Philip swallowed hard as the growing danger he faced dawned on him. What if Gil returned with more bandits? They had only a few hunting rifles and a handful of machetes. They would be sitting ducks for any marauders. Philip glanced to the single Quechan Indian who still held the flashlight at the tent’s entrance. And who among these swarthy-skinned foreigners could he trust?
A squelch of static drew Philip’s attention back to the radio. “I’m gonna sign off now, Philip. I have to conserve this walkie-talkie’s battery. I’ll check back with you after sunrise to get an update on how things look from above. Okay?”
Philip held the receiver with a hand that now shook slightly. “Okay. I’ll try to reach you at six.”
“We’ll be here. Over and out.”
Philip settled the receiver back to the radio unit and stood up. From outside the tent, the worst of the commotion from the riled camp seemed to have died down. Philip crossed to the tent’s flap and stood beside the small Quechan Indian.
Barefoot, wearing only his robe, Philip stared out at the black jungle and the smoking ruins. The chill of the night had settled deep into his bones. He hugged the robe tight to his frame. Deep in his heart, a part of him wished he had been trapped down in the temple with the others.
At least he wouldn’t be so alone.
Day Two.
Janan Pacha
Tuesday, August 21, 7:12 A.M.
Regency Hotel Baltimore,
Maryland
As early-morning sunlight pierced the gaps in the heavy hotel curtains, Henry sat at the small walnut desk and stared at the row of artifacts he had recovered from the mummy: A silver ring, a scrap of faded illegible parchment, two Spanish coins, a ceremonial silver dagger, and the heavy Dominican cross. Henry sensed that clues to the priest’s fate were locked in these few items, like a stubborn jigsaw puzzle. If only he could put it all together…
Shaking his head, Henry stretched a crick from his back and rubbed at his eyes under his glasses. He must look a mess. He still wore his wrinkled grey suit, though he had tossed the jacket on the rumpled bed. He had been up all night studying the items, managing only a short catnap around midnight. The artifacts kept drawing him back to the hotel-room desk and the array of books and periodicals he had borrowed from the library at Johns Hopkins. Henry simply could not quit working at the puzzle, especially after his first discovery.
He picked up the friar’s silver ring for the thousandth time. Earlier, he had gently rubbed the tarnish from its surface and uncovered faint lettering around a central heraldic icon. Henry raised his magnifying lens and read the name on the ring: “de Almagro.” The surname of the Dominican friar. Just this one piece to the puzzle brought the man to life in Henry’s mind. He was no longer just a mummy. With a name, he had become flesh and blood again. Someone with a history, a past, even a family. So much power in just a name.
Laying the magnifier down, Henry retrieved his pen and began adding final details to his sketch of the ring’s symbol. A part of it was clearly a family crest—surely the de Almagro coat of arms—but a second image was incorporated around the family heraldry: a crucifix with a set of crossed sabers above it. The symbol was vaguely familiar, but Henry could not place it.
“Who were you, Friar de Almagro?” he mumbled as he worked. “What were you doing at that lost city? Why did the Incas mummify you?” Chewing his lower lip in concentration, Henry finished the last flourishes on his drawing, then picked the paper up and stared at it. “This will have to do.”
He glanced to his watch. It was almost eight o’clock. He hated to call so early, but he could not wait any longer. He swiveled his chair and reached for the phone, making sure the portable fax unit was hooked in properly. Once satisfied, he dialed the number.
The voice that answered was officious and curt. “Archbishop Kearney’s office. How may I help you?”
“This is Professor Henry Conklin. I called yesterday to inquire about gaining access to your order’s old records.”
“Yes, Professor Conklin. Archbishop Kearney has been awaiting your call. One moment please.”
Henry frowned at the receptionist’s manner. He had not expected to reach the archbishop himself, but some minor clerk in their records department.
A stern but warm voice picked up the line. “Ah, Professor Conklin, your news about the mummified priest has caused quite a stir here. We’re most interested in what you’ve learned and how we might be of help.”
“Thank you, but I didn’t think the matter would require disturbing Your Eminence.”
“Actually, I am quite intrigued. Before entering the seminary, I did a master’s thesis in European history. A chance to participate in such a study is more of an honor than a bother. So, please, tell me how we can be of assistance.”
Henry smiled inwardly at his luck in finding a history buff among these men of the cloth. He cleared his throat. “With Your Eminence’s help and access to Church archives, I had hoped to piece together the man’s past, maybe shed light on what happened to him.”
“Most certainly. My offices are fully at your disposal, for if the mummy is truly a friar of the Dominican order, then he deserves to be sanctified and interred as befits a priest. If descendants of this man still survive, I would think it fitting that the remains be returned to the family’s parish for proper burial.”
“I quite agree. I’ve tried to glean as much information as I can on my own, but from here, I’ll need to access your records. So far, I’ve been able to determine the fellow’s surname—de Almagro. He was most likely a friar in the Spanish chapter of the Dominicans dating back to the 1500s. I also have a copy of the man’s family coat of arms that I’d like to fax you.”
“Hmm… the 1500s… for records that old, we might have to search individual abbeys’ records. It might take some time.”
“I assumed so, but I thought to get started before I headed back to Peru.”
“Yes, and that does give me an idea where to start. I’ll forward your records to the Vatican, of course, but there is also a very old Dominican enclave in Cuzco, Peru, headed by an Abbot Ruiz, I believe. If this priest was sent on a mission to Peru, the local abbey there might have some record.”
Henry sat up straighter in his chair, excitement fueling his tired body. Of course! He should have thought of that himself. “Excellent. Thank you, Archbishop Kearney. I suspect your help will prove invaluable in solving this mystery.”
“I hope so. I’ll have my secretary give you our fax number. I’ll be awaiting your transmission.”
“I’ll forward it immediately.” Henry barely paid attention while he was passed back to the receptionist and given the fax number. His mind spun on the possibilities. If Friar de Almagro had been in Peru long, surely there might even be some of the man’s letters and reports at the abbey in Cuzco. Perhaps some clue to the lost city might be contained in such letters.
Henry replaced the receiver with numb fingers and slid his sketch of the ring into the fax machine. He dialed out and listened to the whir and buzz as the fax engaged.
As the drawing was forwarded, Henry forced his mind to the other mystery that surrounded the mummy. He had spent the night pursuing this fellow’s past, but with such matters out of his hands, he allowed himself to speculate on the last puzzle concerning the mummy. Something he had not related to the archbishop. Henry pictured the explosion of the mummy’s skull and the splatter of gold.
What exactly had happened? What was that substance? Henry knew the archbishop could shed no new light on that matter. Only one person could help him, someone whom he had been looking for an excuse to call anyway. Since meeting her again for the first time in almost three decades, he could not get the woman out of his mind.
The fax machine chimed its completion, and Henry picked up the phone. He dialed a second number. It rang five times before a breathless voice answered. “Hello?”
“Joan?”
A puzzled voice. “Yes?”
Henry pictured the pathologist’s slender face framed by a fall of hair the shade of ravens’ wings. Time had barely touched her: just a hint of grey highlights, a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose, a few new wrinkles. But her most delightful features remained unchanged: her shadowy smile, her amused eyes. Even her quick intelligence and sharp curiosity had not been dulled by years in academia. Henry suddenly found it difficult to speak. “Th… this is Henry. I’m… I’m sorry to disturb you so early.”
Her voice lost its cold dispassion and warmed considerably. “Early? You just caught me arriving home from the hospital.”
“You worked all night?”
“Well, I was reviewing the scans of your mummy, and… well…”—a small embarrassed pause—“I sort of lost track of time.”
Henry glanced down at his own wrinkled clothing and smiled. “I know what you mean.”
“So have you learned anything new?”
“I’ve put together a few things.” He quickly related his discovery of the friar’s name and his call to the archbishop. “How about yourself? Anything new on your front?”
“Not much. But I’d like to sit down and go over some of my findings. The material in the skull is proving most unusual.”
Before Henry could stop himself or weigh such a decision, he pushed forth. “How about lunch today?” He cringed as the words came out. He had not meant to sound so desperate. His cheeks grew heated with his awkwardness.
A long pause. “I’m afraid I can’t do lunch.”
Henry kicked himself for being so unprofessional. Surely she saw through his words. Ever since Elizabeth had died, he had forgotten the knack of approaching a woman romantically—not that he’d ever had much of a desire to do so before now.
Joan continued, “But how about dinner? I know a nice Italian place on the river.”
Henry swallowed hard, struggling to speak. Dare he hope that she was suggesting more than just a meeting of colleagues? Perhaps a renewal of old feelings? But it had been so long. So much life had passed between their college years and now. Surely whatever tiny spark that had once flared between them had long gone to ash. Hadn’t it?