Burial Ground

V

Glenwood Cemetery

Houston, Texas

October 21^st

10:25 a.m. CDT

Marcus Colton passed like a ghost through the somber gathering, a faceless mourner amid the tearful women and stoic men. The day was gray, the branches on the weeping cypress trees brown. Only the manicured lawn and shrubs provided a background of color for the marble and slate headstones and crypts, most of which were draped with moss. A procession of limousines idled at the bottom of the gentle slope, beyond which he could see the hint of Buffalo Bayou. Somewhere nearby was the final resting place of Howard Hughes.

The funeral director stood at the head of the grave on an elevated platform, hands clasped behind his back, bible on the lectern before him. He was in the middle of reciting the standard speech about eternal souls and lives prematurely extinguished. The polished oak casket hovered over the hidden hole beneath it, enclosed by a cage of red velvet ropes.

A woman sobbed to his right and drew several consolatory pats on the shoulder. In the race for sympathy, she trailed only the man sitting in the front row, a man that he knew needed none.

Colton skirted the periphery of the gathering and vanished behind the branches of a cypress. Gearhardt didn't acknowledge his arrival. He just stared straight ahead through his Serengeti sunglasses, his face stripped of all emotion. Only the clenched muscles in his jaws suggested that he was suffering, and not as a symptom of sorrow.

Colton studied the scene as he waited, memorizing faces and attaching names to those he recognized. His dark hair was cropped military short, his acute gray eyes hidden behind black lenses. His suit matched every other. He looked like anyone else, everyone else. Forgettable.

When the funeral director finally finished speaking, Gearhardt rose and cast what appeared to be a snarl of dead weeds onto the casket, ran his fingers along the smooth grain, and walked away from the gathering. He wound a circuitous route through the maze of ornate headstones and joined Colton beneath the sagging branches.

Colton didn't offer his condolences. Empty platitudes changed nothing. Instead, he waited patiently for his sometimes employer to speak. He had done enough jobs for Gearhardt in the past to know how the man worked. Gearhardt was in charge, but he allowed Colton autonomy over the operation itself. It was a rare combination, and Colton respected him all the more for it. Over the course of the past two decades, they had combined for more than a dozen successful reclamation projects, all of which had gone off without a hitch. There were always complications, but Colton was in the business of providing solutions, none of which came cheap. The mere fact that Gearhardt had called him first spoke volumes about the situation.

"I trust you found my offer satisfactory," Gearhardt said.

"As always." Colton allowed the silence to linger between them, interrupted only by the distant din of voices and the whistle of dove wings.

"You have reservations."

"I'm not exactly sure what you expect from me on this one. On the surface, it's a straight locate-and-excavate job, with maybe a few more bureaucratic hoops to jump through to secure the land lease, but when you factor in your boy's death, I have to wonder if the assignment isn't of a more personal nature."

"Have you ever known me to be sentimental in business matters?"

"No."

"Then give me your assessment."

"The Medical Examiner's report clearly states that Hunter's death was by drowning, and while there were two large puncture wounds in his back, they weren't necessarily dealt with the intent to kill. With easy access to guns and machetes, an assault with a hook seems highly unlikely and reflects none of the traits of a crime of passion. If the men you sent with him had wanted him dead, his body would never have been found. Not in that jungle. And his associates were well screened. In my opinion, none of them are capable of the kind of treachery you suspect."

"That kind of wealth can alter anyone's behavior patterns."

"True. However, in this case I find it hard to believe. I've thoroughly reviewed their dossiers and see nothing that would imply the potential for subterfuge, let alone violence."

"Then we're in agreement. They're all dead."

Colton nodded slowly. Gearhardt surprised him with his cool reasoning, especially under the circumstances.

"I've been giving this a lot of thought," Gearhardt said. "Initially, given the sheer amount of money we're dealing with here, I suspected some sort of conspiracy. But the more I step back and rationalize the situation, the more I believe that external forces contributed to my son's death, and the probable deaths of the rest of his expedition party."

"What do you propose?"

"I'm not quite sure, which is why I contacted you."

"The location is inherently rife with variables. There are countless species of venomous snakes and insects. That high in the cloud forest, the weather is notoriously unpredictable. They found his body in a seasonal river only after it had receded far enough to strand his body. And then there's the human factor. There are still indigenous tribes hidden in the Andes, isolated groups that might not take too kindly to any unheralded intrusion. And you can't discount the potential involvement of the Peruvian government. If word of your party's destination and what might be hidden there somehow leaked, there could be soldiers crawling all over the site. Then there are diseases we don't even know about yet, and for most we do, there are no inoculations. Any of hundreds of factors could have ultimately contributed to their deaths."

"I understand the overall scenario. I want to know what your gut tells you."

Colton pondered his answer carefully. With so many variables, anything could have happened. The idea of soldiers and natives didn't feel plausible. The Ejército del Perú, the Peruvian Army, would most certainly have mowed them down with automatic weapons and made sure their bodies were never recovered, and with their intimate knowledge of the Amazonas region, the natives would never have allowed the party to reach its goal in the first place if they'd felt threatened. So what was he thinking? Disease? Hunter's body had been cleared of viral and bacterial pathogens by the CDC itself. What did that leave? He hated to vocalize the words that came out of his mouth next, but he could see no other response.

"I don't know."

"And that's what troubles me, too."

Colton paused and watched the mourners disperse from the gravesite and pile into the waiting limousines. The sun peeked through the cloud cover, but vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

"I want to show you something," Gearhardt said. He reached into his jacket pocket, removed a folded handkerchief, and held it in his open palm. "These were with my son's possessions. They found them in his backpack."

Colton accepted the proffered handkerchief and felt the weight of its contents, or rather the lack thereof. He unfolded the fabric and studied the objects for a long moment before he looked up to find Gearhardt staring intently at him.

"I don't get it. Are these supposed to mean something to me?"

"I was hoping they would. They definitely meant something to Hunter, and for whatever reason he thought they were important enough to make sure he packed them in his hurry to flee the camp. We're dealing with a vast wilderness consisting of thousands of square miles of the harshest unmapped and unexplored terrain in the world. They're obviously a clue of some kind, but to what? The location? Or something else?"

Colton inspected the objects a while longer, then refolded the handkerchief over them.

"I have to admit, you've piqued my curiosity. However, it remains to be seen if you truly require the kind of dynamic solutions I provide."

Gearhardt nodded, but Colton sensed his hesitation.

"What are you holding back?" Colton asked. He returned the handkerchief, which disappeared into Gearhardt's pocket again.

"I have two stipulations."

"You know that's not how I work."

"Humor me, Marcus."

Colton licked his lips and tilted his face to the slight breeze. The smell of flowers and turned earth washed over him. There was something in the air, something intangible, something that constricted his intestines and fluttered in his stomach. It was a sensation to which he was entirely unaccustomed. He lowered his eyes to meet Gearhardt's and raised an eyebrow.

"I want this entire expedition documented," Gearhardt said. "Camera crews, various experts, the whole nine yards."

"You do remember that your son was stabbed twice in the back, right?"

"How could I forget?"

"If you want me to babysit a bunch of civilians under potentially dangerous conditions, you're going to have to double your offer. I expect four million and a twenty-percent stake."

"Done."

"And your second condition?"

"I'm going with you."