Chase Baker and the Golden Condor: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series No. 2) (16 page)

We come to the top of the stairs.

Before us is the massive cave opening which also doubles as
the “mouth” of the carved mountain. The opening is draped in vines, growth, and
thick spider webs. There’s a strange, sweet-smelling air that’s emanating from
the cave. The cool, thick air causes the curtain of webs to pulsate, like the
sail on a boat continually filling with wind and then losing it.

“Maybe you should go first,” Leslie says, that now familiar
tension having returned to her voice, “since you’re the Man in the Yellow Hat.”

“Funny,” I say, “I don’t feel like I’m wearing a yellow
hat.”

Something dawns on me then. Reaching into the bottom,
left-hand pocket of my bush jacket, I pull out a small device that was sent to
me by one of my fans.

“Don’t tell me you’re going high tech on us, Chase Baker?”

I peel off the device’s plastic protector and then, pulling
out my smartphone, slide the playing card–sized device onto it as you would a
zoom lens for a smartphone. Clicking onto the device’s application, I point it
at the cave opening, keeping my eyes on the digital screen.

“This is an infrared thermal camera sensor,” I explain. “If
there’s something alive and moving in there, this thing will pick it up. In
theory at least.”

“Have you tried it before?”

“I went as far as downloading the application. But then I
backed off and forgot about it.”

“You’re not comfortable with the digital age.”

I cock my head. “I envy Keogh Two, flying here in a biplane,
searching for a trail using only his eyes.”

“You told me he used a camera. High tech for his time.”

“I suppose,” I say, bobbing the device in my hand. “But
stuff like this takes the fun out of exploration.”

“It also decreases the chances of spontaneous attack from a
dangerous predator. You should have thought about using it back there in the
jungle. We might have avoided the ambush from the hostiles and the Tupac
revolutionaries.”

I shake my head. “The jungle is too massive, too filled with
life of every variety. The sensors would have gone ballistic. It only works in
enclosed spaces.”

“Well, Chase, let’s put it to work.”

Once more aiming the device at the cave, I look for a sign
of life. At first, nothing appears, but then suddenly, several small blips fly
across the screen.

“Bats,” I say. “I’ll bet the mortgage those are bats.”

“Or spiders scurrying across those webs.”

“That too is a possibility, if not a probability. This is a
cave after all.”

I continue with the examination, looking for something big
to appear for me in a radiant green glow. I’m just about to replace the device
and the phone back into my pocket on my bush jacket when something appears and
at the same time, causes my heart to skip a beat.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I whisper, my pulse picking
up.

“What is it?” Leslie says, trying to get a look over my
shoulder without losing her footing on the slippery step.

Locking my eyes onto the screen, I see what is undoubtedly a
bipedal creature that’s walking around inside the cave.

“It’s a man, Leslie,” I say. “Most definitely a man.”

“How can you be certain it’s a man?” Leslie says. “What if it’s
a monkey? Or a gorilla?”

“Gorillas don’t exist here,” I say. “And if memory serves me
well, the largest monkey in the Amazon is a howler monkey and they’re only
about a foot and a half to two feet tall. Whatever or whoever this thing is, it
is walking like a man. Upright and graceful.”

“Hostile natives?” she poses.

“Could be,” I say. “In any case, let’s be on guard for
whatever greets us on the other side of that opening.”

Drawing my .45, I thumb off the safety. Then, pulling my LED
lamp off my belt, I flick it on and take the first step toward the cave
opening. With Leslie close on my tail, I reach out with the pistol barrel and
break through the curtain of webs.

“Watch your step, Les. There are vines underfoot. Stay
close.”

“I’m so close I can feel your heart beating.”

The round, high-intensity lamp cuts through a darkness so
black it feels like it’s possible to pull chunks of the stuff away with my
hands. As we move in toward the heart of the cave, the air begins to warm and
the once sweet smell gives way to something else. The odor of burning oil.

I stop.

“What’s wrong?”

My gut speaks to me, tells me that despite the darkness,
we’re being monitored by more than one set of eyes.

“We’re not alone,” I say, my voice a hoarse whisper.

Raising up my .45, I thumb back the hammer.

That’s when the solid rock beneath our feet gives way.

We’re falling rapidly, sliding on our backsides down a slide
made of extraordinarily smooth stone. The steeply angled marble ramp banks and
curves at sudden angles and it’s all I can do to hang on to both the LED
flashlight and the pistol. Leslie is screaming, but at the same time, laughing,
like she’s getting a rush from an amusement park ride.

Then suddenly, we come to the end of the ramp by shooting
out of a square-shaped opening positioned at ground level in the wall. We land
softly on our backsides onto a stone floor, the momentum causing us to slide
for maybe an additional five or six feet.

When I’m able to get my bearings, I shoot Leslie a look.
“You okay, Les?”

But she doesn’t look at me. Her eyes are fixated on
something dead ahead.

“You were right,” she says. “We are most definitely not
alone.”

The room is lit with burning torches that are suspended from
stone walls that have been carved and polished as smooth as the stone floor and
the ceiling overhead. Surrounding us on all sides are natives of the Amazon.
They are dressed not only in leather thongs, but also what appears to be a
ceremonial costuming. Feathery headdresses and necklaces of shrunken heads,
along with bracelets of bone and teeth. They point spears at us and stare into
our faces with dark-eyed gazes.

“If this were a situation straight out of one of my slush
pile novels,” Leslie says under her breath, “it would be the part where we say,
‘We come in peace.’”

Uncocking the .45, I then slowly set it onto the stone
floor. Then I do the same with the flashlight. Holding up both my hands as if
in surrender, I begin to rise up onto my feet. Acting in unison, the natives
move in closer while cocking back the arms that support the spears, as if about
to thrust the deadly weapons into our chests.

I stand anyway and smile.

“My name is Chase,” I say, knowing that more than likely
they will have no idea what I’m saying. But it’s the tone of my voice that
counts. “This is my associate, Leslie.”

More staring, more aiming of the spears.

“Perhaps you can tell me who’s in charge?” I say in as
gentle a tone as possible, while maintaining my smile.

That’s when I hear footsteps coming from way off at the
other end of the long rectangular room. Not bare feet on stone, but actual
leather soles click-clacking on the stone.

“Stand back,” I hear a man speak in English. American
English. “Please get back, all of you.”

The band of natives splits in half, making two neat rows of
warrior men who now face one another in the great polished stone room. They
also make room for someone who, according to the laws of nature and God, should
not now be staring me in the face.

A man by the name of Peter Keogh II.

He’s dressed like he’s about to take flight in the De Havilland
Tiger Moth parked out on the strip carved out of the jungle. A worn leather
coat over khaki colored canvas pants stuffed inside knee-length lace-up leather
boots. Army-style work shirt, the chest pocket stuffed to the button’s breaking
points. He wears a leather holster which holds a Colt Peacemaker on his
right-hand hip, and on his head, a leather flight hat, a pair of goggles pulled
up high on his forehead. He’s sporting a thin and trimmed mustache on his upper
lip, a la Errol Flynn, while brown leather gloves cover his hands.

“Quite the ride down here, ain’t it?” he says, not without a
pleasant smile.

He holds out his right hand.

“Peter Keogh the Second,” he says in a boisterous but
welcoming tone. “Damned glad to meet ya.”

I hesitate at first, because I can’t believe what I’m
looking at. It’s the year 2014. By all accounts, this man disappeared from the
world when his plane crashed into the trees back in 1939 when he was
forty-something years old. That would put him well over a hundred. Judging by
the gray in his mustache and the strands of salt and pepper hair that stick out
from under his flight cap, I wouldn’t peg him for anything older than fifty or
fifty-five. But how can that be?

Leslie leans into me.

“Are we dead? Or are we dreaming this?”

“Relax,” I say out the corner of my mouth. “Just keep
thinking about what a great book this is going to make.”

“Better be fiction, because no one is ever going to believe
this shit.”

I turn back to Keogh II.

“Mr. Keogh,” I say.

“Call me Pete,” he says. “All my friends do. Isn’t that
right, Amma?” He turns to one of the natives, who nods while maintaining his
sour, I-want-to-stab-the-gringos-with-my-spear expression. “Oh well, Amma is a
sour puss,” Keogh adds with a giggle. “You know anything about the Tupi tribes,
Mister ahhhh, Mister …”

“I’m Chase,” I say, taking hold of his leather-gloved hand,
gripping it tightly. “Chase Baker.” Nodding toward Leslie. “This is Leslie. My
partner.”

He peels away his hand, removes the glove. Then, taking a
step forward, he takes hold of Leslie’s hand while gallantly dropping down onto
one knee. Bringing the back of Leslie’s hand to his face, he plants a kiss on
it.

“Leslie,” he says. “I am enchanted to know thee.”

Leslie beams, her face turning red.

“Oh my,” she says, “a real gentleman.”

Releasing her hand, he stands, nods.

“Why thank you. Mom and Pop taught me well.” Then, biting
down on his bottom lip, “Say, you wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette, would
you? A Lucky Strike or a Chesterfield maybe. ”

As if on instinct I pat my pockets.

“I quit some years ago,” I confess.

He smirks.

“Seems I’ve quit as well. But not by choice. Cigarette girls
are hard to come by down here. Like Tommy Dorsey records.”

He smiles, like he’s having a ball.

“Mr. Keogh—”

“Pete.”

“Yes, Pete. Do you have any idea how old you are?”

He laughs like a boy.

“Well, last I checked,” he says. “Forty-two.”

“Forty-two,” I repeat like a question.

“Give or take a few decades. You see, Chase, it’s hard to
keep track in my line of work.”

“Your line of work.” Another question.

“You see,” he says, “I’m a pilot.”

“So we’ve heard,” Leslie jumps in. “We came down here to
look for you, amongst other things.”

He nods. “And I have always known that you or someone like
you would eventually come knocking on my stone front door. It was just a matter
of time. Now here you are.” Crossing his arms over his chest. “But if you don’t
mind, can you tell me who sent you?”

“Your son,” I say.

He smiles.

“My son? My God, I have a son whom I haven’t seen in
forever.” He takes a step back, sets both hands on his hips while assuming a
facial expression that sings of shock, wonderment, and curiosity. “Tell me,
what’s my son like now?”

I press my lips together.

“I’m afraid he’s a bit sick these days.”

“Oh no,” he says, eyes wide, as if I’m talking about a boy
of five or six years old. “Cold? Influenza?”

“Worse than that, I’m afraid. Your son has cancer, Pete.”

His face goes pale. “A child should never be stricken with
cancer.”

“Your son is seventy-five years old, Peter,” I say. “He’s
older than his father.”

“But how can that be? Has time escaped me entirely? Do you
know I knew him as a newborn baby?” His eyes are blinking rapidly, and he gives
his head a shake as if it helps get a grip on the bizarre reality he’s now been
faced with.

Just then, more footsteps come from behind Keogh. Booted
feet. Not the bare feet of the natives.

“Who’s that?” I say to Keogh, crouching down and retrieving
my .45 while Leslie cautiously picks up the AR-15.

He looks at me wide-eyed.

“I have no idea. I should be the only westerner down here,
next to you two.”

“All that changes right now,” comes the voice of a man.

As he comes closer, I am able to make out the man’s face,
and his identity shocks me almost as much as Keogh II’s did.

“Peter Keogh the Second,” I say as he approaches, “please
meet Mister Peter Keogh the Third. Your son.”