Lost Contact (The Bridge Sequence Book One), Nathan Hystad [primary phonics books .TXT] 📗

said, licking his lips. “Dammit, Rex. Why would that guy send us here, of all places? Are we supposed to find something hidden? Because if that’s the case, it seems like we’re missing a clue.”

He was right, but I didn’t say so. “It’s okay. We’re almost there.” I felt a renewed energy upon seeing the quarry, and my legs picked up speed. I stopped at the edge of the opening, where the roads circled down, ending with pieces of old machinery. I assumed whoever owned this land had cleared out anything of value years ago, abandoning whatever they couldn’t salvage or sell.

A house stood off to the right, across the opening, and I laughed as I spotted the van beside it. “Marcus, someone’s here.”

“Is that a good thing?” he asked.

“We’re about to find out.” I’d considered attempting to buy a gun along the way, but didn’t want to risk being caught with a firearm in Venezuela. I’d heard plenty of horror stories from other archaeologists to know better. I hated being unprotected out in the open like this.

We arrived at the house in less than five minutes, and I peered into a dusty window, unable to see inside. The door wasn’t latched, and I knocked on it loudly.

“¿Quién es?” a woman’s voice called.

I struggled for a minute to think of the words, but they eventually came out. “We’re looking for some information,” I said in Spanish. When the door didn’t open, I added, “We can pay.”

Her feet shifted behind the wooden slab, but the door finally pressed wide. A short dark-haired woman stepped onto the front step, looking in both directions past us. “What is it you seek?” she asked in English, her accent thick.

“May we come in?” I asked, nodding toward the living room.

“You can pay?” she asked, making the universal sign for money by rubbing her fingers over her thumb.

Marcus pulled another wad of bills and gave her a reasonable sum, returning the rest. Her eyes lingered on the money in his shirt, but she stepped aside, letting us enter.

The home was welcoming and neat, and she motioned to the couch, taking a chair across from it. I dragged in some dirt onto her white tile floor and gave her an apologetic look. She didn’t seem to notice or care.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Marta,” she replied, still frowning.

“Lovely name. I’m Rex, and this is Marcus.”

“What are you needing?” She was around my age, but had heavy lines in her forehead. I reasoned living beside a rock quarry wasn’t ideal, but her eyes were bright and carried a spark in them.

“Does the name Dirk Walker mean anything to you?” I asked.

She shook her head.

My heartbeat quickened. If she knew nothing, we were at the end of the trail. “What about Clayton Belvedere?”

Her expression changed instantly. She stood up, speaking in hurried Spanish. I could only pick up a few words, but she wasn’t happy to see us.

“What is it? How do you know him?” I asked, and she sat down again, her hands shaking.

“My padre. Father used to do work. Out of country.” She made the sign of the cross, starting at her forehead, and I looked at Marcus. This was it.

“Where is your father? Can we speak with him?” She looked confused, and I tried again. “Your padre. Is he here?”

She lowered her head. “Father is dead.”

The wind blew out of my sails at the words, and I slumped into the couch, my energy suddenly sapped.

“You said he was employed out of country? Where, exactly?” Marcus asked.

Marta crossed her hands over her lap and looked at my sidekick. “He went to other places. He was an excellent rock climber, and strong. He was hired by some men. Did jobs for them for ten years. I was just a child. I recall him gone for weeks at a time.”

“Was one of these men Clayton?” I pressed.

She nodded. “I think so. Mister Clayton.”

“What was his last trip? Working for them?”

She sat still, her gaze shifting to her kitchen. “I was a little one. Thirty years or so.”

“Thirty years.” That was close enough to my timeline. “Where was he?”

Marta brightened. “I remember. He came home with gifts. He told my mother that he was done leaving after one more job.”

I smiled at Marcus. This meant he’d been there with my father on their final trip. “Where was he?” I asked again, my voice low.

“Portugal. Then he was gone again. For a month.”

Her answer confirmed my suspicions over the years.

“How does this help us?” Marcus sighed, rubbing his face with a palm.

“Maybe we can pick up the trail again. There has to be something I missed.” I tried to think about it, going over the details I’d weighed countless times throughout my life.

“You want to find Mister Clayton?”

“Can you tell us where he went?” My lips almost stuck together as everything went dry.

“No, but I know that Father kept something from him. He hid it, but I was a curious child.” Marta smirked, and I saw a glimpse of the troublemaking girl she could have once been.

I was fighting my desire to climb to my feet and shake the answer out of her. “Where is it?”

“Across the mine.” Marta peered at Marcus again, toward his shirt pocket, and I nodded at him.

“Give her the money,” I said calmly.

“All of it?” he asked.

“If this is what I think it might be, it’s worth every penny.”

11

The sun had fallen past the rolling rocky hills to the east, creating silhouettes across the pit before us. Marta lived alone, now that her parents were deceased. Her husband had vanished on her five years ago, gone without so much as a note.

Remembering the armed men near El Mirador, I wondered if the Believers had caused the man’s disappearance. It could have been as simple as him abandoning his wife, but my gut was telling me otherwise.

“Be careful,” Marta warned as we began to descend choppy steps cut into the wall of the quarry.

“Did your family