Zeb was studying the carved image of the dried-up fountain. 'But what if-'
She was silenced by a muffled scream and a gunshot that issued from the darkened stairs. She stood up and pulled Sister Chantal to her feet. Another scream. Sister Chantal walked to the stairs and Zeb followed her. As she looked down into the gloom, a black shape leapt, snarling, at the nun, slashing with its claws, throwing her to the floor. Then Ross appeared and fired a shot into the air. The huge cat darted for the doorway and disappeared outside.
As Zeb rushed to Sister Chantal, Ross ran to the exit, raised the rifle and fired into the fading light.
'You get it?' Zeb called.
'It was too fast.' He ran back to help Zeb prop Sister Chantal against the wall. Blood flowed from a cut on her cheek and she had a large contusion on her forehead. Her right shoulder bore two shallow slashes where claws had torn her cotton shirt but, luckily, her shredded backpack had taken the brunt of the attack.
'What the hell was that?' said Zeb.
'A melanistic jaguar.'
'A what?'
'A black-pigmented jaguar. A panther.'
He sounded distracted and Zeb stared up at him. 'There's blood all over your face. You okay?'
'It's not mine,' Ross said, in a monotone. He was holding Sister Chantal's wrist. 'She's out cold and her pulse is weak.'
Zeb helped him lay her on her back, then loosened her collar. 'We'd better get Nigel.'
When she turned, a dazed Mendoza and an ashen-faced Hackett were walking up the stairs, carrying Juarez between them. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. As Hackett tried to staunch Juarez's bleeding, he knew his friend was close to death, and that he was powerless to prevent it. As he opened Juarez's shirt to examine the wounds in his throat and chest, he thought of all the times over the last three years they had sat together on the Discovery, drinking Cusquena beer and talking about their dreams.
Juarez had been born in a remote Amazonian village close to the Ecuadorian border but had always longed to see Europe and North America. Hackett had promised that when he returned to London, having found fame and fortune in the Amazon, he would take Juarez with him. Only last night, asleep in his hammock, Hackett had dreamt of lecturing to the Royal Geographical Society. As the great and good applauded, the beautiful Zeb Quinn – who no longer mocked his idiosyncrasies but understood, admired and desired him – stood at his side.
But now his friend would never leave the jungle to live his dreams and, although Hackett had discovered his lost city and its gold, his own dreams of glory seemed hollow too.
Juarez gripped his arm and tried to speak. 'I'm not scared,' he rasped. 'I'm not a coward.'
'I know, my friend,' said Hackett.
'No, you're not,' Mendoza concurred. 'You're the bravest man I ever met. You saved my life.'
Juarez gripped Hackett's arm tighter, a smile playing on his lips. Finally his face relaxed. Hackett closed his eyelids and laid him on the floor. 'He's gone.'
'I'm sorry,' said Ross.
'So am I,' said Hackett. Zeb was kneeling over Sister Chantal, tears in her eyes. As he watched, she put a hand to her mouth.
'What do we do now?' asked Mendoza.
Hackett sighed. 'I don't know.'
Ross laid a hand on his shoulder. 'Nigel, there's nothing more you can do for Juarez. Why don't you attend to Sister Chantal while Osvaldo and I bury our friend? Then we'll build a fire.'
Hackett nodded numbly. 'I want him buried deep,' he said fiercely. 'I don't want any animals getting to him.'
'We'll make sure of it, senor,' said Mendoza. 'I'll say a prayer, and we'll put a stone on top of the grave.'
Hackett hesitated a little longer, then relinquished his friend to them and moved to examine Sister Chantal.
'How is she?' said Zeb.
Hackett checked Sister Chantal's cuts, contusion and breathing. 'She's concussed, but she appears to be breathing regularly. Her cuts are superficial and the bump on her head looks nastier than it is.' He reached for his medical bag. 'I'll check her blood pressure, then we'll make her comfortable and let her rest.'
'It'll be dark soon,' said Ross. 'I vote we spend the night on the flat top of this pyramid. We can build a fire there and it should be easier to keep away any more unwelcome visitors. If you guys can get Sister Chantal and our baggage to the top, Osvaldo and I'll look after Juarez.'
46
'You want some strong painkillers for your wrist?' asked Mendoza, popping a tablet into his mouth.
'No, thanks,' said Ross, welcoming the pain as he helped Mendoza lower Juarez's body into the hole they had dug in the soft earth behind the pyramid. It distracted him from the gathering dusk and from what they were doing. In burying Juarez he felt as if he was burying a part of himself. He had come here to save Lauren but already his quest had cost four lives: those of the three bandits who had tried to hijack them and now Juarez. As he shovelled earth into the grave, he thought of the strange carvings at the base of the ziggurat and felt a little consoled.
He was close now to either realizing his dream of saving Lauren, or confirming his worst fear that this trek into the jungle had been a waste of precious time and lives. Sister Chantal claimed that from here they could reach the garden and be back in a week, and had seemed confident of doing so without a guide – without Juarez. Depending on how quickly they returned to civilization he could be back in the States in two or three weeks with whatever he found in the garden. His main concern now was the enigmatic Sister Chantal, the key to interpreting the final directions.
Mendoza coughed. 'I still can't believe what Juarez did for me.
'He was a brave and selfless man,' said Ross.
'But I'd thought he was a coward.'
'We are what we do,' said Ross, almost to himself. 'His last act defined him.'
Mendoza patted the earth with his hand. 'This man will go to heaven.'
'I won't argue with you on that one.'
After filling in the hole, they dragged a slab from the plaza, placed it over the mound, and Mendoza assembled a small pile of stones to mark the grave. Then they called to the others. Hackett came down, then he and Mendoza said simple prayers, while Zeb watched over Sister Chantal.
Later, they made a fire on the flat top of the ziggurat and prepared food. No one was hungry but they went through the motions, picking at their tinned beans and meat stew.
'How's Sister Chantal?' Ross asked.
'She's stirred a couple of times, but she's still out of it,' Hackett replied. 'Her blood pressure's okay, though. I think she just needs rest.'
Zeb was sitting by the baggage, frantically rooting through Sister Chantal's shredded pack. 'You okay, Zeb?' Ross called to her.
Zeb's eyes were bright and red-rimmed from crying. 'No,' she said quietly. 'I'm not.' She held up a pile of shredded, bloodstained paper, then Father Orlando's notebook, what was left of it. 'The backpack saved Sister Chantal's life but the notebook was in it. The jaguar tore it to pieces.'
Ross felt sick. 'Show me.'
The cruel irony was that the first pages were still legible and the last mismatched section had survived virtually untouched. It was only the middle of the book, the end pages of the first section – the crucial final directions to the garden – that had been obliterated. He took the torn pages from Zeb and knew immediately they couldn't be salvaged. He thought again of the strange plants carved at the base of the ziggurat and the story of the fountain. The metallic taste of disappointment flooded his mouth. The carved images had encouraged him earlier,
