Was it paranoia, or was she really being followed, not just by one person, but by three? How long had they been tailing her?
Instead of panicking, Claire got pissed. One tail she could understand—maybe it was the guy who’d sent her the eggs. But three felt like overkill.
Claire and Nancho had ceased searching for the tomb days earlier, but she decided they would start up again. They would give an impressive performance of two people determined to find King Chaco’s tomb with a map and a metal detector. Claire would take a perverse sort of pleasure in messing with these people, at least until she figured out who they were.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Claire
Friday, March 24
As soon as Claire’s parents retired, they went a little crazy. Hiking in the Himalayas. Visiting Machu Picchu. Touring China for four weeks. Signing up for a three-month volunteer stint as teachers in Point Lay, Alaska, where meat became available only when the Inuit killed a whale, chopped it up into chunks, and gave barrels of it away to everyone in the village. Her dad still shuddered whenever she mentioned Alaska.
Her own life, however, had been considerably less exciting. Thanks to the Indiana Jones movies, everyone thought that archaeologists led dramatic lives. Not so. The drama was in the stories that unfolded as they dug and measured and examined and theorized. Not many people understood that. Claire might have carried a battered leather bag like Indiana’s, but the similarities went no further.
Yet here she was, sitting in her hotel room eating another pastry from Las Dulces, trying to wrap her head around the suspicion that she was being followed. Yesterday those three vehicles had followed Nancho’s car all the way from Chepen to Hudson’s apartment then back to La Casa del Sol, where Nancho dropped her off.
If she were being followed, and not just paranoid, her little caravan of drivers were no doubt interested in King Chaco’s tomb, since the entire country seemed to know she was here searching for it. But she wasn’t skilled enough in the art of being followed to know what to do next.
She called her mom and got the message: River rafting in Mexico. No cell service. Please leave a message. She considered calling Maggie, her oldest friend besides Hudson, but she’d worry herself into an ulcer over this. Claire couldn’t think of anyone else to call.
She sighed. Nothing like the warm, fuzzy feeling that comes over you when you realize you don’t have any friends close enough to consult about being followed in a foreign country. She tried Denis, but there was no answer. As she thought, she toyed with the stone on the leather cord around her neck. She’d taken it off the day she left Peru and put it on the moment she arrived. Not sure why. Sochi’s Mima had given it to Claire after she’d known her for a while. “It’s amazonite,” Mima said in halting English, “from the Amazon River.”
Claire had nodded. “This gem supposedly adorned the shields of the Amazons.” She shot a look at Sochi, proud that Mima thought she was tough.
But then Mima had rattled off a string of Quechua that made Sochi smile. “Mima says the stone is to calm your soul.” Claire had made a face. Her soul needed calming? More Quechua, more smiles from Sochi. “She also says the stone will awaken compassion in you by allowing you to see both sides of a problem.” Mima thought she lacked compassion?
Still, it felt right to wear the cool, light green stone around her neck. Perhaps her soul did need a little calming.
Claire skimmed through one of Denis’s books on the Chimú. Human sacrifice—of both girls and young women—was a routine part of the ceremony when a ruler died. The ruler was buried with all the food and riches he would need on his journey, along with the bodies of llamas to carry his possessions and the bodies of women to act as his attendants.
Her heart lurched. Was Ixchel to be one of these sacrifices? No, there was no reason to think that. Still, Claire couldn’t bear the thought of one day gripping the egg only to witness Ixchel’s death.
She stood, frustrated, and began pacing her small room. She’d spoken with Señora Facala. She knew that NP must have known the location of the tomb since he possessed the eggs. Her brain spun in ever-tightening circles, for now she was right back where she started. If NP knew the location, why did he need her? He had to be dead. If so, who had stolen the eggs from Señora Facala?
Claire stopped, staring out her picture window into the courtyard below. Could the person who’d stolen them be the one who’d sent them to her? Was he or she one of the people following her? Or a hired thug? Private investigator? It was like constructing a jigsaw puzzle without the image on the box.
She let her mind wander. Would the CNTP have more complete records she could use? Claire imagined herself in her most provocative dress (she actually owned only one dress, so it would have to do), her legs still looking great despite the few extra pounds. She’d sashay into the CNTP office and give Sochi nothing but a haughty glance as she Marilyn-Monroed her way down the central hallway to the research library.
Claire scrolled through her contact list and stopped just before she dialed Sochi.
“Whoa!” She put down the phone. No, no, no.
Well, wait. Maybe she should just call her and get it over with.
She couldn’t. Finally, Claire dialed her boss. “Hey, are you still in business even though I’m gone?”
“Just barely,” Mac said. “The bankruptcy lawyers are circling like buzzards.”
“How’s Roger?”
“Much better. He misses you.”
“When I get home, may I have him?”
“To borrow or to keep?”
“To keep. I like how his feet smell.”
“You’re a bizarre woman, Claire.”
She chuckled. “Roger’s a lucky dog to be so loved. But he’s not why I’m calling. I have a question for you,” Claire said. “If you were in Peru and suspected that your car was being followed by two, possibly three people, what would you do?”
She could imagine his face screwing up in surprise. “Hmm. Which foreign country? Iraq? Iran? Indiana?”
“Peru.”
“Peru, Indiana?”
“No, the Peru.”
“And here I thought you’d gone off to Mazatlan or something.”
Claire chuckled. “Nope. Trujillo, Peru. What would you do? Call the police?”
There was a long pause. “Claire, does this have anything to do with all the rumors going around when you came to work for me, stuff about you being in Peru and hearing voices of the dead?”
She clenched her jaw. They’d never talked about that, so Claire assumed he hadn’t known.
“Possibly. I suppose you think I’m a freak for hearing voices.”
“Nah. My grandmother saw ghosts. Used to scare the crap out of me. I’d be sitting in the living room with her, and she’d start talking to someone—not me—even though we were the only two in the room. Said she was talking to the nice woman in the long dress and big hat with a feather in it.”
“Wow.”
“So what if you heard voices? The world’s full of crap we can’t understand. Do you know why these people are following you?” She could hear his chair creak as he leaned back, assuming his thinking position.
“They know I’m looking for something and they probably want it.”
“So you’re not in danger until you find this something.”
“That’s my guess.”
“I wouldn’t call the cops. I’d get out of the car, walk through an area full of people so you’ll be safe, then take quick peeks over your shoulder to see if they follow you on foot.”
“And if they do?”
Mac’s breathing deepened as he considered her question. “I’d either stop looking for this something and get my ass out of Peru, or I’d lead them on such a wild goose chase that they would give up and leave me alone.”
Her plan clicked into place at his words. “Mac, you’re brilliant.”
“If that’s true, then why did I hire Bob?”
“Gotta go. Than
ks!”
She drained the last of her tea as she planned her route. Downtown Trujillo wasn’t huge—a grid of seven streets crossed by eight streets—so it was very walkable. The whole thing was bordered by Avenida España, which traced the site of the original wall that had surrounded Trujillo. The area enclosed by the Avenida was shaped, ironically enough, like an egg. If she walked to the Plaza de Armas, the approximate middle of the egg, then she could visit a few churches to put Mac’s plan in motion.
One block brought her to the Plaza, where she strolled past its handful of towering palm trees and the Freedom Monument, which celebrated the city’s proclaimed independence from Spain in 1820. Then before she crossed the street to the yellow and white Cathedral, she used the excuse of looking for oncoming traffic to glance over her shoulder. A Japanese man in a suit stood off to her left, supposedly reading a newspaper in the middle of the sidewalk. Otherwise, people were in groups of two or three, or waiting for the traffic light with her.
Claire strolled past the Cathedral, then turned left and walked up Pizarro and over to Bolivar to the El Carmen Monastery. This massive white building took up the entire block, its horizontal trim painted a deep red. By now, some of the foot traffic had dropped away, but there were still a fair number of people on the street. At one point, she shifted her bag from across her chest to just dangling from her shoulder. She let it fall a few minutes later and saw a woman behind her quickly turn away, a beautiful woman, tall with bountiful black hair and sunglasses. She wore slacks and a pale yellow blouse.
As Claire passed by the church, the only other person who caught her eye was a native man dressed much as she was—cargo pants and a black tank top that revealed muscles much more impressive than hers. He had cheekbones sharp as anvils, just like Señora Facala had described. Claire’s heart beat a little faster. Might this be the person who’d sent her the eggs?
She’d planned to do an about-face and retrace her steps, but for some reason she didn’t want to walk right past these people. So she walked down to Ayacucho and turned right, heading back toward the Church of San Agustin, which was only a block from where she’d started. Hyper-intent on the people behind her, she forgot that the CNTP building—two stories of pink stucco—was on Ayachucho until she walked right by it. Claire held her breath as she picked up the pace. What if Sochi came out the front door right now? What would Claire say? She’d stop and say, “Your betrayal told me more about our relationship than a ring ever could.” She’d thought of that bit of stinging dialogue this morning in bed, and resolved to use it should she find herself face-to-face with Sochi.
A block later, Claire’s breathing returned to normal. She pretended to bump into a guy and drop her bag again. The Japanese man, the gorgeous woman, and the man with the cheekbones were all still behind her. How much more evidence did she need?
The Church of San Agustin was a lovely cream building with twin towers, its horizontal features also painted brick red, which seemed to be a theme in Trujillo. Claire stepped inside the quiet church and moved down the aisle. There was no service in progress, but fifteen or twenty people were scattered around, sitting or kneeling in prayer. When she slid into an empty pew, her three shadows did the same. Either they were terrible at following people, or they just didn’t care if she knew they were there.
She texted Denis: Please come to San Agustin. Need help.
Twenty minutes later, the pew shifted as Denis sat down beside her. “What is it, mi hija? Spiritual crisis?”
“See the man over my left shoulder? Japanese in the expensive suit.”
Denis took a look. “No Japanese guy in a suit.”
Claire verified that the guy was gone. “Then over my right shoulder. Indigenous guy in black tank.”
“No indio back there.”
Damn it! He was gone too. She blew out a huge breath. “How about the black-haired woman behind me in the yellow blouse?”
Denis turned and looked. “Ah, yes. She’s lovely.”
“She’s been following me all morning.” Footsteps of the worshippers echoed in the soaring church.
“Too shy to ask you for a date?”
She smacked Denis on the knee. “Three people have been following me.” She explained about the cars yesterday and now this morning. “Who are these people?”
Denis worried his upper lip. “I do not know the woman.”
“Could she be La Bruja?”
“No, she isn’t.”
“Wait a minute. You don’t know her, but you know she’s not La Bruja. Logic tells me you, therefore, know La Bruja.”
He waved her comment aside. “Fallacious logic. But because the two men left, I suspect they know me, or know who I am, and didn’t want to be seen following you.”
As they discussed the possibilities, Denis texted someone once, but otherwise he gave Claire his complete attention. They suspected that one of the people might be working for Carlos Higuchi—likely the Japanese guy, and one of them working for La Bruja—her bet was on the native man. They had no idea about the woman. “But the native guy could be the one who stole the eggs from Señora Facala and sent them to me,” Claire said.
“Possible. Who else knows you have the eggs?”
“You.” She hesitated, then told him about the Ixchel visions. “I’m going to see a shaman to ask about the visions, but otherwise no one knows I’m having them.”
He frowned. “This is a mess. Both La Bruja and Higuchi would love to get their hands on the treasure buried in the tomb with Chacochutl. The man who sent you the eggs could be associated with one of them, or acting entirely on his own.”
Claire shifted on the hard pew, ready to get back into the sunshine. “I’d like to put both of those looters out of business.” She lowered her voice as an elderly couple sat down a few rows ahead of them. “Why won’t you tell me the identity of La Bruja?”
“I didn’t say I know it. But between the two, she is the lesser of two evils. She makes sure everything her men find stays in Peru. She sells to me, to other collectors, and to small, private museums that don’t require authentication.”
“Do you think I’m in any danger?”
“From La Bruja and her men? No. They won’t harm you. But remember that Higuchi has his fingers in all sorts of things—drugs, and legitimate businesses as well—and that he does not hesitate to use violence to advance his goals. His influence is hidden, like the roots of an old tree. You can’t see them, but underground lies a network of complex connections that could harm the tree if severed. So it worries me that one of his men might be following you.”
It worried Claire, too.
They stood and hugged. “I think I’ll stay for a few minutes,” he said softly. “I hear confession is good for the soul.” A tour bus must have just unloaded outside because the volume of voices increased. “If I were you, I’d exit through the side door over there. You’ll avoid the tourists.”
“Good idea.” Claire worked her way toward the right side of the church and entered the narrow hallway, which was made even narrower by two rows of stacked chairs. She squinted at the bright light streaming through the open door, which made the hallway dark as a tomb. A woman, probably trying to adjust to just stepping into the dark hallway, was silhouetted by the sun as she walked toward her. Claire turned sideways to make room, even prepared to smile politely as she passed.
Claire froze directly across from the woman. Ice blue eyes. Shock of short white-blond hair. Caramel skin.
The woman stood just as paralyzed. Sochi Castillo.
Fuck a duck. Sochi Castillo stood right in front of her. Claire’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. Her own shock must have been reflected in Sochi’s face—wide eyes and open mouth. Claire scanned her and she scanned Claire. Sochi had lost weight. Where was the glowing skin, the generous hips?
Concentrate! When Claire trained new movers at work, she pounded home the idea of thinking through every step, of planning ahead to see trouble spots before they happened. She�
�d planned for her first encounter with Sochi. Now was Claire’s chance to tell her how much she’d hurt her. To proclaim, “Your betrayal told me more about our relationship than a ring ever could.” The words jammed up like moviegoers trying to flee a burning theater. Her heart raced. Then, without saying a word, Claire turned and ran out the building.
She made it twenty feet down the block before she collapsed against the church. Her hands shook. Her knees shook. Her teeth rattled.
Idiot! Instead of saying what needed to be said, she ran away. Instead of confronting Sochi about the letter, she ran away. Claire straightened and kept walking in case Sochi followed her. She didn’t want to talk to her because the shaking wasn’t from fear.
Claire shook with anger.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sochi
Friday, March 24
Sochi staggered into the church, but Denis was nowhere to be seen. Of course not. The fucking asshole. He’d set her up. Meet me in the east side entrance, he’d texted. She reached for the nearest pew and lowered herself before her legs collapsed. She gasped for air, drawing a scowl from a nearby worshipper.
Sochi held her head in shaking hands. Gods, what an idiot. Claire had been there, right in front of her, but Sochi hadn’t been able to make her mouth or her brain work. All she could do was scan Claire’s body and think how lush it’d become. And think about how much she hated her. And tremble. All she could do was stand there and tremble.
Sochi grasped her hands together, forcing them to stop shaking. She was so angry she wanted to run up to the altar and scream. Angry with Denis, angry with Claire for leaving her, for sliding that hateful letter under her door, and angry with herself for not pulling off the scornful reunion she’d planned for three years.
After thirty minutes, she was able to stand and leave the church. As she drove back to work, her brain spun with all the things she should have said. She’d been dreading running into Claire, but now she wanted it to happen again so she could have the chance to do it right.
By the time she pulled into the parking lot, she’d pushed thoughts of Claire Adams away. She would focus on what she could control, so she marched into Aurelio’s office and gave him the bad news: NanoTrax was DBA, dead before arrival.
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