Ahead of me, Laforet’s car began to slide. He made it onto the bridge, sliding sideways by now. The car made a wide arc, hitting the wooden bridge railing broadside. For a second or two, the car hovered there—I, and I imagined Laforet, holding our breath— then, with a sound more like a moan than a crack, the railing gave way, and the car plunged several feet into the raging current. I pumped the brakes, but it was too late. I too lost control and the truck slid down the embankment, but more slowly than Laforet had, missed the bridge entirely, and came to a stop heading straight down the riverbank, still upright, but with water rushing over the hood of the truck. Laforet, I could not see.
I tried to push open the door on the driver’s side, but it wouldn’t budge, the force of the water against it too great. The truck was now swaying and creaking as the water pushed against it, and it slowly started to tilt downstream. I knew if I stayed in the truck I was dead, that it would either flip or be swept away. I slid with difficulty across the front seat and pushed as hard as I could against the passenger door. It gave way, and I fell into the water. I’m a good swimmer, but the rush of the water was so strong, I could just barely keep my head above water. I fought the current but was tired within seconds. I finally just let myself go, gasping for air as I was swept along.
Many yards downstream I crashed against something and scrabbled for a handhold. It took me a few seconds to realize I’d been stopped by the Mercedes, caught against a tree branch that angled out from the riverbank. I saw—or thought I did, it was so dark— the lifeless face of Etienne Laforet, hair streaming upward, mangled hand pressed to the glass, eyes wide open, staring at me through the windshield. I grabbed the door handle and held on, screaming for help, knowing as I did so, that it was hopeless, that no one would hear. I knew that even though I was just a few feet from solid ground, I would never make it, that if I let go of the door handle to try to reach the embankment, I’d be swept away.
Just as I felt the last of my strength ebb from my fingers and arms, a dark figure loomed above me on the bank. It was Cesar Montero. He must have been at Paraiso and heard the crack of the bridge as it gave way. I’m dead, I thought. He’ll just walk away and leave me, and the river will do the rest. No one will know. He disappeared, as I thought he would, but then reappeared a few seconds later with a long pole.
“Grab the pole,” he yelled at me.
Was this a trick? Was he going to use the pole to push me off the car and into the raging stream? I felt the Mercedes shudder and start to slip into the current once more. Should I take my chances with Montero or the car?
In my fevered brain, I thought I saw Ines, dressed as she had been that first day I’d seen her, hovering in thin air, a few feet over the Mercedes. “What should I do?” I yelled at her.
She gestured toward the pole. “Take it,” she said.
I let go of the door handle with my right hand and reached for the pole.
“Good,” Montero yelled. “Now the other one.”
The car started to slide. I had no choice. I let go of the door handle with my left hand and grabbed the pole tightly. The Mercedes flipped over and slid downstream once more. I felt Cesar pulling hand over hand on the pole. Then his arms grabbed me and pulled me to safety.
The worst of the rain held off until Manco Capac, shaken but alive and even relatively unhurt, had been led away in chains. The Guerras caught up to Carla, already badly scratched by thorns, only a few yards into the woods. Lucho took a little longer. He’d managed to make it into the tunnel before the airplane ripped through the hut, and was holed up in the chamber at the bottom of the spiral staircase. With the Guerras guarding the trapdoor at the runway end of the tunnel, and Campina Vieja’s finest at the top of the staircase, it was only a matter of time before he surrendered.
There was no time for rest, to ponder what had happened and the terror of what might have been. By three in the morning, the rain was coming down in torrents. The Pan-American Highway was flooded, the irrigation canals, already full to overflowing from the water from the mountains, were now spewing their water in sheets across the land. The federal police were out going door to door, urging everyone to leave. A steady stream of cars, trucks, and motorcycles headed south for shelter.
There was no time to deal with the tomb of the Moche warrior, nor unfortunately with Montero, so the police moved the crates back underground to their original hiding place, sealed the trapdoor at the runway end of the tunnel, locked up the little house, and posted a policeman on the door.
“I’m not going. We’ve got to save the site,” Steve said. “Anyone who wants to go can do so.” None of us moved.
“All hands on deck, then!” he yelled, and we headed for Cerro de las Ruinas: Ralph, Tracey, Hilda, Pablo, the students, Puma, the Guerras, and any of the workers we could track down. Steve supervised from the top of the huaca, Hilda down below. It was back-breaking, bone-chilling work. I was so exhausted, physically and mentally, that I wasn’t much help, but I did what I could. The Guerras brought large plastic sheeting to cover up the vigas as best we could. Slipping and sliding on the greasy surface, working in the dark, we all shoveled the back dirt, now mud, over the excavation. I had a niggling sense of unfinished business, something I should think about, but there was no time.
At the dark point just before dawn, I was sent back to the hacienda to find all the blankets and jackets I could. The road was pretty well gone. As I passed the commune, I watched one of the little huts slide several feet toward the sea on a pillow of mud. The commune residents, soaking wet, with their pathetic little bundles of worldly possessions, were moving out.
The hacienda was deserted when I got there, and, in the storm, the electricity, predictably, was out. I stood in the doorway, almost too frightened to enter for a moment or two. I could hear the waves crashing on the dunes not that far away, imagined ghostly whispers as the rain swept in sheets across the courtyard. Shutters banged intermittently against the walls.
Resolutely, I took a flashlight from the truck and made my way across the courtyard, now awash, and up the stairs. I could hear water dripping everywhere. As fast as I could, wanting only to get away from the place, I grabbed my sweater, waterproof jacket, and the blanket off my bed, then went into Tracey’s room. She’d told me to take whatever I thought we could use, and, setting the flashlight on the dresser, I rifled through her closet, tossing jackets and sweaters on the bed as I did so. Grabbing them up, arms aching from all that had happened, I turned to go.
I wouldn’t normally read someone else’s mail, but something caught my eye.
Hello, Tracey, dear, the letter began. It was wonderful as usual to hear from you yesterday. You seem to be making such nice new friends, and your work sounds absolutely fascinating. Hearing about your discovery of the huaca, and the possibility there might be a tomb there is so exciting. We feel as if we ‘re right there with you every step of the way. And to think your stuffy old mother thought you should be a nurse. (Just kidding, dear. I never thought you ’d be a nurse!)
Buy yourself something nice with the money, and if you need anything, call right away.
Ted sends his love too. We miss you. Love, Mom