know you have to make tough decisions for Finders, but I also know that you’re fair. If you think Sam isn’t ready for additional responsibility, then I agree.”
He should have been relieved by her confidence—instead he wondered if she was mistaken to put so much trust in him.
Shelby’s beeper paged. “That’s Tim. He’s waiting for me. I’d better go.” She stepped around the desk, leaned over and hugged him, the touch of her lips brief against his cheek. “Maybe I forget to tell you sometimes but you’re doing a great job here, Daniel. Know that Tim and I both appreciate all you’ve sacrificed to give us the time and space we need in this new marriage.”
“I only want to see you happy, Shel. Tim makes you happy. Aimee, too. I’m glad.”
“Me, too.” She didn’t need to say more. Her face glowed. “Good night.”
“’Night, Shel.” A flicker of envy went through him. His whole life he’d wanted to know how that kind of love felt. It had never happened. Probably never would now. Daniel pushed away the longing, turned back to the computer. He pulled up a map of Brazil, traced Sam’s progress from the moment she’d landed in Rio, traveled to Horizonte, then São Paulo. It made no sense to go to Peru. He’d seen no Intel that connected the statue to anyone there.
You don’t trust me, Daniel. You never have. Is that because you don’t trust yourself?
It wasn’t trust that tortured him—it was guilt. His choices had wreaked havoc on his world ever since a day long ago when he’d still been a boy.
Peru. In his mind he heard the thunder of breakers in the surf, smelled the briny salt water, saw pristine white sails unfurl in a freshening wind. His skin grew warm from the tropical sun and he longed to cool off by diving into that gorgeous azure water and play with the porpoises. That was the tourist view.
But there was a darker, more sinister side to the land. Drugs, poverty, abuse, crime syndicates—each as dangerous as the piranha that infested the waters. People could disappear without a trace in Peru.
“Be careful, Samantha. Be very careful.”
TWO
Forcing her eyelids apart, Samantha peeked out from under them and winced at the bright sunlight splashing on her face. She slipped her tongue over her dry, cracked lips, felt a hand slide under her neck.
“You are safe,” a gentle voice murmured. “Sleep now.”
When she woke up the second time, Sam was lying on a woven mat in some kind of hut made of huge leaves and poles. Her sandals sat against the wall. A girl appeared, touched her forehead and then smiled.
“Nonee,” she said, pointing at herself.
“Hello, Nonee.” Sam introduced herself. She followed the girl’s bidding, sat up and chewed on the bit of breadlike food she was given while Nonee combed her hair, tenderly washed her face, then left. She returned with a big, burly man—like a teddy bear with a smile. He wore a crudely carved wooden cross on a leather cord around his neck.
“Hello.”
She recognized the voice from earlier. “You’re the padre Ramon told me about,” Sam blurted out.
“Yes, I am the padre. Are you all right?” His concerned gaze took in her tattered clothes, her hair tumbling about her shoulders. “Nothing broken?”
Sam wiggled a bit, winced when her body protested. “Fine, I think. Just a little sore. I hit my head.” She was drawn in by his eyes—kind, gentle eyes that promised understanding. “I’m sorry if I gate-crashed your compound. I—I was running away.”
“There has been unrest in the jungle today. Things are not as they seem.”
“Then I should go.” She tried to get up and felt his big hand under her elbow, supporting her until she could stand on her own. “Thank you for helping me.”
“My dear, we are all God’s children. It is our duty to help one another.” Again he smiled and Sam could not look away from the peace she glimpsed in his face. She found herself longing to experience it personally.
A few moments later a gunshot broke the silence of the place. Birds squawked, children cried, a woman thrust her head into the hut and, in a frightened whisper, muttered, “El Señor.” The padre’s face tightened, but otherwise he gave nothing away, merely touched her hand to calm her and murmured a few indistinguishable words. Then he handed Sam her sandals.
“You are not safe here. Put on your shoes and then go with Nonee. Hide until I have dealt with this. Do not give yourself away. A man with evil in his heart is near. He will hurt you. Be very careful.” He touched her cheek then left.
Nonee bent and pointed to a small hole in the wall of the hut. Samantha began to crawl through the opening. At the last moment she saw her cell phone lying on the ground and snatched it up.
They emerged at the back of a group of huts, behind most of the furor. Nonee led the way upward, darting from dense thickets of eucalyptus trees through waist-high ferns, past huts where women ushered their little ones inside. Sam was so busy looking she almost bumped into Nonee, who had stopped abruptly and was now clearing away some limbs and debris from the base of a huge tree. After a moment a carved-out spot appeared in the trunk. This was the hiding place?
Nonee allowed no time for examination. She crawled in, and yanked on Samantha’s hand for her to follow. Once they were both inside, she pulled back the branches and arranged them so that they had only the smallest peephole to see through.
Nonee looked through it just once. Apparently she didn’t like what she saw, for she crossed her arms around herself and rocked back and forth, eyes closed, lips moving. At first Sam thought she was praying, until Nonee held out her palm, offering some of the raw white paste lying on it.
“Bazuko,” she offered, her voice hoarse. The word was familiar. A by-product of the cocaine-making process, bazuko was often used as a tranquilizer by the natives. Sam shook her head, turned back to watch.
Sounds from the camp were dimmer inside this secret cave. Voices raised loud in argument echoed toward them in fits and bursts. She could see two men standing on either side of the padre. They shook their fists, demanded something. The padre shook his head, and glared at a man dressed in tall boots and khakis who stood to one side. This was clearly the boss. Perhaps this was the el Zopilote she’d heard about.
Whoever he was, he said something Samantha couldn’t hear. This time the priest waved his hand, encompassing the compound as he shook his head vehemently. El Zopilote or whatever his name was snapped out a command, ending the argument. Two men grabbed the padre and dragged him into the center of the camp where they bound him to a tree. The man she’d named el Zopilote stood with his back to Sam. In loud, clear Spanish he told the entire group that what had been stolen must be returned; he asked them to find it.
Furious and indignant, the padre insisted he leave, that they had nothing that belonged to him. The khaki man sneered, said something Sam didn’t catch. Moments later the sound of a gunshot rang through the forest. The padre’s head sank to his chest as the light in his eyes faded to nothing.
“No, oh no,” she breathed, flinching but unable to tear her gaze from the horrible sight. When the murderer turned, she saw
