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part 1 of the story
Happy New Year

Mark Pearce

    Nelson Drake sat typing at his desk in the city room of the Baltimore Herald-Examiner, oblivious to the noise all around him. Through the din, he heard his name.
    “Hey, Drake!” someone called. “Lady here to see you!”
    He looked up as one of the reporters pointed him out to a fairly attractive woman in her mid-thirties. She seemed nervous and somewhat out of place. She timidly approached.
    “What can I do for you?” Drake asked.
    The woman stood hesitating, as if she was not exactly certain how to begin.
    “Oh, excuse me,” said Drake; he cleared some books and papers off a chair and motioned for her to sit down. “There you go. May I get you some coffee, Ms. . . ?”
    “Hunter, Patricia Hunter. And no, thank you, I’m fine.”
    “So what can I do for you, Ms. Hunter?”
    “I want you to find my brother.”
    “That’s not exactly what I do. Is your brother missing?”
    “Yes.”
    “Have you tried the police?”
    “The police can’t help me.”
    “Maybe you should talk to a private investigator. They’re very good at locating missing persons.”
    “You don’t understand, Mr. Drake. My brother is Barkley Hunter.”
    “The archaeologist?”
    “That’s right.”
    Drake vaguely remembered seeing some coverage at the time. Barkley Hunter had disappeared in the Andes about six months ago. It had made the news because he was a prominent professor at the University of Baltimore.
    “And you suspect . . what? Foul play?”
    “No . . I mean, I don’t know . . I mean, I don’t know what to think. I just know my brother disappeared without a trace. He was traveling through Chile and was staying in the village of Santa Rosario at the foot of the Andes. There was an old mission in the hills which he wanted to visit.” She opened her purse and pulled out a folded slip of paper. “Then I got this note, sent from the village the day before he disappeared. In it, he tells me goodbye. That’s the last anyone has ever heard from him.”
    “Have you tried to find him through conventional channels?”
    “The Chilean government isn’t interested, and the American consulate doesn’t care.”
    “Why did you come to me?”
    “I didn’t. I came to your paper. I was directed to you.”
    Drake sat staring at her, deep in thought.
    “Mr. Drake, won’t you please help me find my brother?”
    “May I keep this?” Drake held up the note.
    “Certainly.”
    “I won’t promise anything, but I will look into this, and I’ll discuss it with my editor.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Drake. I’ll be in touch.”
    She rose and left the office. Drake pulled up his keyboard and began to research everything he could find on Barkley Hunter.

* * *

     Managing Editor Tyler Mead sat behind his desk, listening to Drake’s pitch. Drake stood across the desk from him, leaning on his fists. “Think of it, Tye. Barkley Hunter, prominent archeologist, disappears in the Andes without a trace. The only clue is the goodbye letter he wrote to his sister the day before he disappeared. If I find him, dead or alive, it’ll make a great story.”
    “And if you don’t find him?”
    “Then I do a human interest piece on the grieving sister and the mystery of her brother’s disappearance. A missing archeologist, an old mission in the mountains, a mysterious clue—”
    “Okay. You’ve got three weeks. If you don’t find him by then, I’m bringing you home.”
    “Deal.”

* * *

    Drake entered the lobby of a dive hotel in Santa Rosario, Chile. The heat was oppressive, and flies buzzed around an overhead ceiling fan that did not work. The desk clerk was dirty, unshaven, and dressed in a filthy t-shirt. Several old loafers sat around the lobby, dozing or staring into space. Drake took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. He stepped up to the desk.
    “I’d a like a single room.”
    “How long will you be staying?”
    “Couple of days. Maybe more.”
    The clerk handed Drake a card to fill out. Drake signed it, then pulled a photo from his shirt pocket. “I was wondering if you might help me.” He showed the picture to the clerk. “Have you ever seen this man before?”
    “What did he do?”
    “Nothing. I’m just trying to find him.”
    There was a pause. Drake pulled some bills from his wallet and handed them to the clerk.
    “He came through here a few months ago,” the man said. “Exploring old ruins in the mountains.”
    “I hear there’s a mission near here. Any chance he was going there?”
    “Nah. Nothing to see. Just a bunch of old monks. Unfriendly, too. Never come down to the village. Every six months or so, one comes down for supplies. That’s about it.”
    “If I wanted to visit this mission, how would I get there?”
    The clerk gave him directions. “You’d just be wasting your time, though,” he said.
    Drake grabbed his room key off the desk. “Thanks.” He gripped his bags and headed up the stairs.
    The hotel room was spartan and dirty. The window was open, and a hot breeze blew through, carrying the flies and mosquitoes with it. Drake tossed his suitcase onto the bed.

* * *

    Later that afternoon, Drake squinted against the sunlight as he rode an old burro up the trail. The air was thick with dust. In the distance he could see an ancient adobe mission. He kicked the sides of his animal and proceeded up the path.
    He rode up to the mission, then dismounted and approached the gate. There was an arched wooden door with a small door grille, but no bell or knocker; apparently no way to summon the inhabitants inside. Drake picked up a stone and banged on the door. He paused, then banged again. There was no response. He backed up from the gate, put his hand to the side of his mouth, and shouted.
    “Hello! Hello in there!”
    He waited a moment, then went back to banging on the door.
    The slat behind the door grille opened and a monk peered out.
    “Hello, my name is Nelson Drake.” The monk did not respond. “I wonder if I might come in.”
    “The mission allows no visitors,” said the monk.
    “Is there someone in charge I might speak with?”
    “This is a contemplative order. We cannot be disturbed.”
    The slat abruptly closed. Drake banged on the door again. The grille opened.
    “I told you, go away.”
    “I’m looking for a man named Barkley Hunter. He was last known to be headed for this mission.”
    The monk reacted to the mention of Hunter’s name.
    “Wait here,” he said, concern in his voice.
    The grille closed again. Drake went and sat on a stone by the path.
    Time passed. Drake fidgeted impatiently. He opened his canteen, drank, then looked at his watch.
    The sun began to set behind the mountain. Drake sat with his chin resting on his chest. Suddenly the slat behind the grille opened once again. Drake rushed up to it.
    “There is no Barkley Hunter here,” said the monk. The grille abruptly shut.
    Drake shouted. “Hey, you can’t just leave me out here for three hours and then tell me to go away!” He picked up the rock he had been using before and banged on the door. “Open up in there! Open the door!”
    He banged some more but there was no response. He finally gave up and mounted his burro.
    The grille slid open, and the monk peered out, watching as Drake rode away.

* * *

    Drake sat in his hotel room, speaking on the phone.
    “I’m telling you, Tyler, the mission is hiding something. They knew Hunter’s name. And I’ve been talking with the people in town. The monks are very secretive. There’s something strange going on up there.”
    “You be careful, Drake,” said the Managing Editor. “This sounds like more than a missing persons story.”
    “Hey, you know me, Tye.”
    “So what will you do now?”
    Drake smiled. “Get the story.”

* * *

    Drake lay on his stomach in the jungle, watching the dark walls of the mission through a clearing. Convinced no one was watching, he crawled up to the edge of the mission. He carefully climbed a tree that grew beside the wall. When he reached the point where he could see over the wall, he stopped and gazed across the courtyard. There was no movement of any kind. He climbed to a spot higher than the wall, then swung down and landed along the top edge. He lay flat until he was certain no one had detected his presence. He then carefully lowered himself to a ledge that was inside the wall and several feet below the top. He crept along this catwalk until he came to a stairway down into the courtyard. He quietly descended.
    He heard some voices and hid behind a wooden crate. Two monks passed, a man and a woman. Both were wearing the traditional cloak and cowl. Drake crept along until he came to a door. It was open. He slipped inside.
    He moved quietly down a hallway which was only lit by an occasional torch along the wall. He saw a light at the end of a passage and proceeded toward it. He continued to creep along. Up ahead he saw a door with a barred window. He approached.
    Drake peered into the room, which was heavily bolted. The only opening from the rest of the mission into the room was the door with the barred window. But from peering in, Drake could see that the mission had been built into the side of the mountain. In the center of the mountain wall was a cave. Five monks stood guarding the opening, but they were not facing outward; they were facing the cave itself, as though they expected something to emerge. Each held a long wooden staff in a defensive position.
    Suddenly Drake was grabbed from behind by two monks.
    “Who are you?” said one of the monks. “What are you doing here?”
    Drake struggled. “Let me go!”
    “Let’s take him to a cell,” said the second monk. “I’ll summon the Abbot.”
    They took him to a small, cramped room containing only a bed, wash basin, table, and chair. They forced him into the room, then exited, locking him in. Drake beat on the door with his fists.
    “Let me out of here!”
    He continued to beat on the door as they disappeared down the passage.

* * *

    Drake paced the cell. He heard the grinding of a key in the lock. The door opened and an aging monk entered. He was thin and bent, and his wizened face betrayed the nature of a fanatic. He was accompanied by two younger monks who stood on either side of the door.
    “I demand you release me immediately,” said Drake.
    “You are in no position to be making demands,” answered the monk. “You have broken into our mission and were caught prowling through the buildings. Who are you?”
    “My name is Nelson Drake. I’m a reporter for the Baltimore Herald-Examiner.”
    “How long have you been inside the mission, and what have you seen?”
    “Why does it make you sweat?”
    “I would advise you to cooperate. If we turn you over to the authorities, you will be sent to prison.”
    “I’m an American citizen. I want to see the American consulate.”
    “You will see no one until our questions have been answered. I leave you to contemplate your position. Perhaps you will be more receptive after you have spent some time in confinement.”
    “You can’t just keep me imprisoned here.”
    “You will be kept here until we have determined what is to be done with you.”
    He went to the door and exited, followed by the other monks.

* * *

    Several monks sat around a solid oak table in a conference room lit by torches. At the center of authority was Andrew, Abbot of the mission, an ancient monk with white hair and a gaze of great depth. At his right hand sat Bocephus, the monk who had questioned the prisoner. At his left was a younger monk named Steven. Among the monks were several women, who wore the same garments as the men. Chief among them was Sarah, a striking, dark skinned woman of indeterminate age.
    Bocephus spoke. “We should have known someone would come looking for Hunter.”
    “We did know,” said Steven. “And we will do what needs to be done. This is not the first time that we have had to deal with outsiders.”
    “No, but it’s the first time we’ve had the press become interested. Drake cannot be allowed to leave.”
    “And how will we explain two disappearances? You don’t think his newspaper will be interested?”
    Sarah leaned forward; her amber eyes flashed like fire. “Arguing is pointless. We don’t even know what he has seen.”
    “We can’t take the risk,” said Bocephus. “You know what we have to do.”
    “Perhaps,” said the Abbot. “Perhaps not. We shall see.” He rose. “It is a hard thing to condemn a man to this existence. Let us do it grudgingly, if at all.”
    The others rose, and all filed out of the room.

* * *

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