“Why don’t you hop in the shower and get cleaned up?” Galton said. “We don’t have all day.” “

I want you out of my house,” Caesar said, looking up at his unwanted visitor. At six feet three inches, Galton towered over him.

“I don’t believe you, Caesar, and I know you’re too smart to fool yourself. Leastwise, not for long. And three years is long enough. It’s time to get back in the game.”

“I’m finished with the game,” Caesar said.

“Look at yourself, Caesar. You’re a mess, a disgrace.”

“Not your concern, Lionel.”

Galton took a deep breath and said softly, “Do you think Gracie would have wanted you to fall so low?”

Caesar swallowed but said nothing.

“Our flight leaves at 12:50 this afternoon, so we don’t have much time. Go now, get in the shower and gear yourself up for a long trip.”

“I don’t have much gear.”

“Never mind, I have everything we need. Now go.”

After showering and brushing his teeth, Caesar began to move about the tiny apartment with purpose. He slid open the broken vinyl accordion door that hid a small nook where he kept clothing he hadn’t looked at in nearly three years. He grabbed an armload of what he called “jungle gear” and crammed it into a large carryall stashed under his bed. It was the last piece from a matching set of luggage his wife had given him for Christmas five years before. He had pawned the other pieces.

While Galton waited by the door, Caesar threw on an old but clean pair of denim jeans and a khaki work shirt over a Grateful Dead T-shirt. He grabbed a leather satchel he had tucked away in the back of the closet and picked up the carryall. He opened the door to the apartment and motioned for Galton to go out. Then he closed the door behind him.

Although he couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge it just yet, he knew deep down that Galton had done him a huge favor. As they stepped out of the building, Caesar felt as though he were seeing daylight for the first time in years, and he shaded his eyes against the blinding sun. While his lungs filled with humid L.A. air, he tried to imagine what the smogless atmosphere of Peru was like at that moment.

Galton led him around the corner where a black limo was parked in front of another drab tenement. A well-muscled Ecuadoran man was leaning against it, arms folded in front of him, his long black hair pulled into a short ponytail. His face split into a wide grin when he saw Caesar. “El diablo en la carne!”

“Nice to see you too, Fiero,” Caesar replied, eyeing the classy black chauffeur’s uniform the man was wearing. Considering his sturdy six-foot frame, ferocious eyes, and well-deserved reputation as one of Galton’s attack dogs, the chauffeur’s suit seemed incongruous. Where his father-in-law found his ruffians remained a mystery to Caesar, though over the years Fiero had proved himself a faithful employee and an effective bodyguard. The three men got into the limo and began the drive to LAX.

During the drive, Caesar’s mind flooded with visions of his daughter, Grace, who had died three years ago at the age of sixteen in the very country he was heading back to. He helped himself to a glass of Courvoisier to take the edge off and keep himself occupied. He finished his drink and leaned his head back against the leather headrest. “She’d be twenty this year,” he murmured.

“I know, Caesar,” Galton said. “I think of her every day. But I try not to think about the accident.”

“I can’t help but think about it,” Caesar said.

“Wasn’t your fault, son. Weren’t nothing but a freak mishap, and there’s no point dwelling on it. Unless you want it to eat you up inside. I’d think you’d had enough of that.” He gazed through the window. “She was a very special girl, that Gracie.”

A moment of silence passed between them before Caesar broke it. “So how’s Anna? She still teaching? Has she remarried?”

Galton smiled a broad smile before turning his attention to Caesar again. “Why you asking questions you don’t really want answers to, Caesar? Why don’t you give it some time, boy? You’ll find out for yourself soon enough.”

Caesar remained silent for the rest of the ride. To keep his thoughts from plunging him into gloom, he extracted his old research notes from his satchel and started to riffle through them.

Before long, he was absorbed in the documents. After nearly three years of living in squalor and wallowing in his own despondency, looking over his past work and contemplating work to come had liberated him from his gloom. He’d always been passionate about archaeology, and his self-imposed exile and low-rent existence hadn’t killed his passion.

He smiled as sunlight poured through the sunroof, illuminating the paperwork. How amazingly adaptable we humans are, he thought. It was only a few hours and a few miles distant, but already his crummy apartment and crummy life there seemed like nothing more than a bad dream.

He wanted to absorb as much as he could before they arrived at the airport. He pored over the lengthy conclusions he’d drawn following his many excavations over the years. He studied the symbols he had photographed from the walls of ancient tombs located beneath the temples he had discovered. As he read and thumbed through the research, a sheet of notebook paper slid into his lap. It was the last handwritten note from Grace, and it was addressed to him:

Caesar stared at the note and smiled at the memory of his daughter. He flipped through the remaining pages in search of Grace’s sketches. He loved to see her drawings in his notebook and had always appreciated the way she painstakingly illustrated the symbols that made up his life’s work. Her drawings always related to his notes of the day’s discoveries. She was blessed with artistic ability, which had first found expression when she was ten. By the time she was sixteen, she was already coming into her own as an artist.

Grace had used her talent to document critical information on more than a few occasions, especially when Caesar’s digital SLR couldn’t capture the details of a glyph. Grace’s re-creations of various glyphs from one particular wall of a Peruvian temple had allowed Caesar to make his greatest discovery. While the glyphs appeared to be Incan upon initial examination, the extensive details in the drawings revealed otherwise. After scrutinizing them, Caesar realized there were vast differences in the characters. A sub-language resided in the text that predated that of the Incan civilization by hundreds, maybe even thousands, of years.

Caesar set his research notes aside and leaned his head back, allowing the memories of Grace to overtake him. He was still astonished at how good she had been at detailing the intricacies of rare finds from the various sites they had frequented together, whether those finds were old coins, delicate artifacts, or temple glyphs.

Caesar closed his eyes and tried to stop himself from envisioning what might have been. He knew he had to focus on now. Before he knew it, he was dozing off.