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Angélica alone and see what she knew about the site’s past. “Excuse me,” he said to her father and Fernando and then rushed after her. “Dr. García,” he called, catching sight of her white shirt in the shadowy darkness outside the tent. She held still as he jogged up to her. “Can I ask you something?”
    “That depends.”
    “On what?”
    “Your question.” She crossed her arms, waiting.
    Sheesh, porcupines were less prickly. He formed his sentences carefully, trying not to be too obvious. “I like to begin an article with a little history of the location I’m covering. Give the readers some background, you know.” He paused to see if she’d allow him to continue or shut him down before he got out of the gate.
    A cricket chirped in the grass. She remained silent.
    Crossing his fingers behind his back, he continued. “What was the first thing to be excavated at this site?”
    “I don’t know. I wasn’t working here at that time.” Her tone said that was it. End of story. Goodnight. “I’ll see you at breakfast, Mr. Parker.” She took off toward her tent, the beam of her flashlight bouncing with each step.
    If she thought she could get away that easily, she didn’t know with whom she was messing. He hadn’t made it this far in his career by giving up when faced with a brick wall—or a closed-lipped, hard-headed female. Determined to get some answers, he fell in step beside her. “So, was it your father who first began the work here?”
    “No.” She picked up her pace. “My dad and mom took over eight years ago.”
    “Do you know when the first excavation took place?” When she didn’t answer, he added, “Even an estimate?”
    She halted in front of a large tent, her eyes sparkling in the light of the half-moon. A small breeze rustled the trees behind her, sounding like distant applause. Quint held his ground, waiting.
    “It was thirty years ago.” She finally caved. “From the pictures I’ve seen of the early site, it was so hidden by the surrounding jungle that all temples except the Temple of the Water Witch—the tall one over there,” she pointed to his left, “were unrecognizable as they stand today.”
    Quint followed the direction of her finger, imagining what the site must have looked like in the beginning. Dr. Hughes must have spent that first season when Quint and Jeff were still in elementary school with a machete in one hand and matches in the other.
    “Thirty years of work.” He tested her knowledge.
    “Make that eighteen years of work. This site was occupied for ten years, and then went untouched for twelve years until my parents took over.”
    “I see.” That answer confirmed a note Mrs. Hughes had scrawled on the back of a picture of Juan from the University of Arizona Alumni magazine. So far, everything checked out with what he already knew. “Why the break in time?”
    “There was a change of caretakers.”
    “Do you know who was working here before your parents?” There, he’d asked. Enough dancing around it.
    She looked up at the moonlit sky for several heartbeats as if waiting for the answer to flash across it. “Dr. Henry Hughes.” She unzipped the tent flap. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning at six,” she called out, stepping inside and zipping the tent closed in his face.
    Well, all right then. That was it from the bossier of the two Dr. Garcías for tonight, apparently. Shaking his head at what he was up against with her, Quint headed back to the mess tent and Angélica’s much friendlier father. Why couldn’t Juan be in charge here? Why did it have to be her, with her watchful eyes and tight lips?
    His fingers were crossed that Juan felt like being more of a chatterbox than his daughter, or Quint would be stuck down here until the rains started and the dig season closed for the year.
    * * *
    The next morning dawned hot and muggy. He rolled out of the cot and stretched, his back protesting the current sleeping conditions.
    He slipped on a