but—thankfully—their elevation was dropping as they approached the valley floor.
“Doctor Roberts is a geologist from Cal Berkeley. He’s handling the quake investigation, obviously. The man with the curly hair is Alejandro Rodriguez. He’s an artist from Mexico City who did some amazing sketches of what Mayan culture at Teotihuacan might have looked like. We’re hoping he can do something similar here.”
“That’s a pretty impressive roster, especially on such short notice. How did you pull it off?” Blair asked. They both knew exactly what he meant by “pull it off.” An operation like this took months or even years to get funding, and when it did, they weren’t paying anthropologists six figures to excavate.
“Steve was approached by a representative of the Peruvian government and asked to investigate the pyramid. They let us put together a dream team, though we were all required to sign the same NDA you did,” Bridget answered with a simple shrug. Her eyebrows knitted together though, a sure sign that something about this made her less comfortable than she was willing to admit.
“Why do we need soldiers, especially ones that well armed? I counted at least six at base camp.”
“They mostly keep to themselves, and we’re happy to let them. The only one we talk to is their leader, Commander Jordan. He’s the type of guy that can kill you with his bare hands, and just uses guns as a courtesy,” she said over her shoulder, still moving confidently down the trail. At least they were nearing the bottom.
“You sound like you’re happy they’re here,” Blair said, more than a little surprised. There was a longstanding feud between the military and almost every group of scientists. If they were funding a dig, it always meant strings were attached.
“The government’s worried that someone else will find the site, and they want to be able to protect their interests.”
Bridget’s words were practiced, as if she were parroting back a message she’d been taught.
“You have to admit this place is pretty unique. What we find inside could be very valuable to them.” She continued.
“Makes sense, I guess,” he conceded, though not without reservations. “They paid me enough that I probably should just leave well enough alone. Am I the last one to arrive? Or did you manage to get Connors on board?”
“With you here, I didn’t think we’d need him,” she said, pausing at the base of the trail. She lowered her cap to shade her eyes, face growing somber. “Besides, Steve refused to even consider it. He got…violent when I suggested it.”
“Steve?” Blair asked, finally catching up to her. A hundred pounds of stress melted away now that he was on more or less flat ground. “There’s no way. Steve’s the most non confrontational person I know. He’ll avoid you for weeks just to prevent a minor argument. Violent?”
“I know. Completely out of character, right?” She turned back to the trail, setting a dogged pace.
Blair let the silence stretch as they approached the pavilions. He didn’t like all the cryptic hints about Steve, but now wasn’t the time to interrogate Bridget. The people at the makeshift camp had spotted them, and Sheila was moving in their direction. She wore her self-created uniform: khaki pants with a flannel shirt covered by bright-blue suspenders. A wide-brimmed leather hat that covered a shock of black hair worked with a pair of thick glasses to complete the outfit. He doubted he would even recognize her without it.
“Blair Smith, is that you?” Sheila said, dipping backward in mock shock. Her exaggerated southern drawl made him smile. Sheila had been born in Los Angeles. She’d never been near the south. “I haven’t seen you in ages. I heard a nasty rumor that you took a job as a professor. I must have heard wrong. Though I guess that would explain the beer belly…”
“Wine belly. It happens when you live in Wine Country. That
Learning to Kill: Stories