Fortunately, the men were handling the other elements of our plan for the next day because the four of us could barely move by the time we reached our hotel. The kind of stiffness that sets in when you try to rest after a vigorous workout had left each of us waddling like penguins, and when Link suggested we order room service and watch The Love Trip, no one objected.
Beattie asked for four ice buckets when she placed our order for dinner, and when the staff member brought our food, he also brought four huge ice packs. “For your . . .” He blushed when he couldn’t think of an appropriate word in English.
I took the packs from him and smiled. “Thank you. I take it this happens a lot.”
“Americans and horses.” He laughed as he pulled the door shut behind him.
Beattie had ordered us a buffet of Peruvian goodness, and while I still steered clear of the guinea pig, I wasn’t at a loss for something to eat. And it turned out horseback riding made me famished.
We ate and watched the show while sitting on our ice packs, and when we got hungry for sugar three episodes later, Hildy called down to the front desk and ordered every candy bar they had on hand.
Two hours later, we were all stupefied by sugar and absurd television and decided to head to bed. The guys weren’t back yet, but they’d been checking in, and apparently, things were going as planned. I decided to take their word for that, so I climbed into bed with my ice pack and fell asleep instantly.
Unfortunately, our plans for the adventure of a lifetime—as Hildy had sold the trip to our guests arriving tomorrow—began at first light. And at that moment, I had to say goodbye to the extremely comfortable bed because we would be sleeping in hammocks for the next few nights.
The plan was for Hildy, Link, Beattie, and me to begin our tour here in Lima with the company Link had hired. We were joining a women’s adventure tour and would be one-third of a twelve-person party making our way to Huayn Picchu on horseback. We hoped that we would simply blend in as more American tourists and that when we crossed paths with our targets, no one would think of us any differently than the other six women on the tour.
To that end, Link had booked the tour under their name, and we were all using our own first names just to keep from losing track of anything. But from there, our stories diverged from the truth. We were all corporate professionals, mid-level managers committed to making our way up the professional ladder.
But each year, we took a trip together to bond and reminisce about our college days. We’d all attended the College of William and Mary, a school chosen because it was in Virginia and would let Beattie and me keep our Southern accents. Link and Hildy would have to act more than we did, but they were enjoying speaking with more dripping sweetness than I could stomach. If one of them said “darling” one more time, I was going to hurt someone.
I had to give them credit, though. They were both playing up the sort of ditziness that people often falsely associated with southern women. When we met the rest of the group and two guides for our tour, I could see that everyone almost immediately dismissed them as silly and vain. It was the perfect cover.
Thanks to Link’s wisdom, my cover was that I was a publishing executive and editor at a major press, so all I really had to do was spout off about recent books and the scourge of self-publishing. Beattie had decided she would be a Spanish professor and spent most of her time correcting the grammar of the other tour members. By the time we mounted up at a small trail heading outside the city, we’d already succeeded in being part of the group without actually being accepted.
We brought up the rear of the line of horses as we climbed into the mountains, and when we hit vistas where we could spread out, the four of us rode together, letting the rest of the group go ahead of us. It was perfect.
When we made camp the first night, pitching a series of canvases over a flat, wide space in the forest that was obviously a frequent location for campers, the four of us managed to situate ourselves at the edge of the group, just in case. It was our safety measure in case we needed to get out quickly.
Fortunately, the night was uneventful as I snoozed surprisingly well in my hammock and mosquito net. And I was actually kind of excited to get back on the trail the next day, even though I wasn’t sure I could force my butt to touch the saddle again. But the fear of being left alone in the forest where Chullachaqui would certainly find me was greater than my fear of my aching rear. So when it was time, I saddled up, wincing at each of my horse’s footfalls for the next hour until my bruises seemed to give in to the fact that they were getting new friends.
Our schedule was supposed to get us to Antonio and Ana’s village about the same time the four adventurers arrived. They were going to be brought in by a shorter route, traveling most of the way by car, and when Link snuck away to use the “facilities,” they came back to say that everything was going as planned. I caught only the slightest glimpse of the satellite phone before they tucked it deep into their saddle bag again.
We traveled that way for three days, sleeping for two nights under the forest canopy, and I found myself enjoying the trip, especially since my butt apparently went numb by midmorning on day two. Our guides were well-informed, and while they were both white women, one British and one American, they spoke with a lot of respect for the Indigenous people of the area and gave those people credit when they shared stories the villagers had taught them.
Our trail wound through two abandoned villages, and we stopped at each to wander among the stone ruins and learn what the guides had to tell us about the people who had lived there. As descendants of the Inca, the Quechan people still held onto many of the festivals and beliefs of their ancestors, but as was the case in most of the colonized world, they had also adopted some of the faith practices and beliefs of Catholicism, an unwanted gift from the Spanish conquistadors.
The last abandoned settlement I visited was in Syria, and while these cultures were vastly different, I found myself finally understanding that the history I had been taught was largely Euro-centric and not only diminished but almost erased the amazing lives of so many early civilizations. The Inca had built a vast temple on the top of a mountain in a time before written language or engine-powered tools and had vast trade networks and great wealth. Yet the only things I remembered learning about them were that they pulled the hearts out of human sacrifices and gave the world chocolate.
It turned out that the Inca had indeed made ritual sacrifices, child sacrifices actually, but they weren’t the bloody violent affairs I had seen in films. Instead, the children—usually the child of a chief—were drugged so that their death wasn’t painful. And it was believed the child was a deity and, thus, would not really die.
Still, it was an absolutely horrific thing, especially when I thought about the children of my friends and what that would have been like if they had been chosen, but it wasn’t the savagery that colonialism often attributed to early peoples. If anything, it was quite a sophisticated ritual.
By the time we got to Antonio and Ana’s village, one that had a name I didn’t want to try to pronounce because I didn’t want to disrespect it, I was full of righteous rage at the way white people had taken from Indigenous people for so long. Then when I saw our targets gathered around a small fire and allowing the villagers to bring them food and drinks, I almost lost my temper.
Boone intercepted me, though, before I could storm over to them and create a scene by telling them to check their privilege. “Whoa, there, woman, what is going on?”
I stopped and looked at his hand on my chest for a long minute before letting out a slow breath. “We’ve been learning about the Quechuan people all the way here and watching those entitled rich kids take advantage of—”
“Look again, Poe,” he said.
My eyes snapped to his face. “What?”
“Look at the scene again.” He turned me so I could take in the entire space before me, a small central area circled by houses—shacks almost. “We are paying these people very well to keep those four losers busy. I have made arrangements for them to get a new well and smooth out the road so that it’s easier for them to get down into the larger towns.”
I studied the people moving around in front of me and finally spotted what Boone wanted me to notice. All the Quechuan people were smiling, sometimes laughing. They were enjoying this spectacle, not only because we were paying them for their work but also because they were taking part in getting back something they valued as a people. “Oh,” I said. “Right.”
I spun and looked at Boone. “But did you ask them what they wanted? Or did you assume they wanted a road and a well?” That anger was still boiling.
“I asked, Poe. I always do. Those were the two biggest things. They also want some help building a school, and at their request, we’re going to provide the first year of funding for a teacher from Lima as well as textbooks. All because they asked.”
I took a deep breath and sighed. “Okay. Thanks.” I looked up at him again. “Thanks for putting up with me, too.”
Boone kissed me on the cheek again. “It’s your fire that I love, Poe. That and your abhorrence for roasted guinea pigs.” He glanced back at the adventurers and their fire, and when I followed his gaze, I saw four guinea pigs cooking over the fire and growled.
* * *
After dinner, which mercifully did not require me to eat any guinea pig, we gathered around the fire in the center of the small community. Ana and Antonio were there, as was Luz, and while we were cordial with one another, it was important that our adventurers didn’t see any special bond between them and us. They had to believe that Luz’s family was just a part of the village.
Beattie and I managed to wedge ourselves in next to Wilamena and did the usual introductory chatter about where we were from and how we were enjoying our trips. They told us with extreme pride that they were here by special invitation to take a rare expedition up the back face of the mountain toward Machu Picchu.
“Huayn Picchu,” I said before I could help myself.
Beattie shifted her feet to bump into mine. “Oh, our guides just said we’ve been calling it the wrong name for over 100 years. Apparently, the people here call it Huayn Picchu.”
Bennett rolled his eyes and looked at his friends. “Remember when we were scheduled to climb Mount McKinley, and the president came and renamed it Denali because that was the name the Indians had for it then? What a farce. What does it matter what it’s named as long as you can climb it.”
Beattie quickly stomped her foot down on mine as a signal to keep my mouth shut, and I literally bit my tongue to hold it. No wonder these jerks had stolen the village quipus; they had no respect for anything but their own conquests.
“Have you guys been here before?” Beattie asked, trying to redirect the conversation to something that would actually be useful to us.
Wilamena looked at Marcus.
“It’s hard to tell, but this does look kind of familiar. But then, all these villages look alike,” he said and laughed.
I glared at him but kept my mouth shut.
“You know, now that you say that,” Delaney said, “I do think we were here before. Isn’t this where we found—”
Wilamena knocked her knee against his. “I don’t think so, Del. Pretty sure this is a new place.”
Del looked at her but then nodded when he saw her unflinching stare. It was clear who was in charge of this crew.
“I hope this isn’t a rude question,” I said after a couple of moments of silence that allowed me to quell my temper, “but how does one buy groceries when one is a professional adventurer?” I used the term they had applied to themselves when we had done introductions.
Bennett smiled. “We get sponsorships, just like any other athlete.” He held up a water bottle with a big logo on it. “We’ll take some pictures with this while we’re climbing and share them on social media. Pretty simple.”
I had to admit the idea was kind of enticing. Somehow, though, I didn’t think anyone would sponsor me to read. That was too bad.
Beattie and I gave our new “friends” the kind of praise and awe they were clearly not only expecting but actually craving, and then we headed back to our tent to sleep . . . and to fill Link and Hildy in.
* * *
The next morning, the four of us planned to slip away and meet up with Frank and Ivan before they came to the village to “lead the expedition,” but our exit was interrupted by a bloodcurdling scream. We ran toward the center of camp, where we found Delaney Scott looking dead.
I quickly looked at Beattie and our two friends, and Hildy didn’t hesitate. She sprinted over, checked the man’s pulse, and then shook her head. He didn’t just look dead; he was dead. And Wilamena was standing over his body.
After a man, who Antonio told us was the village healer, confirmed that Delaney was, in fact, dead, one of the villagers brought over a beautiful woven blanket and covered his body. Then, slowly, everyone gathered in the square and simply sat or moved quietly about their work.
By this time, Beattie had wrapped Wilamena in another blanket that a woman had provided, and Bennett and Marcus were sitting with her a bit away from their friend’s body. Link had quietly slipped away to call Ivan and Frank and let them know what had happened. They returned quietly, and soon after, the two climbing guides appeared over the ridge at the edge of the village.
“Good morning,” Ivan called as if everything was normal. I heard the strain in his voice and saw how acting so casually was causing him discomfort. He didn’t like to seem nonchalant about the man’s death, but he had a role to play. And now, that role was even more important.
An older villager walked over to greet the two men, and Antonio rose to talk with the group of men. I saw Hildy and Link exchange a glance, but when one of our tour guides rose to join our other friends across the village, we settled back. It was hard not to take action, but like Ivan, we still had our roles to play.
Soon enough, Antonio walked back into the village and began speaking with his family members—first Ana and Luz and then his cousins, parents, and aunts and uncles, which comprised most of the village’s population. From the way people shook their heads and quietly answered his questions, it didn’t seem like anyone had information about what had happened.
Antonio went back to talk with Ivan, Frank, the older man, and our guides, and soon, our guides returned to where the group of horseback riders gathered together. “Obviously, we have to delay our plans while this murder is investigated.”
“Murder,” one of the other women said. “He was murdered?”
The first guide nodded. “Looks like he was stabbed in the back.”
I winced. Since the days of Caesar and Brutus, stabbing someone in the back—literally or figuratively—seemed worse than, say, stabbing someone in the front. The betrayal gave the act a level of darkness that even murder didn’t always have. And now, here we were, in a remote Andean village with someone willing to do that. I was suddenly very, very tired.
“That man,” the other guide pointed toward Antonio, “is going to call the authorities.”
“Call them on what?” one of the women said, trying, I thought, to be snarky but sounding instead like she was just terrified.
“He says there’s someone with a satellite phone in a village over the mountain,” the guide told us. “He’ll be back in three hours.”
We watched as Antonio walked away in the opposite direction that Frank and Ivan had come from. If he was leaving, I was sure it was because Ivan and Frank felt it was the best option. Obviously, we all had satellite phones, but as long as everyone stayed in the village, there wasn’t any rush to get help here. Delaney obviously wasn’t going anywhere.
At that moment, the older man who had been talking to Ivan and Frank said something loudly in Quechuan, and the villagers began moving chairs and mats into the center of the plaza near the fire. Ivan looked at Wilamena and her two friends and then at the group of us and said in English, “Please bring your things closer to the fire. We need to keep everyone in sight.”
A young woman with a pixie cut and a dragonfly tattoo on her ankle scoffed. “If he thinks I’m getting near that body, he’s got another thing coming.”
“Come on,” Link said, taking the young woman by the arm, “we’ll sit over here.” They led the woman and the rest of us to a small space across the fire from where Delaney’s body still lay.
Frank stepped forward and said, “We’re just going to take some pictures of, um, Mr. Scott before carefully moving his body inside.” What Frank didn’t say, but I knew he was thinking, was that we needed to get the body secured from the human dangers here—someone wanting to hide evidence—but also from the animal scavengers that might appear anytime.
For the next few minutes, we all watched as Frank and Ivan carefully photographed every angle of Delaney’s body, and when Ivan and the older villager lifted him, Frank snapped pictures of the ground beneath his body, then ducked under Delaney to photograph his back. They were very thorough but also very respectful.
“That man is our eldest village member,” Luz said beside me. She and Ana had made their way near us. I hoped they weren’t going to disrupt the operation, but the next minute, Luz said, “We speak English and Quechuan, so maybe we can translate for all of you.” I noticed her voice had taken on her mother’s accent, and I was proud of her for disguising her American ties.
“That would be great,” one of our guides said. “We’re kind of lost here.”
Ana and Luz settled in next to me, and Luz squeezed my arm quickly, a gentle and appreciated sign of allegiance. Then, Ana said, “They will take that young man’s body into our elder’s cabin, where someone will stay with him so he is not alone.”
I heard someone snicker behind me, clearly not thinking it necessary to keep company with a dead man, but a stern glance back from one of our guides silenced the laughter. I really liked these women.
“Was the man who went for help your father?” another member of our group asked.
“Ari,” Ana said. “He is my husband, Luz’s father. We grew up here but live in Lima now. We come home a few times a year so that Antonio can lead tours for extra cash.”
I smiled just a bit to myself as I heard Ana seamlessly weave truth with a lie. Antonio had never once led a tour group. We’d asked him when we made our plan, and he had quite literally laughed aloud.
“No way,” he’d said. “I can keep from getting lost in the forest, but I’m not guiding a bunch of tourists. Nope, not my thing.”
It turned out that Antonio was bookish to the extreme, a characteristic that made me like him even more. But that bookishness meant he was also disinclined to massive physical activities except those that kept him healthy. “A walk around the city twice a day is quite enough for me,” he’d said.
So I knew that this trek to wherever he was actually going was something he could do but also something that would tax him. I was curious about that part of the plan, but I wasn’t sure Luz and Ana knew what was happening with Antonio. And even if they did, I couldn’t very well ask with our entire tour group gathered around.
“That’s great,” one of our guides said. “Can I ask you a question?”
Luz raised an eyebrow and nodded.
“How do you feel about all these tour groups coming through? Honestly? We hope our visits help your community, but I know that what well-meaning people hope and what is actually happening are not always the same.”
I looked at Beattie from the corner of my eye, and she was smiling. For the next half an hour, we huddled together in the bright morning of the Andes, talking about tourism and cultural identity, financial help, and exposure. It was a good conversation without easy answers, and I found myself glad I had been a part of it.
Still, it was sad it had only happened because a man had been murdered. That itself was a tragedy.