Excavation

As Henry stared, relief mixed with sorrow in his heart. So much had been lost.

Then they were over the cone’s lip and sweeping down and away.

They had made it!

As the helicopter dived between the neighboring peaks, Henry stared behind them. Suddenly a loud roar exploded through the cabin; the helicopter jumped, rotors screamed. Henry flew backward. For a few harrowing moments, the bird spun and twisted wildly.

The pilot swore, struggling with his controls. Everyone else clutched straps in white-knuckled grips.

Then the bird righted itself and flew steady again.

Henry dragged himself up and returned to his observation post. As he looked out, he gasped, not in fright but in wonder. “You all need to come see this.”

The others joined him at the window. Sam leaned over, a palm resting on his uncle’s shoulder. Henry patted his nephew’s hand, squeezing his fingers for a moment.

“It’s strangely beautiful,” Maggie said, staring out.

Behind the helicopter, two twin spires of molten rock lit up the afternoon skies, one from each volcano. It was a humbling sight.

Henry finally leaned back in his seat. Closing his eyes, he thought back to Friar de Almagro and all his warnings. The man had given his own life to stop the evil here.

Henry whispered softly to the flaming skies, “Your dying prayer has been answered, my friend. Rest in peace.”

Day Seven Cuzco

Sunday, August 26, 3:45 P.M. Cuzco International Airport, Peru

The small, single-engine plane, an old Piper Saratoga, dipped toward the tarmac. The city of Cuzco spread below the wings in a tangle of streets, a mix of gleaming high-rises and old adobe homes. Though it was a welcome sight, Sam turned from the window. It had been a long day of flights and plans.

En route from the volcanic caldera, his uncle had used the helicopter’s radio to alert the authorities and to warn the base camp of the erupting volcanoes. Philip had sounded panicked over the radio. It seemed the Quechan Indians were already evacuating. Henry had ordered the Harvard graduate to go with them; their helicopter’s fuel was too low for another landing and takeoff. Almost crying, Philip had begged for rescue, but Henry had been adamant about getting back to Cuzco as soon as possible.

His uncle had then arranged for a change of aircraft at a small commercial airfield near Machu Picchu, hiring the single-engine plane and pilot for the hop to Cuzco.

Still, for all the expedient planning, the flight there had taken almost an entire day.

As the plane shed altitude for its final approach, Sam sat up straighter in the cramped cabin, careful not to disturb Maggie, who leaned on his shoulder, asleep like everyone else on board. Sam envied their ability to rest. Slumber had been impossible for him. His mind still dwelt on the last twenty-four hours.

He had died.

It was a concept that he could not yet fully grasp. As much as he had struggled, he could not recall anything from that missing hour of his life. He recalled no white light nor heavenly choir. All he remembered was blacking out in the field of quinoa, a bullet wound in his chest, then waking atop the gold altar. The rest was a big blank.

Sam frowned. He could not begrudge the fates for this small mental lapse. He was alive-and moreover, he had a gorgeous redheaded Irish archaeologist sleeping beside him. He glanced over and gently fingered a loose curl from Maggie’s face as she slept. He should wake her. They were about to land. But he hated to do it. It was nice to have her this close to him. Even if he was just a convenient pillow. He let his fingers drop from her hair, dismissing any further thoughts. From here, there was no telling where any of them would end up.

The small plane landed with a bump onto the tarmac of the airport.

The jostling and the whine of the hydraulic brakes had the cabin passengers startling awake. Bleary-eyed faces bent to peer out tiny windows.

“We’re already here?” Maggie said, stifling a yawn. “I would swear I just fell asleep.”

Sam rolled his eyes. The flight had been interminable for him. “Yep. Welcome to Cuzco.”

The mumble of the pilot to the tower could be heard as they taxied toward the tiny terminal. Uncle Hank unbuckled from his seat, stretched a kink, and worked his way forward between the press of seats.

More plans and arrangements, Sam thought.

Earlier, Sam had questioned his uncle’s urgency in getting to Cuzco, but Sam had been gently rebuked. When he had tried to persist, Maggie had warned him away with a shake of her head. “Leave him be.”

Sam glanced to Maggie now. She stared at his uncle with pained eyes. What was wrong? What was being left unsaid?

“Who are all those people out there?” Norman asked behind them.