One Grave Less

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This is to Charles Connor for all his love and support

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
    A very special thanks to my editor, Brent Howard.

Chapter 1
    Somewhere in the Amazon

    The woman sat on the bare floor of the wooden cage hugging her legs to her chest. Her forehead rested on her knees. Her long chestnut brown hair, dirty and tangled, covered her shoulders like a tattered blanket. She kept her sobs silent and tried to swallow her fear and pain. She lifted her head furtively for quick looks around her, taking in her surroundings. Her cage had hardwood saplings for bars, a thatched roof, and a rough-hewn floor of similar saplings. It sat on stilts three feet off the ground near the tree line in a village clearing, one of a cluster of clearings dotted with grass-covered huts on stilts. On all sides of the village clearings was the dense, almost impenetrable, endless jungle.
    The captive was alone. She was hurt and in pain, and she couldn’t talk. Her abductors had bruised—almost crushed—her windpipe when they snatched her. She didn’t know where she was. She couldn’t even identify the tribe of the villagers. They looked to be a blend of groups. Dress was a mixture of traditional sarongs and ragged Western clothes. Most were barefoot. There were no clear identifying marks to tell her who they were.
    But they were not her captors. That distinction was held by the ragged band of “soldiers” among them who had attacked her Jeep as she drove on her way to Cuzco.
    She wondered whether there was an ally among the tribespeople. Surely there was someone who didn’t like the guerrillas holed up in their village. She searched their faces. None looked in her direction. She put her head back down on her knees, trying to wish her predicament away, trying to force herself to keep calm, trying to think of some plan of escape. There must be a way.
    There was a crunch of the vegetation, the sound of someone walking toward her. She lifted her head again. It was a man she hadn’t seen before, an older man, perhaps in his forties. His appearance suggested he was one of the criminals who held her. His worn khakis and green camouflage looked vaguely military. He grinned as he approached and swiped his dark black hair from his eyes. He gave his beard a cursory scratch. With him was a woman in jeans and a T-shirt. Her face was familiar. Her name was Patia—one of the workers at the Incan dig site. She was involved in this?
    The two adults were followed by a small barefoot child in a tattered dress, holding a bowl.
    The man squatted in front of the cage.
    “Doc-tor Fallon,” he said in English washed in a heavy Spanish accent, “I hope you feel comfort. You are going to do me a lot of money, so I want you well.”
    Doctor Fallon? So that was it. It was some kind of horrible case of mistaken identity. He had the wrong woman. She weighed the advisability of somehow conveying to her kidnapper that he had made a mistake—that he had the wrong person. He would not believe her. Even if he did, he was unlikely to say “oops” and simply let her go. It was more likely he would kill her right then to cut his losses. Perhaps she should keep it to herself for now.
    “You say nothing?” he said with no irritation.
    She stretched her neck and pulled back the collar of her shirt, revealing dark bruising. She attempted a whisper, but nothing came out.
    “Oh.” He put a hand over his heart. “It hurts me to see violence on woman. Some of my men, they are brutes. I speak to them.”
    Patia, the black-haired woman standing behind him, grinned as if she thought the injuries were funny.
    “Please accept my sorrow and take soup.” He gestured to the child and said something in Spanish to her.
    The little girl approached and stuck out her hands, holding the soup bowl. Her face had no expression, but she made eye contact. The woman was surprised at how that one gesture lifted her spirits. She reached for the bowl. The man put a hand on the little girl’s arm, holding her back.
    “You must be good.” He stared at his prisoner with a hard black gaze. “Make trouble for me, I make trouble for you. Understand?”
    She nodded. He released the child and she took the