Excavation

It was this pregnant silence that allowed the black-haired friar to hear the snap of a branch and the ragged huffing breath of someone approaching. He cocked his head. No, two men approached. Friar Otera held up an arm and, without a word, the others stopped. The Church had trained them well.

Soon two bare-chested Indians appeared along the trail ahead. Sweat shone off their sleek bodies as if they were aglow in the last rays of the sun. On closer inspection, it was clear the two, thorn-scratched and shaky of limb, had traveled far and at a hard pace.

Within his cowl, the friar’s lips drew to hard lines of satisfaction. Though he hated his poor upbringing here among the Indians, it now proved useful. As a boy, he had been chased and tormented because he was of mixed blood, a half-bred mestizo. The shadowy jungle trails became his only sanctuary from the constant ridicule and he knew these jungle trails as well as any. He also knew any attempt to call for help must travel this trail – and he had his orders. Friar Otera raised a palm in greeting.

The first of the Indians seemed wary of the group of strangers. Wisely so, since the jungles were the haunts of many guerrillas and marauders. But soon recognition of their robed raiments and silver crosses filled the Indian’s eyes. He dropped to his knees, chattering his thanks in guttural Quecha.

Friar Otera bowed his head, crossing his wrists within the long folds of his sleeves. One hand reached the dagger’s hilt in his hidden wrist sheath. “Fear not, my child. Calm yourself. Tell me what has happened.”

“Friar… Father, we have run far. Seeking help. We are workers for some norte americanos high in the mountains. There was an accident. A horrible accident.”

“An accident?”

“An underground tomb has collapsed, trapping some of the americanos. They will die unless we hurry.”

Friar Otera shook his head sadly. “Horrible indeed,” he muttered in his native Quecha, though inwardly it galled him to do so. The old language, a crude derivation of the Incan language called runa simi, was so plain and base, the language of the poor. And he hated to be reminded of his own roots by speaking it so fluently. A spark of anger rose in his heart, but he kept it hidden within the shadows of his robe. Friar Otera listened in silence as the frantic Indian finished explaining about the explosion and the damaged satellite phone. He just nodded in understanding.

“So we must hurry, Father, before it’s too late.”

Friar Otera licked his lips. So only one of the americanos was still loose among the ruins. How fortuitous. “Yes, we must hurry,” he agreed with the panting Indian. “You have done well bringing us this news, my child.”

The Indian lowered his head in thanks and relief.

Friar Otera slipped past the kneeling Indian and approached the second fellow. “You have done well, too, my child.”

This other Indian had remained silent during the exchange and had not knelt. His dark eyes had remained wary. He backed up a step now, somehow sensing the danger, but he was too late.

Friar Otera lashed out with the long blade hidden at his wrist, slicing cleanly. The man’s hands flew to his slashed throat, trying to stanch the flow of blood. A spraying spurt struck the friar’s robe as the Indian fell to his knees. Too late to pray now, heathen. With a scowl, Friar Otera used his booted foot to topple the gurgling man backward.

Stepping over the body, Friar Otera continued on his way down the trail. He had not even heard a sound as the other monks dealt with the first Indian. He nodded in satisfaction.

The Church had certainly trained them well.

Joan tried the wine. It was a decent vintage Merlot, not too dry, with a sweet bouquet. She nodded, and the waiter filled her glass the rest of the way. “It should accent the porterhouse nicely,” she said with a shy smile.

Across the candlelit table, Henry returned her smile. “A forensic pathologist and a wine connoisseur to boot. You’ve grown to be a woman of many surprises. As I recall, you used to be a beer-and-tequila woman.”

She stifled a short laugh. “Time has ways of refining one’s taste. As does a stomach that can no longer tolerate such excesses.” She eyed Henry. He still filled his dark suit well, a double-breasted charcoal jacket over a crisp white shirt and pale rose tie. The colors accented perfectly the salting of silver-grey in his dark hair. Clean-shaven and impeccably attired, it was hard to believe this fellow had been tromping through the Peruvian jungles just last week. “And I must say you’re full of surprises, too, Henry. Your years in the field have done you no harm.”

Henry, fork in hand, glanced up from the remains of his Caesar salad. He wore a roguish grin, an expression that took Joan back to her college years. “Why, Dr. Engel,” he teased, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to pick me up?”