“Good job,” Norman congratulated him.

Already, Maggie’s breathing seemed more even.

“I think it’s ending,” Ralph said. “Look.”

Maggie’s heels had stopped their drumming, and her back relaxed to the floor.

“Thank God,” Sam muttered.

After a few more seconds, Maggie’s trembling stopped. An arm rose to bat weakly at the empty air. She blinked a few times, her eyes glazed and blind. Then her gaze settled on him, and suddenly Sam knew Maggie was back. She stared at him, her anger bright.

Her fingers found Sam’s hand, the one holding her gag in place. She shoved him away and spat out the gag. “Wh… what are you trying to do?” She rubbed roughly at her lips as she sat up.

Norman saved Sam from having to explain. “You were having a seizure.”

Maggie pointed to the saliva-soaked handkerchief. “So you all tried to suffocate me? Next time just roll me on my side.” She waved away their explanations. “How long was I out?”

Sam found his voice. “Maybe two minutes.”

Maggie frowned. “Damn.” She crossed to the wall of tumbled stone and clay that blocked the way out of the buried temple.

From her lack of surprise or concern at the seizure, it dawned on Sam that her attack was not from a blow to the head. He found his voice, his own anger freeing his tongue. “You’re an epileptic.”

Throwing back her hair, Maggie turned on him. “Idiopathic epilepsy. I’ve had attacks periodically since I was a teenager.”

“You should have told someone. Does Uncle Hank know?”

Maggie looked away. “No. The attacks are so infrequent that I’m not even on medication. And it’s been three years since I’ve had a seizure.”

“Still you should have told my uncle.”

Fire edged her words. “And be kicked off this dig? If Professor Conklin knew about my epilepsy, he would never have let me come.”

Sam met her heat with his own. “Maybe you shouldn’t have. Not only is it unsafe for you, but you’ve put my uncle at risk. He’s both responsible and liable for this dig. He could be sued by your relatives.”

Maggie opened her mouth to argue, but Norman interrupted. “If you’re done debating medical histories and the finer points of tort law, might I point out that we are now buried under thirty feet of unstable rock?”

As if to emphasize his words, stones groaned overhead, and a slide of dirt hissed from between two large granite slabs and trailed to the floor.

Ralph moved forward. “For once I agree with Norman—let’s get our butts out of here.”

“My point exactly,” Norman added.

Sam frowned at Maggie once more. Emotions warred in his chest. He did not regret his words—Maggie had a responsibility to tell someone—but he wished he could go back and erase the anger from his outburst. He had been frightened for her, his heart squeezed into a tight ball, but he had been unable to voice such a thing aloud. So instead, he found himself snapping at her.

Sam turned away. In truth, a part of him understood her desire to maintain her secret. He, too, would have done anything to remain on this dig—even lie.

He cleared his throat. “Philip and the others must have heard the explosion. When they find our tents empty, they’ll know we’re down here and come looking. They’ll dig us out.”

“Hopefully they’ll do so before we run out of air,” Norman added.

Ralph moved to join the group now huddled before the collapsed section of the tunnel. “I hate putting my life in Philip’s hands.”

Sam agreed. “And if we survive, we’ll never live it down.”

In the dead quiet of the tomb, stones could be heard creaking and groaning overhead. Sam glanced up, raising his lamp. Dirt trickled from between several stones. The explosion had clearly destabilized the ruins of the pyramid. Reexcavating this site to rescue them might bring the entire temple down around their ears, and it was up to Philip Sykes to realize this.

Shaking his head, Sam lowered his lamp. He could not imagine a worse situation.

“Did you hear something?” Norman asked. The photographer was staring now, not at the blockage of debris, but back behind them, deeper into the temples.

Sam listened. Then he heard it too and swung around. A soft sliding noise, like something being dragged along the stone floor of the ruins. It came from farther into the maze of tunnels and rooms. Beyond the edge of his light, from the total darkness, the noise seemed to be coming closer.

Maggie touched his arm. “What is it?”

With her words, the noise abrubtly stopped.

Sam shook his head. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “But whatever it is, it now knows we’re here.”

Philip Sykes was hoarse from yelling. He stood in his bare feet at the flap of his tent, robe snugged tight to his slim figure. Why was no one answering him? Outside the tent, the camp was in turmoil after the explosion. Men ran across the shadowy ruins, some armed with bobbing flashlights, others with work tools. No one seemed to know what had happened. Spats of native Indian dialect were shouted from the top of the SunPlaza, where the cloud of dust was finally dissipating. But Philip understood only a smattering of Quechan words. Not enough to decipher the frantic calls and answers.

He looked at the luminous dial of his watch. It was after midnight, for Christ’s sake. Various scenarios played in his head. The looters from the previous day had returned with better arms, and they were attacking the camp. Or maybe the Quechan laborers themselves, a swarthy and suspicious lot, had mutinied. Or maybe one of the three generators had just exploded.

Philip clutched the collar of his robe tight to his neck. Where were his fellow students? Finally, fear and irritation drove him barefooted from the flap. He took a quick peek around the edge of his tent. Farther back, the three other shelters were dark humps huddled against the night. Why hadn’t the others been roused? Were they hiding in the dark?

Stepping back to his own tent, Philip’s eyes grew wide. Maybe he should do the same. His own lamplit shelter was surely an illuminated target for any aggressor. He darted inside and blew out the lamp. As he turned back to the tent’s entrance, a huge black shadow filled the doorway. Philip gasped.

A flashlight blinded him.

“What do you want?” he moaned, his knees weak.

The light shifted to illuminate the face of one of the Quechan workers. Philip could not say which of the many laborers stood at his tent flap. They all looked the same to him. The man garbled some words of Quecha, but Philip understood none of it. Only the wave of the man’s hand, indicating Philip should follow, was clear.

Still, Philip hesitated. Did the man here mean him harm or was he trying to help? If only Denal, the filthy urchin from Cuzco who had acted as their translator, were there. Unable to communicate, Philip felt defenseless, isolated, and trapped among these foreigners.

Again the shadowy figure waved for Philip to follow, then stepped back and turned to leave. Philip found himself skittering after the man into the darkness. He did not want to be alone any longer. Barefooted still, he hurried to keep up.

Outside the shelter of his tent, the night wind had grown a crisp edge to it. It sliced through Philip’s robe to his bare skin. The man led him to the other students’ tents. Once there, he threw back the flap to Sam’s tent and flashed the light inside for Philip to see. Empty!

Philip backed up a step and surveyed the ruins. If the bastard was out there, why hadn’t Conklin answered his calls? His Quechan guide showed him the other tents. They were empty, too. Sam, Maggie, Ralph, even the photographer Norman, had disappeared. Panic, more than the cold breezes from the mountaintops, set Philip’s limbs to shaking. Where were they?

The worker turned to him. His eyes were dark shadows. He mumbled something in his native tongue. From his tone, the Indian was just as concerned.