by Ann Charles
“I’m thinking about Mexico,” she told her mom, perching on the corner of her desk. Angélica had recently received a reply to an application she’d sent to INAH for an assistant archaeologist–historian position they had open in their Mexico City office. The powers that be there were interested in meeting her in person.
“So am I.”
“Yeah, but I’m talking about the living inhabitants, not the dead.”
“The living are not as much fun. They’re too easy to figure out.” Marianne looked at Angélica with a smile that made her green eyes sparkle. “For example, why does your father wear socks to bed even when we’re in the hot, humid Mexican jungle?”
“I always figured it’s because his feet get cold.”
Marianne shook her head. “He thinks it will deter any wandering scorpions.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. When he was young, he and your uncle Guillermo woke up to find several scorpions in their bed. One stung him on his bare toe and another got him on the heel before he could escape. Uncle Guillermo was wearing socks.”
“Let me guess. He didn’t get stung.”
“Bingo. Ever since then, your father wears socks to bed. Always. He believes it’s bad luck to go to sleep barefoot.” She stood and went around to the front of her desk. “So you see what I mean when I say the living are easy to figure out. The dead, on the other hand, leave only a few clues. They like to keep you guessing.”
“I know what I’m getting Dad for Christmas this year.”
Marianne chuckled and leaned back against the desk next to Angélica. She picked up one of the papers on her desktop and handed it to Angélica, pointing at it. “What do you make of those glyphs?”
Angélica looked at the black and white photo on the paper. Centered in the picture was a stela with several glyph blocks on it. “Where did you get this?”
“An old friend of mine has a crew down in Mexico working on a site near Calakmul.”
“Calakmul? Isn’t that the big biosphere reserve down south?”
Her mother nodded. “It’s an extremely remote site with all kinds of wildlife running around day and night, including jaguars.”
Angélica smiled. “Your favorite big cat. You’ll have to take that fancy new camera lens you bought to capture wildlife.”
“They’re such gorgeous creatures with those black rosettes. A sleek mix of flowers and beast.”
“I know, Mom.” She pointed at one of the three jaguar paintings that had been hanging on her mom’s office walls since Angélica was a kid.
Marianne looked at the painting. “And the way their eyes light up like gold disks at night makes my heart race.”
“Yes, the eyes certainly did make my heart race that night we came across one down by the cenote.”
“Not to mention they roar and grunt like your father.”
“That’s bordering on too much information, Mother.”
Marianne chuckled. “Anyway, the archaeologist has to have everything flown in, including the crew. He sent me this picture a couple of days ago, asking me to help decipher it.”
“It’s hard to see the details.”
“It’s even worse in color. I changed it to grayscale, which helped a little.”
“You tried enlarging it?”
“Yes. The image’s resolution is very low.”
Angélica turned the paper sideways, and then upright again. “Without better resolution, I can’t even guess. Glyphs are tricky to read in person, let alone from a fuzzy copy.”
“I think I need to go down there and see it in person.”
“With Dad?”
“No. He has several lectures scheduled over the next few weeks.” She picked up a gold locket she always kept hanging from a framed portrait of Angélica and herself, popping open the latch and smiling down at the picture of Angélica. “Do you want to join me? I’d love to have your help with this, pik. We haven’t had a chance to spend time together for a long time.”
It was tempting. A trip with her mother to decipher glyphs would be a wonderful distraction from the mess she’d made of her life. Spending weeks on end with her parents on dig sites had filled her childhood with heartwarming memories. She’d love the opportunity to spend hours by her mom’s side in Maya tombs again, soaking up her theories about the past. Then she remembered the phone call she’d received earlier.
“I don’t think I can. I have an interview at UC San Diego lined up next week, and INAH is talking about flying me down a couple of days after that. I probably need to stay close to civilization in case either offers me a position.”
“I understand.” Marianne’s smile dimmed. She closed the locket and hung it back on the picture frame. “Maybe next time.”
“Definitely.” Angélica bumped shoulders with her mom. “A girls-only trip.”
They both focused on the image again, studying it. Angélica held it up, squinting. “There’s something different about these glyphs, Mom. Look how big the eyes are on this one.”
“That’s what I was thinking. Notice the style of this one here.” Marianne pointed at one in the upper right corner. “It’s not typical for the Classic Maya period.”
“Is that when the site was last occupied?”
“I believe so.” Marianne rubbed her jaw. “You think it could be from the Post-Classic period? Maybe influenced by a visitor from the north?”
“Aztecs?”
She shrugged. “Or Toltecs.”
“Or maybe,” Angélica suggested, “it’s from a much earlier civilization, like from the Formative Maya time frame.”
Marianne took the paper, peering closer. “Hmm, maybe.”
“I’d need to see it for myself and touch it. You know how shadows can play tricks with your eyes, especially in photos. Rice paper and charcoal work a lot better for me.”
“You always were more tactile. Even as a kid, you had to run your fingers over the surface of glyphs.” Her mom leaned over and dropped a kiss on her temple, and then returned to her chair. “Tomorrow, I’m going to book a ticket to Cancun and see if Pedro has time to fly me over to the dig site.”
Angélica frowned. “I don’t think he’s available. I talked to him last night on the phone about meeting me in Mexico City if INAH has me down for an interview, but he said he couldn’t. Some rich German CEO and his family hired him and his helicopter for the next two weeks.”
“That’s too bad. I haven’t seen Pedro in a while. I was looking forward to catching up on how his mother and sisters are doing.” She leaned back in her chair. “Oh well, I’ll contact my old friend then and see who he’s been using for transportation to and from the site.”
“How long do you think you’ll stay down there?”
“A week should be long enough.”
“Who’s going to take care of Dad while you’re gone?”
Marianne grinned. “Why do you think I had a brilliant, loving daughter like you?”
“To make sure Dad wears his socks to bed every night?”
The soft sound of her mother’s laughter filled the room. “Listen, if you have these interviews, don’t worry. Your father will be just fine on his own. Underneath that big soft teddy bear exterior is a core of solid steel.” Marianne sobered. “Trust me, pik, he makes one hell of a leaning post.”
Angélica could still hear the sound of her mom’s laughter, still smell her soft, comforting scent. Her mom was right. Her dad had held her up for years after Marianne’s death.
She took a deep breath and blinked away a rush of tears, focusing on some of the last notes her mother had written about the missing stela. Even after visiting the site and seeing the stela in person, Marianne had struggled to decipher several of the glyphs, noting the odd shapes in the carvings that she wrote would require more research back home in Arizona.
But she never made it home, damn it.
And her notes were too few for Angélica to figure out the meanings without that stela. She needed to find it
, run her fingers over it, figure out the meaning, and put this mystery to bed. The push to deliver the answers her mother failed to find drove her forward, fueling her to hack away at the jungle with her machete until she’d searched every last nook and cranny at this dig site.
A pair of pants flew across her field of vision. She gasped, pulling out her earplugs.
“Boss lady?” a sleepy voice whispered in between her father’s snores.
“What are you doing awake, Parker? Do you need something?” She reached for her canteen of water in case he was thirsty.
“That’s a loaded question.” He yawned. “How late is it?”
A glance at her watch made her blink in surprise. “Almost midnight.” She’d gotten lost in the past.
“You need to get some sleep.”
“I need to find answers,” she countered.
“You’re not going to be sharp enough to figure them out if you don’t get some sleep.”
Her father snore-coughed, making them both look his way. He rolled onto his side, his back toward them, and resumed his chainsawing, only more muffled.
“Why does your father wear socks to bed when it’s like one hundred and ten degrees in here?”
“They’re magic socks. They keep the scorpions away.”
“No shit.” Quint yawned again. “Shut your light off, sweetheart, and close your eyes.”
“Are you going to tell me a bedtime story?”
“Sure, if you let me be the boss for once and do as I say.”
Why not? Her eyelids were growing heavy. She killed the lamplight, fluffed her pillow, and lay back. She’d given her extra one to Quint. The T-shirt she’d found wadded up at the head of his cot that he’d obviously planned to use would have left him with a sore neck.
“Did anyone check you for ticks tonight?” she asked in the darkness.
“Your father did.”
“Good.” She snuggled into her pillow, a smile on her lips. Quint was there with her. He’d help her find the stela. He might argue with her about it at first, but he’d understand why she had to come to this site once she told him about her mom’s notes. “Tell me that story, Parker.”
His cot creaked. “Once upon a time, there was a beautiful, auburn-haired maiden who liked to drink Mexican beer on a beach in the moonlight.”
She knew this story already. “Alone?”
“Yes, until she met an amazingly strong, virile, incredibly smart and handsome hero and realized she couldn’t live without him.”
“That’s a lot of adjectives for one hero.”
“I’m just getting started.” He yawned again. “Wait until I get to the part about how impressive his pectoral and abdominal muscles are. We’re talking Incredible Hulk, minus the excess chlorophyll, with six-pack abs stacked on top of a twelve-pack. You’ll be drooling all over your pillow before I’m done.”
She giggled. “Go to sleep, Quint. You’ve tempted me enough for one day.”
“Your wish is my command, boss lady.” Silence followed from his side of the tent.
A short time later, Angélica sank into dreamland where her mother waited for her. Unfortunately, the helicopter crashed there, too, leaving her alone once again.
* * *
Quint awoke sweating in an empty tent. With a groan he sat up and looked around. Juan’s cot had a folded sheet placed neatly on top of his pillow, the magic scorpion-repelling socks laid out on the footlocker at the end. Angélica’s cot was buried under a pile of clothes, papers, and a couple of empty canteens. It was like camping with the Odd Couple.
He stood and stretched, then walked over to the stack of three books on the crate Angélica had been using as a desk last night. The top two were about deciphering Maya glyphs, while the one on the bottom was a dog-eared reference guide to Mesoamerican gods.
She hadn’t answered his question last night about her mother. Was she in the same frame of mind as Pedro, suspecting Marianne had been murdered? If so, was she here to figure out why? Or was there something else going on that Pedro didn’t know? Was something compelling Angélica to drag her crew out to this remote site in Mexico to scour the jungle?
He heard the sound of muffled voices passing by outside and checked his watch. Breakfast should be in full swing and he still needed to shave. His stomach growled at the fond memory of María’s breakfast burritos. Pulling on his pants and a shirt, he grabbed his shaving kit and headed for the showers.
Fifteen minutes later, Quint pushed aside the mosquito netting and stepped into the mess tent. The smell of barbecued meat and fresh coffee was thick in the warm air. His stomach growled, his mouth starting to water at the sight of María moving about behind one of the worktables.
He glanced around the tent. There were a lot of bodies in too small a space, several of whom he didn’t recognize. A fair-skinned light blonde with blue streaks in her hair sat next to a raven-haired girl who looked like she might be of Asian descent. Across from them, Esteban and Lorenzo sat on each side of a guy with wire-rimmed glasses, sunburned shoulders, and a shock of brown hair sticking up like shark fins. The three strangers must be part of the new crew INAH brought in. The new guy definitely had a Woody Allen, writerly look going with his pale skin, glasses, and delicate features.
Sweat rolled down Quint’s temple. He pulled at the neckline of his shirt, resisting the urge to step outside and come back later when there were fewer bodies adding to the heat. This was his life for now. He needed to suck it up and get used to the high temperatures, close quarters, and voracious bugs and beasts.
A quick inspection of the other table found Angélica absent. Her father was there, though, nursing a cup of coffee. Quint dished up a burrito, wishing María a good morning in Mayan. He’d been practicing the basics of the language while in Greenland. Her face lit up in response and she rattled off something that left him scratching his head. He nodded with a polite smile and carried his burrito across the room, taking the seat opposite Juan.
“So, is that true?” Juan asked as Quint picked up the burrito, trying to decide where to bite first.
“Is what true?” He sank his teeth into the thick, handmade tortilla, groaning in appreciation. Damn, he’d missed María.
“What María asked. You nodded, so I’m assuming it’s true.”
He swallowed the food in his mouth. “I couldn’t understand her. What did she say?” He tore another piece off the burrito, his taste buds on cloud nine.
“She asked if you were going to make a baby today.”
Quint swallowed wrong, coughing.
Someone pounded him on the back.
“¿Estás bien, Señor Parker?” Esteban asked, sitting down beside Quint.
After a couple more coughs, Quint nodded. He took a drink of warm coffee, tasting a hint of rich Maya chocolate in it. He’d missed María’s coffee, too.
Setting the mug back down, he pointed at Juan, whose brown eyes gleamed. “You did that on purpose.”
“Not me.” The old man hid behind his coffee cup. “I could swear that was what I heard her ask.”
“¿Quién?” Esteban asked. “Who?” he repeated in English.
“María,” Quint said.
“She ask if you was going to work hard today.” Esteban’s broken English was improving. He must be practicing, too.
Juan raised his hands when Quint nailed him with a glare. “My mistake. My old ears don’t hear so well anymore.”
“That’s hogwash.”
“May I join you?” an unfamiliar voice said from behind Quint.
“Of course, Maverick. Have a seat.”
Maverick the writer? Quint tried not to stare at the black-haired stranger settling onto the bench next to Juan, doing his best to keep his curiosity hidden. He’d been wrong about the kid at the other table. Maverick the writer looked to be around Quint’s age and not even remotely similar to Woody Allen.
“Quint,” Juan said, “have you met our resident fiction author?”
“No.” But he hope
d to have a chance to grill him at some point in the near future. Breakfast probably wasn’t the place for that conversation, though. Wiping his fingers on a napkin, Quint offered his hand to shake. “Quint Parker. Nice to meet you.”
“Maverick Winters,” said the other man, giving Quint’s hand a firm shake before digging into his own burrito.
Maverick’s palm was well calloused. His shoulders were wide, crowding Juan’s when he settled back into his seat. He looked more like a western or action-adventure writer than horror, someone who had crawled down from one of those old Marlboro cigarettes billboards. What had Pedro said the guy did back in Nevada besides writing? Ranching? Stringing barbed-wire fence? Sledgehammering railroad spikes? Bench-pressing stray steers?
“So, you’re a writer,” Quint said, broaching the subject.
Maverick nodded and then took another bite of burrito.
“Fiction only?”
Juan’s brow wrinkled as he stared at Quint over his coffee cup.
After swallowing, Maverick nodded again. “I prefer the land of fiction.”
“Why’s that?”
“Reality usually sucks.”
“Quint!” Pedro called from the doorway. When Quint looked around, Pedro waved him over and then stepped back outside.
“Be right back,” he said, rising from the bench.
“I’ll keep the flies off your breakfast,” Esteban offered, pulling Quint’s plate closer to his own.
“The flies are part of the garnish,” Juan said. “Besides, Quint needs the added protein to give him strength for all I have in store for him today.”
Hell’s bells! Angélica’s father was going to be the death of him. “No flies, Esteban. My protein levels are fine as they are for Dr. García’s diabolical plans.” Quint walked away, chased by Juan’s evil-sounding laughter.
Outside, the sunshine baked the top of his head. Pedro held his cell phone out.
Quint reached for the phone, asking, “Is the President on the line?”
Pedro laughed. “I turned on my phone to send a quick message to mi madre and there was an email waiting for me.”