Excavation

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.

Sam leaned back to the window. Beside the terminal walkway, a small crowd had gathered. Half wore the khaki uniforms of local police, rifles at their shoulders. A few news cameras were carried on other shoulders, microphones ready. The others were a mixture of locals and men wearing suits too warm for the climate. These last had the stamp of government officials.

It seemed his uncle’s calls had stirred up a hornet’s nest of activity.

The plane pulled near, and the pilot unhooked himself from the cockpit, then crossed to the door. Henry bent his head in discussion with the pilot, then the slender fellow cranked the door open and kicked the latch to release the stairs.

Even from here, Sam heard the machine-gun clicks of camera shutters and the chatter of voices.

His uncle paused at the opening and turned back to them. “Time to face the press, folks. Remember what we discussed… how to answer any questions for now.”

“No comment,” Norman quipped.

“Sin comentario,” Denal echoed in Spanish.

“Exactly,” Henry said. “Until we get things cleared up, we speak only to those in authority.”

Nods passed all around. Especially Sam. He had no desire to discuss his resurrection with the international press.

“Then let’s go.” Henry bowed his head, and the others all followed.

As Henry stepped from the plane, he winced. Even in the brightness of the afternoon, the splash of video lights and the strobe of flashbulbs were near blinding. Voices called to them: English, Spanish, Portuguese, and French. The throng was held in check by a line of police.

Henry stumbled forward, eyes searching the crowd. Joan. A part of him had secretly hoped his frantic call to the authorities in Cuzco might have been in time. He had only heard scraps of reports over the radio during the flight there, but they had been sketchy: the military raid on the Abbey, followed by an intense firefight. Many had died, but the details afterward were muddled.

Henry held his hands in clenched fists as he crossed the tarmac. He continued to scan the crowd of reporters, government officials, and onlookers. Not one familiar face.

Henry forced back tears. Please. Not again. As he searched futilely for Joan, an ache grew in his chest, a burn of bile and guilt. It was a familiar pain. He had felt it before – when Elizabeth had died. He had thought he had reconciled his wife’s death long ago, but his fear for Joan had awakened it all again. In truth, it had never gone away. He had just walled it off, cemented and bricked it over with his need to care for Sam.

But what now?

His heart was ash and cinder.

Joan was not there.