Into the Wild (23 page)

She raised a brow. “You didn't add,
we're a good match.
”

“Waiting until you're ready to believe that.”

Her heart thumped.
Infinite possibilities.
“You should write passages for Hallmark. You'd be rich.”

“I'm already set for life.”

“Oh, right. You're a star.”

His lip quirked. “I invest my money wisely.”

“Money you made from
Into the Wild.
”

“A top-rated series for five seasons.” He raised a brow. “Seriously? You've never seen even a few minutes of one episode?”

“A dent to your ego?”

“More like a boost. Means you love me for me.”

“I don't—”

“You do.”

“We can't—”

“We will.”

Her head spun, her heart hesitated. The treasure hunter and the wedding photographer. She couldn't imagine. River chewed her bottom lip, looked toward the volcano. “I can't think beyond this treasure fiasco, Spenser. If there's the slightest chance Henry's still alive… He entrusted me with his map, a secret. If it's connected to whatever he sent Professor Bovedine, I…I can't let whoever killed Bovedine benefit. I can't let them near Henry.”

Spenser caressed her flushed cheek. “Heart of a lion.”

Smiling a little, River sniffed back the last of her tears. “That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.”

After a sweet kiss, Spenser helped her to her feet. “If you're right about Cy, he's headed for Brunner's Lake. If I'm right and someone got the best of him, if they scrolled through your camera or if they have the first half of the map, they're headed in the same direction.” He hefted his backpack and took her hand. “Let's book.”

G
ATOR FELT LIKE A CAGED
animal. He itched to pounce, but there was no one to pounce on. He'd followed The Conquistador's dictate. They'd hauled ass. They'd set a trap and then they'd waited.

And waited.

Hiding behind a tangled wall of vegetation, Gator sipped whiskey and hugged his rifle close. Once again he'd been assigned to do the dirty work. Con, who'd retreated to his own hidey-hole several hundred feet away, refused to show himself until McGraw was subdued and Gator had the map in hand. Then he'd make his
grand entrance.
Whatever the crazy-ass bastard had in mind, Gator hoped he'd make it quick. The sooner they got the map, the sooner they located the treasure, the quicker he could carry out his
own
plan. Skin itching with anticipation, Gator squinted through thorny vines willing their prey to show.

Where the hell
were
those two?

What if he was right? What if blondie and McGraw had turned back? But his employer was convinced they'd show. Con got a crazy gleam in his eyes every time one of them mentioned the famous treasure hunter. If Gator didn't know better, he'd think Con was more interested
in hurting McGraw than finding the gold. Come to think of it, he
didn't
know better. He didn't know anything about The Conquistador, other than he was rich, ruthless and obsessed with the Lost Treasure of Llanganatis. That's how the nut-job had referred to the buried gold. Only it wasn't just gold. He'd also mentioned silver and emeralds along with fame, respect and revenge.

All Gator cared about was the monetary windfall.

Eight. Billion. Dollars.

So he ignored his doubts and fears. He concentrated on the fortune and popped another pill. Con had said the illegal meds would set him right. Hell, yeah. One had done the trick. Two would heighten the effect. He was feeling no pain and flying high on visions of living like a king.

Focused and determined, he hunkered down and waited.

Eight. Billion. Dollars.

 

A
SENSE OF
clusterfuck dogged Spenser as he led River toward Brunner's Lake. He kept expecting, hoping, to catch up to Cy. But they'd been walking for hours and there'd been no sign of the seasoned treasure hunter—dead or alive. He couldn't have disappeared into thin air, although in a way that had been Andy's fate. Fallen off the cliff, through the mist, never to be seen again. Spenser shook off a twinge of guilt.

Stay focused.

He squeezed River's hand and tugged her clear of a hostile-looking thornbush. Still on the
páramo,
they
navigated the boggy desert with effort and caution. There were pockets of wild beauty—scattered lakes and streams, rolling hills, low clouds surrounding distant peaks—and River was quick to point them out. He remembered how entranced she'd been on the zip line, photographing the wildlife and fauna. Given her parents' backgrounds, if they'd kept her under their wing, nurtured her confidence and talent, she'd probably be shooting for
National Geographic
instead of nervous brides.

Then again, if he'd followed in his parents' footsteps, he'd be selling shoes.

“Have a power snack handy?” River asked. “I'm sort of losing steam.”

Spenser dipped into his jacket pocket and passed her a protein bar. He noted her flushed face, her labored breath. “I've been pushing too hard. We should stop. Rest.” This was River, for Christ's sake, not Gordo. Gordo, he thought with an inner smile, would've demanded a
frickin' break.

River bit off a chunk of granola and shook her head. “Have to find Cy, besides,” she pointed ahead, “look.”

As they watched, blue skies muted to steel-gray. Fog rolled in and around, cascading down the volcano like a frothy tidal wave.

Shit.

He got his bearings, calculated. “We're ten, fifteen minutes from Brunner's Lake.” And the shoulder of Cerro Hermoso. It was as far as he'd gotten with Andy and Jo. It was also close to where Blake and Chapman
had claimed to discover a cave of gold back in 1887. And the location of the first visual marker on the map tucked inside River's bra. They were as close to Atahualpa's ransom as he'd been in nine years. He was torn between pushing on and marching River back toward Triunfo. To safety.

That fucking fog.

“Maybe it's a good thing,” River said as they plowed forward. “The inclement weather, I mean. The fog's a lot thicker up there. Cy knows these mountains. Knows it's unsafe to venture in the fog. Maybe it slowed him down. Maybe he's at the lake. You said there's shelter there, right? More huts? Who built those huts, anyway? Brunner? Isn't he dead? How long have they been there? Can you teach me to navigate by the stars?”

“How are you feeling?” he asked, alarmed by her disjointed chatter.

“Better,” she said without meeting his gaze.

“Do you have a headache? Are you dizzy?”

“I'm fine,” she said, but she had a vice grip on his arm.

“Don't lie to me, River.”

“I'm…I'm a little light-headed.”

“A little?” He caught her as she stumbled. “For how long?”

“For a while,” she said in a soft voice. “I didn't want you to worry.” She stumbled again, only there was nothing to stumble over.

Dammit!

His heart hammered as he scooped her into his arms.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Sweeping you off your feet.”

“That's sweet. No. Wait. I'm too heavy.”

“Not even close.”

“But with the clown-car backpack. That thing must weigh a ton.”

“Shush.”

“You're thinking about that fog. About that mountain. You're worried I have AMS. I don't. I'm just…loopy. Maybe I OD'd on coca.”

He was closing in on the camp. He could see the huts. No sign of Cy.

Arms around his neck, River rested her head on his shoulder and sighed. “I bet you'll look hot in a tux.”

He smiled in spite of his concerns. “What are you talking about?”

“Your sister's wedding. Do you have a date?”

“I do now.”

The fog rolled and swirled, patches of varying thickness. He didn't want to carry her inside one of the huts without making sure they were safe. Where in the hell was Cy? He could feel the presence of Andy, here the voice of Jo,
“Get her out!”
He sensed the ancient Inca curse rolling in and around him, alive like the fog.

Spenser set River to her feet. Held her steady with one hand while shrugging off his pack. “Here. Sit on this, hon. Don't move.”

“Okay.”

“I'm serious.”

“Serious. Got it.” She saluted then dropped her fore head to her knees.

He hustled toward the first hut, gun in one hand, satellite phone in the other. “Gordo.”

“Miss me?”

“Initiate and stand by.”

“No small talk? That's bad.
A
or
B
?”

“
B
.”

“I'll get there as soon as I can. You know Bingly.

Won't fly in foul weather.”

“He will if you pay him enough.”

“Hate to ask, but… Everyone alive and accounted for?”

“One missing. Cy. And River's showing signs of progressive AMS.”

“Shit. What about you?”

Spenser glanced at the mountain before peering inside the first hut. He thought about the treasure, Andy. “Fighting demons.”

“Get the hell out of there, Spense.”

“Working on it.” He disconnected, slipped out of the first hut, turned for the second…and saw River running.

“My stuff!”

Near the third hut the fog had swirled upward, revealing a small, colorful pile of baggage. Belongings she'd had with her at the airport. Things stolen by the road thieves. Namely, her sling pack. “River, stop!”

Spenser dashed across the field and lunged just as she disappeared into a fog bank…and screamed.

He heard a hard thud and fell to his knees. Again the fog swirled. He saw it then. A hole, maybe six feet deep. River was lying at the bottom tangled in thin netting and covered with straw and grass. A camouflaged pit.

Trap.

He eyed the fog, eyed River. He listened.

She moaned and moved.

“River,” he said in a calm, low voice. “Give me your hand.”

She tried to push herself up, yelped and faltered. “Think I sprained my wrist.”

“Don't panic.”

“What's that stink?”

He smelled it too. B.O., whiskey and medicinal salve.

“Bandit,” she said at the same time Spenser rolled and aimed at the foul smell.

“Toss your weapon,” the man said, “or I'll kill her.”

Spenser saw his worn combat boots first, then the automatic rifle.

Pointed at River.

He tossed his handgun.

“You have something I want,” the man said in a gruff, scratchy voice.

“You have something
I
want,” River said. “My father's journal.”

“You're not in a position to bargain,” he said.

“You speak English well for someone who pretended
to be Spanish,” River said. “I'm glad, because I have a question. Did you kill Professor Bovedine?” she asked in a fiery voice.

“I've killed a lot of people. Uncooperative people top the list. So don't test me, blondie.”

The man's upper half was still veiled by fog, but Spenser could tell he was tall and muscled. His brain scrambled for a plan of attack. “Where's Cy?”

“Your crazy-ass partner? The one you sent ahead? Alone?”

Spenser's conscience winced. Had he misjudged and reacted irresponsibly yet again?

“He was almost as arrogant as Bovedine and twice as stubborn.” The man spit in the dirt. “Collateral damage.”

River gasped. “No!”

Stay down, angel. Stay still.
Spenser eyed the fucker as the fog swirled higher, to his waist, his chest. “What do you want?”

“Don't play dumb, McGraw. Dumb's kin to stubborn.”

“Do we know each other?”

“I've seen your show. Give me the map and maybe you'll live to film another episode.” He turned the rifle on Spenser.

“Don't!” River screamed while pushing unsteadily to her feet. “I have it.”

“I have it,” Spenser countered as calmly as possible. Damn River's lion heart. “In my backpack.”

“Nice try.” The bandit fired into the ground, inches
from Spenser, then aimed at his head. “Give me the map, blondie. Now!”
Cough.
“Or loverboy dies.”

Spenser sensed another presence a half second before something whistled through the air, out of the fog, and straight through the bandit's chest. The man didn't make a sound, just slumped into the pit along with River.

She screamed and, in spite of her injured wrist, tried to scramble up the dirt wall. Spenser reached down and hauled her out just as two fierce-looking natives brandishing intricately painted faces emerged through thick, swirling fog. It was like a scene out of a movie.

Or a dream.

They wore sleeveless tunics with cloaks secured over their broad shoulders, the two corners knotted at their thick necks. Braided sandals, gold cuff bracelets, bows and arrows…

Ancient warriors.

“Rumiñahui and his men,” River whispered.

More likely members of a lost tribe, the Sambellas maybe, although even that was far-fetched. Spenser couldn't be sure. No one had ever seen them.

Except maybe Professor Henry Kane.

Too late, Spenser saw one of them raise a blowgun.
Necktie Nate would love this.
He shielded River even as the dart hit its mark and the world went black.

Cerro Hermoso
Altitude 14,500 feet

R
IVER DREAMED ABOUT
far-off places. She dreamed about places she'd been, places she'd read about and places that made no sense. All remote. All wild. But none so beautiful as this place, she thought hazily. She stared up at the towering trees, the tops hidden in a swirling mist. She saw ferns and moss and exotic orchids. She smelled cinnamon and raspberry and the smoke from a campfire.

She heard birds and monkeys—soothing—and human voices—troubling. She couldn't make out what they were saying. It was as if cotton was in her ears, as if she were looking through a kaleidoscope—pretty, but abstract.

Am I in Shangri-la?

No. That couldn't be right.

Shangri-la was in the Himalayas. She was in…the Andes.

River forced her heavy lids open. Heart pounding, she blinked slowly to dispel the dream, but she still saw the mystical forest, still smelled the sumptuous scents.
She still heard the birds, the monkeys and the voices. Only, now those voices were angry.

“I specifically wrote, tell no one but Bovedine.”

Henry.
They'd found him! She tried to sit up, but her muscles wouldn't cooperate. Tried to speak, but no words came. Was she dreaming? Drugged? Dead?

“I told you, Henry. Professor Bovedine was murdered.”

Spenser.
At least she wasn't alone in this heavenly hell. He was somewhere to her left, beyond the heat of the campfire.

“Unfortunate and troubling. He was a dear friend. I regret—”

“Regret? That's all?”

“—that I perhaps contributed to his end. I hate that he died without knowing. I wanted him to know. I wanted River to know.”

“Yet you expected them to keep news of this historical significance secret?”

“Yes.”

“Quite the burden,” Spenser said.

“A gift,” Henry said.

“Your friend's dead. Your daughter's injured and was almost killed by a thieving murderer. You call that a gift?”

“I warned her. Beware of the hunters.”

“People like me? And you?”

“No! People like…that thieving murderer.”

The bandit. A self-confessed killer. Even given his
sins, River cringed at the memory of that spear sticking out of his chest. Of the blood.

She closed her eyes, shuddered.

“And she'd know this difference how?” Spenser asked, a hard edge to his voice. “Instead of educating her, you abandoned her.”

“I saved her, you sanctimonious ass. She wasn't cut out for this life.”

“Wrong,” Spenser said. “You weren't cut out to be a father.”

River's pulse raced as she waited for Henry's reply.
Defend yourself,
the little girl in her cried.
Refute him.

“You're right,” Henry said. “Nurturing a child, especially one as fragile as River, did not come easy.”

“Did you even try?”

“How do you protect a child who's unable to function and thrive in primitive situations?” Henry asked. “By sheltering her. If I'd kept River with me…she would have fallen prey to some disaster. She would have died. Because of me…she's cursed.”

Tears welled behind River's lids.

Spenser swore. “You're a man of science. Don't tell me you actually believe some witch doctor—”

“I know what I saw, what I heard and what transpired after,” Henry said in a gruff voice.

“You could have amended your lifestyle,” Spenser plowed on. “Taken a path closer to Bovedine's. Taught at a university—”

“My wife wasn't meant for that kind of life any more
than I was,” Henry said. “We did the best we could. Did what we believed was best for River. Tell me, Spenser, would you be able to turn your back on your passion, on the work you were born to do? Could you stomach a lifetime of regret, of discontent? Don't judge me, boy, until you've walked in my shoes.”

Tears leaked from the corners of River's closed lids, streamed down the sides of her face and tickled her ears. Instinctively she reached up to swipe them. She could
move.
And feel. “Ow!”

Suddenly Spenser was at her side. “Easy, angel.” He helped her into a sitting position while shielding her right arm. “Pretty sure your wrist's broken.”

“Set it as best we could,” Henry said, hunkering down in front of her. “But you need X-rays, a cast. Hopefully, not surgery.”

Instead of concerned, he sounded angry. For a moment she couldn't speak. The relief of knowing her dad was alive and well warred with the hurt his words and expression inspired. She hadn't seen Henry in years. His weathered face sported deeper wrinkles and some sort of tribal tattoo. His salt-and-pepper hair had turned full-blown silver. Aside from that, he looked much the same. Fit and healthy, dressed in baggy brown pants, a long-sleeved shirt and the vest with a gazillion pockets, and when he looked at her, she still saw disappointment in his intense hazel eyes.

He blew out an exasperated breath. “Why in blazes are you here, River?”

Her heart hammered as she glared at the man who'd
doomed her with quirks and insecurities. The man who'd chosen career over family. The man who'd broken her heart again and again and, as of a few second ago,
again.

Could you stomach a lifetime of regret, of discontent?

That's
how he would have felt if he'd curbed his wanderlust and obsessions to spend more time stateside with his own daughter? To keep his family intact? Even if only for a few stinking years? To hear his thoughts in blunt terms was almost too painful to bear. River tabled the gut-wrenching hurt and focused on his rude question.

“I came here to personally inform you about the death of your closest, probably
only
friend,” River gritted out. “I came here because I was worried about you. I came here to apologize for the horrible things I said to you at Mom's funeral.”

Henry's deeply creased brow furrowed. “Your first motivator was thoughtful but reckless. Your second—unnecessary. The third…also unnecessary. I've long forgotten words spoken in anger.”

She blanched at his insensitivity. “Well,
I
haven't.”

Spenser squeezed her shoulder. “I'm going to make you hot tea—regular tea. Give you two some privacy.”

“No,” she said. “Stay. Please.” Aside from feeling physically ill and sluggish, she very much needed Spenser's emotional support. Yes, she could handle this confrontation without him, but she didn't want to. She was sick of handling “the bad stuff” solo. Managing her
fears and insecurities, internalizing, keeping friends at arm's length, living in an emotional cocoon. She realized suddenly that even when she'd been with David, she'd been very much
alone.

Henry settled on a rotting log, jammed his hand through his thick, unkempt hair. “Let me rephrase. When you accused me of killing your mom…your spiteful words cut deep, River. Some of what you said was true. Bridget was in Africa because of me. She was driving the jeep because of me. I didn't kill her literally, but…if I hadn't asked her to join me for that expedition. If
I'd
been driving…your mother might've survived the wreck. Or maybe we wouldn't have wrecked at all and she'd still be alive, we'd still be together. I
chose
to forget your hurtful accusation because it only intensified my guilt.” He looked away. “I miss your mom very much.”

“So do I.” Tears stung her eyes. She missed Henry, too. Or at least the idea of two loving parents. She felt Spenser gently massaging her lower back. Subtle comfort. She gathered her scattered emotions and choked out what she'd traveled all this way to say. “I'm sorry for the awful things I said…at the funeral. Logically, I know Mom's death wasn't your fault.”

“That makes one of us.” Henry rose to his feet.

No “apology accepted.” No hug.

No closure.

River felt more ill by the second. She trembled with anger, shivered with cold. The temperature was drop
ping with the sun. She must have been unconscious for two or three hours.

“We'll camp here for the night,” Henry said, affirmation that evening approached. “You need food, drink and ample rest. Tomorrow you'll be escorted to safer ground. The longer you're here the greater the threat.”

River glared. She hadn't come all this way to be brushed off, to be
insulted.
Ignoring her queasy stomach, her throbbing wrist and head, she pushed unsteadily to her feet and faced her father's coldhearted indifference head-on.

“For your information,” she growled, “I made it all the way from Maple Grove, Indiana, to—” she looked around “—wherever we are…without serious illness or injury. Yes, I was challenged at times, but that doesn't make me fragile, just human. According to Spenser, few have the fortitude to withstand a trek into the Llanganatis. Well,
I
beat the odds. I'm here. I'm alive. Maybe not thriving, but that's because I was drugged.” That had to be why she was so sluggish, why her tongue felt thick and her brain hazy. She remembered tribesmen, blowguns. She remembered feeling a sharp sting in her shoulder. She glanced at Spenser. “Right?”

He nodded. “I just recovered more quickly than you.”

“As for this,” she said, supporting her injured arm, “I didn't sustain a broken wrist because I'm a lightning rod for disaster. It's the result of trying to break my fall when I plunged into a pit. It could've happened to
anyone.
”

Henry quirked a brow. “You've changed.”

“I'm still me,” she countered. “It's just that I've learned to recognize my potential, as opposed to believing what was pounded into my head for years. I'm not cursed. I'm not compromised. I'm River Kane and, at heart, I'm an adventurer. As soon as I get out of here, I'm going to…explore infinite possibilities!”

Spenser squeezed her good hand and kissed her temple.

Henry looked back and forth between them. “It's like that, is it?” He shook his head. “The irony.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” River snapped.

“You hate me, my profession and my passion, yet you hooked up with someone exactly like me.”

She flushed for a dozen reasons. “We didn't hook up. We're just friends.”

“The hell we are,” Spenser said as he dug a water bottle from his pack, “and I'm sure as hell not a carbon copy of you, Henry.” He handed River the bottle.

She didn't refuse. She drank deeply, knowing she needed to hydrate. She felt weak and sick. Damn drug. Damn altitude. Goddamn Henry Kane.

Henry zoned in on Spenser. “Not like me, huh? Tell me you're not dying to see Atahualpa's ransom.”

Spenser didn't answer, but River felt his body tense. “Of course, he is,” she said. “We both are. Who wouldn't want to see a treasure that's eluded the world's greatest explorers for centuries? But mostly,” she said, “I'm curious to see what you're willing to sacrifice your life for.”

“You already have. In part, anyway.”

River blinked.

“The two indigenous people we saw, the men who killed the bandit?” Spenser speculated.

“They, and others like them, patrol the region,” Henry said, “and when people get too close or pose a threat…” He spread his hands wide.

“They meet some debilitating accident or grisly end,” River said with a shiver. “How did Spenser and I luck out?”

“They recognized you,” Henry said. “One day when trying to establish communication and trust, I showed them your picture. They protect family as fiercely as the treasure. And they consider me, and by extension you, family. Apparently they've been watching over you for a couple of days.”

“That would explain the sensation of being followed,” Spenser said. “Amazing. I never saw them.”

“They move like ghosts,” Henry said.

“Where are they now?” River asked.

“Patrolling. Always on the move. Always watching.”

“I still don't understand.
They're
the precious treasure you mentioned in your letter?”

“They're part of a lost tribe,” Henry said. “Direct descendents of General Rumiñahui and a few of his most courageous warriors.”

“Holy shit,” Spenser said. “If that's true—”

“It's true.”

“How can you know for sure?”

“I've been living with them for months,” Henry said. “Learned their language. Listened to their stories, saw…” He trailed off, worked his jaw. “I'm sure.”

River gestured to Henry, then the rotting log. “Sit. I don't want tea or rest. I want details.” Not just for herself, but for Spenser. He'd risked so much to bring her this far, and now Henry's claims had ignited his curiosity and stoked the fever. The suppressed excitement and anxiety rolling off Spenser knotted River's already nervous stomach. Desperate to somehow quench the treasure hunter's thirst, she narrowed her eyes on her father.
“Details.”

“Details are in my journal.”

Her cheeks flushed. The journal he'd trusted her with. The journal she'd lost to the murdering thief who'd been speared. She noted her sling pack was near the fire. Maybe the journal was with her belongings. She resisted the urge to look. “I want to hear it from you,” she told Henry. That much was true.

He mulled that over for a second, then sat on the log.

River, with Spenser's help, sat, too. She felt weaker by the second, but refused to pass out. She tuned out the exotic sights, sounds and scents and zoned in on Henry. She wanted to understand his obsession and motivation. She desperately needed closure, and this could well be her only means.

“They've lived on Cerro Hermoso for centuries,” he said, lowering his voice and leaning forward. Even though it was dusk now she could still see excitement
dancing in his eyes. “Successfully sequestered from civilization, the tribe lives to protect the legendary lost Inca treasure. They practice the ancient traditions and speak a form of Quechua. They live…” His face glowed with wonder as he spread his arms wide. “Imagine a working village similar to the ruins of Machu Picchu, but on a much smaller scale.”