At six foot two, Benjamin King was a big man with broad shoulders. His black skin glistened in the humidity of the examination tent and, suddenly conscious of his girlfriend’s interest, he ran a hand through his short hair, subconsciously hiding the circular scar that had been seared into his forehead as a child. When he smiled, revealing a perfect row of white teeth, she always felt herself grow weak at the knees. And when he made love to her, she always felt as though her world, her life, was complete. He was a British gentleman through and through, the sort of man that would help an old lady cross the road or save a cat stuck in a tree.
She laughed at her own clichéd idea about him. He had his faults for sure. He easily grew obsessed with his work, often to the neglect of her and his own health. But she couldn’t picture herself with any other man.
She ran a hand gently over his cheek. “Besides,” she told him. “I’d much rather have the all-American hero get eaten by crocs than the man I love.” She reached up and planted her lips against his and he felt the twisted knot of anger and jealousy temporarily evaporate.
It was an hour before sunset by the time Raine, McKinney and the party that had gone down to the secret passageway and the sunken chamber reappeared out of the sima. With them, suspended from a series of chains attached to winches, came the carefully packaged remains of the skeleton.
A crowd had assembled around the party, all eager to see the human remains that King and his team had found. King kept back, staring with something akin to reverence at the bagged remains. He knew what they represented — confirmation of an unorthodox view that people like McKinney would fight to keep hidden.
As it was their find, the Scotswoman had nevertheless reluctantly agreed to allow King and Sid to take charge of the examination of the mask and Nadia the study of the human remains but King knew she would resist any findings that didn’t conform to orthodoxy.
He had just been about to return to the examination tent when a voice called to him. “Hey, Benny!”
King rolled his eyes and slowly began to turn around.
“Be nice,” Sid warned him. “Nate likes you. He’s only trying to be your friend.”
“I don’t want any friends,” he grumbled to himself. Sid shot him an angry look.
“Hey,” Raine greeted as he walked up to them. The crowd parted to allow the human remains to be carried to the examination tent. Ben noticed the Yank shooting a winning grin at Sid. “How’s my favourite archaeologist?”
King ground his teeth.
“Hi Nate,” Sid swooned, following Raine and McKinney, along with four interns carrying the stretcher with the remains.
King felt his face flush hot as he followed them into the examination tent. His eyes drifted to a large handgun tucked into Raine’s waistband.
Nadia moved to one side of the examination table and began to unwrap the remains when sudden commotion caught her attention.
Raphael del Vega burst through the tent flap, his olive skin glistening with sweat. His khaki Bolivarian Militia uniform was dirty with wet patches under the armpits and across the chest but he insisted on wearing it as a reminder of who he represented. President Chavez and the Venezuelan government. His presence had been one of the conditions UNESCO had needed to agree to in order to get the permit to explore the mountain.
Behind him came seven other men; local workers employed from the scattered settlements throughout the region, their angular features betraying their mixed Spanish/Indian descent. They were all big men with large muscles and were currently covered with dirt. Five of them had been down in the tunnels all day, but the other two had been preparing the expedition’s evening meal in the mess tent.
Irate about something, del Vega began talking quickly and loudly in Spanish to McKinney, his heavily accented words supportively repeated by his followers.
“Raphael,” McKinney held up her hands, trying to calm him. “Please slow down, I can’t understand you—”
But there was no stopping him. His foreign words spewed out at a speed which King struggled to translate—
“He says he has heard that you’ve found a mask,” Raine translated smoothly. He leaned casually back against the thick central tent pole, arms crossed, eyes hidden behind the mirrored lenses of his sunglasses. “It is an Evil Spirit which will devour us all. You must return it now. Return it to where you found it.”
King was irritated by Raine’s ability to translate so easily. He considered himself fluent in Spanish but found the local accents he had encountered difficult to understand. Then again, he often found McKinney’s Glaswegian accent even more difficult.
“Raphael,” McKinney said smoothly in her usual, condescending tone. She had a habit of talking to everyone as though they were infants. “I know all about the Ye’kuana legend. I assure you, there are no evil spirits living in the tunnels.”
Indeed, most people on the expedition knew about the Ye’kuana Indian legend; in fact, it was how the tepui had earned its name. Supposedly an Evil Spirit lived on the summit, devouring human flesh and making the sound ‘sari… sari…’ To this day, the Ye’kuana feared the mountain and warned any who trespassed there about the evil it contained.
McKinney’s flip dismissal further agitated del Vega and the other men. He gestured at one of the men, the youngest of the group.
“He says this man worked on a Sanumá reservation. He was told a story,” Raine continued his translation, “a story passed down through many generations.” He frowned as he struggled to translate one of the words and King felt a twang on smug satisfaction. “Eons?” del Vega nodded.
“Eons ago, the Evil Spirit, without form, grew hungry. To satisfy its hunger it manifested itself into a face so that its mouth could devour the humans who lived on the mountain.” He paused to catch up. “Many died. Whole villages. Many hundreds—”
“Thousands,” King corrected the obvious mistake, trying not to gloat. “He said ‘many thousands’.” Then he turned his attention to the militiaman, suddenly very interested in this legend but McKinney cut him off.
“Enough of this superstition and speculation,” she snapped. A crowd had gathered outside the tent and she had noticed the documentary crew’s cameras pushing their way to the front.
“Doctor King, you have your find to be getting on with studying and I want an impartial and unbiased initial report as to the mask’s origins and identification by morning. Doctor Yashina,” she looked at Nadia, the beautiful woman now kitted up in medical examination garments. “I can trust you to give me nothing but solid facts relating to these remains. I want to know this person’s statistics; its height, sex, age, race and cause of death. I appreciate these things take time but again I want an initial idea by morning so that we can make a—” she fixed her gaze solidly on King — “professional decision as to how to proceed with this investigation.”
She turned to Raine and, infuriatingly, her expression softened, a wide smile replacing her frown. “Mister Raine, thank you once again for all your help. Raphael,” she continued, guiding the native workers away and assuming a diplomatic air. “Walk with me please.” Their gabbled conversation faded as they moved away through the camp.
There were a few moments of awkward silence in the examination tent. The four interns who had brought in the skeleton looked nervously about themselves until Nadia ordered them out. Then she turned back to the examination table and snapped on a pair of latex gloves.