“These people did what you do. They fished the waters off these coasts, they hunted deer, they engaged in athletic events, they had toothaches, they made war.
“How do we know these things? We know this because we are able to study the remarkable works of art they left behind. There are ceramic vessels that show us the faces of these people, portraits that we believe are uncannily accurate. There are other vessels that show us ancient fishermen using the same reed boats, the caballitos, that fishermen off these shores use today; we see scenes of the deer hunt, of ritual combat, of sacrifice. We look at their works, their craftsmanship, and we see a great people, the people who are your ancestors.
“Your children study the stories of the conquistadores, of Spain, Greece, and Rome. Should they not learn as much—no, should they not learn more, of the great civilizations from which they are descended? Of course they should.
“But every time you steal one of the objects the Moche created, and sell it to the el Hombres of this world, a little bit of your heritage is lost to you and to the rest of us. I know you are thinking that this is easy for me to say, that I live in a nice house in California, with two cars, and count as necessities things you can only dream of having, that I don’t have to struggle to put food on the table. You’re right, and I’m going to say it anyway. You are not just robbers of the dead. You rob your children of their heritage. You rob yourselves of your pride.” He paused. “That’s all I have to say.”
Not one word was uttered when he’d finished. Some of the faces I could see showed confusion, others resistance. I felt it could go either way. Then an older woman, hair long and grey, a brown shawl wrapped around her shoulders, stood up. It was Rolando Guerra’s mother, the woman who had walked dry-eyed behind his coffin. She began to speak quietly, so much so that I had to strain to hear. “I have lost an uncle to this, I have lost a husband, and now,” she said, her voice breaking, “ T have lost a son. Hear what this man says. We know why Rolando died. This man did not kill him. Rolando killed himself. This must stop. You say you do this, you rob the tombs, to make a better life for your families. But your children and your wives would rather have you with them.” The other women nodded, the older children looked on solemnly, and the young ones, sensing perhaps that something very important was happening, fell silent.
“ T would rather have my son alive than all the gold in Peru,” she said, tears now in her eyes. “We will survive without it. For God’s sake, stop this now.”
Still no one said anything. I pulled the screen door open, stepped into the room, and said, “El Hombre doesn’t just smuggle antiquities. He also ships drugs. That is the kind of person you are dealing with. And tonight, he is flying cocaine and the contents of a tomb of a Moche warrior out of Peru from a dirt runway on the other side of the woods. What’s it going to be?”
The Decapitator
18
They didn’t hear us coming, the sound of the trucks muffled by the din of the incoming aircraft. Four trucks, each driven by one of the Guerras, dipped and dove around the woodland and across the desert sands, sometimes on a worn roadway, others overland. As we rushed forward on an interception course with the smugglers, the rains, long expected, began, the first drops forming tiny craters in the dry, dry earth. I sat with Steve in the first vehicle to point the way. Ahead of us, small fires flared up one at a time in two neat rows, and a plane, coming in low, hit the runway with a thump, and then whipped to a stop in front of the hut.
Four people were silhouetted against the light from the burning paint cans, their shadows dancing across the walls of the hut. Behind them loomed the Andes, implacable, immovable. One of them, catching sight of us in the distance, bolted to the aircraft. Within seconds, we heard the whine of the engines revving up, and the plane began to shudder as he readied it for takeoff. Another—Lucho, I was almost certain—disappeared inside the hut next to the runway.
“Cut him off!” Steve yelled, jumping out of the lead truck and waving his arms in the direction of the runway. “Don’t let him take off!” The Guerras moved their battered old trucks into position. But the pilot, seeing them, swung the plane around and began to move down the runway in the direction from which he’d come. The wheels of our truck, driven by the youngest Guerra brother, Regulo, spun as he wrestled it across the sand in a futile attempt to catch the escaping plane.
The pilot let out the brakes and the aircraft began to hurtle away from us. Suddenly, just as the airplane seemed about to hit takeoff speed, the grey Nissan, Hilda at the wheel, bounced across the runway and careened to a stop right in the path of the airplane. I almost screamed in fear for Hilda as the door opened, and she tried to get out. Clearly in pain, she couldn’t move fast enough. I thought she was almost certainly going to be killed.
At the last moment, the pilot swerved to avoid the truck, then lost control on the runway, already slick from the first of the rain. The plane plowed into the little hut, sweeping it right off its foundation, and then plunged into the woods, coming to rest in a thicket of thorn trees, one engine still shrieking at maximum power. Regulo Guerra pulled the truck off the runway and up to the plane, and Steve pulled a dazed pilot from the cockpit. Manco Capac made a feeble attempt to get away, but fell to his knees a few feet from the aircraft.
A shout went up from the Guerras. I turned and saw Laforet’s gold Mercedes wheel around, fishtailing in the sand, heading for the road. Carla Cervantes, now abandoned and left to her own devices, first tried to run after the departing car, and then headed into the woods, one of the Guerras in hot pursuit. Hilda had followed the Mercedes, I thought. She was here because she had followed Laforet from town. And now he was going to get away, as he always did.
The Nissan was still running when I climbed in. I pulled it into gear and started after Laforet. He had a good head start by now, but I kept going, thinking I would at least keep him in sight until help came along. He picked up the dirt road between the river and the irrigation canal, moving along at a good clip. Water sprayed from his wheels as he went. Water! I thought. Where is this coming from? But soon it was clear. The river, swollen from the rain in the mountains, was overflowing its banks. The water made the road treacherous, but Laforet barely slowed down. I knew if he made it to the highway, I’d never catch him.
We were almost there. I could see the lights of Paraiso off to the right. Laforet had a choice here. The shortest route to the highway would be a quick right across a stretch of sand a few yards wide, then on to the cleared area in front of Paraiso, then straight to the highway. The other choice was to stick with the road, turn left, cross the river on a little bridge, and pick up the highway to the south.
I found myself trying to second-guess Laforet. The shorter route was the obvious choice, but it was risky because he might get bogged down in the sand. Being in the truck, I had a better view ahead than he did, and I could see that the Paraiso route would not work for him. There was a flashing blue light in the parking area that signaled an official car of some sort. Perhaps Puma had brought the police.
I decided he’d have to go left, and although I was still well behind, I tried to make up some ground and head him off at the bridge. Laforet kept to the right, but seeing the flashing light, pulled the Mercedes into reverse, and then went for the bridge. I was right on his tail as he went over the hill and started down toward it. The bridge, once high and dry over a dusty riverbed, was covered with a film of water, and the road leading down to it was very slippery, the mud feeling like glare ice under the truck. I switched to four-wheel drive, but I could feel the tires loosing their traction as I crested the hill just a little too fast.