Lost Contact (The Bridge Sequence Book One) Read online

  “And how do you like it there?” I asked.

  “It’s great. I’m hoping to teach at Harvard one day, after I earn my doctorate.”

  My attention was drawn to the opposite edge of the room, where the shorter bald man had returned without Richard. He peered around the living space, his eyes glazing over the guests, and when he saw me, his head stopped turning. He continued on, feigning the action, but I sensed he’d been looking for me. Something was off. He lifted his arm, taking a drink from a server, his suit jacket sleeve sliding up his wrist. Even from this far away, I could make out the symbol: a three-pointed half-star. This man belonged to the Believers.

  “Terri, it’s been lovely, but I have to be going.” I stood, but not so quickly as to draw attention to myself.

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Marcus was near the dining room, sampling more food, and I walked over, clutching his elbow. “Time to make our exit,” I whispered.

  He didn’t object, and we wound our way past the guests with a few muttered apologies and pressed through the front door. I scanned for any signs of the tinted vehicle, and when I didn’t see it, we jogged for Marcus’ car.

  “What has you so worked up?” He started the engine.

  “The cult… the one Madison was so ramped up about. One of them was with Klein.”

  “You don’t think…”

  “No, but I’m not sticking around to find out. Richard can take care of himself, but if I was to guess, they’re using him to get to me. Let’s see if we can’t book an earlier flight.” I glanced behind us, but the road was quiet, the streetlights casting unfamiliar shadows beyond the parked cars.

  10

  “I can’t believe that cult is after you.” Marcus entered my townhouse, shaking snow from his jacket. It had cooled down, a storm moving in with little warning.

  “Us. They’re after us,” I reminded him.

  He appeared to contemplate this but gave me a shrug of his shoulders. “Whatever. We’re a team. Don’t think for a second I’m going to let some old white cultists mess me up.”

  I admired his confidence but didn’t mirror it. “Take the computer. We’re heading to the airport.” I hadn’t started to pack for our trip yet, and I pulled a duffel bag from the closet under my stairs. “We’ll stop at your place on the way.”

  “No need. Already have my stuff in the car.” Marcus didn’t look away from the laptop. He was perched on my island, fingers quickly flying over his keyboard.

  “Of course you do. Always prepared for anything.”

  “Nah. I just saw how on edge you were lately and knew you’d want to leave early.” I heard him as I dashed up the stairs, heading to my bedroom.

  I flicked the lights on and looked around the room. It was so plain, bland in its bachelor stylings. Everything was dark wood, gray paint and bedding. My closet was full of suit jackets and dress shirts, and I plucked a pair of cargo shorts, jeans, and short-sleeved plaid shirts, along with some plain tees. It was snowing here, but down in South America, it would be another story.

  Once I had enough to carry me through a few days away, I added the toiletries and stopped, watching myself in the mirror. My eyes were heavy, tilted down in a way that only age and exhaustion could muster. I leaned into the sink, washing my face, and dabbed it dry on a hand towel. I had to do this. If I stayed, these lunatics could do something drastic.

  But what if I came back empty-handed? I’d have to deal with them in some fashion. I contemplated going to the police, but that wouldn’t help, not now. Not when I needed to skip town and follow our one lead.

  Why had Clayton left the coordinates on his grave marker? What were we going to find in the jungles of Venezuela? I had too many questions and none of the answers.

  “You coming?” Marcus shouted from downstairs.

  I didn’t reply, just zipped up the bag, hoisting it over my shoulder. Marcus was already by the front door, grinning at me.

  “You changed the flights?” I asked.

  “Done.”

  “And we can leave soon?”

  “We can.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?” He was oddly quiet as we exited my place. I locked the door, hoping that no one would break in while I was gone. I should have added the security system Marcus suggested but hadn’t made time.

  “There may be a couple of layovers,” he finally spouted as he lifted my bag, tossing it into his hatchback. He fired up his car, tires slipping on the wet pavement as we lurched forward.

  I watched behind us but found nothing. “Take the long way,” I suggested, hoping it would throw off anyone watching.

  Part of me thought I might have been fabricating danger: the fact my door was unlocked, even spotting the three-tipped tattoo across the room. Maybe I’d been seeing things, giving into the paranoia since Hunter Madison had revealed the truth about the Believers. He had a lot to gain from us acquiring the links to this Bridge he was so anxious to locate. Fueling my panic and fears was a tactic a man like him would use to get me on his side. I’d need his protection, his funding too. His friendship. I shook my head as we drove on, feeling like a fool who’d been had by a man far more experienced in the game than I was.

  I remembered what Marcus had said, and circled back. “A couple of layovers?”

  He flashed me a grin. “We’ll be there in no time.”

  ____________

  Dust covered every inch of my body, sticking to my sweaty skin. I wiped my face with my bandana and glanced at the ever-present sweltering sun.

  “Did someone forget to tell them it was December?” Marcus asked. His words came out like a man on his last breath, and I passed him my canteen. He took a greedy swig, water dripping down his chin, and I did the same.

  “This is a nightmare.” The bench in the back of the ancient pickup was uncomfortable on the main roads. Out here, in no man’s land, my spine protested every small bump and hop of the vehicle.

  After connecting in Pittsburgh, then to Mexico City, we’d landed in Caracas on Saturday morning. It had taken three hours to vacate the airport, and finding someone to bring us south had proven more difficult than anticipated. This was our third local hire, and I suspected he was being paid a month’s salary just to drive the last hundred miles to our destination.

  It was Sunday morning, and we’d been lucky enough to be dropped off in a village a few hours north of here the night prior. After sleeping on squeaky cots in what passed for a hotel, we were both a little on edge.

  “How much longer?” Marcus asked me, and I stared ahead.

  The driver was with his son, maybe twelve years old, and the kid kept staring at us in the truck bed. I knocked on the window, and he unlatched it. “Cuánto tiempo más?”

  “Unos minutos,” the boy replied. A few minutes.

  The window stayed open, and I leaned my elbows on my knees. “Almost there.”

  Sweat covered Marcus’ forehead, but he was acclimating well. For a kid who’d never traveled growing up, he’d sure adapted to the hardships of adventure, even better than I did.

  It made me wonder if my dad had ever come here, to this town. How had Dirk Walker dealt with muggy weather, mosquito bites, and sleeping on the ground? These were things I’d never had the chance to learn.

  The landscape was oddly level, with a few ranges of low-lying mountains some miles in the distance. We’d passed the main river that bisected the country an hour ago, and now it was drier, the lush jungle giving way to thinner tree cover and hard-packed soil.

  Five minutes passed, and I finally spotted a farm. A trickle of goats lazily trotted across a fenced field, and children kicked a ball in the street as we drove by. I lifted a hand in greeting, but the kids only regarded me with suspicion. “Friendly place,” I muttered, but Marcus didn’t seem to hear.

  The truck lurched to a stop, nearly knocking me from my seat, and the driver hopped out, tapping his palm on the side of the vehicle. This was it: the end of the line.

&nb
sp; My legs protested as I climbed to my feet, and I descended from the truck bed, swinging my pack over my arm. “Pay him, Marcus.”

  My sidekick had half of our money, and he slipped our agreed-upon amount from his bag, shoving it toward the tanned man. He didn’t say a word as he headed to his seat and turned the truck around, driving the way he’d come.

  This was it. Our destination. Marcus had his cell phone out, and he shook his head. “This isn’t it, Rex.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, trying to catch a glimpse of his screen.

  “The coordinates are still several miles away.” He waved farther down the road, and I sighed. There was a scattering of buildings in this godforsaken town, all of them constructed at least a hundred years ago, and they’d been neglected since then.

  I’d visited a lot of places like this over the years, and at some point, they all blended together into one miserable pit stop you didn’t want to linger at. The air of poverty was heavy, and I wondered how they got up every day.

  Still, as we walked across the rough and bumpy road centering the village, the inhabitants seemed happy. Maybe this was far enough from the oppressive government. They got by with what little they needed, and that carried them through the days.

  Some of the structures were solid, with white plaster and thatched roofs, while others were no more than shacks. A pair of men sat outside what looked to be the local watering hole, each smoking cigarettes and clutching sweating bottles of beer. “Let’s ask.” I walked past them, feeling both of their stares on me as I entered.

  A fan circled precariously from a low ceiling, and I heard soft music playing from an old stereo behind the bar. It was early in the day, and there were only a handful of people inside, including us. The barkeep was in his fifties, wearing a white short-sleeved shirt and dark pants. His moustache was too large for his face, but he seemed friendly as I crossed the room, sitting at the bar.

  “Dos cervezas,” I said, making the peace sign with my left hand. He nodded, popping the tops off two brown bottles and sliding them to us.

  Marcus flipped his phone and turned it to face the man. “Do you know where this is?” he asked, and I translated.

  The man’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he just shook his head. “No hay nada ahí fuera.”

  Marcus glanced at me, and I relayed, “Says there’s nothing out that way.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked him in Spanish.

  “Antigua cantera de rocas.” The man flipped a towel over his shoulder and turned around, cleaning a glass.

  “Rock quarry.” I tapped the bar, sipping the beer. What I really needed was more water, and I asked for some. The man started to pour some from a tap, and I shook my head, sliding ten US dollars’ worth of bolivars at him. He smiled, snatching it quickly, and brought two bottles of water from a refrigerator.

  “What do you think? Walk the rest of the way?” Marcus asked, and I nodded.

  “Unless you want to ask those guys out front for a ride.”

  Marcus swallowed half his beer in one chug and made a refreshed sound when he was done. “Not on your life, Rex. I’ve seen this movie before, and I’m not ending up in the bottom of the quarry with my computer in their hands.”

  We had a few hours before dark settled, and I wanted to keep moving. I didn’t know if we were going to uncover buried secrets in this rock quarry, or what we’d find, but I definitely didn’t want to be out there at night.

  I finished the beer and slipped the barkeep another note, thanking him.

  The two patrons were gone when we exited, but I smelled their lingering body odor mixed with cigarette smoke. Two miles wasn’t far, but after a day of traveling across the tumultuous landscape in the back of trucks, the hike would be a strain.

  The sun was high as we left town. Only a few people remained in the streets, and I guessed the population of this place had to be under three hundred. Little more than a blip on the map.

  We kicked up dust as we walked, and within ten minutes, my shirt was stuck to my chest. The ground ascended as we went, and as we crested a hill, we spotted the quarry from this vantage point. The rocky opening was massive, with a set of giant dump trucks parked near the entrance. They weren’t much more than rusted-out hunks of metal, and I wondered how long the place had been abandoned.

  “This doesn’t look promising,” Marcus said, licking his lips. “Dammit, Rex. Why would that guy send us here, of all places? Are we supposed to find something hidden? Because if that’s the case, it seems like we’re missing a clue.”

  He was right, but I didn’t say so. “It’s okay. We’re almost there.” I felt a renewed energy upon seeing the quarry, and my legs picked up speed. I stopped at the edge of the opening, where the roads circled down, ending with pieces of old machinery. I assumed whoever owned this land had cleared out anything of value years ago, abandoning whatever they couldn’t salvage or sell.

  A house stood off to the right, across the opening, and I laughed as I spotted the van beside it. “Marcus, someone’s here.”

  “Is that a good thing?” he asked.

  “We’re about to find out.” I’d considered attempting to buy a gun along the way, but didn’t want to risk being caught with a firearm in Venezuela. I’d heard plenty of horror stories from other archaeologists to know better. I hated being unprotected out in the open like this.

  We arrived at the house in less than five minutes, and I peered into a dusty window, unable to see inside. The door wasn’t latched, and I knocked on it loudly.

  “¿Quién es?” a woman’s voice called.

  I struggled for a minute to think of the words, but they eventually came out. “We’re looking for some information,” I said in Spanish. When the door didn’t open, I added, “We can pay.”

  Her feet shifted behind the wooden slab, but the door finally pressed wide. A short dark-haired woman stepped onto the front step, looking in both directions past us. “What is it you seek?” she asked in English, her accent thick.

  “May we come in?” I asked, nodding toward the living room.

  “You can pay?” she asked, making the universal sign for money by rubbing her fingers over her thumb.

  Marcus pulled another wad of bills and gave her a reasonable sum, returning the rest. Her eyes lingered on the money in his shirt, but she stepped aside, letting us enter.

  The home was welcoming and neat, and she motioned to the couch, taking a chair across from it. I dragged in some dirt onto her white tile floor and gave her an apologetic look. She didn’t seem to notice or care.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Marta,” she replied, still frowning.

  “Lovely name. I’m Rex, and this is Marcus.”

  “What are you needing?” She was around my age, but had heavy lines in her forehead. I reasoned living beside a rock quarry wasn’t ideal, but her eyes were bright and carried a spark in them.

  “Does the name Dirk Walker mean anything to you?” I asked.

  She shook her head.

  My heartbeat quickened. If she knew nothing, we were at the end of the trail. “What about Clayton Belvedere?”

  Her expression changed instantly. She stood up, speaking in hurried Spanish. I could only pick up a few words, but she wasn’t happy to see us.

  “What is it? How do you know him?” I asked, and she sat down again, her hands shaking.

  “My padre. Father used to do work. Out of country.” She made the sign of the cross, starting at her forehead, and I looked at Marcus. This was it.

  “Where is your father? Can we speak with him?” She looked confused, and I tried again. “Your padre. Is he here?”

  She lowered her head. “Father is dead.”

  The wind blew out of my sails at the words, and I slumped into the couch, my energy suddenly sapped.

  “You said he was employed out of country? Where, exactly?” Marcus asked.

  Marta crossed her hands over her lap and looked at my sidekick. “He went to other
places. He was an excellent rock climber, and strong. He was hired by some men. Did jobs for them for ten years. I was just a child. I recall him gone for weeks at a time.”

  “Was one of these men Clayton?” I pressed.

  She nodded. “I think so. Mister Clayton.”

  “What was his last trip? Working for them?”

  She sat still, her gaze shifting to her kitchen. “I was a little one. Thirty years or so.”

  “Thirty years.” That was close enough to my timeline. “Where was he?”

  Marta brightened. “I remember. He came home with gifts. He told my mother that he was done leaving after one more job.”

  I smiled at Marcus. This meant he’d been there with my father on their final trip. “Where was he?” I asked again, my voice low.

  “Portugal. Then he was gone again. For a month.”

  Her answer confirmed my suspicions over the years.

  “How does this help us?” Marcus sighed, rubbing his face with a palm.

  “Maybe we can pick up the trail again. There has to be something I missed.” I tried to think about it, going over the details I’d weighed countless times throughout my life.

  “You want to find Mister Clayton?”

  “Can you tell us where he went?” My lips almost stuck together as everything went dry.

  “No, but I know that Father kept something from him. He hid it, but I was a curious child.” Marta smirked, and I saw a glimpse of the troublemaking girl she could have once been.

  I was fighting my desire to climb to my feet and shake the answer out of her. “Where is it?”

  “Across the mine.” Marta peered at Marcus again, toward his shirt pocket, and I nodded at him.

  “Give her the money,” I said calmly.

  “All of it?” he asked.

  “If this is what I think it might be, it’s worth every penny.”

  11

  The sun had fallen past the rolling rocky hills to the east, creating silhouettes across the pit before us. Marta lived alone, now that her parents were deceased. Her husband had vanished on her five years ago, gone without so much as a note.