"Stop," I called out.
Miranda stopped. So did Beverly. Silence and stillness fell over the area.
I aimed my beam at a rusty metal pole. It was awkwardly angled and covered with soil. "It's over there," I said. "It looks like an old biplane."
"We think the pilot survived the crash," Beverly added. "He might be the same person who beat us to the tomb."
The quiet jungle burst into sound as we made our way toward the wreckage. Our machetes hacked against vines and tree branches. Leaves rustled. Our footsteps pounded against the soft earth.
I found myself thinking about the pilot. I pictured the trees rushing toward him at a harrowing speed. The wind tearing at his face. His stomach churning at the sudden acceleration. The terrifying jolt as his airplane struck the ground. The gratitude that he'd survived the crash. The intense anguish upon realizing he was alone.
I cleared through the last briar patch and pointed my light at the ground. A mangled steel-tube fuselage, blackened with soot, lay before me. Pieces of rotten wood and tattered fabric poked out of the soil.
"It looks old," Beverly said. "If I had to guess, I'd say it's been here for nearly a century."
"It's a Vought O2U Corsair biplane," Miranda said. "It was probably equipped with a four-hundred horsepower engine although it's difficult to say for sure."
I glanced at her. "You knew about it?"
She nodded.
I crossed my arms. "Start talking."
"I suppose I owe you that much." She shifted her beam, lighting up all areas of the wreckage. "Back in 1929, General José Escobar led a military coup against the Mexican government. It didn't last long, maybe a month or so. But that was long enough for his northern forces to hire two American pilots. The arrangement quickly fell apart and the pilots became prisoners of a sort. So, they stole a few planes and escaped. The first man flew to Texas. The second man, Wallace Hope, headed for El Salvador."
I recalled the initials — W.H. — etched onto the knife I'd found inside the tomb. "Why El Salvador?" I asked.
"The government was looking for American pilots. Unfortunately, Hope experienced engine trouble on the way. He survived." She kicked the fuselage. "His plane didn't."
"How'd he find the tomb?"
"Sheer luck. He thought he'd seen a river shortly before he hit the ground. So, he climbed up a small hill to find it. But the ground caved and he fell into what we now know was the tomb. He reported seeing a big, ugly statue and a giant stone trough inside it."
"I definitely saw a statue down there. And big and ugly is a pretty good description of it. But I didn't see a trough."
"I think he was referring to the sarcophagus," Miranda replied. "If you took off the lid …"
"It would look like a trough." I thought for a few seconds. "There's just one problem. Hope couldn't have removed the lid. Otherwise, the tomb would've collapsed on him.
"Remember how you told me about the breach in the sarcophagus?"
I nodded.
"I think he used his knife and other tools to carve a hole in it. Before he left, he sealed it shut again."
"But why would he describe it as a trough?" Beverly asked. "Why wouldn't he just call it a sarcophagus?"
"Because he found more than bones inside it."
Beverly's gaze turned curious.
"Hope claimed to have found thirteen metal rods extending across the trough. Fifty-two disc-shaped objects dangled from each rod."
"What kind of objects?"
"Plates." Miranda hesitated. "More specifically, gold plates."
Beverly's eyes bulged. "Fifty-two times thirteen. That's …"
"Six hundred and seventy six gold plates."
"Wow." Beverly looked impressed. "And to think I had you pegged for a stuffy archaeologist."
"Don't misunderstand. I'm not here for gold." Miranda tossed her hair over her shoulder. "Anyway it appears Hope had ruined his tools by that point. He tried to pry a plate loose but it wouldn't budge. So, there he stood, surrounded by a fortune in gold he couldn't take with him. He constructed the water trap to protect it, sealed the tomb, and fought his way back to civilization."
As I listened to the story, I felt creeping disappointment. Miranda had told me the sarcophagus would shed definitive light on the Classic Maya Collapse. Somehow a bunch of gold plates just didn't measure up.
"The trap was never released," I said. "So, I'm guessing he never returned here."
"He certainly tried," Miranda said. "He led an expedition to this region in the mid-1930s. But his memory failed him."
"How'd you get involved?"
"I managed to procure a copy of Hope's diary back in 2012. The ink was heavily faded. But Dora and Renau were able to translate some of the hieroglyphics he'd copied from the tomb."
"2012?" Beverly frowned. "That was a long time ago."
"It takes time to plan an expedition. Anyway we started analyzing satellite images of this region. We identified over a dozen locations where Hope might've crashed. We did some more work and eventually narrowed it down to this part of the jungle. We located the plane a few days ago. We were able to link five separate artifacts to Hope. So, as you can see—"
"Wait." Beverly held up a finger, demanding silence. Then she tilted her chin to the sky.
A distant, chopping noise caught my ears.
I looked at Beverly. "You know what that is, right?"
"Yeah." Her jaw tightened. "And it's heading toward us."
Chapter 15
"Wait," Miranda shouted. "Don't …"
Her voice faded away as I ran through the muck. My arms pumped. My legs churned. I was running fast. And yet, it didn't seem fast enough.
I raced through a patch of bushes. Thorns tore at my pants and ripped into my flesh. Gritting my teeth, I powered through the pain.
I ran into the clearing as the last vestiges of daylight started to slip from view. Graham, surrounded by tools, knelt in front of Eve. A forlorn expression adorned his face. Off to the side, Miranda's team crouched in front of the sarcophagus. Their flashlight beams illuminated its ornate lid.
"Hey Cy," Graham lifted his head. "Can you—?"
"Turn off your light," I hissed loudly. "And get your gun ready."
The sky cracked. Wind whipped across the clearing. A large helicopter appeared directly overhead, its blades chopping at the air.
As it drifted downward, it pulled a cloak of darkness along with it. Glancing to the horizon, I caught one last look at the sun before it dipped out of sight. It was red as blood.
Beverly darted out of the jungle, just moments behind me. Her gaze flew upward. "I only know one person who likes to make secretive helicopter trips to remote archaeological digs."
"Me too." I steeled my jaw. "Votan."
Chapter 16
The helicopter settled into the clearing. It was large, exactly the same size as that flown by Votan. And yet, it was painted differently. His helicopter had been painted black. The one before me was white with blue trim. Of course, that didn't mean anything. Votan might've repainted it to throw off the authorities.
Debris spat into the air. The two dogs, barking loudly, ran to the edge of the clearing. Shielding my eyes, I retrieved my pistol and took cover behind my truck.
The helicopter's engine ceased. Its exterior lights blinked off. Its blades slowed to a halt.
Miranda jogged out of the forest. Bending over, she heaved for air. I tried to get her attention, but she didn't see me.
The cabin door slid open. A single individual, dressed in outdoor clothing, hopped to the ground. His face was stern and rugged. His skin was drawn taut, with deep lines etched across it. "Where's Reed?"