Twenty-Eight
The expedition set up camp on the banks of a small stream. The atmosphere around the various fires was more strained than it had been back at the river. The dead jaguar hadn’t gone unnoticed by the men, and some of them were clearly feeling a little superstitious about the country that they were headed into.
The tree cover had started to thin a bit. Through the gaps in the foliage, Adam could see the peaks of the mountains rising to the south.
All day, he had scanned the baggage loaded onto the mules for some sign of his gear—without any luck. If he’d been able to spot where his rucksack and rifle had landed, he might’ve been able to work on snatching them back.
That Adam hadn’t managed to find any of his stuff made him wonder whether Jacobs had just tossed it all in the river… including his machete.
The thought made his gut lurch with a terrible sense of loss. Not my knife…
One of the men approached the place where Adam glowered out at the camp. Adam recognized him as Pacheco, one of the young guys from Caulker Caye.
“Mr. Bates? They want you to look at the maps again,” Pacheco announced a little nervously.
Adam couldn’t entirely blame him for being wary. After all, as far as Pacheco knew, Adam was a filthy, unshaven, grumpy-looking bakra getting marched around camp at the wrong end of a gun.
The kid obviously had no idea who the real bad guys were around here.
“Sure. Be right there,” Adam replied flatly.
He finished the last few bites of his stew. Nigel had worked a small miracle with dinner, given that all Velegas had managed to drag back to camp had been a pair of iguanas.
“No game,” the tracker had announced as he had tossed the dead lizards down by the fire.
Adam didn’t doubt it. He’d barely caught sight of anything larger than a lizard himself since they’d passed the stela.
He was probably looking even grumpier than usual as he followed Pacheco through the camp. Why wouldn’t he be? He was being summoned to put his skills to use for a couple of thugs who were threatening Ellie.
The notion made him want to hit something.
Adam was so focused on not hitting anything that he almost missed the subtle flash in the corner of his vision. It was just a quick reflection of the late afternoon light—but there was something achingly familiar about it.
Adam whirled toward the glare, and his eyes locked onto the place where Braxton Pickett, the fish-eyed Confederate son, sat on a fallen log.
A machete twisted in Pickett’s hand. The eighteen inch blade curved at the perfect angle and was sharp enough to split a blade of grass. The well-oiled handle had been custom carved by an old Mayan guy in town out of pest-resistant cocobolo wood before being wrapped in flexible, comfortable strips of leather.
The knife would fit Adam’s grip like it had been made for it—because it damned well had been.
Adam realized that he’d grabbed poor Pacheco by the front of his shirt.
“Is that my knife?” he seethed as Pacheco gaped up at him in terrified surprise.
Pickett slowly lifted the tip of the blade to his mouth—and inserted it between two of his teeth.
The bug-eyed Confederate pulled the knife out a moment later. He studied what he’d mined, and then wiped it on the leg of his trousers.
Adam choked back a strangled cry of outrage.
“Uh… Hey, bali? Maybe let go of the boy?” Staines offered carefully from behind him.
Adam looked down. He’d nearly lifted Pacheco’s feet off the ground.
He quickly released his hold on the kid’s shirt and forced himself to take a breath.
“Sorry,” Adam said as he squeezed Pacheco’s shoulder awkwardly. “It’s just… That’s my knife.”
Staines scratched the side of his nose awkwardly. He looked a little shamefaced. Pacheco patted Adam’s arm.
“You have my sympathies,” he said, and then dashed off across the camp.
“You, ah… ready?” Staines jerked his head in the direction of Dawson’s nearby campfire.
Adam didn’t answer. He just turned and stalked toward the professor, hating everything about his life.
Dawson’s tent was up again. Inside, Adam could see the carpet spread across the tarpaulin. He wondered how many more spiders would be living inside of it by the morning.
The professor had set up his field desk under the front awning in order to take advantage of the light.
He was alone. Most of the men were wisely gathered near Nigel’s cookfire, waiting hopefully for seconds. A few others clustered around a game of dice.
Ellie stood near the game, with Flowers and Mendez flanking her.
Since they had been captured, Ellie had sported two escorts against Adam’s one. When Adam puzzled over why, he recalled Jacobs’ easy confidence back in Dawson’s tent on their first night with the expedition
When Jacobs had told Dawson that Adam wasn’t a risk, he’d sounded entirely sure of it. But how could he be? Jacobs had no notion of just how far Adam’s relationship with Ellie might stretch—and he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d throw all his chips onto a half-assed bet.
Jacobs hadn’t been gambling. He had known that Adam wouldn’t risk Ellie’s safety… and even after a day of mulling over it, Adam couldn’t think of a single damned way in which that was possible.
Ellie’s words from the night before came back to him.
I have an uncomfortable feeling that he has an unnatural ability to see through a deception.
Adam forced his attention away from the conundrum of Jacobs. He plopped himself down on a rock beside the professor, who was looking a little worse for wear. Dawson’s graying, gingerish hair tufted out in odd places, and there were dark circles under his eyes.
It didn’t look as though he’d been sleeping very well. Somehow, Adam doubted it was guilt keeping the guy up at night—even though he should feel bad for the mules and men charged with carting around his small mountain of books and unnecessary gear.
“Oh. You’re here,” Dawson announced with a distinct lack of enthusiasm as he scratched uncomfortably at the skin under his collar.
“Sure am,” Adam agreed flatly. “What’ve you got?”
“I believe they are hives,” Dawson answered in a bit of a whine. “It’s this relentless, ungodly heat. Perhaps I simply lack the robust constitution of these natives, but I am most put out by it.”
Adam glanced back at Staines and caught the guard rolling his eyes.
“I meant your map,” Adam returned.
Dawson made a face like he’d just sucked on a lemon, but he handed over what he’d been working on. Once again, it was all scribbled onto a piece of notepaper. The professor was still apparently afraid to put marks on his map.
Adam took the page with a sigh. He glanced over it for a few seconds before tossing it back to the professor.
“Nope,” he concluded and moved to the table.
Dawson scooted away as though Adam were carrying something contagious.
“That was an interesting find we came across this morning,” the professor said carefully as Adam worked. “I mean the monument, of course.”
“Uh-huh,” Adam replied without looking up. He made another note on the map.
“It certainly seems to indicate that we are on the correct path—a fact which I must concede we owe to some degree to your labors,” Dawson added with a thin note of cheer.
Adam frowned. The remark had sounded suspiciously like a compliment… a compliment for the work that Adam had been extorted into doing for the men who were currently marching him around at the wrong end of an Enfield.
Adam reined in a threatening flash of anger. He couldn’t afford to lose his temper—however tempting it might be. Not with Ellie’s skin on the line.
“Glad to be of service,” he retorted.
Dawson appeared to be oblivious to the sarcasm.
“Yes—It seems that despite appearances, you are rather a useful fellow!” the professor mused. “I have been giving the matter a bit of thought, and I am forced to acknowledge that really, your particular combination of talents is quite rare. I mean, I have come across university men with pretensions of thriving in the wilderness, but it has always been quite clear to me that their capacity for survival in the wild depended entirely on the skills of their hired hands. That is certainly not the case with you!”
The last remark sounded a bit chummy. Adam paused in his work and slowly turning his head to give Dawson a better look.
The professor smiled back at him with an expression that managed to look both bland and nervous… but it was the avaricious glint in Dawson’s eyes that really set Adam’s alarm bells blaring.
Dawson wanted something from him. Nothing about that sounded promising to Adam.
“Hired hands have kept me from doing something extremely stupid more times than I can count,” Adam returned bluntly.
Dawson chuckled awkwardly. “Yes, well. We all have things to learn, don’t we? As Socrates said, the wise man knows what he does not know.”
“‘I know that I know nothing,’” Adam corrected.
“Sorry?” Dawson said.
“That’s the quote. ‘Ipse se nihil scire id unum sciat.’” Adam made another mark on the map. “Not saying I agree with it.”
Dawson blinked at him again before forcing another smile.
“Right, right—of course,” he easily agreed—a little too easily. “Personally, I am happy to admit that I know far less of navigating through uncharted areas than you do.” He finished with an awkward little chuckle.
Adam’s pencil stilled.
Dawson was trying to get on his good side. The professor clearly resented the notion that a filthy, half-dressed guy from the woods was better at navigating than he was, so there had to be a reason for that… one that had nothing to do with lines on a map.
Adam decided to stay quiet. In his experience, people like Dawson would keep talking for as long as they could get away with it. Dawson would probably spill the beans about whatever he really wanted if Adam simply let him ramble for a while longer.
Sure enough, after a few seconds, the professor continued blabbing.
“I wonder what a man with your unique combination of talents might be able to accomplish if he were granted more resources than those available to you in this backwater colony?” Dawson mused.
Adam wondered if Dawson had any idea that what he’d just said was actually an insult.
“My resources are fine, thanks,” Adam replied.
Dawson gave a more genuine sounding laugh.
“Perhaps you would feel a little differently once you have seen what a great deal of money can offer you!” Dawson said.
Adam had seen it. He’d seen it, and then turned around and walked away from it the first chance he got. In his experience, a great deal of money sent you scrambling for as much more of it as you could possibly acquire, and to hell with anyone who got in your way in the process.
He didn’t bother voicing this to Dawson. The guy wasn’t worth the conversation.
“You know, I have been considering asking Mr. Jacobs to secure your services for a further bit of work once we reach our destination,” Dawson said thoughtfully.
Adam set the pencil down.
“Oh?” he said.
His tone came out more threatening than he’d intended. Behind him, Staines took a step back and shifted his grip on the rifle.
Dawson didn’t seem to notice. He was frowning down at a bit of dirt on his cuff.
“Our expedition is of a unique nature,” the professor continued. “We have a particular goal once we reach the ruins, and I for one am interested in accomplishing it as quickly and efficiently as possible! It occurs to me that you might be quite useful in that regard.”
Dawson said it as though Adam’s cooperation weren’t dependent upon Jacobs threatening to inflict violence on Ellie.
“Might I,” Adam returned flatly.
He forced himself to swallow back the rest of what he wanted to say—which more or less amounted to telling Dawson exactly where he could shove his request for further cooperation. He could hear Ellie’s voice in the back of his head. If she was here, she’d absolutely be telling him to play along and get as much information as he could out of Dawson so that they could learn more about exactly who they were up against—and what they really wanted.
Adam hated playing along with things. It was one of the main reasons he had walked out of his old life. He was also flat-out bad at it. Adam was the sort of guy who said whatever he was thinking. He’d always kinda liked that about himself.
But imaginary Ellie was right. As satisfying as it would be to tell Dawson to shove it where the sun didn’t shine, Adam probably had more to gain by trying to draw the professor out.
It wasn’t going to be pretty—but to hell with it.
Adam focused his full attention on Dawson, who looked startled to find himself on the receiving end of it.
“At our destination—what would you be looking for from me?” he demanded bluntly.
Dawson perked up.
“Ah! Well—I’m afraid I can’t tell you too much about it at this point in our venture,” he noted coyly. “Suffice to say that our interests in the ruins of Tulan are more… focused than a simple survey or excavation.”
Adam sighed. He had a pretty good idea of what ‘focused interests’ in an archaeological site meant.
“Right,” he replied. He rubbed the bridge of his nose as his frustration and dismay rose. “So you’re collectors.”
“My, my!” Dawson returned. “You are more clever than you let on, Mr. Bates.”
Adam dropped his hand and treated Dawson to a flatly bewildered stare. Did the man have any idea how condescending he was?
“We are indeed collectors,” Dawson continued, and then raised an abrupt hand. “I will say no more. The nature of our collection is… rather unique in a manner that I am not at liberty to share. But there is a particular artifact that we believe may reside at Tulan, which you might aid me in securing—and that would be aid for which both I and my organization would be very grateful.”
Adam wondered if Dawson’s gratitude meant a good goddamn to Mr. Jacobs—who was obviously the boss here, whatever pretensions of authority Dawson might have. The professor made it sound like he was part of something elite and desperately important… but desperately important people didn’t get bossed around by murderous street thugs.
More likely, Dawson was a minion, Adam thought as the professor slapped angrily at another buzzing mosquito. The professor wasn’t overly enamored with his current assignment, and he thought maybe Adam could get him out of it a bit faster.
Adam knew the type. They were usually a type that he threw his drink at. He didn’t have a drink at the moment, which was probably for the best.
He crossed his arms and pinned Dawson with a look.
“How am I supposed to help you find your special thing if you won’t tell me what it is?” he demanded.
Dawson gaped at him, and then snapped his mouth shut. The professor was clearly weighing his commitment to secrecy against his very real desire to get the hell out of the back country as quickly as possible.
The latter apparently won out—at least enough to shift the balance a bit.
“It is something which is almost certainly secured in the ritual heart of the ruins,” Dawson carefully offered. “Or in a location that would not have been accessible to the general populace, but only to the religious and political elites. And it will be… black,” he added awkwardly. “Black and flat.”
Adam frowned. He’d been expecting more of the usual stuff collectors lusted for—like pornographic vases or things made of shiny important metals.
Adam didn’t know any shiny important metals that were black.
“How big is it?” he asked.
Dawson was starting to look nervous.
“I… Well, I’m not sure I can say precisely.”
“Like—a little teeny something?” Adam held apart his fingers to demonstrate. “Or hand sized? Maybe a dinner platter?”
“Mirror sized,” Dawson blurted. The professor was starting to sweat more than he routinely did. He glanced around the camp as though looking to see who might be able to hear them. “It would be—ah—mirror sized.”
“What the hell is mirror sized?” Adam retorted.
“Shhh!” Dawson urged, slightly panicky. “Please! I… Just… That’s all I can say about the matter. Really, I should think it would be quite sufficient.”
And abruptly… it was. A connection zipped to life in Adam’s brain as he recalled a phrase that he had seen scrawled in Dawson’s notebook on the night he and Ellie had been captured.
The Smoking Mirror.
Ellie had rattled on about the Smoking Mirror. It was the meaning behind the disk icon on her medallion—the one that Jacobs had stolen off her when they arrived at the camp. She’d described it as some magical artifact through which people had supposedly been able to see the past and the future. She’d mentioned it being associated with the legendary city of Tulan.
Apparently, Dawson had read the same books.
But Ellie had described the mirror as a myth. Dawson wouldn’t need Adam to help him dig up a myth.
The implication was obvious. Dawson didn’t think the mirror was a myth. He thought the damned thing was real—and he’d just asked Adam to find it for him.
“Hell,” Adam blurted.
“I beg your pardon?” Dawson said, stiffening.
Adam scrambled for a recovery. He slapped at his neck and wiped his hand off on his filthy shirt. “Botfly,” he lied.
Dawson’s eyes widened with alarm.
“Isn’t that the one that lays eggs under your skin?” he demanded as he scrambled to his feet.
“Er… Now that you mention it,” Adam replied with a spark of wicked inspiration.
Dawson looked around himself wildly.
“Are there more of them?” he pressed.
“Probably.”
Dawson scampered for his tent.
“Thank you, Mr. Bates. You’ve been most helpful,” he called back over his shoulder.
“But I…” Adam looked back down at the map. “Ah, hell with it.”
He made a final mark along their projected route, rolled the page up, and tossed it after the retreating professor.
“That should take us to this River of Smoke,” he said. “Whatever that turns out to be.”
“Marvelous. Excellent. Good evening,” Dawson retorted, and then yanked shut the flaps.
Staines frowned at Adam with the rifle held loosely in his hands.
“The botfly doesn’t put eggs in you. He gives them to the mosquito, and the mosquito puts them in you,” Staines said flatly.
“Yup,” Adam confirmed.
Staines shook his head.
“Crazy bakra,” he muttered and marched Adam back across the camp.