Burial Ground

VI

Turlington Hall

University of Florida

Gainesville, Florida

October 22^nd

3:03 p.m. EDT

Dr. Samantha Carson leaned back in her desk chair and sighed. Twin stacks of essay tests dominated the blotter in front of her computer monitor. She should have made the exam multiple choice and keyed the Scantron. That way she would have already been done and sitting comfortably on her couch at home with a glass of wine and the new Danielle Steel novel, her guilty pleasure. Instead, she could only stare at the heaps of paper with their scribbled chicken scratch and dread the daunting task ahead.

Normally, she would have already been cruising through them, but the news of Hunter's death had hit her like a truck. Granted, she'd only seen him a handful of times over the past five years, but they'd practically grown up together. While other children had been firmly rooted in their nuclear families and living normal lives, she and Hunter had been toted around the world by their parents like baggage, which wasn't to say their childhoods had been terrible, only...different. They had lived for months at a time in tents and haphazardly assembled Quonset huts in some of the least hospitable locales, playing in jungles rather than on jungle gyms, in the most remote regions of the world rather than in safe little cul-de-sacs. For a long time it had felt normal. It wasn't until she began to develop her own identity and discovered the need for friends and an actual sense of belonging that she realized what she was missing. Hunter had been a brother to her in every way but genetically. It just hadn't been enough for her, and she had jumped at the opportunity to matriculate at one of the most prestigious private prep schools in the country. Hunter had stayed with his parents, but they had always spent holidays and breaks together, and she had looked forward to every minute of it.

And now he was gone.

Sam had promised herself she would make more of an effort to stay in contact, but since her parents passed---her father from esophageal cancer and her mother from the resultant loneliness of a broken heart---she had buried herself in her work and held life at arm's reach. Her professorship was demanding. As co-chair of the paleoanthropology department, she was charged with securing funding and negotiating site leases in addition to the everyday tasks of teaching undergraduate anthropology and graduate-level studies in Indigenous South American Cultures. Throw in the responsibility of being one of the world's foremost experts on the Chachapoya culture, and it was a rigorous schedule that dominated nearly every free second of her time, which forced out all of the things she had originally abandoned the life her parents had given her to pursue. In the end, as the adage goes, she had become just like them, an isolated relic in the modern world doing everything in her power to live in the past.

Sam turned away from her desk and looked out over the commons. Young men and women with their entire lives ahead of them bustled between classes, milled around bike racks, tossed Frisbees and kicked hacky sacks. Here she was, barely thirty-three years-old with a tenured academic post, a leader in her field, and it saddened her that she couldn't identify with any of them.

There was a knock on her office door, followed by the slight squeak of hinges. It was about time her teaching assistant showed up. There were still the next morning's lesson plans to formalize, and she wanted to discuss a couple of changes in the---

"You look just like your mother." She recognized the voice immediately and whirled to face her visitor. "She had those same little freckles under her eyes."

Leo offered an almost paternal smile. He hovered in the doorway for a few seconds before entering the room and closing the door behind him. He gestured to one of the chairs on the opposite side of the desk. "May I?"

Sam could only nod. She hadn't seen this face from her childhood in years, and other than a few more wrinkles around his eyes, he didn't appear to have aged at all. After a moment, she noticed her mouth was hanging open and felt the need to say something.

"I'm so sorry to hear about Hunter. You know how much I loved him."

Leo's smile grew weary. "I had always hoped that you two would end up together. You had so much in common, and you made a good team, you know?"

Sam inclined her head and swallowed the lump in her throat. In a practiced motion, she swept her long, raven-black hair behind her ears and studied this specter from her past through deep blue eyes. She felt like a child in his presence, as though in a heartbeat her skirt and blouse had reverted to dirty jeans and a baggy T-shirt.

The last time she saw Leo was following her mother's funeral. She had just graduated from the University of Pennsylvania with a doctorate in Cognitive Anthropology and Ethnoscience after spending two consecutive summers, and then a full year, excavating the Chachapoya ruins at Kuelap and the Karajia Tombs. Wide-eyed and overflowing with principles, she had lit into him with a ferocious tirade about his practices of raping the sites he discovered, pillaging the heritage of vanished cultures for profit, and stealing natural resources that should rightly belong to the impoverished masses. She had said things she knew she could never take back, and in doing so had tarnished her father's memory as well, but her beliefs hadn't changed one iota in the interim, and she wasn't about to recant.

As if he knew what she was thinking, Leo said, "Perhaps we didn't part on the best of terms last time we spoke, but I hope to make amends. I won't apologize for the life I've led. With your father by my side, we built a financial empire and salvaged lost societies from their own ruins. And we did so by the letter of the law."

"I don't want to have this argument with you again. Not now."

He waved her off. "That's not why I'm here either. Nor am I here just to catch up with an old and dear friend whom I've always thought of as a daughter."

Sam flashed a wan smile. "Who are you calling old?"

Leo returned the smile. This time it was genuine, not forced, though it contained a measure of sadness that she could feel, even from across the desk.

"I've been thinking a lot about my legacy lately," Leo said. His eyes latched onto hers. "I had always thought that Hunter would follow in my footsteps and take the company to a new level. And now there's no one. Certainly not you. No offense." He sighed. "But this isn't about me. Advanced Exploration will persevere, and your father's share---your share---will be there when you decide to claim it."

"I don't need the money, Leo."

He shook his head as though she had made a poor joke. "Indulge an old man and hear me out. All of this thinking about my legacy led me back to Hunter. In the end, I really don't care what people think about me, or if they do at all, but it's important to me that everyone knows that Hunter mattered, that his life made a difference to the world. And that's why I flew all the way out here to talk to you in person."

Sam saw the sincerity in his eyes. But what could he possibly need from her?

"I want to show you something," Leo said. He removed an envelope from his jacket pocket and passed it across the desk. "Go ahead. Open it."

Sam lifted the flap and slid out a small stack of photographs. She tried to maintain her poker face as she flipped through them one at a time.

"Looks like Mochica. Early eighth century possibly. They were a Pre-Inca society that flourished in the Peruvian coastal region. Renowned for their metallurgy and specifically their headdresses." She scrutinized the images of the ornate golden sculpture. The smooth, arched crown was framed with long filigreed feathers that nearly glowed, rather than the traditional Mochica motif of the eight arms of their sea god. The rounded front was lined with pointed teeth and twin jeweled eyes of what she assumed to be chrysocolla, a blue-green quartz found in copper deposits, which would have made the wearer appear to have been looking out through the open jaws of some frightening mythological creature. The Mochica was definitely a warring tribe; however, their rulers were considered gods, and dressed the part. Yet the mask didn't fit the traditional mold. She looked up at Leo, whom she now suspected already knew as much and was holding out on her. Was he testing her? "Where did you find this?"

"It was recovered with Hunter's belongings, several miles northwest of Pomacochas, Peru."

"That's outside the known Mochica range." She paused. "If I didn't know better, I'd say it looks almost Chachapoyan. But they didn't demonstrate such craftsmanship or skill working with metals until after their conquest by the Inca. And that section of the Andes would have been well north of their established territory."

"So what's your professional opinion?"

"I'll need to do some research. Can you give me a little time to think about it?"

"Can you think on a plane?"