by Beth Ciotta
It had been five years since River had last heard from her father. And that had been a lame greeting card, condolences on the passing of her maternal grandpa. As if the selfish bastard really cared.
She nosed the van toward home.
Important.
What could it be? In addition to the surprise package, she was reeling from the possibility that her estranged father and fiancé were in the same foreign region. David was actually in Peru. Wasn’t that just south or east of Ecuador? The coincidence was just too weird.
Taking her usual route, River zipped through town and pulled into her designated driveway. She eyed the two-bedroom rancher she’d inherited from her grandparents, much smaller than the one she’d planned to buy with David. For a moment she marveled that she’d been willing to part with it. Though lacking in warm, fuzzy memories, it was the only place she’d ever been able to truly call home. Her grandparents, though reluctant guardians, had taken her in when she was thirteen. The same year her mom had died. The same year she’d cursed her father to hell, thereafter referring to him as Henry.
Months later, in a fit of remorse, she’d tried to mend that bridge, but her efforts had failed, driving a bigger wedge between father and daughter. River had many regrets, but mostly she was bitter. If her parents had loved her more, if they’d been less weird, she wouldn’t have developed the eccentricities that had driven David away.
Suddenly, the tears she’d been holding at bay for two long weeks threatened to flow. River steeled her body, her mind. She would not, could not, lose control. Gulping fresh air, she plopped on the front stoop and opened the package.
Nerves jangling, she clutched the contents, seeing but not believing.
Not a book. A journal. Embossed brown leather, bulging and bound by a green elastic band. River smoothed her fingers over the worn cover. She had few memories of Henry, but she remembered him scribbling in a small, fat book that he carried in his pocket. No, not a book. A journal. This journal. Or at least a predecessor.
Her heart raced as the past stared her in the face. She’d wondered back then what he was writing, but when she’d asked, he’d blown her off. “Data,” he’d said, as if that explained it all. Later, her mom had described data as documented observations and revelations about his studies. She’d likened his journal to a diary. “For his eyes only,” she’d said.
Never in a million years had River dreamed she’d get a peek inside Henry’s journal, let alone an invitation to peruse at will. Was this his way of reaching out, of reconnecting? Was she supposed to feel honored? Relieved? Giddy with anticipation?
The soft leather didn’t comfort her as she slid off the band, carefully, as though the journal might be ticking.
She found yellowed, stained and smudged pages. Scribbles and tiny crammed handwriting in margins—handwriting she had seen so few times—and diagrams that held no immediate meaning.
But she also found photographs. Ones she’d never seen. Photos of her. Of her mom. Of them as a family. She’d never figured Henry as sentimental. She was trying to process the notion when a trifold paper slid free and fell to the ground. Hands trembling, she unfolded the weighty stationery and found an object wrapped in tissue. It was small, but heavy. An amulet? It resembled a cross, except it had several corners and a hole in the middle. All she could tell for sure was that it was gold. And old.
Setting it aside, she read the handwriting on the stationery—the same tight, cramped writing as in the journal.
Dear River,
To prove my love—which I know you doubt—I am trusting you with a monumental secret.
I have discovered something men would kill to possess. If you receive this package, it means I am sacrificing my life to protect a precious treasure. I’m gifting you with my journal and sweat of the sun so that you’ll understand the choices I’ve made. Share it with no one except Professor Bovedine and beware of the hunters.
I love you, Daddy
What the…?
Anger burned away her nerves.
Was he kidding? I love you? “I’m sacrificing my life”? What did that mean?
Frustrated, River read the note again…and again. Even when he told her he loved her he couldn’t get it right. The tender declaration was overshadowed by his cryptic dramatics.
I am sacrificing my life.
Beware of the hunters.
Was he in mortal danger, already dead or just nuts? How like Henry to talk in riddles. He was a brilliant but odd bird who’d grown more eccentric with age. An archaeologist who’d found it increasingly difficult to secure grants to fund his expeditions due to his bullheaded, hot-dog nature. He’d refused to curb his obsession with discovering legendary treasures even when it would have meant security for his family.
She palmed the gold amulet.
Was this a portion of what he’d found in an excavation? Or, like the photos, a sentimental souvenir? It didn’t surprise River that he’d choose some treasure over her, but over life? Surely, he hadn’t meant that literally. Not that she cared.
Except, to her surprise and dismay, she did. Just a little. Just enough to phone Professor Bovedine, her father’s oldest friend and perhaps the sole professional associate who hadn’t believed Henry Kane was an inept kook. If anyone could make heads or tails out of this cryptic letter, it was Paul Bovedine.
Luckily, unlike her father, Bovedine had made it a point to check in with River throughout the years, hence his number was programmed into her cell.
She gripped the phone in one hand, the journal in the other. She held her breath until someone answered.
“Professor…” sniffle, “Bovedine’s residence. How may I…” gulp, “help?”
“Mrs. Robbins?”
“River?” Professor Bovedine’s housekeeper burst into a sob. “River. Professor Bovedine is dead.”
“Dead?” River felt the world shift away, just a little farther. “How? When?”
“Yesterday. Someone broke into the house. Professor Bovedine returned early from the university and…the police said it was a bungled burglary.”
River couldn’t believe her ears. Yes, Bovedine collected antiquities, but he donated or sold them to museums. He was a lifelong bachelor who traveled frequently and cared little for material possessions.
From what she remembered of his rambling old house, there was little of value.
Beware of the hunters.
River stared at the letter.
I have discovered something men would kill to possess.
No. It was too bizarre. Henry’s discovery and Professor Bovedine’s death could not be connected.
Share it with no one except Professor Bovedine.
She hadn’t shared the journal. She hadn’t shared any news at all. She hadn’t had the chance.
“We haven’t heard from you in several months, River. How odd that you called today. The timing…” She hiccupped over a sob. “A package from your dad yesterday. A phone call from you today. And the professor, he…he missed them both.”
River nearly dropped her phone. “A package? What was in it?” She regretted the insensitive question as soon as it popped out. She should’ve asked about Bovedine’s funeral arrangements.
If Mrs. Robbins thought the inquiry rude, she didn’t pause. “I don’t know, dear. The mail came early yesterday. I put the package on the professor’s desk and left to do my weekly shopping. I’m sure it’s around here…somewhere. The burglars ransacked the house and I’m not allowed to clean until the investigation is…over. It’s just so…awful.”
River tried to console the sobbing woman, but her efforts were lame. Though heartsick over Professor Bovedine’s senseless death, fury snaked though her system. What if Henry’s mysterious package had somehow contributed to Bovedine’s death? Just as his selfish behavior had contributed to her mom’s?
Her mind exploded with a verbal rant. Her body trembled with suppressed emotions. She physically ached to have it out with Henry Kane, to address and resolve old
and new issues. In the next mental bout, she blasted her ex for being a selfish, heartbreaking weasel!
Closure.
In the midst of Mrs. Robbins’s teary walk down memory lane, River had an epiphany. She needed closure with her past in order to map a new future. Closure with her father and David. Never mind that it meant traipsing into the wild and battling deep-rooted fears. Suddenly, there was nothing more important than facing her demons. For the first time since David had dumped her, she had direction.
River clung to that thought as she tenderly ended the conversation with Mrs. Robbins. She didn’t mention she’d also received a package from Henry. Why tempt questions she couldn’t answer? Her father’s letter had effectively sealed her lips. Except to Bovedine, and Bovedine was dead. That ugly truth reinforced River’s decision to take action. What if Henry’s ravings had merit? What if he was in genuine danger? Or in danger of going genuinely bonkers? If she didn’t at least try to save him from whatever mess he’d stumbled into, she’d never be able to live with herself. For better or worse, he was her dad.
Rescue and closure.
Rescue and closure.
Mind racing, she tucked the amulet and journal into her satchel and squirted sanitizer into her hands.
True, most tropical diseases were transmitted by insects and parasites, but just her luck, she’d be the first person in history to be infected by a malicious jungle germ clinging to the pages of a crusty journal.
That’s Grandpa Franklin talking.
Cursing her germ phobia, one of David’s top three complaints, River blocked out the haunting voices of her pessimistic, dysfunctional family. She could, she would do this.
Moving into the house, she fired up her laptop and ran a mental checklist. She had to move fast and she had no idea how long she’d be in South America. Her next booking was three weeks away—the bells-and-whistles church wedding of Kylie McGraw and Jack Reynolds. Although Kylie was a fairly new friend, she was a good friend and a kind soul. Aside from the professional obligation, River felt personally compelled to afford Kylie and Jack ample time to hire a different photographer. In addition, she’d have to give Ella some sort of explanation for her hasty departure without telling her about the contents of the journal.
Typing Cheap Airfares into her search engine with one hand and dialing her assistant with the other, River decided to stick to the generic truth. “Ella? Heads up. You’ll have to handle the studio for the next couple of weeks.”
“Are you having a meltdown?”
“No. I’m flying to South America to get my life back.”
CHAPTER TWO
Cajamarca, Peru, South America Altitude 8,900 feet
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN they canceled the shoot?”
“An executive decision.” Spenser McGraw thumbed his cell to vibrate and placed it beside his empty beer bottle as Gordo Fish, his friend and professional sidekick, dropped into an opposing chair. The popular café buzzed with good cheer, offsetting the men’s grim expressions.
They’d flown from the Scottish Highlands to South America to film an episode for the popular cable show, Into the Wild. Spenser was the talent. Gordo was the one-man camera/audio crew. Now instead of exploring “The Legend of El Dorado,” instead of searching for a lost city of freaking gold, they’d been ordered to cool their heels in Cajamarca until the show’s new producer and a board of equally young turks hammered out the details of a new adrenaline-charged adventure. Spenser met his friend’s baffled stare. “They want to introduce an element of danger into the show.” Gordo frowned. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“Something tells me Necktie Nate is behind this.”
The nickname they’d given to Nathan Crup, their new Armani-suited producer. “Probably.”
“Has that asshole watched even one episode from the past five seasons?” Gordo complained. “We’ve battled extreme elements and hostile people. Survived mud-slides, cave-ins, avalanches and assorted injuries.”
“None of them life threatening.”
“Like hell. What about the time I got food poisoning in Cairo?” Spenser found it amusing that a man who’d endured extreme temperatures, snakebites and altitude sickness would label the time he’d hugged the porcelain goddess in a ritzy hotel room as a near-death experience. “You weren’t even close to dying.”
“I ended up in the hospital.”
“Because you called an ambulance.”
“What I didn’t puke up shot out the other end. For three frickin’ hours. I’m telling you…” Gordo trailed off when he noticed the young woman standing next to them. “Sorry.” He squinted at her name tag.
“Yara.”
Earlier, the sultry waitress had lingered at Spenser’s table, flirting outrageously, as most women did, until he’d received the phone call from Los Angeles. Now she was back, and though she spared Gordo a glance, her focus was on Spenser. He winked, encouraging the infatuation. Yara’s pretty face and voluptuous curves were a welcome distraction from Necktie’s disappointing mandate.
Gordo cleared his throat. “Why, yes, I would like to order something. Thank you for asking, Yara.” Spenser smiled at the woman, then spoke in Spanish. “He’ll have what I’m having.”
“What are you having?” Gordo asked in English.
“Beer and tamales.”
“Forget the tamales.”
“They’re locally famous,” Spenser teased, knowing Gordo was still fixed on the Cairo incident and the
“locally famous” molokhiyya.
“Just a beer, please,” he said in Spanish. “Make that two. No, three. Two for me, one for him.” Beaming at Spenser, Yara nodded and left.
Gordo rolled his eyes. “You’re hooking up with her later, aren’t you?” Never one to screw and tell, Spenser just grinned.
“Why aren’t you more upset about the canceled shoot? You’ve been hot on exploring the possibility that El Dorado is located in Peru and not Colombia for months.” Spenser shrugged. Granted, at first he’d been royally ticked. Not just because Nate had pulled the plug on El Dorado, but because that pissant had called his Indiana Jones shtick old hat, insinuating in the next breath that Spenser was over-the-hill.
A) He didn’t do shtick.
B) Since when was he thirty-seven years old?
Shaking off the insults, he now saw the hole in the producer’s new angle. “When the board reviews Necktie’s brilliant idea, they’ll squelch it.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because it’s been done.”
Gordo narrowed his eyes. “What does Necktie want us to do exactly?”
“To canoe down the Amazon, hack through the jungle and somehow connect with a fierce tribe—
preferably cannibalistic.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Just about the cannibal part.”
“Great. So we risk malaria, piranha, jaguars and make nice with hostile indigenous peoples. And then?”
“Live with them for six months. Learn and record their ways. Survive whatever shit they sling at us.”
“It’s been done,” Gordo said with a derisive snort. “The Thrill Me, Chill Me Channel. Spock and Parnell Live With the Kaniwa.”
“Yup.”
Gordo scratched his trimmed red beard then massaged the back of his neck, his routine when mentally reviewing a situation. “Okay,” he said, waving away the chips and salsa Spenser nudged across the scarred table. “So the board nixes the living with a fierce tribe thing, but what if they still want to ratchet up the danger? We’re history-buff treasure hunters, not adrenaline junkie survivalists.” Spenser didn’t contradict the man, even though he was only partially right. Maybe Gordo didn’t get off on adrenaline rushes, but Spenser did and he experienced one every time he suspected he was closing in on a lost treasure or legendary icon. “A hundred bucks says I get a call tomorrow green-lighting the El Dorado shoot.”
“If you don’t?”
“We’ll proceed regardless.”
He wouldn’t spend a minute more than necessary in Cajamarca, the city where the Inca Empire had met its end. The capture and execution of the Incan emperor Atahualpa in 1532 launched a legend that had personally haunted Spenser for fifteen years. “Trust me, Gordo. The execs at the Explorer Channel will come around whether it’s tomorrow or a week from now.”
“Again. How can you be sure?”
“Why mess with success?”
“What?”
Spenser brushed crumbs from his fingers and voiced optimistic thoughts instead of the dark ones dwelling in the back of his brain, thanks to the suited pissant and this haunted city. “Our ratings have slipped, but overall they’re still pretty high. We’ve got fan clubs, websites and discussion boards. I’m in negotiations to write a book. We’re still at the top of our game, my friend, and the public’s curiosity regarding lost treasures and mythical icons will never die. All we have to do is Twitter about the possible changes to Into the Wild and I guarantee the execs will be deluged with complaints.”