But looking back at the remnants of the ancient dam that once blocked this river from the main channel of the Rio Tuira, Mercer saw that maybe there was something to the story after all. As far as he knew, no pre-Colombian civilization in Panama had constructed such elaborate stonework. In fact the main indigenous tribe, the Kuna, had been left alone by the Spanish because they were a near-Stone Age people with nothing worth plundering. The stone slabs that Gary had excavated were square cut and would weigh between one and two tons. Not something the Kuna could have built, and the design lacked typical Castilian ornamentation, which meant it was unlikely to be the work of the Spanish. Having never seen Inca ruins like Machu Picchu firsthand, Mercer couldn’t say for certain if the dam had been fashioned by those master builders, but he wouldn’t be surprised.
Once past the rapids that were the remnants of the dam’s foundation, the boatman throttled back his outboard and guided the craft deeper into the jungle, farther up the River of Ruin. Sections of both banks had been dug into recently, showing raw scars of muddy dirt that could only be Gary’s work as he searched for the treasure. After ten minutes the engine was cut altogether.
Expecting to hear the raucous sounds of the jungle—the birds, and insects, and monkeys—the party was struck by a deafening silence. Mercer’s hearing recovered from the thrum of the outboard and still he could hear nothing except the gentle hiss of the boat through the water as it slowed. The guides shot each other apprehensive glances. This was clearly something they had never experienced before.
High above, a vulture slashed through the strip of sky.
The guides jabbered something at the boat’s owner, each reaching for his assault rifle.
“What are they saying?” Mercer asked.
Maria ignored him and joined the conversation, her voice rising to a shout that cut off the argument. She finally turned to Mercer. “He wants to head back and call the police. He thinks Gary and his party have been attacked by guerrillas.”
“Tell him we go on,” Mercer said.
“I did. We’re only about a half mile from Gary’s camp.”
The nervous energy was palpable as they threaded through the draped branches of overhanging trees. The three armed men restlessly scanned the jungle, eyes and hands tight, mouths fixed in grim lines. There was no movement except where the boat’s wake splashed against the river-banks.
The smell reached them before the camp came into sight. On an instinctive level, Mercer knew what it was, as if his olfactory senses had a genetic knowledge of what human death smelled like. Then again, he’d smelled death too many times to ever forget it. It was a scent like that of rotted meat, but somehow much, much worse.
Gary’s encampment stood on a flat plain on the water’s edge. There were a dozen personnel tents and one larger one Gary must have used for his headquarters. The bodies lay haphazardly throughout the camp. Some were at the riverbank as if they’d died fetching water, while others had fallen half in and half out of their tents. Still others must be still inside the tents, for carrion birds clustered around the open flaps, their plumage streaked with gore. Mercer could see maybe fifteen people, men and women, and several children. All were dead from apparent gunshot wounds.
The boatman began jabbering again. Mercer flicked his eyes from the carnage and stared at the frightened man. The Panamanian stopped speaking, swallowed once, and was unable to meet the hard gaze. “Tell him to beach the boat,” Mercer said without turning away.
Maria didn’t need to translate. The boat edged over to the camp and Mercer leapt out with a rope in his hand. He tied it to a stake jammed deep into the mud. He pointed at the leader of guards, motioning the man to follow him and to send out the other two as pickets at the upstream and downstream edges of the clearing. Maria and the boatman stayed in the small craft. As the men entered the camp, their motion startled the scavenger birds to a flight of indignant cries. Mercer tied a bandana around his mouth and nose.
There were times that he hated being right, absolutely hated it. As he trudged toward the main tent, the sense of urgency that had driven him halfway around the globe washed out of him with each step. The fears he’d harbored since the assault in Paris had been justified. This was no random narco-guerrilla attack. The timing was just too coincidental. Judging by the amount of damage done by the birds, he estimated this group had died at least a day before he bought the Lepinay journal, just after Gary’s final communication with his wife, when he’d said he had something he wanted Mercer to see. Gary had been closer to a major discovery than he’d known and the knowledge had cost him his life.
Mercer was doing a good job of keeping his emotions in check until he entered the main tent and found Gary’s body. Dressed in shorts, boots, and a filthy T-shirt, Gary lay sprawled on the canvas floor of the tent, a bullet wound like an obscene third eye in his forehead. Despite the savagery of the attack on the camp, his weathered features were composed, as if he’d puzzled about his death rather than fought it. Though not as bad as the others outside, Gary’s corpse had not been spared from the vultures. Mercer thought he’d prepared himself for finding this type of scene, and still his hands shook as he bent to close Gary’s eyes.
Mercer needed many minutes for the ache to subside enough for him to begin thinking again.
The large tent had been ransacked, the contents of chests and boxes dumped on the floor, a computer smashed, Gary’s bed stripped and flipped. Further proof that this wasn’t Colombian guerrillas was that a great deal of equipment valuable to struggling rebels had been either smashed or left behind: a transceiver, clothing, the portable generator just outside the tent and cases of canned food. Mercer didn’t know exactly what the killers were after so he couldn’t tell if they’d found it, but he suspected that eliminating Gary as a rival was their principal aim. The ransacking had been a ruse to throw off authorities.
Back into the brutal sunshine, he stepped carefully toward the boat, noting that they had gone so far as to shoot a couple of camp dogs, two goats, and a handful of chickens. Like the dead people, there was remarkably little blood from the gunshots. When he reached the boat, Maria’s back was to him, her gaze fixed on the slow-moving river.
“I’m sorry,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. They remained frozen for several long seconds and then he could feel her body heaving gently as she began to sob. “If it’s any comfort, he didn’t suffer.”
She turned into him and his arms went around her, her face buried in his stomach as he stood over the boat. “It is no comfort,” she said softly.
They stayed like that until the leader of the guards, Ruben, approached. He made a sweeping gesture with his hand to encompass the camp then shook his head. He’d searched the area and found no one alive and no sign of the attackers. Just as Mercer had guessed.
“Guardia Nacional?” he asked, meaning should they alert the national police force.
“Sí.” Mercer nodded. He lifted Maria’s chin so he could look at her face. Her makeup had smeared a little, but her eyes remained clear and glassy. “I’m going to stay here while Ruben contacts the police. I think you should go back to Panama City. The charter plane is still in El Real. Just have the pilot fly you home. Is that okay?”