“Don’t move,” he whispered. “There’s something else down here.”

Verhoven crouched, his nose close to the stinking muck, straining to see. The pit was clearly designed as a trap, and any animal that might have fallen down there with them could be dangerous. He moved slowly to one side, feeling for the wall of the pit, bumping against it.

A low, almost inaudible growl reached toward him, drifting out of the darkness, like the guttural rumble that comes from the back of a crocodile’s throat. The sound was labored, a deep heavy groan, a warning almost below the range of human hearing.

What made that sound? A caiman, a large snake, maybe—pythons were rumored to make low rumbles in their guts—or even a jaguar, wounded and weak in the bottom of a pit, it could still kill with a single claw.

Verhoven backed away from the sound, moving along the length of the trench.

“I have a flare,” Hawker said, his voice a whisper.

Verhoven paused, making sure his hands were ready. “Light it.”

Behind him the flare snapped and with the sizzle of the phosphorous it lit, flashing in the darkness. For an instant, Verhoven went blind. When his eyes adjusted, he saw nothing in front of him except filthy water and the muddy walls at the closed end of the rectangular pit. Something moved on his left, clinging to the wall. It lunged toward his face, hissing, with its jaws open.

Verhoven jumped backward, firing. He crashed into Hawker, knocking the flare into the muck. The light vanished as murky water swallowed the burning stick.

Scampering sounds came toward him. Verhoven fired from his fallen position.

Something clawed him and then pushed off, using him as a stepping stone to launch itself up the wall. The flare bobbed to the surface and Verhoven caught a glimpse of a shape clambering up the side of the pit. He fired as it went over the top, blasting it forward as its momentum carried it out into the jungle night. The thing shrieked in agony.

As Hawker plucked the flare from the water, the light improved. Verhoven dropped his gaze, checking the rest of the pit, side to side, up and down.

They were alone.

Hawker fell back, racked with laughter.

“What’s so damn funny?”

“Keystone Cops,” Hawker said, barely able to get the words out.

“You’re the chief, then.”

Hawker couldn’t stop chuckling. “And you’re having monkey for dinner.”

Verhoven hadn’t gotten a good enough look at the scrambling thing to know what it was, but the size was about right—thirty to forty pounds—and there was little else he could think of that could climb like that. For a moment he was almost embarrassed, blasting a little monkey with an AK-47. Then again, a starving, cornered monkey could have made a mess of them, even if it wasn’t a life-threatening situation.

“Better than him having us,” he replied.

As Hawker continued laughing, Verhoven fished out his radio. Fortunately, like everything else electronic they had brought along, it was waterproof. He clicked the switch, told one of his men what had happened and ordered him to bring a rescue party and some rope.

As Verhoven finished the conversation, Hawker tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to one of the walls, holding the flare up to give him more light.

The central part of the left wall appeared to be made of stone. It was covered in lumpy chunks of mud, but even in the flickering light, a large face could be seen beneath that mud. A face carved in the stone. Around it were other marks, hieroglyphics that looked remarkably similar to those Danielle had showed him.

As they studied it, the rescue party arrived and dropped down a rope. Hawker and Verhoven climbed out and the group shined their lights into the pit. Danielle nodded her approval. “We’ll show McCarter in the morning,” she said.

Weary and covered in muck, Verhoven began his walk back to the camp, ignoring the questions about what had happened and glad that the ridiculous situation was over.

Before he’d gone ten paces Hawker spoke, stopping him in his tracks.

“Where is it?” Hawker asked.

“Where’s what?” Danielle replied.

Hawker’s voice rang with suspicion. “Verhoven’s monkey.”

Danielle, and the men who’d helped with the rescue, only seemed more confused, but Verhoven understood. He looked around. There was no monkey carcass, no blood on the ground or a trail to indicate that something else had dragged it off into the woods. No sign of the thing he’d blasted.

“There was a monkey in the pit,” Verhoven explained. “I shot at the bugger as he went over the top of the wall. Looks like I missed.”

The others seemed to accept that and appeared un-worried, but Hawker’s stare was unrelenting, his suspicious nature locked on to the latest small thing that seemed out of order. Verhoven met his eyes and then scanned the forest around them again.

Both of them knew he didn’t miss.

CHAPTER 16

Richard Kaufman glanced around the confines of the small hospital room. The walls were covered in a muted green. A pair of ancient beds, complete with rusting iron frames and tall IV stands, sat opposite and parallel each other, while a wilting, forgotten plant spread its thin arms in a corner near the window.

He waited there as a nurse helped the room’s sole patient return from a trip to the communal rest room. The man entered, struggling with a crutch under each arm.

Stooped but still over six feet tall, the man was broad-shouldered, thin and bony, appearing almost emaciated. A ragged nest of tangled dark hair sat on his head, while dark circles hung from his eyes and his skin looked a sickly color. He reminded Kaufman of a house that had caught fire but remained standing: hollowed out, discolored and lifeless.

A look of surprise appeared on his face as he studied Kaufman. “You’re not a doctor,” he guessed.

“I would have thought you’d seen enough of doctors.” Kaufman replied.

The man nodded slowly, then hobbled to a new position with a smile covering his ragged face. “Yeah, I have,” he said. “Which means you must be Helios.”

“That’s right,” Kaufman replied, sarcastically. “I’m the Greek god of the sun, and I spend my time visiting patients in small hospital rooms.” He stood. “The real question is who you are and how you came to know about Helios, considering that you can’t remember your own name.”

The man tried to smile, but it seemed to cause him pain and he quickly gave up. “Give me a second. I’ll explain.”

He crossed the room, struggling with the crutches in the narrow space. He reached one of the beds and leaned the crutches against the wall. When they started to slide, he grabbed them and slammed them back into place. Anger and bitterness, Kaufman thought. Here was a man who hated his current predicament. Then again, who wouldn’t?

The patient looked up at Kaufman, his legs sticking out beyond the hem of the gown; one leg was white, the other a dark tan color.

Noticing Kaufman’s gaze, the man explained. “They took it off,” he said. “Didn’t even ask me. Just took it off and gave me this one to replace it.” He glanced down at the dark prosthetic. “I guess there aren’t too many light-skinned Caucasians in these parts, so the legs all look like this, and in the end, they just give you what fits.”

“You were going to explain some things,” Kaufman said. “Let’s start with Helios.”

“Right,” the man replied. “But first I have something you might want to see.” With great effort he retrieved a small backpack from beside the bed, rummaged through it and then tossed something to Kaufman.

Kaufman studied it: a hexagonal crystal resembling those the NRI had been examining; the erstwhile Martin’s crystals. The meeting’s importance grew.

“Interested in talking?” the patient asked.

Kaufman closed the door. “Who are you?”