted your place in history,” Spenser said. “I get that, Henry. But we’re talking about River, your daughter. Her health—”
“We’ve come so far,” she said. “Must see treasure.”
“Forget it,” said Henry. “Even I haven’t seen the treasure.” River forced herself up on one elbow. “But the amulet you sent me…sweat of the sun.”
“A small sampling of the buried treasure,” Henry said, eyes bright. “Given to me by the tribe council.
One of a few gifts. Along with tears of the moon, which I sent to Bovedine. As I’ve chosen to live out my life here, I have no need for such things. I thought—”
“For Christ’s sake, Henry. I have to get River down from here. At least point me to Brunner’s Lake.” The older man pushed to his feet. “I’ll summon the guardians. They’ll take you, but you’ll have to be drugged.”
“Whatever it takes.”
Henry fled.
River squirmed. “I have to pee.”
Spenser helped her to her feet. “I’ll come with you.”
“Just get me somewhere private, then leave. I may be loopy but I have my pride.”
“To hell with pride.”
“I just threw up in front of you,” she said in a shaky voice. “At least spare me another indignity.
Besides, I feel a little better. Guess it helped to get whatever out of my system.”
“Fine.” Spenser guided her to a private area. “I’ll give you space, but talk to me.”
“Fine.”
He propped her against a tree. He distanced himself, but not too far. He had a bad feeling. Not just because she was ill, but because Henry was unreliable and the heavy mist that had been hanging high above now swirled in a downward motion. Between the fog and the encroaching dark… “Talk to me, River.”
“Are you sure the journal wasn’t in my sling bag?”
“Positive.”
“What about my camera?”
“Negative.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Maybe, what was his name? Gator? What kind of name is that? Maybe he wasn’t working alone. Maybe he had a partner. Kind of like I have Ella. I inherited my grandfather’s headache. I mean, business. Did you know that?”
“Tell me.” Christ. Her thoughts were all over the place. Not good. He listened to River ramble incoherently about Forever Photography while he worked the puzzle.
She was dead-on about one thing. Gator must have been in cahoots with someone. Someone other than the second road bandit killed by Mel. Someone on the outside. Someone with connections. How did Gator know where to intercept River on the day she’d left Baños? How did he know she was staying at the Jungle Lodge? Who could have alerted the thug in both instances? Mel-fucking-Sutherland.
Spenser’s mind worked double time. When Mel had asked about River’s well-being, when he’d asked if they were headed back to Baños, Spenser had mentioned he was taking her to the Jungle Lodge.
The night before that, the Aussie had spent time with River before Spenser had arrived at El Dosel.
He’d plied her with liquor. How much had she told him about her hunt for Professor Kane? Had she mentioned the journal? The map? She must have. But then, why not take it from her himself? Why stage a shoot-out and pretend he’d been injured? To keep his identity secret?
Spenser was still pondering the mystery when he realized River had stopped talking.
He spun around, thinking she’d passed out, but instead she moved toward him.
She wasn’t alone.
They moved as one through the swirling fog—River and her captor. He half carried, half dragged her, holding a gun to her head.
Spenser locked down a fr
enzy of panic and fury. He mourned the loss of his Beretta, taken by the guardians, he assumed, or left behind. He met River’s wide eyes as they moved closer to the campfire, noted similar emotions—panic, fury—and overall confusion. He willed her calm while his mind spun for alternative ways to thwart the bastard holding her captive.
