Murder on Masaya (Kea Wright Mysteries Book 3) Page 3

  “… got all weird. I have to talk to you, but not on this line …” Daniela’s voice faded away again.

  “Mierda!” Kea slapped her palm against the watch.

  “Language,” Maria’s voice drifted over from the gravitometer.

  Unable to raise Daniela again, Kea shooed Maria away from the gravitometer and started to pack the device into its foam container.

  Something in Daniela’s voice filled Kea with dread.

  “We’re going back.” Kea sent out a blast text for all units to check-in, then swung her pack over her shoulders. Cradling the gravitometer against her chest, she nodded to Rudi. “Grab your packs. Both of you.”

  “What’s the matter?” Maria asked, plucking out cinders that had become embedded in her knees.

  “Your brother’s an asshole.”

  “True story.”

  Although clearly not satisfied, Maria seemed to sense Kea’s fractious mood and obediently started to pack her bag under Rudi’s watchful gaze.

  They headed back across the hardened lava lake toward the boulder-strewn fracture that led up to the crater rim. As they walked, Kea remained several paces behind. She had just finished dictating a lengthy email to Amirah documenting her objections to her supervisor’s orders, personality, and pervasive B.O., when her earpiece bleeped again, and Bree’s face filled the tiny screen of her watch.

  Bree ran the comms for the Outpost, the expedition’s headquarters that housed all the teams and equipment. Through the thick lenses of Bree’s glasses, Kea could see tears. Tight lines of worry pulled her wrinkled skin into a scowl.

  Kea felt her stomach tighten into a knot.

  “This happened a second ago.” Bree’s face on the screen was replaced by a video that looped over and over.

  The afternoon sunlight was bright enough to make it difficult to see the dark images on her watch. Shielding the screen with her hand, she discerned a familiar face backlit by the blazing lava.

  The footage was from one of the tiny slingshot drones. About the size of a mobile phone, it launched from the observer to a specified distance and was capable of recording a photo or video before returning to the GPS worn by the user, usually a wrist unit with a microphone.

  Not cheap. In fact, only one person on the team could afford them.

  Kea had banned Emilio from using the devices near the crater, as the thermal drafts from the volcano played havoc with the drones’ propellers, endangering the sensors that her team had implanted around the crater walls.

  “Hijo de puta.” Kea breathed.

  Emilio’s expression was gaunt, his spiky black hair slick with sweat. He had removed the helmet of his silver proximity suit, bathing his skin in the orange light of the volcano’s glowing heart. The young man was speaking into the camera, although she couldn’t hear what he was saying. No doubt addressing his legion of social media followers. Glancing at the software settings on the video, Kea swore again.

  The bastard had live-streamed this to millions of people.

  Suddenly, a cloud of dust obscured the camera. For a moment, the stuttering kaleidoscope of images was impossible to follow. Then she caught a frame of Emilio’s face, his eyes wide with terror.

  Another frame showed a bouncing boulder.

  Blackness.

  Amber light.

  Snatches of the crater walls as the camera tumbled downward.

  More blackness.

  Then the camera caught the instant the young man splashed headfirst into the lava.

  White light flashed across the screen as the drone followed him into the magma. Then darkness.

  Chapter 3

  Carter stared at the entrance to the squat, concrete-walled compound. The words, “Outpost 71,” were etched into the rock. Sulfur dioxide from Masaya’s vents had leached iron out of the calcium carbonate, causing the letters to weep stains of red.

  Kea had told him that the Outpost itself had not been built per se, but excreted by giant three-dimensional printers that squirted bands of quick-drying plasticrete. The buildings all possessed the same smoothed forms dictated by the range of the print guns. Their elongated domes and ellipses reminded Carter of futuristic hair dryers that had landed on the wrong side of town.

  Global Solutions, the company that funded Outposts across Central and South America, had leveled a series of decrepit warehouses on the edge of town to build Outpost 71. Constructed on the edge of the city, it was serviceable as a staging point close to the volcano for the scientists, but still accessible for Masaya’s citizens to attend classes.

  Education, Kea had stressed, was just as important to Global Solutions, as the research.

  Carter had liked Kea a lot more before she had turned into a corporate shill.

  He had first met Dr. Wright in Africa several years ago on an expedition studying meerkats. Ever since that experience, which mixed adorable mustelids and harrowing murder, he had stayed in touch, helping Kea out with odd errands. For a fee.

  Now in his late forties, Carter’s curly brown locks had begun to thin and his goatee was streaked with gray, much of which he blamed on Kea. Her recent request had nearly cost him his life. Again.

  Fortunately, Carter had a fee for that too, and had come to Masaya to collect.

  There was no response to the door buzzer, so he wandered through the numerous food stalls that vendors had opened outside the Outpost. The residents of Masaya had learned early on that most of the scientists had no time for cooking and were happy to splash some cash in exchange for some warm nacatamales.

  Carter had just tucked into one of the tamales stuffed with pork and potato, when the door to the Outpost opened. He stepped back as an old white woman cranked open the gate. Her gray hair was bundled into a prim bun and a piercing pair of mismatched eyes regarded him with the severity of a crow.

  “You must be the pirate hunter, yes?” Her raspy voice was lacquered with a Southern drawl. “Kea was expecting you. Well, before everything went crazy, that is. She’ll be back soon, I expect. Probably. I don’t know. Why are you still standing there?”

  Carter blinked stupidly under her rambling verbal assault, unsettled by her gaze. One iris was colored chestnut, the other sky blue. It was as if he were being appraised by two separate souls, both of which held him in low regard.

  “I’m not a pirate hunter,” he managed at last. “I am researching how treasure would be hidden today, both digitally and physically, using 21st century technology for my master’s degree …”

  “Another academic,” the woman cut him off with a loud sigh. “We’ve got loads of your lot in here. Well, that’s a bit depressing, isn’t it? I was really hoping for a pirate. Still, I suppose you better come in.” She took him by the elbow and hurried him through the doorway.

  Carter winced at the sound of the iron gate slamming behind him. The entryway contained the same smoothed walls of concrete, with thin apertures serving as skylights. The hall leading into the central compound was decorated with a mural of black lava flows surrounding islands of thorny vegetation.

  “I’m Shona, by the way,” the woman said, barely sparing him another glance. Despite her age, she rushed ahead, her sandals slapping on the tiles. “I need to return to my desk. You’ve caught us in such an awkward time. We’re shipping out the chemistry labs in the morning. Got to swap them for the physics ones, you see. That’s the blessing and the curse of sharing labs with other Outposts. Nothing stands still for long.”

  Carter was rushed past a window that looked out into a courtyard. Despite the dusty gravel grounds, he noted several grills, picnic tables, and huts. She ushered him through what appeared to be the corporate portion of the complex, dedicated to conference rooms and offices.

  “At least, we were going to move the trailers,” Shona continued, “until everything went to hell. Couldn’t stand the brat if I’m being honest.”

  Shona paused, turning quickly to face Carter. “Oh dear, you’re not family, are you? That would be terrible. I mean, he was
a brat, but you’re not supposed to say things like that, it wouldn’t make him any less of a brat.” She stared off into a space somewhere a few inches above his head. “I think people like to pretend that other people were better than they really were. Although no one ever bothers when people are still alive. Wouldn’t that be so much better?” She returned her gaze to meet his own. “So, are you?”

  “Am I what?” Carter asked, wondering if he should have purchased a beer from one of the vendors.

  “Are you family?” Shona didn’t wait for an answer and headed down the hall once more.

  Carter increased his trot to keep pace with her. “What are you talking about? Is Kea okay?”

  “Oh, Kea’s fine, dear. I mean she’s got terrible fashion sense, too much cellulose, and is, I suspect, bipolar, but she’s fine. At least, fine in the not-dead sense of the word.” Shona pointed through an opening in the wall. “I call it Squirty.”

  Carter saw the giant arm of a three-dimensional printer the size of a tractor-trailer extruding some sort of industrial cement that solidified as he watched.

  “New type of concrete,” Shona said. “Cures within a minute, which is exactly how long it takes for Squirty’s arm to do a full circumference.”

  Before he could fully take in the sheer size of the machine, Shona whisked him into an atrium where several corridors intersected. She flicked a finger at each as they pivoted in a tight circle.

  “Cafeteria’s over there,” Shona pointed. “Classrooms are this way, and the lab trailers are down there. Round the back is the gym, the showers, and living quarters. That dreadful biologist is gone, you can take his room, number twenty-three.” She continued down a corridor. “Glad to see the back of him, terrible nostril hair, could’ve wrecked a weed whacker on them. Now, I’ve got to get back, although I suppose you better come with me.”

  Shona stopped in mid-stride so suddenly that Carter almost barreled into her. “No, stop that or else it will get stuck again! It took me an hour to sort it last time.”

  The entryway in front of them was flanked by two men in custodial uniforms. As a fire door juddered downward from the curved ceiling, its movement was accompanied by a sickening groaning of gears. The door shuddered violently before freezing in mid-descent.

  Shona slapped her palm against one of the panels beside the door, causing one of the repairmen to jump. “You have to hold the restraining bolt back manually the first time or it won’t secure properly.”

  The men exchanged glances, as if daring the other to move first.

  “Right then, you’re with me.” Shona grabbed Carter and together they ducked underneath the door. “Now, sit down right here, and we’ll get back to you once everything’s died down.”

  With a whoosh of her flapping shawl, Carter found himself seated in a plush chair beneath a giant fern with a bottle of water and a packet of pretzels pressed into his hands.

  Above him, a large, sunlit dome was etched with a map of Central America. A series of concrete stars studded the ceiling, marking the nations’ capitals, including Nicaragua’s capital, Managua. An extra-large five-point star depicted Masaya. On the floor beneath the dome sprawled a model of the volcanic complex. At the base of the mountain, Carter recognized Masaya’s lagoon, streets, and buildings, each replicated in exquisite detail.

  The rest of the circular control room was fitted with numerous computer stations. A massive screen filled the center of the room, its surface flickering with news feeds from across the world. They all showed the same gruesome footage in a loop with Emilio’s name emblazoned across a ribbon at the bottom of the screen.

  “Isn’t that …?” Carter began.

  “A PR nightmare? Yes, it is,” sighed a short white woman in her late fifties. She wore a sleeveless shirt with a riot of exotic flowers and rubbed moisturizer on her arms nervously. The tag beside her station read, Bree Jenkins. Her voice was colored with an Irish brogue. “You’re not with the press, are you?”

  Carter shook his head. “I was in the area doing a favor for Kea. What happened?”

  “I’m afraid we don’t know. We’ve lost all contact with the lower levels.” Bree held up a hand, turning to speak into her headset.

  Carter glanced at the footage again, noting the tumbling boulders and the clouds of ash. “Rockfall? Earthquake? Explosion?”

  “No matching seismic signatures,” said a young man with a swimmer’s build and dark shaggy hair. His tag identified him as Sharvil Patel. “No eruptive activity, not outside the usual stuff, anyway. As for your last suggestion, we try to not carry live explosives into an active volcano ...”

  “How many people do you have down there?” Carter asked, regretting tuning out whenever Kea talked about her job.

  Shona brushed past him, an energy drink in each hand. She plopped down at one of the terminals, cracked her knuckles, and popped both cans open. Then, her fingers clacking across the keyboard, she brought up a detailed schematic on her screen of the interior of the volcano.

  “This is Santiago, the only currently active crater.” Shona gulped down one of the energy drinks in one go. “All the teams on the upper levels have reported in but we’ve lost contact with Delta level.” Shona pointed a knobby finger at the lowest point inside the volcano, then grabbed the other can. “There’s ten people down there. Nine now, I suppose, that Emilio …” she paused in mid-sip. “We have to hope there are still nine on Delta.”

  “Have to hope …” Carter slowly realized what Shona’s words implied. “Where’s Kea?”

  Shona and Sharvil exchanged worried glances.

  “You did say Kea was a friend of yours, right?” Shona studied him curiously. “Someone’s just died horribly in one of the most dangerous environments on Earth. Where do you think she is?”

  “WHAT WERE they thinking?” Kea crested the rim of the crater and headed downslope to the parking lot. It had taken more than an hour to make the hike back. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that Maria and Rudi were burdened with the survey equipment and lagging a half a klick behind. “Daniela’s team was supposed to leave Delta level two hours ago.”

  “Emilio probably wanted night shots of the lava.” Over the earpiece, Bree’s voice was calm. “You know what he was like, anything for good lighting. Mind you, if I had a million followers, I’d be posting too. His endorsements are unreal.”

  Kea farted her lips in disgust. “He was rich because his family’s tight with the President.”

  Although Emilio had been dead for less than an hour, Kea had no qualms about voicing her opinion of the prat. The only reason she allowed him on the team in the first place was that he was a phenomenal climber.

  She heard a quiet click as Bree ended the call.

  Bree was always the sensible one of the team, Kea thought. They were all aware their channels were monitored by the company, and probably by the government.

  From her elevated position, Kea could see the parking lot. The cars faced away from the volcano, ready to make a hasty exit in case of an eruption. Her attention, however, was focused on the news vans, perched like birds of prey near the overlook. The press had been documenting the research expedition for the last week, capturing footage of scientists crazy enough to descend into Masaya’s fiery gullet. If that story wasn’t juicy enough click-bait, with Emilio’s death they now had the story of the year.

  At least they employed a decent catering company, Kea conceded. She had snuck a couple of their breakfast sandwiches from their tent earlier that morning, as well as a carafe of coffee. Payment, in her mind, for tolerating their endless questions:

  Is Masaya going to erupt?

  - I don’t know. Hopefully not today. That would be terribly awkward. I just bought this new hat.

  Have you successfully reached the lower levels?

  - Yes.

  Why are you going down into the volcano?

  - Like I told you yesterday, and the day before: a new chamber has opened up. We’re installing remote monitoring systems to
understand the dynamics of the lava lake and its thermal plumes.

  How much longer will you be in the volcano?

  - We plan to be out by tomorrow, but we’ll stay as long as it takes to finish the work.

  Can you take some of our cameramen down with your team to film Emilio?

  - Piss off.

  Kea skirted beneath the thin slip of fluttering yellow tape, the only barrier keeping the reporters away from the descent station. Even so, Kea felt their lenses tracking her as she stumbled to a halt beside the assemblage of poles and cables sprouting from the edge of the cliff. The structure supporting the zip line had been specially designed not to rust into pieces under the assault of Masaya’s toxic breath. Despite the enormous expense involved in setting up the rig, the contraption looked like it had been lashed together by a drunken toddler with an Erector set.

  Danilo, the supply manager, waited for Kea near one of the support cables bolted into the ground. A short Filipino man in his late twenties, Danilo was ruthlessly efficient and the only person on the Outpost team to insist on wearing a tie. Or, Kea considered, a shirt not covered in dirt and sweat. She found his fastidiousness to be a bit ridiculous but admired his commitment to his obsessive-compulsive disorder. She nodded her thanks as he handed her a helmet.

  “Any change?” Kea asked.

  Danilo shook his head and helped her into a heat-resistant jacket. Despite only having been used for a week, the lightweight yellow jacket already reeked from the sweat of a dozen people. Kea pulled up the front zipper and breathed through her mouth to avoid the stench. She was almost grateful when a plume of sulfur from the volcano overwhelmed the stank. Proximity suits smelt worse, but thankfully they only to be worn on Delta level when taking samples of lava.

  “Nothing from Delta team yet.” Danilo handed her a bag containing a set of climbing gear. “The extraction team at basecamp is waiting for the line to be reconnected down to Gamma before attempting another descent.”

  Danilo went on to inform her that the rockfall, in addition to killing off Nicaragua’s most popular social media star, had also severed the dropline. The remaining Delta crew were essentially trapped on the lowest level, stranded above the lake of fire. The original lines that connected Gamma and Delta were separated by hundreds of feet of intricate connections, which had taken the original climbers two days to install.