Call of the Jaguar

Chapter 1

The sky behind the snow-covered peaks of the Olympic Mountains was an amazing rose velvet, streaked with bolts of lavender and gold. Reluctantly, Rachel McCarthy turned her gaze away from the window and made herself focus on her computer monitor.

The screen displayed an article about deep-sea vents. The headline read Life in an Undersea Volcano. The photo showed black smoke billowing from a vertical rock chimney. No, she thought, too reminiscent of the broken Deep Water Horizon well hemorrhaging oil into the Gulf of Mexico. Nobody wanted to be reminded of that disaster. She browsed the photo galleries for another image and substituted some amazing scarlet tube worms that lived in superheated waters near deep-sea vents. Much better.

She quickly proofread the text one more time, and then murmured to herself, Oceanography. Done.

She posted the article file to the GO LIVE folder, and selected a filename from the Incoming folder. A new text file, just lines of unformatted text and hyperlinks, filled the screen. The headline read Signs of Life on Saturn?

Looked like much more interesting things were taking place on Saturn than in her cubicle. Rachel sighed, peeled a Post-It note from a stack on her desk and pasted it over the tiny camera attached to her monitor. Leaning back in her wheeled desk chair, she stretched her arms over her head, then swiveled back toward the window. A black-capped chickadee sat on the window ledge, perching only an inch away from the sealed glass pane. She pressed her fingers to the window glass. Startled, it flew away. She wanted to soar off into the sky like that.

Her computer pinged. She swiveled back to it. A small video frame had appeared on top of the Saturn text. In the frame, Tony, her twenty-five-year-old boss, stared intently at his camera, his gaze focused somewhere over her right shoulder. McCarthy? You there?

Rachel flipped on her mike. As always, Tony.

"Something's wrong with your camera. I'm not seeing anything.

Must be on the blink again. Here, let me give it a thump. She tapped the microphone with a finger, and then peeled the Post-It note off the camera lens.

Tony's expression relaxed. That's better. How's the Science Section coming? Deadline's in thirty minutes.

Rachel stifled a sigh. It'll be there in fifteen. I'm finishing Astronomy now.

Sweet. Tony bobbed his head as if grooving to some beat that only he could hear. I'm sending Liz in with something for you to add.

Tony's video popup disappeared. Rachel flicked off the microphone, brought up several images of planets, selected a satellite image of Saturn, copied and pasted it into a frame, and began laying out the article. From a tin of chocolate-covered espresso beans near the keyboard, she popped a bean into her mouth without moving her gaze from the screen.

Tony's assistant, Liz, strode into Rachel's office, carrying a CD and a couple of printed pages. Rachel held up a finger in Liz's direction and Liz came obediently to a halt, waiting while Rachel quickly finished formatting the Saturn article and saved it to the GO LIVE folder. Rachel held out her hand without turning her gaze from the screen. What is it?

Some archaeology find in Guatemala, Liz said, handing over the disc. The travel sponsor wants it in.

Rachel thrust the disc into her computer drive. Up popped a video clip, the frame frozen on a man wearing rumpled khakis and a floppy hat. His face was tanned and ruggedly handsome, although lined from the sun. He sat on the crumbling steps of a Mayan pyramid. In the background, a reddish mountain rose out of jungle foliage. The man was smiling at the camera.

Shades of Indiana Jones, Liz remarked, leaning to stare over Rachel's shoulder.

Rachel gasped.

What? Liz asked.

Rachel clicked the Play arrow on the video.

This is the most important find for decades, the man said. It will conclusively prove that the Maya trade routes extended further than anyone ever imagined.

Rachel stared open-mouthed at the screen. The video looped back to the beginning and froze on his smiling face again.

Earth to Rachel. Liz put a hand on Rachel's shoulder. What's wrong?

Rachel pointed an accusing finger toward her monitor. I know this guy.

That hunk? Aren't you lucky! Married to Hunk in a Suit and now you tell me you know Indiana Jones Hunk? She peered at the screen again. "Okay, Indiana looks old enough to be my father, but I'm sure I could adapt. How come the only men I know are dweebs?"

Rachel wasn't quite sure what a dweeb was, but she knew exactly what Liz meant. Certainly most of the males in the Netline News office were geeks, at best. He's not old enough to be your father. He's only a couple years older than I am. His face is just weathered from working outdoors.

Weathered or leathered? Liz asked. She held up a hand to stop Rachel's retort. "Okay, maybe he's old enough to be my uncle. How did you ever meet Indiana anyway?"

His name is Patrick Kerby, and we were in the Peace Corps together in Guatemala. We were stationed near this mountain. She pointed to the reddish dome in the background. El Castillo.

Liz gasped. No way! It's—quote—a remote, secret location—unquote. You actually recognize it? You know him? Whoa, Rachel, how dramatic! She read from the printed page she still held in her hand. Nothing could stop Dr. Patrick Kerby from bringing this important ruin to light. Not lack of funding. Not forest fires or gunfights.

Rachel leaned back in her chair, smiling. Yes, that sounds like Pat.

Liz continued. Even a brush with cancer left him undaunted.

Cancer? Rachel focused on Patrick's face on the video screen. Patrick had always been a happy-go-lucky, fit, outdoorsy type. He wouldn't, he couldn't get cancer. Indiana Jones didn't get cancer.

That's what it says. The text is on the disc. Liz stared at the screen mournfully. Doesn't it just figure? Good looking guy like that... Then she remembered who she was talking to, and her face went stiff. She said, Oh, yeah, he's your friend. Sorry. She looked at her watch. Uh-oh. Now you've got eighteen minutes to deadline.

Rachel brought up the text file on the screen with a few keystrokes. She flowed the words around the video frame, made a few quick edits. The video frame of Tony appeared again. Rachel slapped the mike to ON. What?

Tony frowned. The Science section? That latest Archaeology thing?

Troll. Dweeb. Rachel ground her teeth while trying to keep her face serene. Coming up.

Her fingers flashed over keys as she finished formatting the article about Patrick Kerby's find. She added the file to the GO LIVE cue and sent the article to the printer.

Ready to go live, she said to Tony.

From his video frame, Tony said, Got it. Barely made that one, McCarthy. Slowing down in your old age? He flashed his perfect teeth at the camera, leaned forward, and began to type.

Old age? What the hell? Oh shit, Liz must have told him. Rachel threw an angry glance over her shoulder at the younger woman. Rachel's monitor kicked into a screensaver, a simulation of flying through space, looking out at zooming stars from the bridge of a spaceship labeled Netline News above the viewport. Then Tony's video frame snapped back onto the screen.

And Edition 492 of Netline News is live. He looked as if he wanted to give himself a high five. Tomorrow we finish a half an hour earlier. Thanks, team!

Rachel and Liz chanted simultaneously, Thanks, boss.

Tony's video frame disappeared, and the flying-through-space screensaver resumed. Rachel stared unseeing at the screen. She was afraid to look at the day's edition. Think he kept my rain forest piece?

Liz tilted her head. What do you think?

It's perfectly good news. It's just because I wrote it...

Liz sighed. Why do you do this every day?

Not every day. Maybe twice a week. It's just because I wrote it...

Liz pulled her Netline News T-shirt down over her jeans. She was constantly fighting the battle of too little fabric stretched over too much flesh, but refused to wear anything with the letter L on the size tag. You do it because you like beating your head against the wall, apparently. You know why your stories don't get in: no link to our sponsors; not nationwide headlines. Remember the mission statement? Now we're a headline news publisher.

Rachel snorted. This isn't publishing. This is barely even repackaging.

Her computer speaker emitted a rustling noise. Rachel glanced at the microphone. Yep, the tiny switch was still in the ON position. She and Liz stared at each other, horrified. Rachel mouthed the word shit.

The video frame appeared in the foreground again. Tony's brow was scrunched into a frown. His eyes were blazing. Through, McCarthy?

Um... she stammered.

We do what makes money—that's the way the world works, in case you haven't noticed.

Crap. She hastened to grovel. Of course, Tony. You're absolutely right. Oh Mighty Master of the Universe, Ruler of my Paycheck.

Tony visibly softened and sat back in his chair. Guess you have a right to be cranky today. Go home, have a drink.

Thanks. See you tomorrow. Rachel hastily punched off the microphone and turned off the camera and computer.

She turned to Liz. "What did you tell Tony?"

Liz ducked her head as if expecting a blow. He wanted to know why we left the building for lunch. I told him it was your birthday. She grinned. Did you want me to tell him which birthday?

You do, and you'll die. Rachel bared her teeth in a pretend snarl.

Liz laughed. She gazed out the window at the darkening sky as she said, Of course, Tony has access to all the personnel files...

Rachel groaned and slid into the high heels under her desk. She switched off her desk lamp.

Liz barred the door. You can't leave without telling me about Indiana Jones Kerby—did he always have that devilish twinkle in his eye?

Devilish? As she remembered Patrick's smile up close and personal, Rachel couldn't help smiling herself.

Eighteen years ago, when she and Patrick were posted to a small village in the highlands of Guatemala, she'd been twenty-two years old. Patrick had been two years older. It didn’t matter that they had next to nothing in the way of possessions or money. Patrick loved the jungle, the history, and the ancient ruins that lay all around them. Rachel loved the animals and flowers and the romance of an exotic locale. They had satisfying work delivering basic health care to the Mayan villagers. She had her writing, and she had Patrick.

She remembered scenes from that time as if they'd happened yesterday. Her typical clothing in those days was an embroidered peasant blouse with a long skirt or jeans, and sandals, if anything, on her feet. Definitely What Not to Wear clothing. Carefree and easy, a far cry from the pantyhose, pencil skirt, and high heels she wore today. Her hair then was long, wild and curly; not ironed into sleek submission like it was now.

She could still picture the Mayan villagers, too, especially the kids. Especially one kid, a Mayan boy about thirteen, who could fix anything—broken chairs, bicycles, generators; it was amazing. Estéban wanted to be an engineer. Even more remote a dream for a highland Mayan boy than becoming a novelist was for a young woman from Kansas.

Patrick called her Stanley, and she called him Livingstone. It was silly. Those names belonged to Africa, not to Central America. But at