Fernel packed away his tablet and then came closer, reaching for the rock. “Shall we pull it forward on the count of three?”
“No, we shouldn’t,” Quint said, nudging Fernel aside.
He could imagine the guy tripping over the air around his feet and the slab of rock coming down on him. Or worse, Fernel tripping up Juan or Quint himself, and either of them needing to be taken over the wall on a stretcher.
“What do you propose?” Juan asked.
“I’m thinking I just pull the slab forward and let it fall flat on the ground. We can worry about moving it aside when we have more muscle here.” Quint shot a raised brow in his direction. “But you’re the architectural guru, so you tell me.”
Juan nodded. “Your idea sounds good to me.” He leaned his cane against the mound and reached for the top of the slab. “Ready?”
Quint scowled and nudged Juan aside, too. “Both of you stand back. I think I can maneuver this puppy on my own.”
Juan and Fernel stepped back.
Moving closer to the slab, Quint sized it up. The limestone must be almost four feet tall and several inches thick. It was pitted and gray with weathering, but a slight tug test made it clear there was still plenty of rock there to move. He just needed to be careful not to pinch his fingers.
Pulling on his gloves, he cleared the area where he’d need to quickly back-pedal when it started to fall. Next, he relocated some of the soft dirt he’d excavated in order to give the rock some cushion when it fell. He didn’t want to damage the slab in case there was something important under the lichens covering the front or other side.
“Okay,” he said when he had the landing pad ready. “Here we go.”
The first tug moved the slab a half-inch or so out from the blocks behind it, but then it fell back.
“Watch your fingers,” Fernel said.
“I am.”
“You need to rock the slab in its bed a few times,” Juan told him.
“Got it.”
Quint did just that several times, the slab coming out a bit more with each pull before it fell back into its original position. On the fifth pull, the cracking sound of roots breaking came from the base, and then the slab broke free. Quint hopped aside as it thumped onto the loose dirt on the jungle floor.
“Well done,” Juan said, clapping.
Quint took a step toward the dark, gaping mouth of the entrance. He sniffed, smelling dirt and the usual tinge of detritus decay.
“Can you see what’s hiding inside?” Fernel asked.
Quint started to scowl at the guy, not loving his choice of words, but a movement in the dark pulled his focus back to the entrance.
“There’s something in there,” he whispered.
Juan stepped up next to him and tossed a handful of dirt into the shadows.
Color exploded at Quint as a kaleidoscope of butterflies swarmed out from the shadows. Black, yellow, orange, red, and white—they fluttered around Quint, circling several times before rising up into the sky. A colorful tornado of winged confetti. Up near the tree canopies, the vortex of butterflies weakened, breaking up, spreading out like a vibrant fireworks show finale.
He blinked in wonder as one last butterfly—orange with dark, mottled markings on the edges of its forewings—circled his head before fluttering up, up, and away.
“Holy flapping caterpillars, Batman!” Quint shouted after the butterflies. He whirled toward Angélica’s father, who was staring up at the sky with his jaw agape. “Was that flying bananas, or what?”
Chapter Fifteen
“Let there be dancing in the streets, drinking in the saloons, and necking in the parlor!”
“Who said that?” Angélica asked, laughing at Quint, who’d just finished spinning in a circle in front of her with his arms out wide.
“Groucho Marx,” he said, fanning his shirt.
