“Hold on. Let me get this straight. Not only will I not be the lead, but you want me to agree to go on a job not knowing who sent you, who I’ll be working for, or where I’ll be going, and I’ll be leaving in a few days? And, let me guess, your name is confidential, too?”
The man didn’t flinch.
Oh, there was a catch, all right. She laughed again, but this time it was a full-throated laugh filled with disbelief and annoyance. Without further hesitation, she whipped the door behind her wide open.
“Well, you can tell whoever it is that sent you that they clearly don’t know me at all. I’m going to have to pass.”
She signaled toward the door with a nod of her head, then crossed her arms. And the man smiled. Corrie wanted nothing more than to wipe that smile off his face with a full-handed smack as he finally rose from his seat and walked to the door to leave. But before he did, he stopped in front of Corrie, his face two feet from hers.
“Sorry to hear that you don’t want to partake in the discovery of your ancestor’s remains. When you change your mind, there will be a ticket waiting for you on Sunday morning at the United Airlines counter. Flight leaves at five a.m.”
Corrie stood at the door, eyes wide, as the man walked down the hall without turning back. In one word, the man had convinced her. Ancestor.
Whoever sent this man knew her better than she could have ever imagined.
* * *
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?
Mexico in August was even hotter than Corrie had anticipated. She’d been many times to visit family, go on vacation, and participate in other digs, but never in August.
She’d also never gotten on an airplane after being propositioned by a man with no name, but the time to question her decisions had already passed. There had been a brief moment at SFO when she’d debated her own sanity—sometime after realizing that the man with no name had somehow gotten her passport information, but before boarding the plane. A quick call to the Anthropology Department’s administration office confirmed that Mr. No-Name had verified the details of the expedition and her travel arrangements in advance. That at least gave her a sliver of confidence that she wasn’t en route to her demise.
“Last call for passengers on flight 5468 to Houston,” the loudspeaker bellowed out.
She glanced at the note accompanying her ticket to board flight 5468 to Houston, along with its companion ticket to her final destination in Oaxaca, Mexico, once more.
We knew you’d agree. We’ll find you outside the airport once you land.
Oaxaca. There’d been many theories on the final resting place of Chimalli, Oaxaca not being one of them. Based on her research, that wasn’t the final destination. No, this was merely the jumping-off point.
Most people thought he’d fled south of Tenochtitlán into the pine-oak forests of the Sierra Madre del Sur. Others thought west, near Lake Chapala. Corrie had other ideas.
The Lacandon Jungle. The outskirts of the Aztec domain, not far from the abandoned settlements of the Olmecs, Zapotecs, and Mayans. The Lacandon provided thick cover from enemies and had an abundance of flora and fauna to consume in the absence of farmed foods. Its terrain and conditions matched perfectly with what Corrie believed were the most credible accounts of Chimalli’s disappearance.
And it was located not far from Oaxaca.
Part terrified and part eager, Corrie had boarded that damn plane, determined to at least find out who the hell had the nerve to think they knew her better than she knew herself. Besides, she could always back out if things looked shady once she arrived. Unless this was all a ruse to kidnap her. Or worse.
She walked out of the Oaxaca airport to a blast of hot, humid air and meandered under the shaded walkway, rethinking her decision to wear long pants and sleeves. The sticky heat invaded every nook and cranny of her outfit. She tossed her bags atop an empty concrete bench, then stripped down to a formfitting black V-neck undershirt while she searched her things for a clip to keep her hair off her sweaty neck. Not exactly the professional archaeologist image she’d been going for, with her boobs practically on full display, but red-faced and reeking of sweat wasn’t any better.
Who was she waiting for, anyway? The man with no name? Someone else? She glanced at the note one more time: We’ll find you.
Suddenly those words felt much more ominous than they had a few hours earlier. Everything about this seemed like a bad idea. Or, hell . . . maybe this was a super elaborate practical joke from the UC Berkeley Department of Anthropology as a congratulations for making tenure.
Though that would be quite an expensive practical joke. Her colleagues had barely wanted to shell out ten bucks apiece to upgrade their coffeemaker a year ago. But with the passing of each excruciatingly long minute, the chances that this was a practical joke were more and more likely.
Forty-eight minutes. At what point would she call it and inquire about catching a return flight home?
You’ve been played, Dr. Mejía. Remember . . . there’s always a catch.
She closed her eyes and winced at her gullibility. God, this is embarrassing. It wasn’t like her to cry. No, tough chicas didn’t cry. So when the prick of tears formed behind her eyelids, she squeezed them tighter.
Always confirm the motives in advance. She chastised herself for failing to follow her grandmother’s advice and for falling back into her impulsive adventure-seeking habits. Had she asked a few more questions or demanded answers, maybe she wouldn’t be sitting alone on a bench in Oaxaca trying to figure out how she was going to explain this to the head of the department. Taking the semester off on such short notice had put a real wrench in the department’s curriculum. “This isn’t another one of your wild Lara Croft adventures, is it?” the department director had asked. After her last dig had resulted in an emergency evacuation, all on the university’s tab, they had a right to be concerned. This time, she’d practically had to beg.
But admitting she’d been duped and having to grovel to resume her original course plans? The idea made Corrie want to vomit.
One hour. One hour and then she’d call it. And she’d figure out how to grovel on the flight home.
Once the threat of crying subsided, Corrie slowly opened her eyes and noticed a blurry figure approaching. A man in sunglasses and a Panama hat came into focus as she blinked a few times to dissipate the tears. Not the man with no name. No, someone else.
Someone . . . familiar.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Dr. Corrie Mejía,” the man called out with a distinctive, friendly voice. A warm voice that had shared hundreds of laughs with Corrie over pints and cheese fries at the Village Pub during grad school.
A voice Corrie would recognize anywhere.
“Ethan!” she said, leaping from the bench and running toward her old friend. Her spirits lifted as he lifted her from the ground into a hearty embrace, sending his hat toppling to the ground.
“What are you doing here?” she asked as he set her on the pavement, though she refused to let go of him for fear that he’d vanish into thin air.
Her old compadre smiled at her with laugh lines that hadn’t been there the last time she’d seen him and a few grays streaking through his otherwise jet-black hair. She’d always thought he was good-looking—not her type necessarily, but still pretty cute—but time agreed with his features. God, it was good to see him.