Squeezed back into the center of the small truck’s cab, Angela twisted her head around and peered through the tiny rear window to see Anku’s two bare legs standing up in the back of the truck, towering over the top of the cab as they drove with wind blowing through his hair.
“Is he okay back there?”
“It’s where he always rides,” Morton said, reaching forward to pop a small cassette tape into the vehicle’s stereo. Instantly, the imperial death march from Star Wars played, and Morton turned it up loudly and slid the back window open. “He loves it,” he said with a shrug. “Something about being surrounded by ancestral spirits.”
“We’re on a mission,” she smiled.
“Yeah. But he does it no matter where we go.”
Morton drove aggressively down the tiny road, now reduced to little more than two-foot paths side by side, winding through tall, brightly glowing green grass.
“How far is La Paz?” Rickards asked.
“Not far. But on this road, about an hour and a half.”
Angela suddenly reached for the dash to steady herself as Morton swerved around a large hole. “You’re sure about that cipher?”
“It ain’t rocket science. Like I said, your uncle wanted his brother to figure it out. I just had to think it through.”
“So, what do you think is in La Paz?”
“Beats the hell out of me.” Morton shrugged. “But if there’s a connection between your letter and what I’m looking for, I want to know what it is.”
“Have you tried just asking Anku and Killa about Paititi?”
Morton nodded. “Multiple times.”
“And?”
“To them, Paititi is not a treasure. It’s spiritual,” he said, touching his chest. “Inside here. Which reminds me.”
He reached into his shirt pocket, popped the lid, and tossed another pill into his mouth.
Angela looked up when she heard Anku howl into the wind above the cab. “Does he know where we’re going?”
Morton kept his eyes on the road. “I don’t think he cares.”
63
“They’re moving,” said the voice. “I can spot glimpses of the truck beneath the trees. Headed south.”
“Where to?” asked Ottman.
“La Paz.”
“How long until they arrive?”
“Judging by their speed and the terrain, perhaps forty-five minutes.”
“Can we catch them?”
“Doubtful. But you will be close.”
“Do they know we’re behind them?”
“Unclear. But they do not appear particularly rushed.”
Ottman nodded and turned to Fischer, sitting beside him. “Call Fernandez. Tell him to get to La Paz with some men. Immediately. And to take them, as soon as he has the chance.”
64
By the time they’d emerged from beneath the trees and began a slow, winding climb up the mountainside, Angela was on the verge of losing what was left in her stomach. Her nausea was made most noticeably worse by the continuous switchbacks, requiring Morton to slow down to a near crawl.
With gritted teeth, she closed her eyes and tried to maintain a hold over her system.
“Try to look forward,” Rickards offered, rolling down his window.
“Great idea. I’ll try that when we’re no longer moving.”
After what felt like hours, they crested the last incline, where the road finally widened and aligned into a relatively straight two-lane paved road. Angela was now able to carefully raise her head and maintain a forward line of sight through the front windshield.
Minutes later, the first hints of houses appeared in the distance, then more, eventually forming the outskirts of Bolivia’s third-largest city.
Known as Nuestra Señora de La Paz, or Our Lady of Peace, the city had a population that topped 700,000 and rose two miles above sea level, resting in a wide canyon carved by the Choqueyapu River. A modern, gleaming cityscape set against the backdrop of Bolivia’s second-largest mountain, Illimani, distant and visible in colored hues of blue and purple beneath layers of white clouds. Below, every nook and cranny of the valley was filled with sprawling tentacles of the city, including dozens of tall buildings and skyscrapers at its heart.
“Wow,” marveled Angela.
Mike Morton slowed and gradually began to descend the other side of the ridge. “You should see it at night.”
“I can imagine.”
“It’s big,” said Rickards
“The de facto capital of Bolivia,” explained Morton. “Technically, the capital is Sucre, but this is where the government seat is.” He winked at Angela. “And it looks a lot different I’m sure than sixty years ago.”
It took thirty-five more minutes to reach the center, through narrow streets and crowded sidewalks filled with thousands of locals. It resembled any other modern city in the world at 8:30 a.m. on a workday, leaving Angela with an odd mix of both familiarity and uniqueness, even in the middle of old town, where Plaza San Francisco bordered Perez Velasco Street, a main artery of the city, carrying a thick flow of workers just a block away.
Beneath their feet, the massive concrete plaza was still slick from overnight rain, with patches of steam beginning to rise with the help of the sun overhead. Angela did a full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn before stopping on Morton and Anku. The latter peered around as if with an air of satisfaction.
“I present,” Morton said, gesturing around the plaza, “Zone Ten.”
Next to Angela, Rickards waited patiently as she blinked and scanned the area again.
“Any ideas?”
Angela shook her head. “I don’t—” She stopped while scanning the plaza, freezing on the enormous building positioned directly behind Morton. “What’s that?”
“A church.”
“Really?” she said sarcastically. “I know it’s a church. It’s the biggest thing here.”
“It’s the Basilica of San Francisco,” Morton said, nodding. “Rebuilt from the original Catholic church that founded La Paz. I took a tour last year.”
She stared at it intently, then twisted slowly toward Rickards. “Am I hallucinating?”
“The old man in Alerta.”
She nodded without taking her eyes away.
Morton looked back and forth between them. “Need to know, people.”
“We were looking for my uncle in Alerta,” Angela explained. “Before we were abducted by those men. Two of the residents didn’t know my uncle. They were too young. But the young man’s grandfather did.”
“The mayor.”
She grinned. “The mayor’s grandfather.”
“What did he say?” asked Morton.
“He couldn’t speak much. But right before the Germans showed up, he gave me a sign.”
“What kind of sign?”
“I didn’t understand at the time,” Angela confessed. “I thought he was trying to spell something. Until just now, standing here.” She looked away from the church and back at Mike Morton. Then, raising her hand in front of him, she traced the same motion that old man had made. Up and down, then left and right. “It was a cross.”
65
“A cross,” Morton said with an air of skepticism. “And he knew your uncle?”
“He seemed to,” said Rickards. “Or at least knew of him.”
“He remarked how much I looked like his picture.”
“Your uncle’s picture?” Morton asked as if studying her more closely. “Do you?”
Rickards nodded. “She does.”
“And the woman’s daughter,” said Angela, “the little girl whispered something about the Germans having been there before us.”
Mike Morton remained silent, pondering and looking up at the giant church and its tower. All constructed from light brown brick covered in dark roofing and rising high overhead. Beneath the tower, the rest of the three-story church sprawled in both directions, easily a hundred feet on either end. It was dotted with dozens of small, an
tiquated doors and windows.
“Well,” Morton finally said, shrugging. “It beats the hell out of anything I have. Let’s take a look.”
They made it nearly a hundred yards across the plaza before Angela noticed someone was missing and glanced back to find Rickards. He was standing still, halfway to the church entrance, wearing a solemn expression.
“Joe?”
His gaze fell from the large tower onto her.
“You go ahead. I think I’ll stay here.”
Angela glanced at Morton, with Anku next to him watching. “What?”
“I’ll wait here,” he repeated, before adding, “You guys take your time.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This is as far as I go.”
Angela couldn’t hide her surprise. “You don’t want to come inside?”
Rickards calmly and quietly shook his head.
She left Morton and walked back to him, lowering her voice. “What’s wrong?”
With some hesitation, he said, “I’m not a believer.”
“Neither am I. But we’re not going to mass. We’re just asking questions.”
“And I think you should.”
“But you don’t want to go.”
“No.”
Angela raised her hands in a helpless gesture. “What gives? You don’t have to be Catholic.”
“It’s not about faith, Angela.”
“Then what’s it about?”
His answer was not one she was expecting.
“Blame.”
***
It felt instantly cooler inside. Sheltered from the sun and heat, the church entrance seemed to almost glow with rays of light streaming in from multiple angles, including from the open tower directly above them. Below, thick stones reflected brightly from the floor, adding to the effect with an almost polished appearance.
Nearby, several people were milling around the large entrance, examining its walls with pictures and inscriptions before continuing farther into the church through one of many side doors.
Around them, large statues were positioned in each of the room’s four corners--one of Christ, one of Mary, and two others Angela did not recognize. On the far wall, between Christ and Mary, a wide mosaic of stained glass colored the floor beneath it with a rainbow of colors.
Still distracted from her conversation with Joe, Angela stood next to Anku and watched as Mike Morton plodded toward a large reception area against the south wall where a small patch of dark hair could be seen poking over the top of the counter. Angela realized it was a young woman intently staring down at her phone.
After a few minutes, Morton returned. “She’s going to find someone we can talk to.”
“What did you say?”
“That we need someone to tell us where Paititi is.”
“Are you serious?”
Morton frowned sarcastically. “Is everyone in Colorado as gullible as you are?”
“Then what exactly are we going to say?”
“I dunno. Depends on who it is, I guess. If we get someone who’s part of the clergy, best to just be honest. Believe me, they’ve heard it all and will know if we’re lying.”
“I’m not talking about lying. I’m talking about trying not to sound insane.”
“At this point, that may be impossible.”
***
Deacon Velez was short, with olive skin and, like Mike Morton, bald and somewhat rotund. Somewhere in his forties, he was comfortably dressed in a black, full-length cassock and approached them with a welcoming smile.
“Good morning. I was told you wanted to speak with someone.”
Morton bowed respectfully. “Good morning, Deacon Velez. Yes, we do. We have something of importance to discuss.”
“Of course.” Velez’s English was surprisingly good. “What can I do for you?”
“This is my friend Angela,” he said. “And this is Anku.”
“Very nice to meet you, Angela.” Velez smiled. He turned to Anku. “Allillachu, Anku.”
The Quechuan grinned broadly and bowed.
Morton took a step forward and spoke in a lower tone. “Deacon, is there a place we can talk in private?”
66
The deacon’s office was down a long hallway, toward the north end of the church and sparsely decorated as one might expect, with a desk, two cloth chairs and a large crucifix hanging on the wall above. On the opposite wall, a very old and very heavy bookshelf was packed with books, giving Angela the impression it had been there for multiple generations. A few feet away, an equally aged wrought iron lamp stood tall in the corner atop the room’s red carpet.
After entering, Angela glanced back. “Where’s Anku?”
Morton checked back down the hall and shrugged. “Don’t know.”
Both took a seat and waited for Velez to close the door and move behind his desk, where he calmly sat down. “Now then,” he said, “what is it you would like to discuss?”
Morton cleared his throat. “Deacon, this is probably going to sound a little loco, but we can assure you it’s not.”
Velez gave an amused smile and placed both hands together atop his desk. “Okay.”
With that, Morton turned to Angela. “Go ahead, Professor.”
***
Velez remained completely silent, listening patiently until Angela had finished. When she did, he remained quiet, digesting what she had said. Gradually, he leaned back in his chair.
“That is an interesting story,” the deacon said, dropping each hand onto an arm of his chair. He inhaled, thinking.
“Do you have a picture of your uncle?” he finally asked.
Angela shook her head. “It was taken.”
“I see.” Velez nodded. “Do you have any identification?”
“Yes!”
Angela quickly leaned to the side and reached into her right front pocket, pulling out her passport. She held it out to the deacon, who opened the small booklet and examined it.
“And where is this friend of yours, Joe?”
“He’s…outside. He didn’t want to come in.”
“Why not?” Velez asked, returning her passport.
She paused, trying to think how to explain. “It’s complicated.”
“Hmm.” The deacon nodded and took another moment to think, briefly scratching his cheek. “I have been a deacon at this church for a long time. Fourteen years. Clearly not long enough to have met or known your great-uncle. But the head priest I arrived under, Father Mamani, had been here for many years before I.”
“May we speak with him?”
“I’m afraid not. He passed several years ago. A wonderful man from whom I learned a great deal, and I’m sure would have been very interested in hearing your story.”
Velez grew thoughtful again, looking at both of them before suddenly standing up. “Please come with me.”
Out of his office, he led them down the same hall until they reached the end. He stopped at a large wooden door, closed and secured with a heavy black latch.
With some effort, Velez slid the long latch to the left with a loud clunk and pulled the door toward them. It swung outward with a loud, piercing squeak.
He reached in and flipped on a light, then motioned for them to follow as he stepped through. Around a corner, the hall descended down over dozens of stairs. At the bottom, he turned on another light, a single bulb affixed to the stone ceiling, weakly illuminating several rows of large boxes and cabinets. All were locked with individual combination locks of varying sizes.
The deacon carefully walked through them and stopped at one of the many wooden cabinets before lifting its lock and spinning the dial. Moments later, he yanked it down to release it.
Velez calmly pulled one side of the cabinet open and peered inside, searching before reaching in. He retrieved a small handheld box and turned back to face them.
“What was your grandfather’s name?”
“My grandfather? Gerald Reed.”
“And t
he relation again?”
“My uncle’s younger brother.”
Velez nodded and handed the item to her. “Then I believe this belongs to you.”
Angela took it into her hands. Another box, but small, almost cubed and bound tightly inside a thick strand of brown twine. On top of the lightly sanded wood were two words carved carefully into the lid: Gerald Reed.
A stunned Angela looked at Velez.
“Father Mamani told me the brother might still come for it someday. Or, in your case, a granddaughter.”
Her hands were trembling. She rotated the object with fumbling fingers. “Oh my G—” she whispered and suddenly caught herself. “Sorry.”
Velez smiled. “That’s all right. Something tells me He had a hand in this.”
She glanced at a fascinated Mike Morton before looking back down and tracing the twine, still tightly wound on all four sides and knotted. She began trying to get a fingernail under a piece of the knot but couldn’t. She was startled when Morton immediately produced a small knife.
She took the knife and wriggled the tip of the blade under one strand, then twisted back and forth repeatedly until it finally broke. Then she unwound the rest from around the box.
Angela nervously glanced from one man to the other and suddenly thought of Joe, wishing he was standing next to her. With a deep breath, she pushed the thought from her mind and firmly gripped both sides of the box, pulling the two pieces apart.
To her surprise, it was empty. Or nearly empty. It held only the tiniest piece of folded paper.
When unfolded, she could immediately see the handwriting was not her uncle’s. She guessed probably Father Mamani’s. It was a simple, two-word sentence.
Open it.
A puzzled Angela looked at Velez, who examined the message.
“I don’t understand.”
The deacon took a deep breath. “It means I need to take you to him.”
“To who? Mamani?”
The Last Monument Page 20