I’d heard enough by now to peg our mystery man for a Brit, but he was my Brit, my discovery. He wasn’t supposed to be a dirty rotten lying scoundrel. No way was he going to pull the “So sorry, I can’t remember” bit on Laine Halliday. Hildy was lapping it up, all wide-eyed. Max looked almost as stone-faced as the Quechuas. Except for Raymi, who was young enough to betray excitement in the depths of his black eyes. Five seconds of silence as I gauged our vic and the reaction of our trekking team to his odd reply. I stared straight in his face, but his eyes were so swollen, nearly slitted shut, that any attempt to penetrate his thoughts was frustrated from the git-go. I could only hope he could see well enough to know that I wasn’t some naive turista who was going to go all goggle-eyed over a tale that should have been confined to a telenovela. “Problem?” I inquired. “I’ve had time to give it some thought,” he said, struggling for clarity past cut and swollen lips, “and at the moment I fear my name seems to elude me.
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