Excavation

Atop the stairs, Gil pushed the taped bandage covering his burned cheek more firmly in place. He would be rewarded for his scarring. That he swore. Teeth gritted with determination, Gil walked down the narrow corridor. He found the right door and rapped his knuckles on it.

A man’s firm voice answered. “Come in.”

Gil tried the door. It was unlocked. He pushed his way into the room and was instantly struck by two things. First, the refreshing coolness of the room. Overhead, a ceiling fan turned languidly creating a gentle stir to the air that seemed to wash away the humidity. A double set of French doors were swung wide open upon a small balcony overlooking the hotel’s shaded garden courtyard. From somewhere beyond the steamy warmth of the jungle, a cool breeze flowed through those open doors into the room. White-lace curtains drifted in the gentle breezes, while thin mosquito netting around the single bed billowed softly like the sails of a ship.

But more than the breezes, the room’s occupant struck Gil as the source of the room’s coolness. It was the first time Gil had ever met his contact in person. The tall man sat in a cushioned rattan chair, facing Gil, his back to the open double doors. Dressed all in black, from shoes to buttoned shirt, the fellow sat with his legs casually crossed, a drink clinking with ice in one hand. From his burnished complexion, he was clearly of Spanish descent. Dark eyes stared at Gil, appraising him from under clipped black hair. A thin mustache also traced the man’s upper lip. He did not smile. The only movement was a flick of the man’s eyes toward the other chair in the room, indicating Gil should sit.

Still wearing his ripped and sweat-stained clothes, Gil felt like a peasant before royalty. He could not even manage to roil up a bit of righteous anger at the man’s attitude. He sensed a vein of hardness in the man that Gil could never match, nor dare challenge. Gil forced his tongue to move. “I…I have what we talked about.”

The man merely nodded. “Then we need only discuss the price.”

Gil lowered himself slowly to the chair. He found himself perched just at the edge of the seat, not comfortable enough to lean back. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to be done with this deal, no matter what the price. He longed to leave the chill of the room for the familiar swelter of the bustling town.

Gil could not even meet the other man’s eyes. He found himself staring out the window at the town’s church steeple, the thin white cross stark against the blue sky.

“Show me what you found,” the man said, his drink still clinking as he gently rocked his glass, drawing back Gil’s attention.

“Yes, of course.” Swallowing the dry lump in his throat, Gil fished out the dented chalice and placed it on the table between them. Rubies and emeralds flashed brightly against the gold setting. Gil felt a resurgence of his resolve as he eyed the jeweled dragon wrapped around the thick gold cup. “And…and there’s more,” Gil said. “With enough men and the right tools, by week’s end, I could have a hundred times as much.”

Ignoring Gil’s words, the man lowered his drink to the table and reached to the Incan cup. He picked up the chalice, raised it to the sunlight, and examined its surface for an excruciatingly long time.

Gil’s hands wrung in his lap as he waited. He stared at the dent along the cup’s lip as the man studied the workmanship on the chalice. Gil feared such a blemish might significantly reduce the price. The fellow had insisted any artifacts be brought to him intact.

As the man finally lowered the cup back to the table, Gil dared meet his eyes. He saw only anger there.

“The dent…it…it was already there,” Gil stammered quickly.

The man stood silently and crossed to a small bar behind Gil. Gil listened as the man added more ice to his glass. He then stepped behind Gil.

Gil could not bring himself to twist around. He just stared at the treasure atop the table. “If you don’t want it, I…I will not hold you to any obligation.”

Without turning, Gil knew the man leaned toward him. The small hairs on the nape of his neck quivered with the instinct of his cave-dwelling ancestors. Gil then felt the man’s breath at his ear.

“It is only ordinary gold. Worthless.”

Sensing the danger too late, Gil’s hand snapped toward the knife at his belt. His fingers found only an empty sheath. Before Gil could react, his head was yanked back by the hair; he saw his own knife gripped in the man’s hand. He did not even have time to wonder how the the blade had been snatched from his side. A flick of the man’s wrist, and the dagger sliced open Gil’s throat, a line of fire from ear to ear. Gil was tossed forward and fell to the floor as his blood spilled across the whitewashed planks.

Rolling to his back, Gil saw the man return to the bar for his abandoned drink while Gil choked on his own blood. “P…Please…” he gurgled out, one arm raised in supplication as the light in the room began to dim. The man ignored him.