The Tomb (Scarrett & Kramer Book 3)

by Neil Carstairs

  Itzel stepped towards the god. “What do you want?” she shouted. “I have served you all my life and the one time I ask a question you punish me? Why?”

  The god reached out, touched Itzel, and her world turned black.

  ***

  Daylight. A land of pine forests, mountains and lakes. Itzel stood before three gods, their eyes feasting upon her naked body. Itzel let them. Any attempt to cover herself or stop them would end in punishment. She didn’t want punishment; she wanted answers. Where is this place? And why am I here?

  Itzel looked around. The terrain held glorious vistas, rivers that wound along valley floors. A shimmering lake and snow-capped mountains. As she looked, Itzel noticed movement. Spectral figures crossed her vision. She tried to study them, but whenever Itzel looked directly at the ghosts they disappeared. Then Itzel found that if she looked to the side, she could see them more clearly in the corner of her vision. They weren’t ghosts or spirits; they were people. She saw hikers and climbers. Ordinary folk in t-shirts and shorts. Children and parents and grandparents. Vacationers.

  “Where is this place?” the words formed in her head and the gods heard them.

  “This is the Place of Retribution,” three voices spoke as one.

  This place? This beautiful land of mountains and lakes? Her confusion must have reached the gods because one stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder. She sensed a change in the world, a vibration that began beneath her feet and reached out to shake the trees. She saw the mountains tremble and rivers vanish into fissures in the ground as the lakes boiled away to steam. The ghostlike figures of people ran. She saw their faces but could not hear their screams. The ground tremors became more violent. Trees fell. Mountains collapsed. The earth exploded.

  Darkness.

  ***

  Itzel lay in her motel room. The god knelt beside her, a calloused hand upon her stomach. Itzel’s muscles tensed as the hand moved. She wanted to bat the hand away as the god ran it up her ribcage and onto one breast. His empty eye sockets seemed to challenge her. With a courage Itzel didn’t think she possessed, she took hold of the god’s wrist and pulled his hand away from her body. For a moment, they remained still and silent. The god and the mortal waiting for whatever was to happen next.

  He faded. First becoming one with the shadows and then becoming nothing as the yellow electric lights of the room penetrated the darkness and showed Itzel that she was alone. It took a couple of minutes for her to get to her feet. She dressed and sat on the bed. She wanted to cry, but no tears came.

  What’s happening? Why are the gods taunting me?

  Her phone showed the time at ten-thirty. Itzel sighed. She headed into the bathroom and came out a few minutes later ready for bed. In the dark, lying on her side, she wondered what it would be like to have a normal life. To have a man at her side and maybe children as well. There would be no killing in that life unless she owned chickens. But no killing of people to further their cause. No orders from a High Priest who moulded a child into an assassin. No fear of gods who could eat a man’s soul.

  Am I getting old? Is this what happens? Doubt. Uncertainty. Questions.

  She pulled the bedsheets over her head, taking comfort in the warmth and the dark. The curtains in this room did little to hold back the light of street lamps and passing cars. Itzel curled into a ball, knees close to her chin like a foetus in the womb.

  I wish I could go back there. I wish I could go back and re-live this life.

  Tomorrow the High Priest would arrive. He would give his orders, and Yancha would take them to find the child, and they would kill her or die trying. And while they were dying, and die they would because this child would be protected by a ring of steel, the High Priest would go to the Place of Retribution and tear the heart out of the world.

  Tears squeezed from beneath her eyelids. I want to die. I want to die now, in this bed, before sunrise.

  ***

  Itzel woke with a profound sense of disappointment. She hadn’t died. If her wish reached the ears of the gods then they had ignored her. Which meant they wanted her to die another way. She showered, dressed, and walked across to the diner for breakfast. Yancha and Ramon were already there. She ignored them, finding a table on her own and wading through the eggs, hash browns, bacon and tomatoes. She filled up on three cups of coffee and tried to find a spot on the wall to examine when Yancha came and sat opposite her.

  “The High Priest will arrive today. He is flying into an airfield near here. We will all go and meet him.”

  “Of course.” Itzel tried not to look at Yancha. She didn’t want him to think he’d won a victory.

  “Will you be in your room?”

  “Where else is there to go?” A waitress stopped at the table, topped up Itzel’s coffee and took away her empty plate.

  “Nowhere,” Yancha said. He leaned forward, catching her eye. “Don’t try to run.”

  Now he’d gained her attention Izel fixed him with a baleful glare. “I don’t run,” she said. “I fight my battles, and I win them.”

  Yancha smiled, cold and heartless. “You have lost this one.”

  “We all have.” Itzel pushed her chair back and stood. Yancha swayed back as if he expected her to hit him. Itzel smiled at that because she saw in his eyes the realisation he had shown weakness. A minor victory, but still a victory.

  “Stay in your room,” Yancha said, his voice louder now as Itzel walked away.

  At the exit, the same waitress who’d served her said, “Honey, if that guy is causing you trouble I can call the cops. We don’t like men who abuse women around here.”

  “Thank you.” Itzel gave her a genuine smile. “But he’s only joking.”

  The waitress looked doubtful. “Guys like that don’t joke. They hurt.”

  Itzel nodded, said something about being fine, and got out of the diner before the conversation went too far. She paused in the parking lot and looked up at the clear blue sky. Itzel could see a bird up there, a dark speck as it drifted on thermals. A raptor of some kind, she decided, searching for its prey. A car drove by, the male driver giving her the once over as if he’d come to the same conclusion as Yancha and saw her as a whore. Itzel ignored him and walked on towards the motel. Her room was on the second floor, and when she reached the walkway that ran the length of the block she could see out over the parked cars to the diner. The waitress stood outside, off to the left a little and surrounded by a cloud of smoke. She saw Yancha as well, coming back to the motel. When he looked up and saw her standing on the walkway he pointed and shouted, “I told you to go to your room.”

  Itzel retreated, shamed by the feeling that now this man wanted to dominate her at all times. One last look and she thought that the waitress had finished her cigarette and now held a phone instead. Yancha vanished beneath the walkway as he reached the motel. Itzel got into her room; she dared not be outside when he came up. There would be a scene, and she didn’t want the kind of attention that would bring.

  Maybe the waitress is right. Maybe I am in an abusive relationship.

  Itzel threw her wig across the room. Give her ten minutes with the High Priest and she would be back in charge of this mission. She sat on her bed and turned on the television. She channel hopped up and down but found nothing to hold her attention. Inane comedies. Puerile game shows. Lives of the rich and famous who she’d never heard of and local news that meant nothing to Itzel. She turned the television off and tried a little meditation. But even that didn’t work. Too many thoughts intruded, pushing the calmness away like a storm on a summer’s day. And then came a knock on the door. Itzel expected Yancha or Ramon, that’s why she didn’t put her wig back on when she opened it.

  Two cops stood in front of her, with the waitress from the diner off to one side. The lead officer, a portly woman of about forty, had rough blonde hair and the ruddy complexion that said Scandinavian heritage. A fact backed up by her name badge that read ‘Larssen’.

  “Is this the lady
?” Larssen said to the waitress.

  “I think so.” The waitress stepped a little closer, frowning at Itzel’s cropped hair. “But she didn’t have hair like that. Do you wear a wig, honey? Does that man make you shave your head for him?”

  “No,” Itzel said, with a shake of her head. “It’s nothing like that.”

  “We had reports that a man was shouting at you, ordering you around. We’ve got a strong policy on domestic abuse and investigate every report.”

  “It’s fine,” Itzel said, trying to think of a way out of this.

  “But you do know the man?” Larssen asked.

  “Yes.”

  Larssen’s partner leaned against the walkway railings, his thumbs tucked into his belt. He looked as well fed as Larssen with a stomach that stuck out like a pregnancy.

  “Is he your boyfriend?” the waitress asked. Larssen looked upset at the intervention and made a shushing gesture at the waitress.

  “Is he?” Larssen asked.

  “He’s a friend.” Itzel wanted to shut the door to get away from the questioning.

  “You registered with two men,” Larssen’s partner finally spoke. “One in the room next to you and the other four doors down. Which one is he in?”

  Itzel froze. She couldn’t tell them. Of all the times to face cops, it would be when they were trying to help her.

  “C’mon, honey,” the waitress said in a soft voice. “We can help.”

  Yancha will be sensible enough to talk his way out of this. He knows how Yanqui cops work and staying on their good side is the best way of riding out any problems.

  “Do we need to knock on both doors?” Larssen asked.

  “No,” Itzel said. “He’s in the one four rooms away.”

  “What’s his name?” Larssen asked, her partner already on his way.

  “Yancha Caamal,” Itzel sagged against the door. The waitress gave he a sympathetic smile and edged down the walkway after the cops. For all her offers to help, it seemed she wanted to follow the action.

  ***

  Yancha took his new responsibilities seriously. He sat in silence, the box containing the statuette of the goddess resting on the dressing table near him. Beside the container lay a gun. Unlike Itzel, Yancha didn’t believe in acting like an ordinary person. To him, having a duty meant following orders, and his orders were to protect the goddess until Yancha could pass her to the High Priest. He could wait like this for hours. This skill helped in some of the missions he took part in. Waiting, sometimes for days, in places much worse than this motel room.

  Now, despite the imminent arrival of the High Priest, his thoughts were consumed by Itzel. His dislike of her grew with every day. He’d started out as her mentor but now, all these years later, to be second to her in everything made his skin crawl. And then there was the stupid boy, Ramon. He walked around with his tongue hanging out, treating Itzel like a queen when in fact she was another killer trained by the High Priest and the other followers of their gods.

  Bitch.

  Someone banged on his door. It made him jump. Thinking of Itzel had drawn his attention away from the window. He hadn’t seen any shadows pass the other side of the thin net curtains. With an angry grunt he rose, goddess and gun forgotten. It would be Itzel, here to challenge him over his treatment of her. Upset about a few sharp words when what she should be getting is a few sharp slaps. Yancha opened the door and snapped, “What?”

  Two cops, the male with his one hand raised as if to bang on the door again, the other on his holstered gun like his female partner who stood a yard to the right. Yancha stared at them, his thoughts locked up.

  “Yancha Caamal?” the male cop asked.

  They know my name. The bitch has called the cops onto me.

  He slammed the door shut and dived across the room. As he snagged the automatic up off the dressing table the cop banged on the door again, and to Yancha it sounded like gunshots. He aimed at the door and put two rounds through it. Pale splinters of wood jumped off the surface as the bullets blew through the thin plywood. Yancha heard a scream. He saw a shape pass across the window and on instinct fired twice more. The pale curtain danced as the rounds passed through it. Glass shattered. More screams. A gun blasted, and Yancha flinched as two rounds came into the room, punching holes in the plaster behind him.

  Yancha ran to the door and wrenched it open. The male cop sat on the walkway, resting against the railing fence and holding his stomach where blood pumped around red fingers. He looked up at Yancha with frightened eyes. Yancha shot him in the head. He heard screams and looked to the right. The female cop was still on her feet, but one arm hung uselessly at her side as she clawed at her radio with her free hand. Yancha put her down with two rounds in the chest.

  Someone ran away. A woman in a red and white uniform that Yancha recognised from somewhere. He couldn’t remember where, but if she escaped she could raise the alarm. One bullet in the centre of her back put the woman down. Yancha saw Itzel staring at him in horror from the doorway to her room. He almost shot the bitch as well, for the hell of it, but held back long enough for the feeling to pass.

  When Itzel started shouting at him, he wished he had shot her.

  ***

  “What have you done?” Itzel screamed at Yancha, the concrete walkway littered with blood and bodies. “You stupid fucking bastard. What have you done?”

  “The cops were here for me,” Yancha roared back at her, waving the gun in her direction. “You called them.”

  “No, I didn’t.” Itzel saw people sticking heads out of doors and realised they needed to move. She gritted her teeth and said, “We need to get out of here.”

  Yancha noticed a man, bare-chested and wearing jockey shorts, watching him. Yancha aimed and fired. He missed, but the guy ducked back into his room with a shout of fear.

  “Where’s the goddess?” Itzel shouted.

  Yancha didn’t answer. He ran into the room, grabbed the box, his phone and his jacket. He ran out onto the walkway as Itzel appeared from her room. Down in the parking lot, people were looking up. Itzel heard shouts and then the deafening bang of Yancha firing down at them. She didn’t bother telling him not to shoot. Events had gone way beyond not shooting anymore.

  She ran down the stairs and out into the lot. The people from the motel and diner scattered. All but Ramon who came running towards them. Itzel pointed him to the left, “Get the car, get the car.”

  They had about six seconds of terror at the car as each of them thought the other had the keys. Yancha came up with them from his jacket. All the time Ramon asked, ‘What’s happened? What’s happened?’ and Itzel said, ‘fuck, fuck’ over and over. Yancha threw the keys at Ramon. They scrambled into the car as a siren reached them off the highway.

  “Go, go, go,” Itzel shouted as Ramon started the engine.

  “Where?” he asked.

  “Any fucking where,” Itzel screamed at him.

  In the back seat, Yancha muttered to himself. He’s lost it, Itzel thought, he’s completely lost it.

  They left the parking lot with rubber burning off the tyres. Ramon side-slipped the car onto the highway about fifty yards ahead of a cop car. Looking back, Itzel saw the patrol car take the turn into the parking lot.

  “What happened?” Ramon asked again, slowing the car a little.

  “Yancha shot two cops and a waitress,” Itzel said.

  “He what?” the car swerved as Ramon stared at her in shock.

  “You heard. Yancha’s killed two local cops.”

  Ramon took a moment to blow past a slow-moving truck. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Itzel said, her voice sharp. “Ask him.”

  Ramon didn’t bother, he looked in the mirror and said, “They’re coming.”

  Itzel knew he meant the cops. The locals would have given them a description of the car and the direction they took. A quick glance through the back window showed the cruiser coming up fast; it’s engine way more powerful than the one in their h
ire car.

  “We can’t outrun them,” Ramon said.

  Itzel nodded agreement. “You armed?” she asked.

  Ramon shook his head. “I was in the diner. You?”

  “No. I ran too fast to think about anything. All we’ve got is Yancha’s gun.” She turned. “How much ammunition do you have?”

  Yancha looked up from where he held the statuette of the goddess. “We don’t need ammunition,” he said.

  “What?” Itzel wanted to reach out and hit him. “Of course we need ammunition.”

  “No.” Yancha lifted the statuette. “We have the goddess, and she is going to save us.”

  ***

  Henry ‘Hug’ Haverson, Lavonia Chief of Police, rarely got out of his office when he worked days. He often volunteered for the graveyard shift so that he could strap on his gun and patrol the not so mean streets of this town. It was something his small team would joke with him. Today had turned out a little different. A teenage girl’s parents called in to say their daughter had received sexting messages from a boy at the high school over in Carnesville. They’d kept her home so that Hug could interview her before catching up with the young man and his family that evening after school. Hug decided, having seen the images, the boy would be joining him at the police house for an overnight stay. If not longer.

  Interview over, Hug took the opportunity to roll around the town in the cruiser he’d signed out. He kept an eye out for someone, anyone, doing a traffic violation. He wanted to write a ticket to at least get his name on the board for the annual ‘most tickets written’ competition they ran in the department. Currently, number one spot lay in the hands of Ingrid Larssen, who had a nose for drivers with even the smallest trace of alcohol on them. Hug almost drove on over when the call came in about a possible abusive spouse at the budget motel. He didn’t, because Larssen and Fredricks took the call and Hug figured that if he put in an appearance, it would cramp their style.

  So he took a loop that would put him back in the direction of his office and cranked the seat back one more notch. Hug had always been big since he hit puberty, shooting up to six-foot-six with the bulk to carry the weight off and not be a beanpole. It’s where his nickname came from. His friends started calling him Huge Henry and in the end dropped the ‘e’ to leave Hug. It also fitted his High School and College sport of wrestling. Back in the day, Hug had been the all-State champion in his weight division, and his trademark bear hug won him enough bouts that he came close to selection for the Los Angeles Olympics until a damaged shoulder kept him out, and he never recovered fully to enjoy success in the sport again.