Uzo put his two hands on his head. His mouth was a dark O on his face. His eyes were popping out of his head.
"What'd you think?" Coleman asked him.
"I...I can't—"
"Yeah, I know. Me too."
Coleman went to one of the shelves. He put his hand on one shaped like the head of a cat, but with a short handle, all pure gold. And that was the last thing Coleman ever held before he took his last breath.
A small hatch opened on the shelf where he had taken the piece of gold and a long spear shot through it.
Coleman was impaled through his forehead. The piece of gold landed on the concrete floor. It made a metallic sound.
Uzo screamed.
He staggered away from the horror. Coleman's body was making sick, convulsive movements. Blood poured from the wounds in his head, down his face, and the back of his head where the pointy end of the spear slowly dripped blood on the floor.
Coleman's hands flailed in front of him for a few seconds, a vain attempt at a question. His arms gave up the quest for the projectile and fell limp by his body.
The limp body bent the spear an inch downward as the feet lost their strength to carry the body.
Uzo vomited.
When he was clear-eyed enough to move again, he took careful steps back towards the door, then he stopped, his eyes on the piece of gold on the floor. His mind called it the cat head, the gato.
The demon cat.
He bent forward, thinking if his movements caused a reaction, he might be able to escape the spear.
"I'm sorry…" he whispered as he picked up the cat. It was heavy. He closed his eyes tightly. It was the only way he could stop himself from looking at the dead archeologist's own.
He heard a rumble, not with his ears, but with his feet, as he neared the door. Uzo bolted forward, extending his hand, the golden cat in it. He didn't make it.
Two spears caught him in the air with uncanny precision. One through the neck, severing his windpipe, and the other broke through the second thoracic vertebrae—and there, Uzo hung, like a flying man caught on camera in his first attempt.
But the golden cat made it out of the chamber before the door moved into place, ever ghostlike, as though it had not opened since the last Gerente walked out of it.
—
2
Tami Capaldi stood under the awning of the antique shop. She was staring at the banner flapping in the dusty wind. It said the small establishment needed a receptionist, female, to show customers around. And that if you were interested, you only needed to come in and apply in person.
So Tami went in. There was a strong smell of old rotten wood, stored books, and a lack of circulation. Tami waited with her hand on the counter; there was no one behind it, so she pressed the bell. It shrilled.
She waited and peered at the shelves. Rolls of leather, animal tusks, deer heads, silverware, and black and white pictures of old people stapled together or held by clothespins dangled from everywhere.
There were shelves of art and small sculpted images. There was a long show glass in the middle; beyond that, old furniture, and different colors of carpets piled in rolls on each other.
Tami pressed the bell again, this time longer.
She looked back there. Beside the heap of carpets, a staircase disappeared upstairs. Maybe an attic.
She heard a door open in the back, and an old man appeared there. He wore a straw hat, rheumy brown eyes with huge bags under them, and an enormous nose. He wore flowered beach clothes. It was wet with perspiration. His beard and mustache were grey with age.
He shuffled over to the counter and lifted a book from the back.
"What do you want?"
Tami thumbed at the door. "The sign said you need a receptionist."
The old man looked at her and said, "You are pretty, do you know that? You have children?"
"No."
"A pity."
"Why?"
"How do you pass on all that pretty without children?"
"Is it still open?" Tami asked.
He looked at her. "What?"
"The position."
The old man gazed at her long before chewing something imaginary. Tami could tell when men were acting like perverts. This old man was only a jester.
"Well, yes. But the question is: is your heart still open?"
Tami shifted the weight of her wide hips from one foot to the other. She was hungry, and she was behind in her rent. She hoped she had the patience to bear this old man if she got hired.
"Follow me," the man said.
Tami followed him to the back. The man began with the carpets. He told her each one's name, country of where it was made, and age. Then the asking price.
"Who's asking?"
"You. You will be asking, my dear."
"Okay."
An hour later, Tami Capaldi had about ten names and prices out of a hundred in her head. She asked the man, "What's your name?"
"Rodriguez. You can call me Roddy."
Tami stretched her hand for a handshake. "I'm Tami."
Old Roddy looked at the hand, amused. He shook his head.
"You've been running around America?"
"Yes, how'd you know that?"
He nodded at the hand. Tami shoved her hands back in her jeans pockets. Roddy walked to the door where he had come out of earlier.
"You can start working now if you like. You'll get your first week's wages at closing time, alright?"
Tami nodded, overjoyed but calm.
She murmured, "Thank you, Roddy."
—
A disheveled figure dragged himself along on the street. The man's clothes were brown with dust, and the man's face too. Under his armpit was a dull yellow metal, clutched there like a metal workers clamp.
People who saw him barely recognized him. Those who did thought he was drunk. Drunken Peruvian men of the low hills were a common sight. So they just left him alone.
He managed to make it to the front of the auto shop where he worked and where his workmates instantly identified Reno's face.
The first guy to see him was working on a mustang's engine hanging from a hoist. A puddle of stale oil was blackening the floor underneath. The name of the lad was Rico.
Rico was holding a spanner. The spanner fell with a clang on the floor, alerting two other guys, one of whom was Leno. Leno had brokered the contract between Reno and Uzo, with the white archeologist, two days ago.
Leno made it to the bedraggled Reno first.
He grabbed him, and the lad fell forward. He vomited on Leno's body.
"Fuck!" Leno shouted.
They carried Reno into the back of the shop. Still clutched under his armpit was the golden cat's head. Leno tried to pry it away but could not. Rico joined him, and they got it.
Reno's eyes flew open and grabbed Leno's hand.
“La fuerza negra! The demon!”
Leno shook the trembling hand off of him. "La fiebre, he's got a fever," he said. Leno carried the cat into a corner, examining the curious metal. He knew it was gold, but he pondered where poor Reno found it.
The other guys seemed unconcerned about the golden cat. Leno put it away in his backpack. He put the backpack in turn on the shelf along with the spanners and screwdrivers.
He came back to Reno's prone body.
He roused the lad. "Reno, where is Uzo?"
His head lolling from side to side, the feverish young man muttered, "Dead…"
Leno grimaced; the others looked sharply at him. That was trouble, their eyes said. Big, big trouble.
Then the mutterings continued.
"Oro, Oro," he mumbled.
Bewildered, the others looked at Leno again. "What is he talking about?" they asked. Leno shrugged.
"Oro, the gold, oro."
—
The University of Florida.
Mary Luca stopped her Jetta Volkswagen before the intersection at Southwest Avenue to buy the day’s paper from a stand in front of the Gam
ma building. A man was wearing a white safety helmet and work clothes. His roller was going up and down one of the pillars, slowly. There was paint on his clothes.
Mary Luca looked up the windows of the residential hall. A major renovation was going on. She wrinkled her nose. At the last faculty meeting, the board had complained about inadequate funds for research. They barely had enough to cut the hedges, said the philandering Tom Gardener. But there's enough to paint the Gamma house, right.
There were leather posters on the fence. One of them declared, Good Sisters share their dreams.
Mary sneered at the poster. She paid the man at the newsstand.
"You know, you'd do this street more good if you sold coffee too."
The man pulled his beanie cap up. He snickered. "They sure as hell won't let me."
"Yeah, yeah. But it's a good business plan, isn't it?"
"Sure."
Mary Luca wound up her window and engaged in her morning ritual of reading the papers before making her way to the faculty of arts, European Studies department.
It was the usual chaos and confusion. There was an intensified conflict in the Congo. The arms dealers were having a swell time, and business is good, Britain still wants to leave the EU, and Africa still needs aids. Africa always needs aids. In America, the Republicans aren't saying anything new, and neither are Democrats, but Trump is tweeting every hour.
Nothing much in the mother state, Florida. It's always quiet, except when the gangsters were shooting at cops. Mary Luca sighed. She was putting away the paper in the glove compartment when she saw the small headline in the back of the article.
American archeologist discovers lost Inca temple, claims there may be treasures.
Mary skimmed the article. It had been written by the archeologist himself, Patrick Coleman, a former New York professor with a handsome face, blond hair, and robust features.
Last month, Mary Luca had tried to get funding for research in South America and in Peru to study the ruins around Machu Picchu.
"Is this coincidence or what?" she murmured.
She put the paper away. A flutter in her stomach said she was going to get a break soon.
—
Less than ten minutes after Mary Luca first read about Patrick Coleman, she drove into the faculty parking lot and briskly walked to her floor. She stopped by George Murray's office.
Murray's door was open. His hectic face was behind his computer, the tip of his pen between his uneven teeth.
"You have a minute?"
"No, I don't."
Mary Luca went in and sat in the leather chair in front of his desk. Murray shared some courses with her, and once tried to share her bed as well. Murray was a good man when you looked beyond the male ego façade.
"What's up?"
"Did you see what's going at the Gamma building?"
Murray sighed. "I always look the other way, Mary. I'm not gonna lose my second marriage for this university."
"You lost your first marriage because you didn't love your wife."
"Because I loved my job."
"It's still you."
"You didn't come here to talk about my marriage, Mary."
"You brought it up. I was talking about the renovations going on when we can barely get funding for real scholarly businesses."
Murray raised his hands. "I don't know what's going on. I don't."
Murray sat on the board for two years and only recently got replaced as the financial secretary. But politics was a game reserved for those with the capacity for cruelty, at least that was how Mary Luca surmised the machinery of administration. A little politics here and there. Things remained solid enough not to break down. Just like the rest of the world. The university was the only world Mary was familiar with. Not even South America, where she would like to visit for her research.
Mary put her hand in her jacket and gave the paper to Murray. "That was something I found this morning, might interest you."
It interested Murray. Activities with the potential to cause sudden greatness for his name and stature, Murray was interested.
"Patrick Coleman?"
"You know him?"
"Yeah, he was a big shot, back in '09, we met once in Geneva. Some conference that I barely recall the details of. Mountain of a man, handsome too. He's in Peru?"
"It appears so."
Murray rubbed the side of his face first, then he started folding the paper. Mary leaned forward. "George, that guy is digging right now in Peru. Here's our chance. He is unaffiliated, no funding from any university, which means he's open for collaboration. This could be our chance."
Murray shocked Mary when he said, "Then let's find him."
Mary Luca smiled for the first time that day.
—
George Murray and Mary Luca went down to the faculty office. It was on the second floor. That was where they'd meet Charles Potter, professor of South American history, and fellow discussant in the furtherance of the plan to go to Peru and explore. Potter was the go-to guy for names and favors outside Florida academia.
Potter was in a private office stapling forms together. He was a restless man who loved work, couldn't do without his glasses, and always had a question to ask.
"Are you gonna ask me something?" he blurted when he saw Mary and George Murray.
Childish eyes bulged behind his spectacles. He dropped the stapler on the table and folded his sleeves. He had enormous, sinewy hands.
"As a matter of fact, yes," said Murray. "Mary here is up to something."
"Mary is always up to something. Have you guys seen what's happening with the Gamma house? Who's doing that?" asked Potter.
"That’s later," said Mary Luca. "We need to find a certain Patrick Coleman."
Potter frowned. "Coleman? Why?"
"You know him?"
"Yeah, he's in Peru."
Mary and George Murray shared a look. Then Mary gave Charles Potter the newspaper. The man read it without asking questions. "Wow, that's something."
He looked at Mary and asked, "You wanna latch on, I suppose."
"Yeah."
Potter folded the paper and gave it back. "I met Coleman through Ted Cooper. In Geneva." He glanced at Murray. "You were in Geneva too, right?"
"Uhuh."
"Brilliant guy. Cocky, but brilliant as hell. I heard he's in Peru. Never thought anything about it ’til now. Him and Cooper got close. Do you know Cooper?"
"Yeah, everyone knows him."
"God bless his soul," said Murray.
There was silence.
Potter turned back to his stapling job. He picked up a sheaf of papers, arranged them in his hands, shuffled them, and stapled. Potter did that. One time he was letting you in on some life-altering secrets, next second he's back in his ether.
"Charles? Come in."
He looked at Mary. He went back to stapling. He said, "Coleman could be down in some hole by now. You can't reach him. But I've been thinking a lot about Peru for a while now, you know."
"Yeah?"
The clipping sound of stapling bit the air, like rabid dogs with sick, insistent yaps.
"The person you really need is a woman," Potter said, mysteriously. "She was a friend of Ted Cooper."
He looked at Mary to make sure she was paying attention. Mary dragged a chair and dropped herself in it, exhausted by nothing in particular. Florida weather was switching it recently, summer was afoot, and hot winds were frequent.
"She lives out in Miami. She's a journalist, an indie," Potter said at the edge of the table. "She's the real deal, a Lara Croft type. She found the Templars gold, last time I heard. She exposed the Nazi secret lab in the Antarctic—"
Mary Luca sat up. "Was that her? I saw that one on the news."
"Yeah. Olivia Newton, that's her name. Whatever Coleman finds in Peru, he’s going to need this woman and her team. And so do we."
Charles Potter wrote out Olivia Newton's number.
Mary Luca made the call an hour la
ter.
—
Peru.
Avenida Hermanos Ayar Street.
Reno was awake.
His friends stayed all night, watching. When he woke about early morning, his fever had broken, and he was lucid enough to recognize his buddies at the auto shop. He raised himself on his elbow. It tasted like foil paper in his mouth. He asked for water, and Leno quickly brought a bottle to his mouth.
When he caught his breath, Leno asked, "Where's Uzo and the American?"
Reno started, he frowned, and then his eyes widened with terror. "We must not go back there. The demon, the demon is there! The demon killed them. He took them away. El espantago! The Bogeyman!"
"What are you talking about, man?" Leno looked at the other two guys. Their faces mirrored his. Terror-stricken.
Besides, Reno had a mother. In a few hours, the big woman with the raucous manner would come waddling down the Avenida Hermanos, shouting about his son's absence from home.
"Calm down, will you?" Leno grabbed Reno's hand. "Now tell me what happened in that place. What happened?"
"I don't know, I…I…just got to the door," he stammered, "and the door was locked. I couldn't—"
"What door are you talking of?"
"The door was locked, but I don't see the American and Uzo." He shut his eyes and opened them again. "And then I saw, I saw…"
Reno became even more agitated. He started searching his body; desperation gripped his throat, and a painful whine escaped his throat. He grabbed Leno's hands, his forehead knotted in anxiety.
"Did you see it!?"
"See what?"
"The gold! The cat's head! The golden cat head! I picked it up from the floor!"
"I didn't—"
"I had it under my arm. I remember now!" Reno pulled Leno. He looked at the other two men. "We have to find it. I'm sure I took the gold. I saw it on the floor."
The other two guys watched their third friend with quiet sympathy. It was so sad that Reno was going crazy. It must be the ruins up there; they had always known that mountain was cursed. The El espantago must have hexed him, their eyes said.
Leno sighed and said, "I don't know what you're talking about."
Reno sank his face in his palms and sobbed.
—
Tami Capaldi was doing her morning rounds that same moment as Reno mourned the loss of his gold. Her morning rounds in the antique shop included wiping dust off surfaces—the counter, the cash register on it, and even the book of records, as instructed by old Rodriguez.
The Inca Temple Page 3
