The Snake

by J A Kellman

  ~ * ~

  Pat and Bill were drinking coffee when I arrived in the dining room.

  “You look terrible,” Pat said.

  “As my mother used to say, like something the cat dragged in,” Bill added.

  “Thanks. And I was just beginning to feel I might live.” I sat down. “Any news on Luis?”

  “When I checked this morning, Zoila said he’s doing better,” Pat replied. “He spent a quiet night, and the doctor has checked on him a couple of times. Said he is on the road to recovery.”

  “Thank God for that,” I said. “Now if we could only unravel the situation here, life might return to normal.” Then I told them what I’d been thinking.

  Bill nodded. “Sounds reasonable. It explains everything that is going on, even the fascination with the pectoral.

  “I found out something from Ochoa yesterday, after you went to bed. They may have a line on the indigenous base. There’s talk of an encampment on the southeast edge of Tikal, toward the border with Belize on the edge of Bajo de Santa Fe. There’s water in the Bajo during the rainy season, then it slowly dries up over the rest of the year. Not a bad place to hide, since it’s forested around the edges and there’s water. He said they’re going to check it out.”

  The toucan, my buddy from my last visit, fluttered across the dining room to see what he could glean. Pat let out a squeak as he flapped over her shoulder and pushed his way between the breadbasket and her coffee. He looked at each of us in turn, shuffling his big feet in greeting, then bowed toward me. I swear he knew who I was. He didn’t waste any more time on pleasantries, though. He headed for the remains of the fruit plate in the center of the table, clacking his beak with excitement.

  “You have to admire his spirit,” I said, handing him a piece of banana.

  “Huh, if you say so. Just so long as he keeps out of my food,” Pat said as she moved her coffee from behind the bird’s heaving tail.

  Twenty-five

  Tikal National Park, Guatemala

  A week following the incident in the reservoir, Ochoa pulled out of the Forest Service parking lot before the sun came up, and headed for Bajo de Santa Fe. Jaime sat in the seat beside him, sipping coffee from a thermos. Ochoa was groggy; it was too early to talk, even to Jaime.

  The night before, Ríos had them into his office for a strategy session. “We’re in trouble. We’ve got to act before things get worse. Look at it this way,” he had said. “The Sinaloas have a drug depot just over the border in Mexico; a world-famous scholar was killed, in an ugly way, right behind one of the main temples; men in weird garb or combat gear have been spotted sneaking through the jungle after hours, and another scholar turned up at the Flores airport half nuts and shot in the leg.

  Now, someone has tried to kidnap Luis. It’s got to stop. All of it.” Ríos had pounded his desk with his fist. “We’ve have to find out what’s going on, who the hell is behind it, and then we’ve got to call in the military if necessary and put an end to this crap once and for all.”

  “What have you got in mind?” Jaime had asked.

  “We know about the Mexican depot, so let’s scout the Bajo area next. People who have traveled through the area have smelled smoke and there’s water in one or two small ponds that would make it a good campsite. Then we’ll have to tackle connections outside the park. The Nuevo seem to have a foothold there—Flores, Santa Elena, even the Lacandon Reserve.”

  Ochoa had nodded. He could just see the National Army pouring into the park, Special Forces swarming the priceless buildings, armed conflict in the plaza. Ancient buildings and monuments shot to pieces. Armored vehicles grinding over causeways. Pure hell.

  ~ * ~

  Two days after Ochoa and Jaime returned to headquarters from the Bajo, the situation in the Petén went toxic. No surprise. They’d counted at least two dozen men at what was clearly a military base—headquarters, barracks, mess tent, jeeps, ammo and arms storage; noted their uniforms, their leaders, their drills, their long hair carefully knotted in buns over their foreheads like Mayan warriors; watched the preparations for some sort of maneuver. So, when armed men assaulted the Sinaloa depot across the border for a second time, no one in the Tikal Park Rangers’ office was particularly startled.

  ~ * ~

  Eduardo Guzmán was basking with his wife on the beach in Cancun, even though a hurricane was creeping toward the coast. He’d just smeared María’s back with suntan lotion when a waiter from the hotel trotted toward them over the blinding white sand. “I have a note for you, sir,” he said, handing Eduardo a folded slip of paper. “It’s an emergency, the man said. He wants you to call him. Now, he said. Now, or forget it.”

  Even with his newly acquired tan, Eduardo blanched.

  “I gotta use the phone. It’s the boss. Emergency. You stay here,” he told María as she sat up on the towel beside him. He left his flip-flops behind as he sprinted for their room. If I don’t get this straight, I’ll lose my ass and maybe worse, he said to himself as he ran, ignoring the hot sand burning his feet. That fucking priest. It all started with him. It’s like the tide turned against me when that priest died.

  “A group of men, the Nuevo my sources tell me—they all wore their hair in goddamn buns—attacked Maya Gold last night,” the boss snarled as soon as Eduardo picked up the phone. “Burned the place to the ground. All that is left is the mess hall, bunkhouse, one shed, and a couple of planes. Ten of our guys were killed, including the manager. Everyone else disappeared into the jungle while you’re rolling around in the sand without a care in the world. Just what the hell?”

  ~ * ~

  News spread fast. Ochoa walked into headquarters the morning following the attack to discover everyone there in turmoil. Ríos was shouting on the phone. Jaime was checking his duty belt to make sure everything was in order. Half a dozen other rangers and five or six guides were milling about in the break room. Even Luisa Cabrillo, the new blonde curator from the museum, was there asking questions in a shaky voice.

  “We need to know what’s happening,” she said. “We have to find out what’s going on, so we can secure the collection.”

  “I’d act as if the park was under attack, if I were you,” Jaime said looking up from his belt. “By the time we get it straight, it may be too late.”

  “Jesús y María.” Ochoa asked, “What’s happening now?”

  “The Nuevo attacked the Maya Gold depot last night,” Jaime said. “Several people killed—mainly Mexicans, but a couple of guys from Flores, too. Nobody we know, but still—and the depot was burned, except for a couple of buildings. Ríos is trying to get the details.”

  “Are we sure it was the Nuevo? We just checked them out a couple of days ago. Not that that told us much, but they didn’t look like they were going to move just yet,” Ochoa said. “No obvious preparations to pull out; everyone looked more or less relaxed.”

  “People seem to think it was them. Had their hair in foreheads buns. Who else?”

  Ochoa grunted in agreement. His worst nightmares were coming true.

  ~ * ~

  The rainy season came early that year, with lashing winds and pounding rains, as a hurricane battered the coast. Hurakan, Heart of Sky, was on the prowl, as ancient forces stalked the land. Clouds boiled over the jungle canopy, and the sky, a low gray cover of clouds, churned over the tips of the roof combs of the main temples. Thunder and lightning punctuated the thick air, agitating monkeys and driving macaws into noisy flight deep in the trees. Cancun, further to the north, was deserted.

  The wind rattled the windows in the Tikal Inn dining room as Pat, Zoila, Bill, Luis, and I finished breakfast. No one wanted to go out, not till the storm cleared. Besides, Luis had just begun to feel like himself after his week of convalescence, and he wasn’t up to a trek in driving rain. We’d begun to discuss what to do while we waited out the storm, when the manager beckoned Bill to the front desk.

  He returned a few minutes later looking grim. “It was Ochoa. Things are
heating up,” he said, “or maybe the change in air pressure is making everyone nuts. The park is in lockdown. You need to stay put. Ochoa’s orders and mine, too,” he said giving me the beady eye as he pulled on his slicker. “When the Nuevo attacked that depot a couple of nights ago, it really threw the fat in the fire.” He crossed the lobby and headed into the rain toward the Tikal Park Rangers’ office.

  ~ * ~

  It wasn’t until that night things really got started at the inn. Zoila and Luis had gone to bed, and Pat and I were using my room as base camp, trying to read and work out what the hell was going on. We couldn’t hear or see anything through the storm; the inky blackness was absolute. We couldn’t get any information from the hotel staff, either. All we could do was theorize.

  It was ten o’clock when Bill tapped on the door; then he stuck his head into the room to make sure we were okay.

  “It’s like something out of Ben-Hur out there,” Bill said, as he shed his slicker and settled into the chair next to the bed. “People attacking one another from every direction. Chaos, confusion. According to sources, the Maya Gold group has regrouped. Reinforcements arrived from Mexico. Some guy with family over the border said they saw an unmarked convoy coming this way. The Nuevo are pulling themselves together in the Bajo getting ready for another go, I’d guess.”

  At last, something was going to happen to break the sense of impending disaster, I thought. Between the storm and the tension, I was ready to scream. I figured Pat was, too.

  “A cadre of Mexican cartel types has been spotted moving into the park from across the Usumacinta River. They mean business. They’re dressed in battle gear, armed to the teeth, and heading toward Tikal,” Bill continued.

  “Captain Ríos has the park rangers patrolling and protecting the center of the site, and the army has a detachment guarding the perimeter. Ann, you’ve got to stay here. No snooping around. It’s dark, pouring rain, and we’re heading for serious trouble. Everybody is on the move. I’m going with Ochoa and Jaime. When it’s safe to leave the hotel, I’ll let you know.”

  I tried to look harmless. I’d made some stupid mistakes lately, notably taking Luis out for air and nearly getting him killed.

  “Don’t get smart, Ann. This is serious.”

  I nodded. Even I could see he made sense. I’d just be in the way.

  ~ * ~

  Pat left around midnight. We hadn’t solved anything by talking, but that night I went to sleep in my clothes on top of the sheets—wearing a nightgown in the middle of a battle would be stupid.

  It must have been two o’clock when the door of my room eased open, sending a slice of light from the hall across my bed.

  “Bill, is that you?” I asked, half asleep. It wasn’t Bill, and the men with forehead buns or hoods that pushed their way into my room weren’t talking either, nor was Luis, who was tied and gagged in his chair in the hall. I sat up and tried to scream, just in time to have someone slap a hand over my mouth and push me back into the pillows. I thrashed and twisted, trying to escape the suffocating grasp.

  “Where is it?” the tall man, the apparent leader, hissed from the far side of the bed.

  “What?” I asked into the smelly leather palm that covered my face.

  “The vulture pectoral, señora. Give it to me and we’ll leave you and Luis alone.”

  I don’t know if the ancestors pay attention to gringas, but if they want the pectoral safe, they better get on it, I thought as I struggled. Someone on the hotel staff must have ratted us out. How else did these guys know Luis gave it to me and where to find us?

  “I don’t have it!” I managed to snuffle. “It isn’t here.”

  “Then where the hell is it?” The man made another hissing noise.

  “It’s safe. The ancestors are watching over it.” Maybe that would work. Talk of ancestors should put them off; they were Maya after all.

  It didn’t do a thing.

  ~ * ~

  The rest of the night was a blur—a jolting ride in the back of a noisy van through the rain, as the jungle pressed in from every side, Luis mute beside me in his chair, the silent men in front. Even though it was hard to see through the windscreen of the enclosed vehicle, I glimpsed the dark figures of several Tikal Park Rangers and a small group of Guatemalan forces near the edge of the park, watching roads and jungle paths. They didn’t see us through the dark and rain.

  The driver steered down dirt tracks and worse, circled, dodged roadblocks, pulled off into the jungle every time a patrol or official jeep appeared, desperate to avoid leading anyone to our destination. The roadways and paths were miserable, a nearly endless succession of small lakes and mud flats; the jungle trails were invisible, and the storm intensifying at intervals made things worse.

  Sometime near dawn, we pulled into a small farmstead at the edge of a spreading wetland.

  Two men lifted Luis’s chair out of the van, carried it to the house through the sucking mud, and shoved him inside; the remaining man hauled me behind him like a sack of grain, dumping me in a chair near a table. It could be worse, I thought as I squirmed to make myself comfortable. There was a fire in the hearth that helped take the edge off the damp that followed us into the room, and I smelled coffee. A granite mano y matate, a grinding stone with traces of tomato on its work surfaces, sat on the top of the shelves near the hearth, along with some other kitchen implements. Clearly someone lived here. Odd.

  Not so odd, though, as when the inhabitants appeared.

  ~ * ~

  K’in Kan, Flores fisherman, model for the Mayan lord in the Ixchel Museum mural and presumed leader of the Nuevo, entered the room with Luisa Cabrillo, the museum curator. Jesus! I never would have guessed. Lucky I hadn’t asked her instead of the director for help when I hid the pectoral under a pot in a case near the museum entrance.

  If that shock weren’t enough, there was something creepy about the whole setup. Luisa seemed giddy. The way she flirted with Kan gave me the willies: she was a cross between a teenage girl and Mata Hari, all touches, slinky postures, and significant looks. And he was interested, too, though he pretended not to be. It was like a bad telenovela, a charged interaction meaning nothing but sex.

  “Where is Zoila,” I asked Kan, when he shifted his attention away from Luisa for a moment. “Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine. She’s tied to the headboard in their room,” a tall Nuevo answered for Kan.

  What was he? The mouthpiece? At least Zoila’s safe, I thought, as I shifted in my chair. Now, all I had to do was save our bacon, since the ancestors hadn’t shown up. The ropes around my wrists had loosened on the journey from the hotel; as the Nuevo talked among themselves, I set about working my fingers and scraping the ropes against my chair to loosen them further. If only I could grab a kitchen knife from the nearby shelves, I thought. But there was no way I could move fast enough, tied to a chair.

  A half dozen other Nuevo, all with buns or ponytails on their foreheads and inlaid teeth, arrived, filling the little space, leaning against the walls, or sitting on the floor, drinking coffee. Something was up; otherwise why the gathering?

  Luis and I were pushed toward the shelves out of the way.

  At a nod from Kan, the tall man took the floor, his inlays catching light from the kerosene lamp on the table. “The Sinaloas and Los Zetas are moving in—Los Zetas from the southwest, Sinaloas from the north. The park service and the army have thrown a net around the park; the site itself is guarded. We have a couple of goals. First, drive the Sinaloas north and push Los Zetas back over the river. Second, locate the vulture pectoral. That’s where our guests come in,” he said, looking at Luis and me. “So, where is it?” He advanced toward Luis, who was huddled in his chair.

  “May we have some water?” Luis asked, as if he hadn’t heard the question, as if he did this every day.

  Though he grumbled, one man filled a mug from the large thermos near the sink and held it to our lips in turn, so we could drink.

  The water w
as balm in the desert—lifesaving, sweet, cooling my cracked lips and parched throat.

  “Well?” Kan asked. “Where is it?”

  Neither of us said anything.

  Even though he knew I had the pectoral, the tall man grabbed Luis’s shoulders, shook him, slapped his face. Was he picking on Luis because he imagined he would give in more easily, or did he think I’d leap to Luis’s defense and tell him? Rage began to tighten my throat.

  The curator shrieked.

  “Answer, you little dick,” the tall guy said. “What do you care about hanging onto it? You’re not Maya anymore; you’re an American professor. You speak English. You eat with a knife and fork instead of just a spoon—I’ve seen you in the dining room when I clear tables. The vulture is ours. It belongs to the Maya. The real Maya.”

  That’s where I’d seen the guy. The inn, I thought, hazy with adrenaline. At least that explains how they found our rooms; how they had gotten in, and how they knew we had the pectoral.

  “I don’t know where it is,” Luis said through clenched teeth.

  What was this? Revenge for Luis’s use of a fork? Time slowed as my focus sharpened. It was as if I’d been taken over by powers beyond my control, forces that obliterated thought and tightened my body like a spring.

  The table lantern went out as the guy hit Luis again.

  Shivering, overwhelmed by the unstable mix of murderous fury and my competing inhibitions, lifted out of my chair by invisible strings, I lurched forward toward the shelves, the chair dragging behind me as I wrenched my right hand free. I grabbed the mano and, swinging the grinder with every bit of strength I could muster, hit the tall guy shaking Luis. The guy didn’t see the mano coming in the dark. He squalled, fell. I watched myself swing again, slamming him over the head as he buckled. If I could have clearly seen what I was doing, I would have killed him.