Into the Wild

by Beth Ciotta

  “Granted,” Spenser said as he rolled the sleeping bag, “Cy’s made several expeditions in search of the treasure, but he doesn’t have the map. You do.”

  This time it was her turn to hold silent.

  Spenser slowly stood and faced her. “Tell me you didn’t put the map in your backpack.”

  “I didn’t. But my camera’s in there.”

  “So?”

  “I took a picture.”

  “Of the map?”

  “Yes!” she snapped. “Yesterday morning while you were loading up the jeep. I couldn’t make out some of the tiny words in the margins and I didn’t have a magnifying glass so I took a picture. That way I could zoom in on any section.”

  “Smart.”

  “Also, I wanted backup. What if something happened to the actual page? What if I lost it? Or someone stole it? Or…”

  What if it got wet?

  Yes, she’d put the map in a baggy but she’d gotten soaked in the downpour. Not clear through to her undies, but still.

  She reached under the tee she’d just pulled on, nabbed the treasured baggy from the cup of her bra.

  She couldn’t open it fast enough.

  Spenser just watched.

  “It’s smudged.” Her heart dropped to her toes. “I guess some moisture seeped in. Or maybe my body heat? I worked up a sweat climbing that jungle wall. And then last night when we, well, you know.

  Between that and the folded page rubbing together…” She trailed off, desperate for another hit of Alka-Seltzer.

  “How bad is it?”

  She blinked up him. He hadn’t moved. She remembered how she’d accused him of looking at the chakana like the Holy Grail. He wasn’t looking at the map or the amulet, but directly at her. He wanted her to trust him.

  “Here,” she said, moving to his side and displaying her father’s detailed drawing. “The writing in the margins. It was tiny to begin with and now it’s smudged. And this part here.”

  “Could prove a problem,” Spenser said, staring hard at every detail. “Or maybe not.”

  “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

  “You have a backup, remember?”

  “Cy has the backup.”

  Spenser passed her the map and started breaking down the tent. “He doesn’t know you took pictures of the map, angel. I didn’t know. Why would he scroll through your camera? I’d be surprised if he even knows how to use a digital. He’s pretty old-school.”

  He was still trying to make her feel better.

  She set down the map long enough to pull on his green hoodie, then shoved her arms through the sleeves of her turquoise coat. “What if he does scroll through?” She froze. “Oh, my God. The nude photos of you.”

  “Nothing Cy hasn’t seen before. Figuratively speaking.”

  “Okay. Fine. But the map. What if he decides to go it alone? Screw us. Screw Henry. Hello, eight billion?”

  Spenser wrapped her orange scarf around her neck and nudged her outside.

  She shivered as a brisk wind whipped her hair, squinted against the bright morning sun. No fog. No rain. The twisted and gnarled trees were still twisted and gnarled. There were still countless flowery bushes and cactus-like plants. There were oceans of prairie grass, too, but gone were the eerie shadows and silver-gray tones of the day before. Colors were vibrant. The sky was clear. And toward the east… Whoa. “Is that Cerro Hermoso?”

  “Impressive, huh?”

  It took her breath away. Majestic and daunting, the snowcapped volcano towered high above all else in the Llanganatis. A vast mountain of lush green and stark craggy regions, untouched by human influences and surrounded by a patchy cloud bank. Primitive. Intimidating. The Inca general had chosen his hiding place well. “How would someone survive up there alone for several months?” she wondered aloud. Every other person involved in her father’s expedition was dead. Logically, Henry was dead, too.

  She’d considered the possibility, but she’d held out for a miracle. Staring at that formidable volcano, it was hard to keep the faith.

  “Sit by the fire while I finish packing,” Spenser said softly, as if sensing her mounting distress. “I made oatmeal and coca tea. I know you’re not keen on the tea, but it’ll be another physically demanding day and we’ll be ascending.”

  She heard the rough edge to his voice. Slight, but there. “I’ll drink it.” After hearing his story last night, she’d do anything to avoid a severe case of AMS. So she’d get loopy and maybe embarrass herself. It was better than walking off a cliff.

  “The oatmeal will give you energy, along with that protein bar.”

  “Oatmeal, protein bar, tea. Got it.” She pulled her attention from the volcano and back to the problem at hand. “Back to Cy. What if—”

  “He’d have to decipher Henry’s code,” Spenser said as he continued to break camp. “Figure out the clues. That would slow him down.”

  “Did you decipher the code?” she asked with a mouthful of sweetened oatmeal.

  “Haven’t studied it enough. I’ll cross that bridge when we get there. It’s easier to spot clues and visual markers when you’re in the thick of it.”

  She was still holding the map in her free hand. “What should I do with this?”

  “I could hold on to it. Or not,” he added when she frowned. “Just stash it where you did before.”

  “But what if it smudges more?”

  “I could take a picture with my phone. Backup for the backup.” She liked the idea of having another copy of the map—insurance—but…he could send that picture to another phone or even a computer.

  “It was just a thought,” he said.

  She was being paranoid. Either she trusted this man or she didn’t. She took a leap of faith. “Do it,” she said. “Take a couple of shots. Make sure you get the whole thing.” He didn’t say anything, just took a few pictures, then folded the map and passed it back to her.

  “Don’t suppose you’ve got a fresh baggy in that backpack.” He handed her one.

  “It’s like a clown car,” she joked to lighten the mood. “Stuff just keeps coming out of there.” He grinned while stashing the remainder of the tent. “You forget, Gordo and I travel like this all the time.”

  “I didn’t forget.” She poured a second cup of tea, surveyed the daunting landscape, thought about the legend, then looked back to Spenser.

  No wonder his show was such a hit. The man was fascinating. His way of life…fascinating.

  No wonder Kylie was so crazy about her brother. There was plenty to be crazy about. River remembered how the woman’s face had lit up when she’d said she couldn’t wait to see her earthy brother in a sophisticated tuxedo. “He’ll hate it,” she’d said with a giggle.

  And Kylie would hate it if Spenser didn’t make it home in time for her wedding. She’d be positively crushed if anything bad happened to him.

  So would River.

  Brain buzzing, she glanced at the Cerro Hermoso, considered infinite possibilities.

  She had to get back her camera.

  She chugged a third cup of tea while Spenser doused the fire.

  Seconds later he was shrugging on that massive pack. “Ready, angel?” Stuffing a coca leaf between her cheek and gum, River nodded. “Let’s book.” CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  THE CONQUISTADOR WENT through blondie’s backpack a third time. Every pouch. Every pocket. He even ripped out the lining. Clothes, camera, soap, medicine, sun-block, hand sanitizer, insect repellent…

  Gator remembered how blondie had begged for bug spray instead of her wallet or expensive camera lenses during the roadside robbery. Fucking loon.

  “It’s not here,” Con said.

  Of course not, Gator thought bitterly. That would have been too easy. They’d searched the treasure hunter’s backpack, too…and his person. No map. It had to be on blondie or McGraw, and they were both missing.

  Hands on hips, Con surveyed the primitive campsite. “They should have been here with Lassite
r.”

  “Maybe they got an early start,” Gator wheezed. Christ, the air was thin up here. “Maybe they’re up ahead.”

  “Why would they separate? Why would she leave her provisions and camera? I don’t see additional tracks or evidence that they slept here.” He shook his head, shoved his aviator shades higher up his nose and peered out at the sun-drenched landscape. “No. They’re behind.”

  “Maybe they turned back.”

  “McGraw wouldn’t turn back. Not after getting this far. He wants that treasure as much as I do.” Gator raised a brow. “Know him well, do you?”

  Con didn’t answer. He hadn’t answered any of his questions last night, either, not that Gator had been all that talkative. He’d been too preoccupied with adjusting to the altitude, nursing his various injuries and catching snatches of sleep. Con had been focused on Kane’s journal.

  “Maybe blondie couldn’t keep up,” Gator said, offering an alternate scenario while Con shoved her belongings back into her pack. “Maybe they got trapped by that fog, like us.” Gator had never seen anything like it. After he and Con had deserted the copter, they’d humped it through mist, rain and wind, but when the fog had gotten so dense Gator couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, Con had stopped cold. It was the first time Gator had sensed apprehension in the man.

  They’d taken refuge in a cramped cave and that’s where they’d spent the night.

  “Get rid of the body,” Con ordered. “I’ll dispose of Lassiter’s pack. We’ll take River’s pack with us.” Gator frowned. “So we’re going to hide and wait for them to show up?”

  “No, we’re going to hurry ahead and wait for them at Brunner’s Lake.”

  “How do you know—”

  “Because Kane drew the lake in the center of the map. Part of it is on my half, the other part—”

  “But you have the first half. The half that tells you how to get there. Will McGraw know—”

  “He knows.”

  “But why there and not here?”

  “Poetic justice.” Con gathered Lassiter’s supplies.

  “Hide the body where no one will find it.”

  Two hundred pounds of dead weight. Gator usual y prided himself on his strength and endurance, but these were unusual circumstances. “Boss—”

  The man slowly turned and glared.

  If looks could kill.

  Gator was beginning to wish for death anyway. He’d exhausted his supply of herbal salve on his bruised neck and throbbing ankle. His nose hurt. His lungs and muscles burned. It was hard to think straight.

  High altitude and brutal terrain, plus it was fucking freezing. The Conquistador didn’t look cold. He wasn’t breathing hard, either. Fucker. Gator was beginning to wonder if the man was human.

  “So we hike to this lake and wait,” Gator said, straining not to wheeze. “Then what?”

  “We get the map.”

  “Without killing River.”

  “That’s right.”

  All because he wanted her for himself. With that treasure in his possession, The Conquistador could do a lot better than skinny-ass, paranoid blondie—an observation he kept to himself. “What about McGraw?” Gator asked, tipping a flask to his lips. He’d been counting on whiskey to dull his aching body and warm his chilled bones. If only it could help him breathe.

  The Conquistador shot him another one of those death stares. “He must live to mourn the loss of Miss Kane.”

  Gator would have rolled his eyes at the overdramatic drivel, but he wouldn’t put it past the man to poke them out with that damned silver spearhead he kept in his pocket. It was all he could do not to break The Conquistador’s neck, the way he’d broken Lassiter’s. But Gator needed him in order to get to the treasure. The freak navigated this region like a native, knew shortcuts and tricks that enabled them to move swiftly and silently. He’d cracked the journal’s code. Bragged he had the key to the Inca kingdom. All he needed was the map…and River Kane.

  “Since you’ve repeatedly bungled this job,” The Conquistador said, “I’m going to give you clear direction and assistance. Although you’re no good to me in your present state.” Disgusted, he tossed Gator a bottle of pills. “Take one of these. It will ease your discomfort. Then I’ll help you dispose of Lassiter and share my brilliant plan.”

  Gator hated the man’s arrogance. He hated the man. The Conquistador paid others to do his dirty work while maintaining anonymity. While dodging risk. Gator swallowed a pill and gathered his wits. Con’s arrogance, he thought in a passing moment of clarity, would be the man’s undoing. Until then Gator would do his bidding. Afterward, Gator would have it all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “THIS IS DISGUSTING,” River said.

  “I know.”

  “I mean it. This is gross. All this muck and mud. Do you know how many germs—”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Have you had your shots?”

  “I’m not a freaking dog, River.”

  “Bet that depends on who you ask.” She snorted, sighed. “Sorry. That was rude.”

  “And you’re never rude.”

  “Only when I’m not myself.”

  “Like now.”

  “You’re the one who insisted on coca.”

  “Guilty.” But not sorry, Spenser thought. The altitude was a bitch and they were pushing hard. If a coca high kept River from hurting, he’d happily deal. She’d been talking his ear off for the last twenty minutes. He didn’t mind—she was funny and interesting and, when buzzed, refreshingly unguarded—

  but it had been a long time since he’d been in these mountains and he was working hard to keep his bearings. He was also concentrating on the marshy terrain. Trekking across the páramo was a challenge.

  “So how many women have you been with?”

  “River—”

  “Sorry. So?’

  “Just keep walking,” he said.

  She saluted him and…walked right out of her boot and into the bog. “Gross!”

  “For the love of—” Spenser steadied the woman before she fell face first. He freed her pink boot from the thick, sucking mud and bit back a smile as she yanked her stocking foot from calf-deep slime.

  “It’s cold and—”

  “Disgusting. I know. Hold on.” He worked a pair of wool socks from the side pocket of his pack and helped her swap her slimy, wet sock for a thick, dry one. He slaked mud from her pant leg and shoved her foot back into her boot.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “Sure.” He glanced up. “No tirade on germs?”

  “Too distracted.”

  “By?”

  “You.”

  She was peering at him over the rims of her sunglasses. He chalked up that dreamy-eyed look to coca.

  Even so, his heart skipped. Skipped, for Christ’s sake.

  She smiled. “You’re awfully handsome.”

  “You’re awfully pretty.”

  “Sure I’m not too delicate for you?”

  “Sure I’m not too old for you?”

  She scrunched her brow. “Where’d that come from?”

  “Forget it.” He brushed a kiss over her mouth. “Come on, angel. Cy’s waiting.”

  “Cy! Right. My camera. Henry. Stop dawdling, McGraw.” She pushed out of his arms and tromped forward.

  He raised a brow when he saw her stuff another coca leaf in her mouth, but said nothing. He’d been chewing on one himself. “Let me lead,” he said, tugging her behind him. “Walk where I walk.” After a whole second of silence, she asked, “How old are you, anyway?” Damn. “Turned thirty-seven last month.”

  “Happy belated birthday.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I thought you were older.”

  “Ouch.”

  “It’s just that you’re so confident and worldly. So masculine and mature and…skilled. You know. In bed.”

  He chuckled. “Keep talking.”

  “And you’ve got all those lines. The crinkles at
the edges of your eyes. The brackets framing your mouth.”

  “Okay. You can stop now.”

  “You don’t smoke, so I’m guessing it’s a combination of sun and wind exposure and a lot of smiling.