Golden Disk of The Sun: Book 1 of the Star Walkers Trilogy Read online

  Chris had booked a guided tour for them with a group of juveniles whose parents apparently had money. Eric had chastised him because he didn't like to take teenagers into the Amazon. They were risk takers, probably because at their age they believed they were invincible. But then neither of them could afford to be too choosy.

  The two enjoyed their work, at least most of the time, because they were free to make their own decisions. In other words, they liked the idea of not having to work for a large tour guide company where they would have to abide to a bunch of regulations.

  Both men knew of Atahualpa's treasure as the quasi-incredible story had been told and retold for generations. Intended as barter for the life of a god-king, twenty tons of smelted bullion had been offered for the Inca king's release. When the Spaniards murdered Atahualpa, who at the time was the supreme ruler of the Incas, the bounty had been spirited away from the gold-greedy Spaniards. Many believed the loot had been hidden somewhere in the Llanganates Mountains. Others felt the thousand or so men had carted some of the treasure into a maze of tunnels that led from Peru to Brazil.

  Chris was convinced that sooner or later the two would find enough gold so that they could live a life of leisure. Eric wasn't as optimistic. He knew numerous expeditions had ended in failure, mostly because of the dangers the Amazon imposed. Nonetheless, Chris refused to give up his dream of chasing myths, for to do so would mean he would have to resign himself to working the rest of his life, and that was something he was not prepared to do. It wasn't that Eric didn't want to find the proverbial pot of gold. He was just more realistic than his partner.

  Eric swore. His mind willed him on, but his legs commanded he take a break. He sighed with relief when he saw the entourage behind him signal for a rest stop. Once Chris reached him, he pulled him aside. "I'm getting too old for this."

  Chris laughed. "No, you aren't. I'm truly amazed at your endurance." Chris kicked a piece of dung off his boot. "Seriously, did you know they tell stories about you? Some Indians say you eat fried scorpions and wrestle alligators for the sport of it. A lot of natives around here are afraid of you. Prior to us teaming up, they thought you were loco to venture into the Amazon by yourself. but they respect your bravery."

  "Hell, I'm not loco. But it's true. Before I met you, I'd go traipsing off into the jungle by myself to look for my father."

  Chris nodded his head. "I totally understand. Had it been my father, I probably would have done the same thing."

  Just like Jonathan Shade, many had gone off into the Amazon never to be seen or heard from again. Eric knew the Indians thought he had made a pact with Satan because that was the only rationale they could think of for him to still be alive. He stood up and brushed the dust off his pants. "Come on, buddy. We'd better join the rest of the juvenile delinquents before one of them gets lost or worse."

  They continued to hack their way through the dense undergrowth, Eric pointing out some of the unusual flora along the way. With only an hour or so of daylight left, Chris suggested setting up camp for the night. Once the tents were up, one of the young men sauntered over to Eric. Wanting to impress his friends who were within earshot, he said, "There is still plenty of daylight left, Dr. Shade. We paid you to be our guide, and with or without you, I aim to get my money's worth. I think I'll do some exploring on my own."

  Chris started to say something, but Eric silenced him with a wave of his hand. He placed his arm on the young man's shoulder and raised his voice a notch so the others could hear. "What's your name?"

  "Tom Spear."

  "How old are you, Tommy?"

  Caught off guard, the boy removed Eric's arm. "I'm eighteen if you must know, and my name is Tom, not Tommy. Why?"

  "I was younger than you when I first came to this place, but my youthful exuberance never clouded my judgment. Let me give you a piece of advice. Stick close to either Chris or me if you want to leave this place in one piece. If you wander off alone, you won't live long enough to see dawn break tomorrow. The Amazon can be very misleading. It's beautiful and dangerous in the daytime, but at night it transforms into a downright nightmare, so alien and unforgiving that you'd be lucky to survive through the night. You see, my boy, there are some nasty things out there that hunt in the evening."

  Tom's cheeks were now glowing from embarrassment, but he struggled to maintain his cocky demeanor. "Like what, for instance?"

  "Snakes, and crocodiles large enough to swallow you whole, and if you're lucky enough to get past those creatures, a puma or a cougar could be waiting. Of course, I doubt if they would ever track you down, because chances are you would most likely perish in a bog."

  Eric continued his tirade, "Do you know what a bog is, sonny?" When Tom didn't reply, Eric said, "Since you've never been in the Amazon before, you wouldn't know. One minute you are walking on solid ground, and the next you're buried up to your neck in quicksand. You wouldn't even have time to pee in your pants before the ground sucked you under as if you never existed. You say you want to get your money's worth? Next time, go to a zoo. At least you'd be able to see the animals there in some semblance of safety. I say this because here in this place, if you go wandering off you'd end up being some creature's meal!"

  Chris interceded on the boy's behalf. "Come on, Eric, you've made your point. I think Tom understands now."

  Ignoring his partner, Eric continued, "Do me a favor. Wait till you get home. Then you can impress all your friends with your bravery, but as long as you are on this tour, you'll do exactly as Chris and I say. Do I make myself clear?"

  Leaving Tom Spear speechless, Eric walked away. He needed a cigarette, but he didn't have any because he'd quit smoking.

  "You were pretty hard on him, you know," Chris said.

  "I probably was, but he pissed me off. Besides, I managed to accomplish my objective."

  "And what was that?"

  "All of these young people think they're invincible. I should know. I used to be just like them. We haven't reached the rough country yet. Maybe the rest of them will heed my warning. So far we've been lucky. No one has been killed or seriously injured on one of our treks through fantasyland. Tom will probably live to do something foolish, but at least it's not going to happen on our watch."

  "You are right. They are naive. Do you remember on one of our first tours, I sat down on an anthill without knowing it? Shit, those Amazonian insects damned near chomped the flesh off my butt!"

  Eric laughed. "Of course, I remember. I had to pour a bottle of whisky over your ass. Damned shame, too, but I did manage to drown the buggers."

  Now it was Chris's turn to laugh. "All you did was swear for the remainder of the trip. It's the only time I've been with you when you ended up without any booze in your flask."

  Eric turned serious. "I rarely take a drink when I'm in the Amazon. You of all people know that. I carry the flask just in case."

  "What do you mean just in case? In case of what?"

  Eric replied with a straight face, "I don't carry painkillers or any kind of anesthetic. A bottle of whisky will dull a person's senses. You know, in the event I had to use my machete to take off someone's arm or leg. As you know, gangrene kills quicker than many of the varmints that live in the rain forest."

  Chris gave Eric a dubious look. "Are you serious or are you just kidding?"

  Instead of providing his partner with an answer, Eric said, "We'd better finish setting up camp. I wouldn't want to do it in the dark. I'll take the first watch. You take the second." Then the humor returned. "If I were you, I'd keep an eye on this bunch. I wouldn't want them to scare any of the animals."

  CHAPTER 5

  The chauffeur stopped the Rolls in front of the elegant Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Walking through its revolving door, Phillip and Catalina entered a dramatic foyer. With her on his arm, he reveled in the admiring looks she was receiving. It always pleased him that people considered her to be striking. Because it was important for him that others perceived her to be beautiful, he took great p
ains to personally select all of her clothes. That way he made sure she had the right colors and the right cut to show off her svelte figure. It pleased him that she was wearing the emerald ring he had given her for doing such a remarkable job on his collection. He mentally approved of her lipstick shade, thinking the color complemented her ivory complexion.

  Catalina was tall and graceful just like his mother. Phillip liked tall women because they always stood out in a crowd. Watching Catalina, he reflected on his family. Even though the automobile accident that tragically ended the lives of his wealthy parents had occurred years ago, he still lived with the pain. The only people he had ever had any feelings for were his mother and father-and now, Catalina.

  * * *

  The glass elevator whisked them to the restaurant, which was located on the sixteenth floor of the hotel. Catalina looked out at the expansive view of the city. From her vantage point, she could see dozens of buildings dominating the Wilshire skyline. They reminded her of chess pieces placed on a board made of concrete.

  Phillip looked admiringly at her. "You look especially beautiful tonight. The dress is quite chic, and it suits you."

  Catalina seemed to be somewhere else. Finally, she thanked him for the compliment. She was thinking of her father, and wished he could see her in the red velvet dress and expensive shoes. Her parents, both missionaries and highly dedicated to God, had gone to Africa when she was sixteen. They would have taken her with them, but she wanted to stay in Manaus so she could graduate with the rest of her class. Besides, she didn't want to go to Africa. Marcelo had taken her in, and she had remained with him until the day of the dreadful accident. She had been quite content living with him in Manaus. Had it not been for Phillip's chauffeur, she would have most likely joined her parents, but that was not to be.

  His voice brought her back to the present. "You look pensive tonight. Is something the matter?"

  "No," she lied. "I was just thinking how your taste in clothes is above reproach."

  "Come to think of it, I do remember buying the dress, but I've never seen you wear it before."

  "That's because I never have." Even after all this time, Catalina still had a problem getting accustomed to Phillip's extravagant gifts. Once or twice a month he'd buy her something, a dress or a piece of expensive jewelry. In the beginning of their strange relationship, she'd admonish him. "I can't even wear the clothes and jewelry I already have," she'd say. "I certainly don't need anything more. Why spend your money foolishly?" But later, once she got to know him, she realized the gifts he gave her brought him more pleasure than it did her.

  As they walked into the elegant restaurant, Catalina barely noticed the ma?tre d' fawning over Phillip as he escorted them to the best table in the house. Over the years, she had become accustomed to the special treatment he always received. Her mind drifted to the days when she was a teen in Manaus, a city that catered to tourists and shippers. She would go to the market place at six in the morning to accomplish as much as possible before the devastating heat began. She could still recall the nauseous smell of dead fish and chickens and the sides of beef tilting precariously toward rot in the still air. It was certainly a far cry from the antiseptic-looking markets she frequented in L.A. where refrigerated foodstuffs had labels with expiration dates.

  The world she had come from and the world she lived in now were light-years apart, and the main thing that separated the two was money. Manaus had no future for her, only a past. Los Angeles, which was her world now, brought Catalina the assurance of a tomorrow.

  "Shall I order for you?" Phillip asked.

  She wondered what he would say if for once in her life, she told him she wanted to order something herself. "If you like," she said, which was the standard pat answer she always gave him.

  After their pre-dinner cocktails arrived, Phillip asked, "How was your day?"

  Catalina told Phillip about Marcelo's call and shared with him some of her thoughts about the aryballos. "I've examined the pictures, and I'd say it's in better than average condition, particularly for its age. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't entertain the thought of acquiring it for your collection, but there are things about it that intrigue me."

  Phillip gave the waiter their order. "What's so special about a water jar?"

  "Well, for one thing, it's adorned with colorful motifs, and for a water jar, I consider that to be highly unusual. It's also sealed. That definitely adds an air of mystery to it. Why would anyone want to seal an aryballos?"

  Phillip took a sip of his martini. "Have you determined its age?"

  "If I were to base its age solely on the writing, I'd guess the artifact was made around the time Pizarro conquered the Inca Empire. As you know, Quechua is a bastard-text. It's really nothing more than an assimilation of Spanish and Portuguese words and a variety of local Indian terms. What makes this particular aryballos so unusual is that among a few Quechua words, I've isolated a much older language. I'm referring to ancient Topuku pictographs. No one has used Topuku to communicate for at least twelve hundred years!"

  "Is it really that unusual to have someone write over an older script?"

  "No, but I don't think that's really the case here. I got the impression that whoever wrote on that jar deliberately interspersed Quechua writing with the much older Topuku symbols. What I don't understand is why someone would have taken such elaborate pains to do this. There is something else, which I find to be quite intriguing. I thought I was familiar with all of the ancient South American symbols, but there is at least one picture on the jar I've never seen."

  "Oh, really? Why don't you describe it to me?"

  "The rendition is quite small so I couldn't make out any of their facial characteristics, but it's definitely an image of three men. They appear to have beards and are wearing robes."

  "Sounds rather mysterious. Maybe after you have had a chance to study the image more carefully, you'll be able to identify it," Phillip volunteered.

  Once their steaks arrived, Phillip cut his meat with precision, treating his knife much like a surgeon would handle a scalpel. "But getting back to the Topuku. Like you said, why would someone who had knowledge of Quechua use the much more cumbersome and less reliable Topuku?"

  Catalina waited for the waiter to finish pouring wine into her glass before continuing. "Exactly my point. The only thing I can think of is whoever wrote on the jar was trying to convey a message, a message he didn't want just anyone to be able to read."

  "Were you able to make out any of the writing?"

  "So far only the word, derrotero. The literal translation means a guide text-or a set of instructions, maybe even directions. That's what makes me think that whoever wrote it purposely tried to make the message difficult to decipher."

  Phillip's thin lips formed into a smile. "I knew your doctorate degree would pay off sooner or later. Do you think you'll be able to translate the inscription?"

  Distracted, Catalina watched Phillip eat his food. After examining each piece of meat, he would chew it ever so cautiously. It was as if he expected to find nails in his filet mignon. "I'm sorry, Phillip. What did you say?"

  "I asked if you thought you could figure out what any of the other words mean."

  "No. At least not from the photographs I received. I'd have to physically examine the aryballos before I could determine what some of the other writing means, and even then there would be no guarantee."

  "Why don't you purchase the artifact and be done with it? You are about due to pay Marcelo a visit. Even if the writing is illegible, you could unseal it. There might be some clues inside."

  "There is not an item in your collection that isn't of museum quality. From what I could see, much of the script has been eradicated, probably because it had been exposed to the elements for a long period of time. I am certain the dealer is going to ask a lot of money for it. Why pay top dollar for something you wouldn't want to display?"

  Phillip signaled the waiter for the check. "I have a solution. Tel
l the dealer you are interested, but that you personally need to inspect the merchandise. If you feel there is something there, buy the thing. If not, then you really haven't lost anything."

  Both relieved and excited about the aryballos, Catalina played to Phillip's ego. "Why didn't I think of that?"

  Phillip reached across the table and gently squeezed Catalina's hand. "Because you have me to do your thinking for you, my dear."

  CHAPTER 6

  Relaxing in the plane's first class seat, Catalina wondered why Phillip had been so demonstrative the night she had dinner with him. It was so out of character for him to reach across the table to squeeze her hand. She thought he had been acting a little strange around her lately, but she brushed it off as just another one of his idiosyncrasies.

  Catalina knew she should be thankful for the attention he gave her, but then at times her desire for freedom of self-expression made her feel like running away. What is wrong with me? Why can't I just be grateful for all the things he does for me?

  Her thoughts returned to that first day they met. She had just turned nineteen; he was eleven years older. Had it not been for the accident, their paths would have never crossed. She had gone out of the house to the pharmacy to fill a prescription for Marcelo. On her way back she had sought shelter from the rain underneath a store's canopy. This had not been one of those tropical showers that come and go swiftly. She waited for about fifteen minutes for the rain to stop. When it didn't, she started across the street to seek shelter in a coffee shop. That's when it happened.

  There had been a flash flood, the torrent of rain so strong that even the gutters overflowed. Visibility was poor. Her mind had been elsewhere, and she wasn't watching where she was going when the limo screeched around the corner. The chauffeur didn't spot her until the very last moment. The right front fender made contact with her knee, pummeling her to the ground with such force that her arms hadn't had a chance to react quickly enough to break her fall. Lying in the road, she had felt as if she'd entered another dimension, a place that had no time. Everything was taking place in slow motion, like a tape recorder working at half-speed; the concerned look of the limo's occupant, the paramedics hovering over her, their lifting her on to a gurney, she remembered those things. They placed her in an ambulance. She lost consciousness just as the sirens had started to wail.