He was too weak even for a prayer of thanks. Scrambling up through the last of the brush, he used his hands and feet to fight for the summit. It must happen there. At their holy altar.

Crying now, but deaf to his own sobs, he crawled the final distance to the slab of granite. Reaching the stone altar, he collapsed back upon his heels and raised his face to the heavens. He cried out, not in prayer, but in simple acknowledgment that he yet lived, casting his voice for all to hear.

His call was answered. The sharp cries of hunters again echoed up from the pass below. They had crossed the chasm and renewed their pursuit.

Francisco lowered his face from the blue skies. Around him, spreading to all horizons, were the countless peaks of the Andes. Some were snow-tipped, but most were as barren as the one upon which he knelt. For a moment, Francisco could almost understand the Incas’ worship of these mountain heights. Here among the clouds and skies, one was closer to God. A sense of timelessness and a promise of eternity seemed to ring forth in the heavy silence. Even the hunters grew hushed—either from respect for the mountain or from a desire to sneak upon their prey unawares.

Francisco was too tired to care.

His gaze settled upon the one other type of peak that shared these heights. Below, to the west, were two smoldering mountains, volcanic caldera, twin craters staring up at the same morning skies. From here, the shadowed pair were like two blasted and cursed eyes.

He spat in their direction and raised a fist with his thumb thrust between his two fingers in a ward against evil.

Francisco knew what lay within those warm valleys. From his mountaintop altar, he christened the twin volcanoes. “Ojos el de Diablo,” he whispered… the Devil’s eyes.

Shivering at the sight, he turned his back on the view. He could not do what must be done while staring at those eyes. He now faced the east and the rising sun.

Kneeling before the blaze of glory, he reached within his robe and slipped out the cross that hung from around his neck. He touched the warm metal against his forehead. Gold. Here was the reason the Spaniards had struggled through these foreign jungles—the dream of riches and wealth. Now their lust and greed would damn them all.

Francisco turned the crucifix and kissed the golden figure upon its surface. This was why he had come here. To bring the word of the Lord to these savages—and now his cross was the only hope for all the world. He brushed a finger along the back of the cross, fingering the etchings he had carefully carved into the soft gold.

May it save us all, he prayed silently, and nestled the cross back into his robes, resting it near his heart.

Francisco raised his eyes to the dawn. He had to be certain the Incas never took the cross from him. Though he had reached one of the Incas’ sacred sites—this natural mountaintop altar—one final act was required of him to ensure the cross’s safety.

Once again, he slipped free the shaman’s silver dagger from his robe.

With a prayer of contrition on his lips, he begged forgiveness for the sin he was about to commit. Whether he damned his soul or not, he had no choice. Tears in his eyes, he raised the knife and slashed the blade across his throat. Lancing pain dropped the dagger from his fingers. He fell to his hands. Blood poured from his throat across the dark stones under him.

In the dawn’s light, his red blood glowed brilliantly against the black rock. It was his last sight as he died—his life’s blood flowing across the Incan altar, shining as brightly as gold.

Monday, August 20, 11:52 A.M.

Johns Hopkins University

Baltimore, Maryland

Professor Henry Conklin’s fingers trembled slightly as he unwrapped the final layer of blankets from around his frozen treasure. He held his breath. How had the mummy fared after the three-thousand-mile trip from the Andes? Back in Peru, he had been so careful to pack and crate the frozen remains in dry ice for the trip to Baltimore, but during such a long journey anything could have gone wrong.

Henry ran a hand through his dark hair, now dusted with a generous amount of grey since passing his sixtieth birthday last year. He prayed his past three decades of research and fieldwork would pay off. He would not have a second chance. Transporting the mummy from South America had almost drained the last of his grant money. And nowadays any new fellowships or grants were awarded to researchers younger than he. He was becoming a dinosaur at Texas A&M. Though still revered, he was now more coddled than taken seriously.

Still, his most recent discovery of the ruins of a small Incan village high in the Andes could change all that—especially if it proved his own controversial theory.

He cautiously tugged free the final linen wrap. Fog from the thawing dry ice momentarily obscured his sight. He waved the mist away as the contorted figure appeared, knees bent to chest, arms wrapped around legs, almost in a fetal position, just as he had discovered the mummy in a small cave near the frozen summit of Mount Arapa.

Henry stared at his discovery. Ancient eye sockets, open and hollow, gazed back at him from under strands of lanky black hair still on its skull. Its lips, dried and shrunken back, revealed yellowed teeth. Frayed remnants of a burial shawl still clung to its leathered skin. It was so well preserved that even the black dyes of the tattered robe shone brightly under the surgical lights of the research lab.

“Oh God!” a voice exclaimed at his shoulder. “This is perfect!”

Henry jumped slightly, so engrossed in his own thoughts he had momentarily forgotten the others in the room. He turned and was blinded by the flash of a camera’s strobe. The reporter from the Baltimore Herald moved from behind his shoulder to reposition for another shot, never moving the Nikon from her face. Her blond hair was pulled over her ears in a severe and efficient ponytail. She snapped additional photos as she spoke. “What would you estimate its age to be, Professor?”

Blinking away the glare, Henry backed a step away so the others could view the remains. A pair of scientists moved closer, instruments in hand.

“I… I’d estimate the mummification dates back to the sixteenth century—some four to five hundred years ago.”

The reporter lowered her camera but did not move her eyes from the figure cradled on the CT scanning table. A small trace of disgust pleated her upper lip. “No, I meant how old do you think the mummy was when he died?”

“Oh…” He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses higher on his nose. “Around twenty… It’s hard to be accurate on just gross examination.”

One of the two doctors, a petite woman in her late fifties with dark hair that fell in silky strands to the small of her back, glanced back at them. She had been examining the mummy’s head, a tongue depressor in hand. “He was thirty-two when he died,” she stated matter-of-factly. The speaker, Dr. Joan Engel, was head of forensic pathology at JohnsHopkinsUniversity and an old friend of Henry’s. Her position there was one of the reasons he had hauled his mummy to Johns Hopkins. She elaborated on her statement, “His third molars are partially impacted, but from the degree of wear on the second molars and the lack of wear on the third, my estimation should be precise to within three years, plus or minus. But the CT scan results should pinpoint the age even more accurately.”

Belying her calm demeanor, the doctor’s jade eyes shone brightly as she spoke, crinkling slightly at the corners. There was no disgust on her face when she viewed the mummy, even when she handled the desiccated remains with her gloved fingers. Henry sensed her excitement, mirroring his own. It was good to know Joan’s enthusiasm for scientific mysteries had not waned from the time he had known her back in her undergraduate years. She returned to the study of the mummy, but not before giving Henry a look of apology for contradicting his previous statement and estimation of age.