by J C Ryan
What difference does it make? None. I’m not involved in this.
Rex had to put his hand over his face to hide the grin when Einstein’s words popped up in his mind. “Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I'm not sure about the universe.”
Rex had eaten all the pizza he wanted, and he knew Digger was waiting for his share. Surprisingly, it was a pretty good pizza. Digger would be picky about it. He didn’t like green peppers. But he’d eat everything else, including the olives. For some unknown reason, Digger loved black olives. The pepperoni was a given, but the pepperoni here had garlic in it. He asked the server to have a small pizza made up with no sauce, cheese, or pepperoni. “Just vegetables, please, but no garlic, onions or green pepper. And lots of grilled chicken.” Digger would enjoy it, it wouldn’t be bad for him, and it would help extend the supply of dog food they could carry while on foot.
Without waiting to hear the uncle’s solution to the kid’s problem, Rex left the café and gave Digger his ‘pizza’. Rex still found it bewildering to watch the dog every time he fed him. A meal which Rex would spend twenty to thirty minutes on to consume, Digger gulped down in less than thirty seconds with three to four bites, and then, most amazing of all, he would sit back, lick his lips, and look accusatory at Rex as if to say, ‘when are you going to feed me? I had nothing to eat all day’.
When the dog had finished, Rex rooted in Digger’s pannier-style backpack for his collapsible bowl and a bottle of water. Digger lapped the water gratefully.
When Rex had first planned to hike instead of driving in Peru, he’d wondered if Digger would allow the contraption. He needn’t have worried. It was like the harness Digger was used to, except that it had a soft cotton canvas bridge over his back with expandable side pockets attached. A sturdy handle allowed him to hold it while Digger stepped out when it was time to take it off, and provided a ring for a leash, which stayed in one of the pockets most of the time.
Rex had put it on him empty at first. When Digger didn’t seem to mind that, he started adding weight gradually, until the dog was carrying his own food, water, and toys. At the last minute, Rex had added the coms units and night-vision camera that fit on Digger’s regular harness. He didn’t anticipate trouble, but experience had taught him trouble seemed to find them anyway. In any case, Rex thought it was only fair for Digger to carry his share, and Digger seemed to agree.
The next order of business was a room, a shower, and a good night’s sleep in a real bed. Then he’d replenish their supplies and be on his way to Cuzco.
Chapter Two
THE NEXT DESTINATION on Rex’s agenda was Cusco, jumping off point for tourist attractions throughout the Sacred Valley. Rex wasn’t averse to using a guide, and in some cases, it was required. However, walking in a crowd of tourists wasn’t his style. Besides, he preferred to acclimate himself to the altitude gradually, by walking from village to village and the historical sites that fascinated him.
Rex had a keen interest in history. Formally trained with double major undergraduate degrees in history and linguistics, he’d further refined his interests with an MA in political science. He had a facility with languages that bordered on the savant. He would have described it, had anyone asked, as a ‘knack’, but that would have been modesty—it was much more than that. He’d been fluent in German, French and Spanish by the time he’d graduated high school and had a little Italian then, as well. Since then he’d become fluent in Italian and added Mandarin, Arabic, and Hindi to his language repertoire. On this trip, within a couple of months of arriving in Peru, he’d been conversant in Quechuan, the ancient language spoken by eight to ten million of the indigenous people living in the more isolated rural areas across South America, including Peru.
However, he’d abandoned his plans to enter diplomatic service after his parents and younger siblings, a brother and a sister, were killed in the 2004 bombing of a train station in Madrid, where the family was enjoying a vacation in celebration of Rex’s newly-minted MA. A short stint in the Marines followed by training as a Delta Force operator, rapidly morphed into his being headhunted as a special field operative for Crisis Response Consultancy, otherwise known as CRC after the fashion of government alphabet-soup agencies. CRC operated where the government, including the CIA, could not.
All that and more was water under the bridge now. Circumstances beyond his control had interrupted that career, and his control of circumstances since then was what had given him the leisure to pursue his first love – the study of history – in the places where it had happened. He had no specific itinerary, no timelines to keep—he went where he wanted when he wanted, and Digger never protested. For now, that was Peru and the Inca civilization.
How he’d come to be traveling with Digger, the former Australian military dog, was part of the career interruption. He’d become a reluctant dog owner with the dying words of a good friend, Digger’s handler. In the months since then, Rex had overcome his childhood fear of dogs and learned to trust Digger’s instincts, though, especially in the early days of their friendship, he wasn’t always fond of the dog’s demands. In his field agent days at CRC, Rex preferred to work alone on missions, but since he and Digger were forced to team up, he had to admit, Digger was smarter than many people. The dog had snatched Rex’s bacon out of the fire as often as it had been the other way around. They’d wrangled for alpha position in the early days, and Rex had a sneaking suspicion that if he held it, it was only because Digger had conceded out of pity or because Rex had bribed him with peanut butter served in his favorite toy, a now-battered Kong, the peculiar-looking, ribbed, hard-rubber toy dogs loved because of its erratic way of bouncing and the hole in the middle that could hide treats. Digger preferred his filled with peanut butter or lamb jerky. Truth be told, they probably shared the alpha position depending on the circumstances.
On the morning after his arrival in Curahuasi, refreshed by a tepid shower and a night’s sleep in a real, though lumpy, bed, Rex was whistling cheerily as he and Digger stopped at a bodega for supplies to last for the three-day trek to Cusco. His map had estimated twenty-eight hours of walking. He’d decided to take it leisurely, making sure he’d be able to see the sights along the way, even if that required a side-trek. Once he reached Cusco, he’d turn north for the Sacred Valley, and take the adventures as they came.
At the bodega, he recognized the older couple who’d been seated on the other side of the men who’d had such a contentious conversation at the pizza restaurant the evening before. He avoided eye contact, unwilling to be delayed by chatting with them, though they seemed pleasant enough.
However, they must have taken note of him as he had of them. The woman greeted him in English. Rex, ever mindful of not standing out, smiled just politely enough to avoid rudeness and returned her greeting with the same careful degree of civility. Then he turned away, intent on his shopping. It didn’t work.
“Excuse me, young man, but weren’t you in the restaurant last night? We didn’t get a chance to introduce ourselves, because of that… oh dear how shall I say it… ‘unfortunate’ young man.”
Rex looked around, pretending he thought she was talking to someone else.
“Yes, I’m sure it was you. Tell me, what did you think of that story we couldn’t help but overhear?”
He had to give her credit for her persistence. “I didn’t pay much attention,” he responded.
“You left before the end of it. But we could see you were paying attention. Oh, I’m sorry, how rude of me. I’m Florence Marks. Barry! Barry, come over here and meet… I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t say.” Rex had several names, as evidenced by his growing collection of passports. He was traveling under the name Raymond Davis for this trip. Resigned to the delay, he answered, “Ray Davis. Nice to meet you.”
“And you. So, what did you think of that?” she continued.
Rex glanced at Mr. Marks, who offered him a weak smile in ap
ology for his wife’s insistence on engaging Rex in conversation.
Rex decided to be honest, and hope that would help extricate him from the conversation sooner. “I think he was scammed and should go to the police. But honestly, it’s none of my business.”
“That’s exactly what we told him! Isn’t it, dear?” She included her silent husband as if it mattered to Rex whether he agreed or not. The man didn’t respond.
“Good advice. Hope he took it,” Rex muttered.
“Oh, is that your furbaby?” Mrs. Marks exclaimed, spotting Digger’s interest from just outside the open-air market’s entrance.
Rex suppressed an urge to roll his eyes.
Good thing Digger wouldn’t understand that word or Mrs. Marks might have earned herself an indignant growl.
“Well, I call him my buddy,” he managed. Digger’s tail wagged uncertainly, as if he understood he was being discussed.
“May I pet him?”
“He’s a working dog, ma’am. Whether you can pet him depends on him. He’ll let you know if it’s okay.”
Mrs. Marks’ face went blank. “Oh, well, then I probably shouldn’t.”
“Maybe that’s best. If you’ll excuse me, I meant to get an early start. I just need to finish my shopping. Goodbye.” Rex edged away, hoping he hadn’t sounded too abrupt, but there was probably not an easy way to make a clean getaway from Mrs. Marks.
“We’re going to Cusco. Is that where you’re headed?”
Rex would have preferred not to say, but he didn’t have a ready lie. “Er, yes.”
“Maybe we’ll see you there at dinner. Are you taking the Machu Picchu tour that starts day after tomorrow?”
“No, ma’am. I’m hiking. I won’t be there until the day after that. To Cusco, I mean.” Rex took another step away before Mrs. Marks squealed in dismay.
“I’m so sorry! Maybe we could give you a lift to Cusco? Would that help?”
Before Rex could think of a polite way to say he was walking by choice and wouldn’t accept a lift even if she weren’t a nosy old biddy, Mr. Marks finally intervened.
“Dear, maybe Mr. Davis is walking because he wants to.” To Rex, he said, “I’m sorry. Since our son died, she thinks she needs to mother anyone his age.”
Rex felt instant regret about his thoughts on the woman’s gregariousness. Having lost his entire family, he understood lingering grief and that it manifested in different ways at different times. “That’s all right. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“It was a long time ago. But thank you.” Mr. Marks stuck out his hand and Rex shook it firmly. “Good luck on your hike.”
“Thanks. Good luck on your tour.”
Rex finished his shopping, spoke in Quechuan to the proprietor as he paid for his purchases, and waved at the Marks couple as he left. Mrs. Marks gave him a fond smile and waved back.
Before they left, Rex divided his purchases among his backpack and the panniers on Digger’s, then hoisted his to his back. “Let’s hit the trail, buddy.”
Despite it being late spring south of the equator, the air was chilly at nearly nine-thousand feet of altitude. Rex was dressed for the temperature he expected at noon, around fifty-six degrees. At only a couple of hours after sunrise, he’d donned a colorful poncho against the chill. Earlier in his travels, he’d abandoned his light jacket for the poncho. It was much more practical, as it served double duty as a blanket at night and was more efficiently folded for carrying in a roll on his backpack when he was ready to take it off. Otherwise, he wore long denim pants, a Western-style long-sleeved plaid shirt with snaps, and a pair of light-weight hiking boots.
Except for the high-end ultralight backpack he wore, the hiking boots, and his stature, just under six feet but taller than the natives by inches, he might have passed for an urban Peruvian. Weeks in the high altitude of Peru had tanned his naturally olive skin to a shade close to the Mestizo population of the cities, and his dark hair and eyes did nothing to dispel that image. Even his Quechuan, limited though it was, sounded native, an indication of his rare talent for picking up languages and speaking them without a foreign accent. And his vocabulary was growing with every encounter he had with the native population. He’d be fluent before he left, if the past was anything to go by.
Digger showed his appreciation for the cool of the early morning by trotting up to twenty or thirty yards ahead and then racing back to Rex’s side. He’d be less eager to run ahead when the sun was directly overhead, beating on his black coat with the intensity found only where the air was thinner. Fortunately, their path crossed streams and lay under trees in many spots, when it wasn’t along well-populated areas in the rich farmland of the region. Digger would have plenty of water or shade to stay cool enough, and their trek would gain over two thousand feet of altitude, making it cooler yet. And another reason to hike rather than drive was that they’d get used to the altitude gradually, as they’d been doing since leaving Lima.
Rex let his mind wander, relaxing his guard for the first time since he’d begun to suspect that his old mentor, John Brandt, CEO of CRC, was looking for him. No one would look for him here.
Chapter Three
FLO MARKS WAS seventy-three, but she prided herself on having the health and body of a much younger woman and thought of herself as middle aged. Unlike her husband, she didn’t take her identity from the company he’d sold a few years before. She had her own independent persona with a lot of interests, health and fitness among them. She hadn’t allowed herself to get soft or fat… heavy, she reminded herself. Political correctness was important to her, too. She had to admit, though, she was glad the trail from Cusco to Machu Picchu led mostly downward. More for Barry’s sake than hers.
Flo worried about Barry. Before he’d retired, he worked too hard and neglected his health. Afterward, he’d seemed lost, bereft of his beloved company. Their only son, dead too young from a motorcycle accident, had left them without the pleasure of grandchildren in their old age. She missed him, and she missed the grandchildren they’d never have. So, when Barry found a new interest and suggested they spend some of the fortune he’d made from the sale of the company by encouraging responsible archaeology, she’d welcomed it as a worthy cause which would serve a dual purpose—a new interest that would keep her husband’s mind occupied and get him out of the house.
They’d set aside an amount that would see them comfortably through the rest of their lives, enough to take trips like this one and stay busy. And the rest, Barry had placed in a foundation for grants to archaeologists. Flo knew he hoped a find of historic significance would come of it before they died. Which, if it depended on her, she intended to be no less than twenty-five or thirty years from now, because she took care of her health and tried to take care of Barry’s, though he didn’t seem to appreciate it.
She turned to gaze fondly at her tall husband, still handsome, though his red hair had turned white.
“What?” he asked after becoming aware she was staring at him.
“Do you need more sunscreen?” she asked.
“Stop fussing, Flo. I’m fine.”
She looked away to hide a smile. He knew she adored him. She knew the feeling was mutual. They’d been married long enough that neither needed to say it every time they thought it.
They’d walked another half a mile when Flo noticed someone was pacing them. She looked to her left, and to her surprise, saw the young man from the restaurant in Curahuisa.
“Oh, hello,” she said.
“Hi. I noticed you when we stopped for lunch. Didn’t know you were taking this tour,” he said.
Flo thought he left unsaid that he’d thought they were too old. She bristled a little.
“I wanted to thank you,” he went on. “I took your advice and went to the police.”
Flo’s motherly instincts kicked in, though this young man was closer to the age a grandchild would have been, had her son lived. “Oh, I’m so glad! It worked out, I guess, since you’re here.”
The boy looked sheepish, Flo thought. She supposed she’d feel the same way, if she’d lost that much money. Thirty-thousand dollars!
“I hope that wasn’t all you had,” she said, inadvertently revealing she’d been eavesdropping on the details of his conversation with the older man.
“Oh, no. I mean, I can afford it, but no one likes to be scammed. And I should know better. By the way, I’m Junior Roper. Short for Walter Henry Roper Jr. You’ve probably heard of my dad.”
Flo couldn’t say she had, but she didn’t want to embarrass the boy. “I’m sure I must have. But please forgive me, my memory…” She let it trail off. It went against her grain to admit to a failure of middle age, even as a polite fiction. She never, ever, thought of herself as elderly. Middle-aged was as far as she was willing to go.
“Anyway, I just wanted to thank you. I won’t intrude on your holiday.” He started to stride forward.
“Nonsense. We’re on the same tour. How could you be intruding. Let me introduce you to my husband. Barry, do you remember this young man?”
She went on to remind him, and to introduce them. Barry reached over to shake Junior’s hand and say something vague and polite about Machu Picchu.
Junior’s eyes lit up. “I’ve wanted all my life to see the ruins,” he said. “I’m something of an amateur archaeologist.”
Flo knew what would happen next. Before she fully articulated her thought, Barry had switched places with her to walk next to the young man. And before a minute had passed, the two were deep into a conversation about archaeology and the general lack of funding for it. Junior said he’d started to pursue it as a course of study leading to a career, but his father had needed his hand in the family business because of illness.