Sam woke to the buzz of Remi’s satellite phone and realized that the sun was up already. He patted the floor of the little tent and found the phone. “Hello.”

“Sam?” said Selma Wondrash. “Where are you two?”

“About ten thousand feet up an active volcano called Tacaná. We’re coming down today. Is something wrong?”

“I’ll let you be the judge,” she said. “I just sent you an article that appeared this morning in a Mexico City paper.”

“Okay. I’ll call you back when we’ve seen it.”

He terminated the call, went online, and found the e-mail with the attachment. He clicked on the article and was greeted by a color photograph of the interior of the Mayan shrine, the body, and the painted pot. “Uh-oh,” he said.

Remi opened her eyes and sat up. “What?”

He turned the little screen toward her and she gasped. “How did that happen?”

Sam thumbed through the article, looking at the photographs. There was a picture of the whole group in the last mountain village. He showed Remi. “Remember when this picture was taken?”

“Sure. We all lined up, and then . . .” She paused. “José handed his cell phone to the mayor’s brother.”

“And then he handed the phone back to José. So we know where this came from.”

“José sent it to a reporter, obviously, along with this article. I’m going to get a better translation than I can do.” She took the phone from Sam, ducked out of the tent, and disappeared.

When Sam caught up with her, she was sitting beside Christina, who was translating. “The discovery was made by Sam and Remi Fargo, members of a volunteer relief expedition bringing aid to the remote villages on Tacaná . . .” She paused. “He gives you full credit, but he doesn’t leave anyone out. The picture has everyone’s full name, and the narrative seems accurate.”

“I respect him for his honesty,” Remi said. “It’s just that we thought we had more time before the rest of the world knew.”

“Well, we don’t,” said Sam. “We’d better decide what to do.” He looked around at the camp. “Where’s José?”

Remi stood and looked around. “He was guarding the shrine when we came in last night.”

Sam began to run. He dashed along the plateau, ascended the narrow path until he reached the place where it widened again near the entrance to the shrine. There was Raul Mendoza. “Good morning, Sam,” he said. “Buenos días.”

“Buenos días,” Sam said. He leaned into the entrance and saw that everything was as it had been. The body was still in its body bags, the pot had not been moved, and the wooden vessels were untouched. He returned to Raul. “Did you happen to see José go by this morning?”

“No,” said Mendoza. “Not since he was with you last night.”