Chase Baker and the Golden Condor: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series No. 2)

by Vincent Zandri

  The stonework is so precise, I would dare anyone to try and stick their fingernails in between the joints. Old vines and thick growth hang off of the cliff face, while large birds and bats circle around it, shooting in and out of the fog-like mist which drapes much of the mountain.

  “Look, Chase,” Leslie speaks up. “A staircase.”

  It takes me a second or two to tear my eyes away from the mammoth face carved into the rock. But when I do, I begin to take notice of the staircase that’s also been carved from out of the rock and that appears to corkscrew itself around the entire vine-covered mountain.

  “Where do you think it leads?” Leslie questions.

  “Only one way to find out.”

  I approach the stairs with the machete in hand and, after chopping away some of the vegetation which has grown over the first few steps over the years, turn to Leslie.

  “Looks like it’s been a while since someone climbed this staircase.”

  “Time’s wasting,” she says. For the first time since we entered the forest, she smiles. I recognize that smile because I’ve seen it painted on the faces of dozens of explorers I’ve met along the way from Cairo to Kathmandu. It means that Leslie is catching the fever. The very special explorer’s fever that can only come from the prospect of uncovering a piece of profound ancient history. Something that might even possess the answers to why man lives on earth and why he has evolved the way he has.

  “Follow me,” I say, taking my first step up into ancient history.

  37.

  The stairs are narrow and slippery both from the damp air and the moss growth that has formed on them over the years. With no banisters to hang onto or guardrail to keep us from falling off the side, the going is slow and precarious to say the least. Each footstep upwards feels as though I were stepping on smooth rock covered in motor oil. As we climb towards the clouds, the air becomes noticeably cooler and damper.

  Up ahead a coiled snake occupies one of the stair treads, as if guarding the mountain.

  “Leslie,” I say, “give me your gun.”

  “Great,” she says, while slowly handing me the AR-15, “more snakes.”

  As I shove the barrel into the snake’s belly, it raises its head and hisses at me, white fangs bared. Shifting the barrel so that it’s positioned just beneath the snake’s head, I lift it up off the slippery stone and send it flying off the side. A couple of seconds later we hear the distinct thump the heavy snake makes when it collides with the bush below.

  I hand the weapon back to Leslie and we proceed with our ascent. We take the climb slowly, planting our feet on treads hewn out of the obsidian rock thousands of years ago by men who had no conception about modern engineering or its mechanical tools. Yet each step could have only been carved by hand by someone who understood complex construction techniques. Methods that some would say could only have come to them from a species far older, far more knowledgeable, and perhaps more powerful than their own.

  Soon we emerge through the tree canopy. The hot sun partially penetrates the never still cloud cover so that at one minute, the sky is filled with sunshine and the next, it’s covered over entirely by thick, misting clouds. To my right, the vine-covered, black rock drips with damp condensate. To my left, huge dinosaur-like birds navigate the open air above the treetops. A few of the birds appear to be hungry hawks, searching for spider monkeys and jungle rats to fill their bellies.

  As we climb, the mountain narrows and the staircase becomes steeper, making the going even slower and more treacherous. After a time, the mouth of the cave comes into view. The mouth of the cave is also the mouth of the human face carved into the rock. Ingenious. As we close in on the cave entrance the sun once more breaks through the clouds and we are exposed to a panoramic view of the rainforest below.

  That’s when I spot the runway which has been carved out of the thick forest.

  “Do you see that, Leslie?” I say, pointing with my left arm and index finger extended. “That opening. It almost looks like a runway.”

  “What on God’s earth would a runway be doing in the middle of this ancient forest?” Leslie poses.

  I pull my binoculars out from under my bush jacket, place them to my eyes.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” I say, “but it is a runway.” Handing her the binoculars. “Look. To the far left of the landing strip is a plane. A biplane. A De Havilland Tiger Moth, just like the one Keogh Two was flying when he crashed into the trees almost eighty years ago.”

  She gazes through the binoculars.

  “Could it be the same one?”

  “The odds are against it being anything else.”

  “But he must have destroyed it when he crashed it.”

  “It’s possible the natives have somehow reassembled it, and then created a kind of false runway out of the jungle for it. Perhaps something to please the Gods.”

  “Or something to lure the Gods, or what you and I know as aliens, back to the mountain and what the mountain protects.”

  She hands back the binoculars.

  I shoot her a look. “Very good deduction, Agent. You’re learning fast.”

  “Let’s keep going,” she says. “Let’s see if a far older airplane is stored inside that cave.”

  We continue climbing, knowing that only one more short revolution around the mountain separates us from the truth about the ancient aliens and a Golden Condor.

  38.

  We come to the top of the stairs.

  Before us is the massive cave opening which also doubles as the “mouth” of the carved mountain. The opening is draped in vines, growth, and thick spider webs. There’s a strange, sweet-smelling air that’s emanating from the cave. The cool, thick air causes the curtain of webs to pulsate, like the sail on a boat continually filling with wind and then losing it.

  “Maybe you should go first,” Leslie says, that now familiar tension having returned to her voice, “since you’re the Man in the Yellow Hat.”

  “Funny,” I say, “I don’t feel like I’m wearing a yellow hat.”

  Something dawns on me then. Reaching into the bottom, left-hand pocket of my bush jacket, I pull out a small device that was sent to me by one of my fans.

  “Don’t tell me you’re going high tech on us, Chase Baker?”

  I peel off the device’s plastic protector and then, pulling out my smartphone, slide the playing card–sized device onto it as you would a zoom lens for a smartphone. Clicking onto the device’s application, I point it at the cave opening, keeping my eyes on the digital screen.

  “This is an infrared thermal camera sensor,” I explain. “If there’s something alive and moving in there, this thing will pick it up. In theory at least.”

  “Have you tried it before?”

  “I went as far as downloading the application. But then I backed off and forgot about it.”

  “You’re not comfortable with the digital age.”

  I cock my head. “I envy Keogh Two, flying here in a biplane, searching for a trail using only his eyes.”

  “You told me he used a camera. High tech for his time.”

  “I suppose,” I say, bobbing the device in my hand. “But stuff like this takes the fun out of exploration.”

  “It also decreases the chances of spontaneous attack from a dangerous predator. You should have thought about using it back there in the jungle. We might have avoided the ambush from the hostiles and the Tupac revolutionaries.”

  I shake my head. “The jungle is too massive, too filled with life of every variety. The sensors would have gone ballistic. It only works in enclosed spaces.”

  “Well, Chase, let’s put it to work.”

  Once more aiming the device at the cave, I look for a sign of life. At first, nothing appears, but then suddenly, several small blips fly across the screen.

  “Bats,” I say. “I’ll bet the mortgage those are bats.”

  “Or spiders scurrying across those webs.”

  “That too is a possi
bility, if not a probability. This is a cave after all.”

  I continue with the examination, looking for something big to appear for me in a radiant green glow. I’m just about to replace the device and the phone back into my pocket on my bush jacket when something appears and at the same time, causes my heart to skip a beat.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” I whisper, my pulse picking up.

  “What is it?” Leslie says, trying to get a look over my shoulder without losing her footing on the slippery step.

  Locking my eyes onto the screen, I see what is undoubtedly a bipedal creature that’s walking around inside the cave.

  “It’s a man, Leslie,” I say. “Most definitely a man.”

  39.

  “How can you be certain it’s a man?” Leslie says. “What if it’s a monkey? Or a gorilla?”

  “Gorillas don’t exist here,” I say. “And if memory serves me well, the largest monkey in the Amazon is a howler monkey and they’re only about a foot and a half to two feet tall. Whatever or whoever this thing is, it is walking like a man. Upright and graceful.”

  “Hostile natives?” she poses.

  “Could be,” I say. “In any case, let’s be on guard for whatever greets us on the other side of that opening.”

  Drawing my .45, I thumb off the safety. Then, pulling my LED lamp off my belt, I flick it on and take the first step toward the cave opening. With Leslie close on my tail, I reach out with the pistol barrel and break through the curtain of webs.

  “Watch your step, Les. There are vines underfoot. Stay close.”

  “I’m so close I can feel your heart beating.”

  The round, high-intensity lamp cuts through a darkness so black it feels like it’s possible to pull chunks of the stuff away with my hands. As we move in toward the heart of the cave, the air begins to warm and the once sweet smell gives way to something else. The odor of burning oil.

  I stop.

  “What’s wrong?”

  My gut speaks to me, tells me that despite the darkness, we’re being monitored by more than one set of eyes.

  “We’re not alone,” I say, my voice a hoarse whisper.

  Raising up my .45, I thumb back the hammer.

  That’s when the solid rock beneath our feet gives way.

  40.

  We’re falling rapidly, sliding on our backsides down a slide made of extraordinarily smooth stone. The steeply angled marble ramp banks and curves at sudden angles and it’s all I can do to hang on to both the LED flashlight and the pistol. Leslie is screaming, but at the same time, laughing, like she’s getting a rush from an amusement park ride.

  Then suddenly, we come to the end of the ramp by shooting out of a square-shaped opening positioned at ground level in the wall. We land softly on our backsides onto a stone floor, the momentum causing us to slide for maybe an additional five or six feet.

  When I’m able to get my bearings, I shoot Leslie a look. “You okay, Les?”

  But she doesn’t look at me. Her eyes are fixated on something dead ahead.

  “You were right,” she says. “We are most definitely not alone.”

  41.

  The room is lit with burning torches that are suspended from stone walls that have been carved and polished as smooth as the stone floor and the ceiling overhead. Surrounding us on all sides are natives of the Amazon. They are dressed not only in leather thongs, but also what appears to be a ceremonial costuming. Feathery headdresses and necklaces of shrunken heads, along with bracelets of bone and teeth. They point spears at us and stare into our faces with dark-eyed gazes.

  “If this were a situation straight out of one of my slush pile novels,” Leslie says under her breath, “it would be the part where we say, ‘We come in peace.’”

  Uncocking the .45, I then slowly set it onto the stone floor. Then I do the same with the flashlight. Holding up both my hands as if in surrender, I begin to rise up onto my feet. Acting in unison, the natives move in closer while cocking back the arms that support the spears, as if about to thrust the deadly weapons into our chests.

  I stand anyway and smile.

  “My name is Chase,” I say, knowing that more than likely they will have no idea what I’m saying. But it’s the tone of my voice that counts. “This is my associate, Leslie.”

  More staring, more aiming of the spears.

  “Perhaps you can tell me who’s in charge?” I say in as gentle a tone as possible, while maintaining my smile.

  That’s when I hear footsteps coming from way off at the other end of the long rectangular room. Not bare feet on stone, but actual leather soles click-clacking on the stone.

  “Stand back,” I hear a man speak in English. American English. “Please get back, all of you.”

  The band of natives splits in half, making two neat rows of warrior men who now face one another in the great polished stone room. They also make room for someone who, according to the laws of nature and God, should not now be staring me in the face.

  A man by the name of Peter Keogh II.

  42.

  He’s dressed like he’s about to take flight in the De Havilland Tiger Moth parked out on the strip carved out of the jungle. A worn leather coat over khaki colored canvas pants stuffed inside knee-length lace-up leather boots. Army-style work shirt, the chest pocket stuffed to the button’s breaking points. He wears a leather holster which holds a Colt Peacemaker on his right-hand hip, and on his head, a leather flight hat, a pair of goggles pulled up high on his forehead. He’s sporting a thin and trimmed mustache on his upper lip, a la Errol Flynn, while brown leather gloves cover his hands.

  “Quite the ride down here, ain’t it?” he says, not without a pleasant smile.

  He holds out his right hand.

  “Peter Keogh the Second,” he says in a boisterous but welcoming tone. “Damned glad to meet ya.”

  I hesitate at first, because I can’t believe what I’m looking at. It’s the year 2014. By all accounts, this man disappeared from the world when his plane crashed into the trees back in 1939 when he was forty-something years old. That would put him well over a hundred. Judging by the gray in his mustache and the strands of salt and pepper hair that stick out from under his flight cap, I wouldn’t peg him for anything older than fifty or fifty-five. But how can that be?

  Leslie leans into me.

  “Are we dead? Or are we dreaming this?”

  “Relax,” I say out the corner of my mouth. “Just keep thinking about what a great book this is going to make.”

  “Better be fiction, because no one is ever going to believe this shit.”

  I turn back to Keogh II.

  “Mr. Keogh,” I say.

  “Call me Pete,” he says. “All my friends do. Isn’t that right, Amma?” He turns to one of the natives, who nods while maintaining his sour, I-want-to-stab-the-gringos-with-my-spear expression. “Oh well, Amma is a sour puss,” Keogh adds with a giggle. “You know anything about the Tupi tribes, Mister ahhhh, Mister …”

  “I’m Chase,” I say, taking hold of his leather-gloved hand, gripping it tightly. “Chase Baker.” Nodding toward Leslie. “This is Leslie. My partner.”

  He peels away his hand, removes the glove. Then, taking a step forward, he takes hold of Leslie’s hand while gallantly dropping down onto one knee. Bringing the back of Leslie’s hand to his face, he plants a kiss on it.

  “Leslie,” he says. “I am enchanted to know thee.”

  Leslie beams, her face turning red.

  “Oh my,” she says, “a real gentleman.”

  Releasing her hand, he stands, nods.

  “Why thank you. Mom and Pop taught me well.” Then, biting down on his bottom lip, “Say, you wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette, would you? A Lucky Strike or a Chesterfield maybe. ”

  As if on instinct I pat my pockets.

  “I quit some years ago,” I confess.

  He smirks.

  “Seems I’ve quit as well. But not by choice. Cigarette girls are hard
to come by down here. Like Tommy Dorsey records.”

  He smiles, like he’s having a ball.

  “Mr. Keogh—”

  “Pete.”

  “Yes, Pete. Do you have any idea how old you are?”

  He laughs like a boy.

  “Well, last I checked,” he says. “Forty-two.”

  “Forty-two,” I repeat like a question.

  “Give or take a few decades. You see, Chase, it’s hard to keep track in my line of work.”

  “Your line of work.” Another question.

  “You see,” he says, “I’m a pilot.”

  “So we’ve heard,” Leslie jumps in. “We came down here to look for you, amongst other things.”

  He nods. “And I have always known that you or someone like you would eventually come knocking on my stone front door. It was just a matter of time. Now here you are.” Crossing his arms over his chest. “But if you don’t mind, can you tell me who sent you?”

  “Your son,” I say.

  He smiles.

  “My son? My God, I have a son whom I haven’t seen in forever.” He takes a step back, sets both hands on his hips while assuming a facial expression that sings of shock, wonderment, and curiosity. “Tell me, what’s my son like now?”

  I press my lips together.

  “I’m afraid he’s a bit sick these days.”