Harvey Bennett Mysteries: Books 1-3

by Nick Thacker

  No one spoke, everyone still staring at Reggie, shocked. Rhett sat in the pilot’s seat and hadn’t spoken a word since they’d taken off, but Julie thought she saw his shoulders rise and his ears perk up a bit at this last bit of information.

  “I’m as skeptical as the rest of you,” Reggie said, “but we have to try. We know we’re heading into the heart of the rainforest, one of the most inhospitable places on the planet, and we’re running out of time. Don’t you think it’s a little strange that the guy telling us all where to go is covered in gold ?”

  Still no one responded. Their fates had been sealed as soon as they took off, and no one argued to change their destination.

  Julie and the others used the flight time to rest and try to sleep. No one spoke of the events down at the cabin and Reggie’s bunker, or at the hotel, but she knew it was on all their minds. They were flying into the center of the Amazon rainforest and being chased by a group of well-trained killers.

  They had hardly any gear, had no idea what they were actually looking for, and the thumb drive and Julie’s laptop with a dying battery they’d left at Reggie’s house was useless out here.

  It was an impossible task, and once again Julie had no idea how she’d gotten involved in this mess. She was scared, feeling helpless, and mostly useless, but she knew there was no alternative. She knew she’d follow Ben to the ends of the earth, and she knew she was as stubborn as he was when it came to protecting someone else.

  They would figure this out, or they would die trying.

  Chapter 18

  Paulinho was just as surprised as the others to hear Reggie start talking about the myth of the great lost city, but he was too tired to argue. The hum of the plane’s engine eventually overcame the excitement and anticipation they were all feeling and the group fell into a restful silence.

  He leaned back against the headrest and almost immediately slept.

  Paulinho had never been very good at remembering the dreams he had during sleep, but as soon as his eyes closed he was deep into a recurring dream he’d experienced as a young boy, then a young man; one that came back every now and then.

  The dream was difficult to see, as were most of the dreams he had. Swirling lights of different colors flashed in front of him, most deep hues of dark blues and greens. He’d seen pictures of the Aurora Borealis over the North Pole, and this effect was similar. It was a peaceful dream, and it always surprised him with its beauty.

  The next phase of the dream was the same as it had always been: some of the dancing lights became darker shadows, still lit up in color but now faded, as if shadows of their previous shapes. These smaller lights grouped together in front of the larger, brighter lights, and become one, like the center of a kaleidoscope that was constantly twirling and mixing the colors and shapes.

  These darker shapes grew together, still twisting and moving, and the lighter colors swirled even brighter around them. Paulinho took it in, knowing he was asleep but still somehow able to enjoy the show.

  This particular version of the dream seemed longer, and even more vivid, than the other dreams he’d had, but he didn’t care. It was beauty in its purest form, seen from inside the head. He imagined he was watching his own brain during the act of thinking, lighting up as his thoughts and emotions and cares mixed together into a spectacular light show.

  He couldn’t move when he watched the dream, at least not in the same way he could move around in other dreams. His body didn’t exist in this dream, it wasn’t the type of landscape his mind would allow him to move through, even if he tried to force it. He was stationary, given one single view of the light show and no others, forced to watch the artwork unfold as a spectator, even though it was a creation of his own mind.

  The only power he had over the dream was to end it, he knew. He was aware that he was dreaming, but the simultaneous feeling of the dream combined with the sleep convinced him to stay asleep. He allowed the dream to play in his mind as long as it wanted, or until someone else woke him up.

  Chapter 19

  “Good afternoon,” the older man said as the group filed into the spacious office. “My name is Archibald Quinones.” Father Quinones took care to shake each of their hands, one at a time, while looking them in the eye as they introduced themselves. When he reached the last person, Reggie, he smiled warmly.

  “It is fantastic to finally meet you in person, Reggie,” Quinones said, gripping Reggie’s hand with both of his own. “I hope you will forgive me for not reaching out and keeping in touch.”

  “No, no, that’s my fault,” Reggie said. “Things get busy…”

  “…and life goes on.” Quinones kept the smile and ushered them all in. “Sit,” he said, pointing them toward a large leather couch and two chairs on either side of it. Two more chairs sat across from it, both framing a massive hardwood bookcase, full of books. Ben thought these types of bookshelves were a little pretentious, but he couldn’t help but assume the man in front of him had read every single one.

  He passed in front of one side of the bookcase and caught a glimpse of a few of the titles.

  Archibald Quinones, PhD.

  Okay, so he didn’t read all of these, Ben thought. He was impressed, and he sat down in the chair. The room, Ben noticed, was perfectly appointed. The bookcases matched the deep mocha-colored leather of the chairs, and the couch, while a lighter shade of brown, was of the same make and style. A huge area rug spread from beneath the couch to the chairs, lined with large, subtle tan and gold stripes. The carpet beneath was of a similar tone, but neutral enough to provide little interest for the lingering eye.

  Ben wasn’t much for interior design, but he recognized comfortable luxury when he saw it. Two paintings hung on the wall across the room from him, a large rectangular landscape of a mountain range, and a smaller picture of a scene from the crucifixion of Christ. The desk at the far end of the room was large and hardwood, yet plain enough to not warrant much thought. A practical, simple solution for a necessary workstation. Ben loved the room, and only thought it might be improved if there was a rolling whiskey cart tucked away in a corner.

  They’d reached the man’s house after landing and driving another twenty minutes, and like Reggie’s compound, this house was relatively unassuming from the exterior. Father Quinones lived alone, drove a small sedan, and owned a modest home. But as soon as they walked into the man’s study, Ben understood that the man took great pride in the place he did most of his work, and therefore spent the money to ensure he and his guests felt comfortable in the large office space.

  Quinones offered them all water and tea, and when everyone declined, he took the seat next to Ben’s at the opposite end of the bookcase and began to speak.

  “I would love to hear of your adventure so far,” he said, jumping immediately into the topic at hand, “but I understand from Reggie’s phone call you are in a hurry.”

  “We may be in danger,” Reggie answered. “There’s a… group after us. Not sure who they are, or what they want, but they seem pretty interested in Dr. Meron here.”

  Dr. Quinones’ eyes sparkled as he looked over at Amanda. “Yes, Dr. Meron — what a pleasure! I’ve been reading of your company’s work for the past half hour. Very intriguing research.”

  Amanda cleared her throat. “I’m flattered, thank you. But what’s online is really only scratching the surface. ”

  “Oh, I’m sure it is. But you are doing testing in fMRI technology, no? Studying the effects of electromagnetic pulses emanating from the brain during REM sleep?”

  Amanda looked confused. “How —“

  “It’s all context clues, Dr. Meron. And it helps if you have an interest in scientific matters, as I do,” Dr. Quinones replied. “I didn’t have time to scan through all of the published papers on your company, but it does appear that you have some very interesting research going on back home.”

  Dr. Meron nodded.

  “And I’m assuming since you’ve met up with my friend Reggie, he’
s been telling you all sorts of things about myths and legends, hoping you’ll take the bait.”

  As Amanda nodded once again, Ben felt relieved to hear that the older man had none of the bravado and cockiness of the younger ex-Army man. He felt reassured that Archibald Quinones would point them in the right direction.

  “Well, what types of myths and legends has he been feeding you?” Quinones asked.

  Reggie himself spoke up. “Well, let’s start at the beginning. They’ve been recording dreams,” he said.

  “Recording dreams?”

  “Yes — they’re actually able to record video from the subject’s subconscious mind, using technology that maps certain areas of the brain.”

  Father Quinones sat silent for a moment, thinking. “I see. Go on,” he said, finally.

  “Well…” Amanda took over the explanation. “Yes, I guess that’s accurate enough. But we’ve been seeing an anomaly as well, only in certain subjects sharing a common ancestry.”

  Archibald Quinones sat forward in the chair, focusing intently on Amanda Meron. “What sort of common ancestry are we talking about?”

  “They’re all linked together, pointing back to a local tribe. One that we believe originated in the Amazon Basin.”

  Father Quinones was at the edge of his seat. “And the anomaly? What was it?”

  Dr. Meron explained their findings — the golden man, how it was always in focus, and how it was always looking directly at the subject. She tried to explain some of the computer modelings they had done to disprove their theories, attempting to prove to the rest of them that the anomaly was not a practical joke. She continued on, adding that their current destination was probably somewhere between two of the Amazon’s largest tributaries — the Juruá and the Purus rivers — and Father Quinones finally stood up and turned to the bookcase behind him and Ben. Amanda stopped mid-sentence, waiting for the man to return to his chair. When he did, he opened the book he’d grabbed from the shelf and started flipping through its pages.

  “This is a book about the earliest tribes of the Amazon, written by a Jesuit priest during the Spanish expansion into the region. Most of the firsthand encounters we have were written by the Spanish, as they were generally the first Westerners to visit the area and document their findings.” Quinones flipped a few more pages. “We have to assume that the Spanish conquistadors and their explorers documented their findings well enough, but even if they were a little off in their specific descriptions, there’s one particular characteristic about this book — and every other I’ve come across — Spanish or not — that I can’t help but think about as you’re telling me this.”

  “What’s that?” Paulinho asked. He’d been silent the entire meeting, sitting next to Rhett as the group discussed their plans.

  “Well, the Spanish mapped the region nearest the Amazon river — the main tributaries that fed the larger river we call the ‘Amazon.’ But the Amazon Basin is a much larger expanse of land. Most of it has been well-documented, and modern civilization has reached a lot of it, as evidenced by the number of small villages and cities dotting the Basin’s geographical area. But there is still one section of land in the Amazon Basin that has almost no mention in the published Spanish documents, Jesuit manuscripts, and modern writings.”

  The group waited for the professor to continue.

  “The area between the Jaruá and Purus rivers, near the western border of Brazil, is almost nonexistent in the texts.”

  Ben’s eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything to interfere with the man’s train of thought.

  “This area is particularly special, in my opinion,” Quinones continued. “While much of the Amazon has been allotted to farming, harvesting, and study, this area — just northeast of the state of Acre — has not been interfered with. There are some tribes living there, but we have yet to designate this area as a national reservation.”

  Amanda and the others were silent, but Reggie spoke next. “Very interesting.” He paused, looking around the room, then repeated himself. “Very interesting, Dr. — Father — Quinones.”

  “Please, call me Archie,” Quinones said. “I’m assuming by your inflection that this region is the same region you’re investigating?”

  “Well,” Reggie said, “it’s pretty high up the list.”

  Quinones chuckled.

  Reggie continued. “Yes, that’s just it — there’s something else we didn’t tell you — something Amanda’s company was working on.” Ben appreciated that Reggie didn’t give Quinones the full details about the deaths at NARATech. “They think they’ve been able to pinpoint the location of this tribe. The one their subjects have descended from. There are some details we can get to later, but the long and short of it is that we think this tribe is located somewhere between those two rivers.”

  Quinones raised an eyebrow — a thick, bushy, salt-and-pepper crop of hair above his eye — asking for more information.

  “We — I — was hoping you’d be able to fill in the blanks; help us figure out exactly where to go next. ”

  Ben was surprised to see that Quinones’ dancing eyebrow could extend even farther up his forehead. The man seemed fully intrigued now. Fully invested.

  “Yes, I believe I can,” Father Quinones replied. He stood up again and began pacing. “There is an old document I came across as a young man, something I found buried in the Jesuit archives. It has held my interest for almost three decades, though I dare not write or speak publicly about it, as its mystery has long been debunked as mythology.”

  Archie walked to the edge of the area rug and turned around, soaking up the moment and extending his full lecturing powers as a professor. His eyes grew wide and bright, then his voice fell to a soft, near-whisper.

  “The real location of the lost city of El Dorado,” he said, with a dramatic flourish of his hands.

  Chapter 20

  Ben chuckled, and he noticed Rhett and Reggie smiling as well.

  “Yes,” Quinones said, “that is the reaction other people had as well.” Ben stopped smiling, but Quinones didn’t appear to be upset with him. “They are not wrong to be skeptical, either,” he continued. “The ‘lost city’ idea has long been proven false.”

  Ben waited for the man to say ‘but…’

  “But,” Quinones said, “this document supposedly predates anything I’ve found that references our fabled city. First of all, it was written by Gaspar de Carvajal, a Spanish dominican missionary who traveled with Francisco de Orellana during the first voyage of the Amazon river. Francisco Pizarro himself ordered the expedition, and Carvajal was one of the few surviving members. He captured his account and details of the journey, and much of what we later historians know of the early Amazonian tribes is found directly between the pages of his work, “Relacion del nuevo descubrimiento del famoso rio Grande que descubrio por muy gran ventura el capitan Francisco de Orellana,” or “Account of the recent discovery of the famous Grand river which was discovered by great good fortune by Captain Francisco de Orellana .” He paused, noticing the blank expressions of the group. “I agree,” Quinones said, “he should have hired a publicist to help with that title.

  “Anyway, there was much in the document that historians have long believed to be fabricated, such as Carvajal’s mentions and detailed descriptions of large, inhabited cities with huge monumental structures, complete with agricultural areas and paved roads. It has been suggested that the rainforest basin’s soil cannot handle any sort of sustainable farming, and likewise we have yet to uncover any of these ‘monumental structures’ or ‘paved roads.’ Still, the accounts of the interactions the party had with the indigenous peoples has proven to be mostly accurate.

  “But in the published work, there was no mention of a ‘lost city,’ a ‘golden man,’ or anything of that nature. It was only when I came across another book in the archives that I began developing a theory. This work in question was published by a Jesuit priest who captured firsthand accounts of explorers in the regio
n and translated them. He recorded a story told to him by a Peruvian man who told the priest he knew Gaspar de Carvajal in Lima, just before he died in 1584. The story was told to the priest in Spanish for the priest to later translate it into Latin. Most of it is just an abbreviated account of what Relacion already covers, but there was one particular story that stood out. It is a story about a tribe with a great chief who would be decorated in gold dust, then jump into a lake.

  “What’s amazing about this story is that it almost perfectly lines up with later accounts of the Zipa tribe of Muisca Confederation of present-day Columbia. The Zipa were known to offer gold to their goddess by covering their chief with gold dust, then throwing gold objects and jewelry into the water as the chief washed himself in it.”

  “The ‘Golden Man,’” Reggie said.

  “Or the ‘Golden One,’ in different legends,” Quinones said. “But not the ‘Golden City .’ Lake Guatavita has since been explored, to great disappointment. Other cities in the region covering Brazil, Columbia, and Peru, have been scoured for any of these ‘gold objects’ that might point explorers to the legendary city of gold, but nothing of the sort has ever been found.”

  “So how is this story any different? And why are there so many surviving legends if the city doesn’t exist?” Amanda asked.

  “Well, first of all,” Archie said, continuing his lecture, “there are numerous historical accounts that claim reference to a ‘lost city of gold.’ In 2001, actually, an Italian archaeologist discovered a missionary’s report in the Jesuit archives in Rome. The archeologist, in this report, describes ‘a large city rich in gold, silver and jewels, located in the middle of the tropical jungle, called Paititi by the natives.’ There are conspiracy theories now that suggest the Vatican is keeping the location of this ‘Paititi’ a secret, but I do not believe this. Which brings me to my point, and the question you asked.