James Rollins - Excavation

“Damn!” Henry slammed his fist on the desk as the modem switched off. Though there were a thousand other excuses for the lack of connection, Henry knew in his heart something was wrong. A creeping dread. Once before, he had experienced a similar fear, the day his brother Frank – Sam’s dad – had died in the car crash. He recalled that phone call at four in the morning, the cold sensation of terror as he had reached for the receiver. He now felt a similar dread.

Something had happened down in Peru. He just knew it.

Henry reached for the computer once again, but before his hand touched a key, the phone beside the laptop rang loudly, startling him. His heart in his throat, he stared at the receiver, flashing back to that horrible morning years ago. He clenched his fist. “Get ahold of yourself, Henry,” he said, forcing his fingers to relax. Closing his eyes and girding himself, he picked up the phone and raised it to his ear. “Hello?”

A woman’s voice answered. “Henry? It’s Joan.”

Though relieved it was just his colleague, Henry recognized the stress in her voice. This wasn’t a casual call. “Joan, what’s wrong?”

His sudden worry must have caught her off guard. She stuttered for a moment, then spoke. “I… I just thought you should know. I dropped by my office after our date… um, evening together… and discovered someone had tried to break into the morgue where the mummy’s remains are stored. The security guard startled them off, but he was unable to catch them.”

“The mummy?”

“It’s fine. The thieves never even got through the door.”

“It seems that Herald reporter’s story drew more flies than we suspected.”

“Or maybe the same ones,” Joan added. “Maybe after failing to find anything in your hotel room, they came here next. What did the police say?”

“Not much. They didn’t seem particularly interested since nothing was stolen.”

“Didn’t they dust for prints or anything?”

Henry laughed. “You’ve been watching too many cop shows. The only thing they did was check the tapes from the security cameras in the hallway.”

“And?”

“No help. The camera lenses had been spray-painted over.”

Joan was silent for several breaths.

“Joan?”

“They did the same here. That’s how the guard was alerted. He noticed the blacked-out monitor.”

“So you think it was the same team of thieves?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, hopefully the close call with the security guard will keep them from any further mischief.” But Henry was not convinced.

Joan sighed loudly. “I hope you’re right. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“It was no bother. I was up.” Henry avoided telling her about his inability to reach Sam. Though it made no sense at all, Henry had a feeling that tonight’s events were somehow intertwined: the burglary at the hotel, the attempted break-in at the morgue, his difficulty in reaching Sam. It was nonsense, of course, but the small hairs on the back of Henry’s neck stood on end.

“I should let you go,” Joan said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Henry frowned in confusion, then remembered his schedule to meet with Joan at the lab. After the night’s hubbub and his nagging worry over his nephew, Henry had momentarily forgotten about the planned rendezvous with Joan. “Yes, of course. I’ll see you then. Good night.” Just before he hung up the phone, he added a quick, “Thanks for calling,” but the phone line was already dead.

Henry slowly hung up the receiver.

He stared at his computer screen, then clicked it off. There was no further reason to keep trying to reach the camp. He knew he would fail. Snapping shut the laptop, he made a whispered promise to himself. “If I can’t reach the camp by tomorrow night, I’m on the first red-eye out of here.” But even that decision did not calm his twanging nerves.

Wednesday, August 22, 6:03 A.M.

Caverns

Andean Mountains, Peru

Sam studied the dagger’s gold blade in the feeble light cast by the single flashlight. He had the last guard shift of the night. The others lay sprawled behind him, curled on the flat rock of the cavern floor, pillows made from rumpled shirts and packs. Ralph snored softly, but at least the big man was sleeping. Earlier, Sam had been unable to drowse, except for a brief catnap fraught with terrifying images of falling rocks and unseen monsters. He had been relieved when Norman had nudged him to take his shift.

Sam raised his eyes from the dagger and glanced about the cavern. All around him, silver eyes studied Sam from the dozens of carved pillars, creatures that were half-human, half-animal. Incan gods and spirits. Nearby, the golden path reflected the meager light, a bright vein in the dark rock. Sam imagined the generations of Incan Indians that must have walked this trail. The footpath continued along the river’s bank deeper into the series of caves, and Sam longed to follow it. But the consensus of the group was to make camp there, near a water source and the fissure opening, and await rescue. Exploration could come later.

Glancing at his watch, Sam suspected the sun was just now rising above the Andean mountains. Down there, however, the blackness seemed to grow deeper and more endless. Time lost all meaning; it stretched toward eternity.

Though Sam tried to ignore his hunger, his stomach growled loudly. How long had it been since any of them had anything to eat? Still, he shouldn’t complain. At least, with the stream, they had water.

He just needed to keep himself distracted.

Sam fingered the blade of the dagger, pondering the mystery of its mechanism. How had yesterday’s transformation occurred? He couldn’t even fathom the trigger that unfolded the dagger into a jagged lightning bolt. It had done so with such smoothness and lack of mechanical friction, appearing to melt into the new form. The trick was too damned convincing. How intricate was the technology developed here? Friar de Almagro’s warning of the Serpent of Eden suggested a source of forbidden knowledge, a font of wisdom that could corrupt mankind. Was this an example of it?

A cough drew his attention. Barefoot, Maggie sidled toward him. Even disheveled, she was striking. Covered only by a thin blouse, buttoned loosely, her breasts moved under the fabric. Sam’s mouth grew dry. He dropped his eyes before he embarrassed himself, but his gaze only discovered the soft curves of waist and leg.

“You must quit fondling that thing, Sam,” she said quietly. “People are goin’ to start talking.”

“What?” Sam asked, shocked, glancing up at her.

Maggie offered him a tired smile and nodded toward the dagger.

“Oh…” He tucked it away. “So… so you couldn’t sleep?”

She shrugged, sitting beside him. “Rock doesn’t make such a great mattress.”

Sam nodded, allowing her this tiny falsehood. He suspected her restlessness was the same as his: bone-deep worries and the omnipresent press of the darkness around them. “We’re going to get out of here,” he said plainly.

“By trusting in good ol’ Philip Sykes?” she said, rolling her eyes.

“He’s an ass, but he’ll pull us through.”

She stared up at a neighboring pillar and was silent. After a time, she spoke, “Sam, I wanted to thank you again for coming out on the tiles when I had that last… that last seizure.”

He began to protest that no such thanks were needed.

She stopped him with a touch to his hand. “But I need you to know something… I think I owe you that.”

He turned to face her more fully. “What?”

“I am not truly epileptic,” she said softly.