The Copper Egg Read online

  Claire covered her angry face by wiping sweat off with a bandana. Who else could possibly know? She had told Denis, but that conversation took place at the same time Nancho was being grilled by his cousins. “I don’t know how your cousins found this out, but yes, you and I are searching for Chaco’s tomb.”

  He grinned. “Good. My cousins think I lead a boring life. When we find Chaco’s treasure they will sing a different melody.”

  They resumed hunting, but Claire’s brain was caught in a fairly unproductive loop. Who knew she was even here?

  She stopped. The person who sent her the eggs knew why she’d come. “Nancho, tell me about your cousins. I only have three myself, so I’d love to hear what it’s like to have more.”

  For the next hour, as Nancho happily chatted about his cousins, Claire listened closely for anyone who might have been in the position to possess the eggs. But that was her problem—no one should have had the eggs. The location of Chaco’s tomb was a mystery.

  Some cousins were farmers; others were goat herders. Mariposa and two others had a stand selling fruits and vegetables in the Trujillo Market. One cousin moved to Lima and cut hair. Another moved to Bolivia and designed websites.

  “Oh, but then there is poor Mardonio.” Nancho shook his head. “If he survives the year it will be one of God’s miracles.”

  They switched tools and continued on. While the metal detector was heavy, using it to scan the ground was easier than slamming the pole. “Is Mardonio ill?” she asked.

  “Mardonio is a mochilero.”

  “Oh, no. Not good, Nancho.” Mochilero was a person who carried a backpack over the mountains, specifically a backpack filled with cocaine.

  “He lives down in Huanta, where he carries cocaine over the Andes once a month. It is very dangerous. Narcotics police hide and watch for mochileros. Other traffickers beat and rob them. Sometimes the drug boss hires someone to steal the cocaine, then the boss tells the man he must pay him back the value of what was stolen from him. Two of Mardonio’s friends have died. He has been beaten twice. Another friend fell off a cliff. The mountains are dangerous enough by themselves without men with guns walking them.”

  “I suppose there are lots of traffickers working the area.” Peru now exported the most cocaine of any South American country, and at least one third of it traveled by foot.

  Nancho slammed the probe into the ground with a grunt. “Only one. Carlos Higuchi.” He worried the inside of his cheek. “Mardonio is terrified of him.”

  They stopped for a short lunch of dried jerky and Coke, Claire’s mind chewing on Higuchi. She asked Nancho if he knew about the internment during WWII.

  “I didn’t finish secondary school. Only made it through third year, so I know very little history.” Claire suspected that was true for more people than just Nancho. She hadn’t known her own country’s fingers had reached so far when it came to the Japanese.

  She did the math in her head. If Higuchi was in his early fifties, then a grandfather would have been an adult in 1942, and likely would have been caught up in the dragnet that sent everyone to the U.S. Claire never knew her grandparents—her mom’s parents were killed in a car accident, and her dad was raised in the foster system. But then she thought about Mima, Sochi’s grandmother. Even though Claire hadn’t seen her for three years, she still felt fiercely protective of her. To think of Mima being treated poorly ignited a burning in her chest.

  In the afternoon, they stumbled into someone’s yard and Claire quickly explained they were lost. The woman looked pointedly at the metal detector in Claire’s hands, then waved them away. Later, a few dogs scared the crap out of her when they rushed them from behind, but they were just looking for a handout. They ended up walking beside her for a while, happy to get affectionate pats. Once, when Nancho wasn’t looking, Claire whispered to the nearest dog, a small, brown mix, “Do your feet smell like toast?” She bent to sniff, then grimaced. “Okay, that’s a no.”

  The dogs eventually wandered away, and Claire suggested to Nancho they call it a day. It was a long walk back to the car. As Nancho put the equipment away, Claire pulled out Denis’s map to mark off what they’d covered. By comparing GPS coordinates, she discovered that they’d only covered one-quarter of the first X on the map. “Shit,” she muttered. One quarter of one X? But they had spent all day out here.

  “Mrs. Claire?” Nancho slid into the driver’s seat. “I must ask. In searching for the tomb, are we doing the illegal?”

  “No. I should register with the CNTP, but we don’t have a specific dig site yet.”

  Nancho started the engine. “Maybe illegal depends on what we find,” he said.

  “Or on what we do with it,” Claire added. While what they were doing wasn’t “the illegal,” she also wasn’t practicing archaeology. She was prospecting for gold, nothing more.

  And by the look of the map, Claire would be as old as Mima by the time they searched all the Xs left. No wonder Denis had stopped.

  As Nancho drove, Claire tried to stay positive. Things would go faster once they had a few days to practice. Maybe this particular X was mismarked. Perhaps they spent too much time talking and not enough time walking.

  No matter what she tried, her brain spun back to the truth: There was no freaking way she would ever find King Chaco’s tomb this way.

  Claire stared out the window at the ocean sparkling brilliantly on the horizon. She might as well fly home. Without those damned voices to lead her, she was as clueless as everyone else.

  The solution to her problem popped into her head and began a lively conversation with another part of her brain—the smart part.

  No, no, no.

  Yes, yes, yes.

  I hate this idea.

  It’s your last option.

  Damn it! Damn it!

  Claire stopped, since fighting with herself was as weird as it sounded. Heaving a huge sigh, she pulled out her phone.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Claire

  Monday, March 20

  Claire had met Hudson Petroski in college, late one night in the Brass Monkey as she was trying to drown her sorrows in a margarita. She’d just figured out it wasn’t working when this guy plopped down onto the bar stool next to her and tried to pick her up. She finally fiddled with her phone, held it so he could see, and began flicking through the photos of nearly naked women her friend Maggie had put on the phone as a joke.

  “Why do you have photos of hot babes on your phone?”

  Claire raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh, okay. Got it.” Then they proceeded to bond over a less-than-appropriate discussion of the other women in the bar, a sexist activity but one that helped her forget her heartbreak over Amanda, who had left her yet again. Amanda would dump Claire, then come running back six months later. Claire’d be so happy for six months, then Amanda would leave again.

  Claire’s bond with Hudson deepened a few months later when he figured out what was going on. He met a woman in his physics class named Melissa Chen who was depressed because her girlfriend, also named Amanda, kept dumping her every six months. It turns out Amanda was just bouncing between Claire and Melissa. Technically, Amanda didn’t cheat on her, but still, the betrayal cut deep.

  Monday evening, her fourth day in Peru, Claire entered the small bar in the hotel’s courtyard. The cozy space was enclosed by the former mansion’s two stories and was filled with potted ferns and other lush greenery. The scent of pink and white frangipani ripening in the heat hung over the wicker tables and chairs scattered among the potted trees.

  She stared at the mirror behind the bartender and groaned. She looked like shit—hair snarled from the wind, nose sunburned, eyes lined with exhaustion.

  “What will it be? Wine? Sangria?”

  “Something with lots of vodka or rum and some fruit and an umbrella.” Not her usual poison, but she needed a comfort drink.

  “Ah, that would be an American Hippie.”

  Claire nodded as the bartender
rattled off the ingredients—coconut rum, watermelon vodka, triple sec, and pink lemonade, topped with a skewer of pineapple and maraschino cherries.

  “Perfect.”

  She collapsed onto a nearby chair with a blissfully comfortable cushion and took a sip. The sweet, cold liquid cooled her down. When she rolled the glass against her sunburned cheeks, she gasped at the chill.

  “Do you even own anything but tanks and cargo pants?”

  Chuckling, Claire stood. “Hudson. Thanks for coming.”

  Tan, tousled, and as cocky as ever, Hudson laughed when she, to both their surprise, flung her arms around him in a bear hug. “It’s good to see you.”

  He squeezed her hand as they sat down, then called to the bartender for a Pilsen Callao. “You look good.”

  Claire rolled her eyes.

  “Seriously. You’re rocking the extra pounds.”

  This would be a great moment for a smile. Claire tried forcing her muscles into the right configuration but gave up. She knew she came off as intense, but there wasn’t much she could do about that. She couldn’t fake being charming, but luckily Hudson knew that. “Screw you,” she said.

  He threw back his head and laughed, and Claire actually smiled. She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed hanging out with him. Claire had followed him on so many adventures and all had ended well. There’d been his midnight, semi-naked, ping-pong party, when she’d hooked up with the total hottie—Hudson’s words—named Janine. This was, of course, during her non-Amanda time. There were the Jell-O shots slurped without the professor’s knowledge during their Theory of Archaeology final.

  Claire took a sip of her drink. “Are you mad at me?”

  “For avoiding me for three years, or for not telling me you were coming?”

  “Both.”

  “Jury’s still out. I’ll let you know.”

  “Nice,” she said, feeling the opposite. “You always did like to keep people guessing. So, how’s the job?”

  “Fine, fine, except for the irritating stuff. I think I’ve gotten more of that than you ever did.”

  “Stuff like…?”

  “Stupid budget cuts. Everyone at the top says there isn’t enough for Chan Chan, yet they’re all driving bigger cars every year. Even Silvio’s gone corrupt. He drove up in a shiny red Lexus SUV the other day.

  “And the sea turtles. The goddamned turtles. They’re nesting along the coast near Chan Chan, so there are fuckin’ tourists wandering through the compounds looking for the beach, paying no attention to where they’re walking or what they’re walking on. The maintenance crew’s getting worked overtime. I hate those sea turtles.”

  He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his eyes shadowed by the philodendron towering over them. “I hear you’ve come back to search for Chacochutl’s tomb.”

  “Holy Christ. How did you know?”

  “It’s a small town.”

  “Trujillo has a population of over 800,000. It’s a huge city.”

  Hudson shrugged. “People know who you are. They talk.” He downed the last of his beer and motioned for another. “Chaco’s a wild goose chase.”

  “I know. That’s why I need your help.”

  “I can’t help you find what doesn’t exist.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Look, I meet lots of people in this job. You did too, right? And some of them tell me the most bizarre stuff. I even followed up on some of these wild tips, but never found a thing. I finally wised up after I spent over an hour wasting my time listening to a wacky old lady up in Chepen who said she had proof Chaco’s tomb existed. She said she possessed actual treasures from the tomb, rattling on about three precious metal eggs, and how her boyfriend knew the tomb’s location. Turns out the woman had dementia and thought she was an Incan princess married to Hernando Cortez.”

  Claire gripped her glass with both hands to stop herself from reaching for the eggs in her pocket. Why didn’t she take him into her confidence? Hudson had been her archaeological twin, her dig site shadow, her most patient listener when she’d fallen for Sochi Castillo faster than a stone could drop down a well.

  She told him about the note she’d received, leaving out the three eggs. “So that’s why I’m here, to spend a few days looking for King Chaco’s tomb.”

  “You realize how crazy that sounds?” He scowled. “I suppose you’re going to use…your skills?”

  “They’re gone, which is why I need your help.” Claire inhaled and let the air out slowly. There was no turning back if she did this. “I need to do San Pedro again.”

  He gazed into his foam-rimmed mug. “How long did your freaky voices last the first time we did that?”

  She swallowed. “They didn’t stop when I left Peru. I heard them for months in DC, but only when I passed a cemetery. I couldn’t go anywhere near Arlington or my head would threaten to explode from the voices.”

  “God, how awful.”

  “It gets worse. One day I went geocaching up in Huntley Meadows Park and started hearing single voices. It was horrible. I walked off the trail until I was standing right over one of the voices. It was some guy calling himself Winston, and he was moaning about being murdered. I did that four more times and marked the sites on my park map.”

  “What did you do with that information?”

  “After thinking about it for a few days, I drove to the nearest police station and insisted on talking to a detective. They led me to a black guy sitting at a desk, where I dropped copies of the Trujillo and Lima headlines about me hearing voices. The guy scanned the headlines. ‘Yeah, so?’ He wasn’t impressed.

  “That’s me, I said.

  “‘Good for you,’ the guy said.

  “Then I handed him the park map. ‘I still hear the damned voices, but now I hear them here. You have five bodies in this area of the park, probably the work of a serial killer. If you think it was me, check the records. I’ve been in Peru for the last three years.’ Then I left.”

  “Did they dig up five bodies?”

  The memory still made her shudder. “Yes, they did.”

  “And yet you want to take San Pedro again, even knowing you’ll suffer the effects for months.”

  She nodded. “Crazy, huh?”

  With a shrug, Hudson pulled from his pocket a vial of clear capsules, each capsule containing a slice of yellow resin. “I always carry a little with me. Where shall we do this?”

  They’d been in Chan Chan when they’d taken the San Pedro before, thinking they’d have better luck if they were close to the Chimú spirits. Chan Chan was also where the voices were loudest and most insistent. “Chan Chan,” Claire said.

  As he drove them to Chan Chan, Claire remembered their first experience…

  …“No, I don’t want to,” Claire said.

  Hudson clutched at her hand. “Please. I keep reading about how shamans use San Pedro to connect with the spiritual world. I need answers, Claire, but I can’t do this alone.”

  “Shouldn’t we have someone with us who’s not high?”

  “The trip won’t be that bad. I’ve done peyote before, so I’m guessing this will be similar, since they both contain mescaline. We’ll be fine.”

  She stared at the capsule Hudson put into her palm. An unexpected fear shivered through her. She heaved a sigh. “Okay.”

  “Excellent.” They were at Chan Chan, tucked into a far corner of the ruins, leaning against a stubby wall.

  The afternoon’s fog hung so low moisture lightly tickled her skin. “I still don’t know why we’re doing this.”

  “It’s for the vision. It will happen, and it’ll blow you away. Life becomes entirely clear.”

  He swallowed a capsule and handed her his water bottle.

  Claire once again considered the San Pedro in her palm. “It’s pathetic to think the answers to life’s mysteries can be found in a stupid cactus.” She swallowed the pill and they waited for something to happen.

  Hudson lay back on his elbows. “So, ar
e you and Sochi still serious? Is she open yet to a threesome?”

  “Don’t be gross.” Claire stretched out her legs. “I think she’s the one, Hud. Seriously.” Whenever she thought about Sochi, which was about fifty times a day, she wasn’t fixated on the woman’s generous hips or her melted caramel skin or ice blue eyes. What astounded her every day was the energy coiled inside Sochi. Being next to that woman was like standing next to a small rocket about to launch. Claire wanted to be on board when it did…

  “Claire? We’re here,” Hudson said as he drove into the Chan Chan entrance.

  She snapped to attention. Dusk was beginning to settle over the adobe ruins. “Okay, let’s do this.” They marched to the same spot, a far corner of the Chol An compound, and sat on the sandy ground, leaning against a bench for tourists. Hudson handed her the capsule, and once again, she hesitated. Six months of hearing anguished voices rising from the earth, in exchange for the chance to find Chaco’s tomb?

  She swallowed it.

  At first, nothing happened. They stared at each other.

  “Anything?”

  Claire shook her head. “How often do you take this stuff?”

  He shot her a little kid smile. “Not since the first time.” He shrugged. “Just makes me feel cool to carry it around, I guess.” She was relieved he wasn’t a regular user.

  Suddenly, a weariness settled over Claire, so pervasive that she no longer had the strength to hold herself upright. She lay back onto the sandy ground, her skin instantly sensitive. Each individual grain of sand pressed a perfectly round impression into her flesh. Touching the sand with her fingers was like caressing warm beads.

  “Wow,” Hudson breathed, now stretched out beside her. “Heavy. My body’s so heavy.”

  The dark gray sky overhead became a canvas splashed with swirls of thick cream. Claire breathed as calmly as she could, noticing that all her senses seemed to have receded except for her hearing. She could hear the blood pumping through Hudson’s veins. She could hear the flapping wings of a brown pelican skimming the ocean nearby. Her heart expanded to fill her entire body. She didn’t need love from anyone. She was love, and sympathy, and nostalgia.