CHAPTER FIVE
Llama of Rectitude
"Get out of here! Shoo!"
Convinced the persistent llama was a robotic life form programmed to track and attack me, I doffed the inexpensive sombrero from my head and swatted the beast's nose several times.
"Get away from me! Crikey!"
It let out a plaintive bleat, lurched forward and again nudged my arm forcefully. I resisted the temptation to raise my voice and kick the thing in the shins, given the crowd milling inside the impressive historic ruins. My troubles had been many in arriving at the site. To be greeted and tailed by a large bushy creature was a devastating infringement upon my undercover reconnoitering as I circled the outer perimeter in search of Angel, Mr. and Mrs. Bridgework and the ponytailed graybeard.
"Be off with you," I hissed at the llama, batting its nose with my sombrero while waving the braids of my poncho in its face, only to be drilled in the solar plexus by its formidable snout. "Ugh!"
My garb of disguise, acquired from a youthful sartorial sales representative upon disembarking the tren turístico, was covered in snot and spit. Thankfully, the sombrero fit snugly over my porkpie while the poncho -- a bit garish with its bold pattern resembling that which might be selected when in the midst of a prodigious Mardi Gras bender -- draped to the tops of my shoes, now mud-encrusted beyond any point of recognition. If pressed, I decided I would pass myself off as a visiting foreign dignitary conducting medical research. Satisfied with my cover, I turned my attention toward the historic locale and was promptly rammed in the buttocks by the llama.
"Damn you, I say!"
A group of sightseers, ranging from grandparents to toddlers led by a guide, cast their gaze upon me. I hastily adopted an accent, mixing a Malaysian pitch with a southern American twang. "A damn fine day to feel plentiful rejuvenation atop such a sacred piece of land trust, I say." The onlookers nodded in agreement and returned to the portion of the official guidebook their tour leader was referencing. I waved politely and, with the belligerent llama in tow a step behind, began in earnest my pursuit of the Loo insiders.
Stalking away from the group was easy. Following the myriad of pathways posed a higher degree of difficulty. Machu Picchu was laid out, as I found, like a centuries-old hedgerow maze designed and cultivated by an enthusiastically inebriated English gardener who most likely smoked a pipe. The exception to this comparison was, of course, the fact the Incans constructed their maze from rock and layered it terrace-upon-terrace. One could roam for a considerable distance along a particular walkway, then look back with the sensation that nil had been gained or lost.
Did I go up a level or down?
Nearly six-hundred years old, the common contemporary belief held that the edifice was originally built for fifteenth century Incan emperor Pachacuti. This particular leader was a force without equal in his day, a charismatic strategist who personally structured a hierarchical society of concentric circles formed around the wealthiest member -- himself -- reigning from its focal point. Status was defined, sought and achieved by being an intimate neighbor in the Pachacuti 'hood. Added to Pachacuti's sociocultural skill was his military ruthlessness. As a tactician, he had no equal. Foes were cheerfully confronted and destroyed, while the weak and faint-of-heart simply ran off or were delivered into submission. Bridgework's selection of Machu Picchu to hide his flash drive proved no coincidence. Pachacuti was precisely the type of man worthy of Wayland's admiration and trust.
My paucity of progression while walking was compounded by the lack of discovering my objectives. Surely Bridgework had traveled here and, just as surely, he had dragged his betrothed and offspring along, either by coercion or curiosity. I moved as stealthily as the trailing llama permitted, accepting its repeated blows with a silent anger toward all creatures, great, small and shaggy.
My thoughts were diverted by the fairway quality cut of the turf, prompting me to envision how a challenging Incan nine-holer might best suit itself to enhancing Peruvian tourism. I rounded a bend while practice-swinging an imaginary mashie and walked straight into the estimable backside of Ethelene as she struggled to use a rather uncomplicated disposable camera.
"I beg of your pardon," I offered in a deep, raspy eastern European monotone before realizing who it was the aggressive llama had shoved me into twice-fold, the second jolt being much harsher than the first. "Shiraz ravine," I continued apologetically, gesticulating wildly with my hand while dropping my chin toward the ground in hope Ethelene would not recognize me.
"Baron, you amaze me."
"Ewe moist bee mystiquing, madam my zell."
"Mistaken? Hell, no. It's you alright." She lifted the lid of my sombrero just as the llama drove itself heartily into my thigh.
"Bastard!" I conked the loathsome creature in its saliva-laden snout. It, in return, let loose a low hiss, then proceeded to urinate on my ankles.
"How in the world did you end up here?"
"Are you surprised to see me?" I responded in kind. Her query was interesting, one indicating collusion. "More startled than your erstwhile husband and ne'er do wellish son in law will be?"
"Your tenacity is boundless."
"Perhaps. But I'm not sure I'd be so fanatical about dancing with you again."
"Oh, that little thing the other night? Where did you end up, anyway? Silly and I were preparing to take good care of you."
"So I learned. Being tranquilized isn't a tenet of my health doctrine."
"You shouldn't drink so, dear Baron."
"And you shouldn't insist on putting my mortality to the test."
"Whatever are you talking about?" She tugged and stroked the edge of her hair innocently. "We were out having a good time."
"A matter of perception, one supposes. I found your nihilistic attitude toward my wellbeing both perilous and frightening," I said, redressing her indifference without expecting her to accept the slightest degree of culpability. "Poisoning a man when he least expects it. Your lack of urbanity while dispatching an opponent is astounding."
"Say it ain't so."
"I'm saying it is." Grabbing her elbow, I guided her along the stonework to a quieter corner of the Incan empire, all the while followed by the moppish four-footer who drove me once more in the ribs. "Ugh!"
"Who's your pet?"
"Ethelene," I said, ignoring her question, "you intended to kill me. And from what I was told, you aided Shumway in planning to dispose of what would have been my mortal remains."
"Aided Shumway? I warned you about him. The high altitude here is affecting your reasoning." She rolled out her lower lip into a classic pout position. "And I gave you very exclusive information about the workings of the Loo. I led Shumway out of the bar, taking him away from you, getting you out of immediate danger. Has your memory failed you on that, too?"
I flipped the sodden end of the poncho so it covered the llama's face and raised a scolding finger to Ethelene. "Listen, you. Here I am fortunate enough to be alive and you're pleading a specious case to me? Save it for a grand jury, dear woman. Now, where's your husband? And who's the summer of love ponytailed throwback following me?"
Ethelene inched away, moving toward the north end of the plateau as the llama made a bold bid to taste my extended digit. "If I hadn't left the Badana Pagana Cabana at that very moment," she called out in a trembling voice, "you would have most certainly met your demise."
"How? By landing on the lit end of a stoked blunt?"
"No, you damned fool! At the hands of Angel." She tossed back her thick mane of hair, wet from mist shrouding the peak, and repeatedly kicked her toe against the mushy turf. "Don't you see she's the one who wanted you here?"