Mexico Fever (The Bill Travis Mysteries Book 12)

by George Wier

  I tensed to spring.

  At the last second, I caught his smell, and it made me hesitate.

  He stepped out into the light, head first.

  “Damn you, Señor Burro!” I said.

  He gave me a brief bray, as if to say, “Got you!”

  “I had a dream about you. What are you doing here?” I stood and patted him on the head, scratched his nose.

  He nudged at me, tossed his head back over his shoulder, then nudged me again.

  “You've been following me. It couldn't have been easy for you.”

  At that moment I heard a definite sound from the roadway behind him. There was a man there in the center of the street. He wore olive green and carried a rifle.

  “Crap,” I said.

  “Señor Travis?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You will come with me.”

  “Who the hell are you?” I asked.

  “I am the man with the gun who is giving the order to the gringo estupido.”

  “Oh,” I replied.

  I heard an engine rev up not far away behind him. A couple of headlights came on, silhouetting him. It was one of the Federales from the convoy that had gone by the evening before.

  “Then,” I said, “I am the stupid gringo complying with your order.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The jeep jounced over through cobblestone streets. The driver stopped at a police station and my companion from the alleyway hopped out. He motioned for me to follow him.

  “Why do we need a policeman?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer, but instead motioned again and waited.

  With some reluctance, I got out and followed him inside.

  The Pisté police station didn’t see a whole lot of business in the dead of night, but the place was clean and utilitarian. The soldier exchanged information with the desk clerk, who eyed me suspiciously, then turned and ducked into a back office. I listened to the distant murmur of words that I wouldn’t have been able to understand had they been in English. I heard the sound of a metal chair sliding back on a tiled floor.

  The clerk emerged from the office, followed by what I took to be a police lieutenant or captain. The man was young, late twenties or early thirties, but he was cool, collected and sure of himself. He was handsome and physically fit, and could have had a promising career as a film actor or model.

  He came to the counter and said something to me in Spanish. I shook my head.

  “Ah. English,” he said. “This soldier says I am to come with him. Who are you, and what is this about?”

  “I’m Bill Travis. I have no idea why the military would want to talk to me, or to you, for that matter. I was walking the streets tonight, having recently arrived in town. This man seemed to be following me.”

  The policeman turned to the soldier and exchanged a few words. He nodded and turned back to me. “Why are you here, Señor Travis?”

  “I just told you, I was out walking—”

  “No. I mean, why are you in Mexico?”

  I paused, and that was my mistake. The look on his face spoke volumes. He knew he had me.

  It was time to spill the beans. “I’m here to help a friend. His name is Walter M. Cannon. He’s disappeared. I came down here to find him. But these guys can’t know about that.” I hooked a thumb at the soldier.

  “Ahh. You should have come to me first.”

  “Honestly, I didn’t even get the chance. These fellahs picked me up while I was out for a walk. I don’t know my way around, and I was hoping to find a police station.”

  The policeman smiled. “Let us go with the soldier,” he said. “I’m sure he has something on his mind.”

  *****

  Inside the jeep, which was enclosed, I considered engaging the policeman in conversation, but then thought better of it. I would find out what was going on soon enough.

  We came to the southwestern edge of the city along the same avenue I had walked to find the cab, and turned off down a dirt road. After a minute we pulled up to a walled compound and stopped. A guard issued a challenge and it seemed as though passwords were exchanged. We were quickly motioned through. Inside, we pulled up in the last available parking slot next to a line of jeeps and humvees.

  The federale with the rifle motioned for us to get out, and we quickly complied.

  “We will follow him,” the policeman stated.

  We were led across the brightly lit gravel yard and through an open doorway, outside of which was a posted armed guard complete with a rifle and a cartridge belt slung around his shoulder. These guys were ready for action.

  The cop and I were led into an office. Our companion saluted a middle-aged Mexican man sitting at a desk strewn with papers. He rose and snapped a salute, whereupon our companion stated, “Señor Travis.”

  The General—or at least that's what I took him to be—smiled and offered to shake my hand. I decided it would be smart to take it and did so.

  “What's this all about, sir?” I asked.

  He ignored the question and turned to the policeman. “And you are?”

  “Capitan Samuel Monsiváis.”

  “Ahh good. Good. And you speak English very good?”

  “I do, Generalissimo.”

  “Good. Good. Sit, gentlemen. Please sit.”

  There were two metal folding chairs. We each took one and sat, waiting.

  The Generalissimo picked up a piece of paper and handed it to the cop, who took it and read it. The cop nodded and handed it back.

  To the cop, the Generalissimo said, “Señor Travis is here on a mission of mercy. He is attempting to locate a gringo. You will assist him.”

  “Si, Generalissimo.”

  “Señor Travis. Is it true you are the descendant of the Travis?”

  “You mean, the Alamo Travis? Yes, I am a distant relation.”

  “You see?” The Generalissimo said. “All things come back around. The grandson of the great Travis who died fighting us, has come to us in his hour of need.”

  “I—I...”

  “And how do I know these things? How do I know about your mission of mercy?” he asked.

  “Yes. How do you know?”

  “Because. There are coincidences, and then there are coincidences. I do not believe in either.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “At three in the morning, a little over twenty-four hours ago, did you or did you not land at General Servando Canales Airport?”

  “I did.”

  “And did you or did you not speak to Señor Raymond Gonsalmo?”

  “The customs inspector. Yes, I did.”

  “And did you not tell him about the gringo you were coming to take back to the United States?”

  “I definitely did. Yes.”

  “And did not this trip or yours, this 'mission of mercy' also coincide with orders from Mexico City for my regiment to proceed to Pisté to put down a possible insurrection?”

  “I'm supposing it did,” I replied.

  “Then, I am assuming you have come for Señor Cannon.”

  “I have,” I stated. There was a sudden lump in my throat. The stakes were now far higher than ever before. The insurgents who had taken Walt were being hunted by the military. And it wasn't going to be a pretty sight when it all came to a head.

  The cop leaned toward me and brought his head slowly up to look into my eyes. “I hope your friend is not already dead.”

  “They've sent a ransom demand,” I said.

  “Ahh,” the General stated. “But you have no cash.”

  “Wire transfer,” I said. “To a bank in Pisté. That's why I'm here.”

  “What is the...how you say? What is the...”

  “Deadline,” the cop said.

  “Yes, the deadline. When?”

  “About forty hours from now. A day and a half.”

  “Not much time,” the General said.

  “No,” the cop said, and shook his head. “Not very much time
at all.”

  “And where are the insurgentes?” the General asked.

  “They are in the jungle near the pyramids. Some are here.”

  “Here? In Pisté? Where?”

  At that moment there was a loud explosion and the building rocked.

  The glass of the window beside the General's desk shattered and the office was filled with blinding orange light. One of the humvees had gone up like a roman candle, and came crashing back down on top of another.

  “Here,” I said. “They're right here.”

  *****

  The sound of small arms fire flooded back into the silence. This was joined by shouts and one long scream in the night. The cop had a gun in his hand before I could blink twice. The General was on his knees on the floor behind his desk, the chair shoved aside. A desk drawer slammed open and something slapped on the desktop.

  “Here. Señor Travis.”

  I reached and took it. It was a pistol. A 1911.

  I checked the slide. There was a bullet in the chamber. I ejected the clip. The clip was full. I slammed it back into place.

  At that instant the door opened and a soldier called out something in Spanish, which I took to mean, “Are you all right?”

  “Estoy bien!” the General stated. I’m good. “Donde?” Where?

  There was a rapid exchange of information, from which I barely gleaned that the Federales were giving chase to the insurgents.

  “Go, Señor Travis. Go find Señor Walter Cannon. Take this policeman with you. You have forty hours. If you make contact with the insurgentes in the jungle, you will give me a sign. Then I will kill them all.”

  “Sí, Generalisímo,” I said.

  I looked at the cop, who rose to his feet.

  “Come, Señor Travis of the Alamo. We go now.”

  And we went.

  *****

  We walked past the burning humvees side by side. I still didn't know the man's name.

  At the gate, which was now closed, a guard slowly opened it, stepped outside, shined a light both directions then ducked back inside. He shrugged.

  My partner motioned for me to follow.

  We exited the compound, guns pointed at the sky and ready for action.

  When we were four blocks away, we came upon a cab driver, asleep in his vehicle. It was my cab driver from the day before. I had assumed that he had somewhere to stay, but given how much he slept in his cab, that was an unwarranted assumption.

  My partner slapped the roof of the cab and the driver jumped.

  I listened to an exchange in Spanish, ninety percent of which I knew not what of, then the two of us got in the back and the driver headed out of Pisté.

  “Where to?” I asked.

  He snorted, but didn't answer.

  “Ahh.” I nodded.

  The jungle begins not far outside of Pisté. It encroaches onto the narrow roadway—the same roadway that Señor Burro and I had traversed the evening before.

  “I'm not skilled in jungle warfare,” I said.

  “They say,” he began, “that the Pyramids are haunted.”

  “I don't believe things like that,” I replied. “Mostly.”

  “Sometimes at night, there are strange lights. The pyramid plaza is closed after the sun goes down. None may enter. However, there are many stories of the strange things at Chichen-Itza.”

  “Stories,” I said. “What kind of stories?”

  “You know that the site is federal property. When the park is closed, only the antropologia may enter there.”

  “The anthropologists.”

  “Yes. It is a Mayan cultural site. Many believe that at night, the Mayans return, and there they make sacrifices to Chaac.”

  “You're kidding.”

  “I do not kid. I am a policeman.”

  “What is your name?” I asked.

  “You may call me Capitán Monsiváis. Or Samuel. I am a police Captain.”

  “What is going on here? Does this have to do with La Luce Del Sol?”

  The cab driver very nearly ran off the road.

  There was yet another quick exchange between Captain Monsiváis and our driver, who kept looking over his shoulder at us. “Vigila la carretera!” Monsiváis ordered, which I roughly translated as “Eyes on the road!”

  “Señor Travis, do not say that name in Pisté, or where another may hear.”

  “Who is he?” I asked.

  “He was once a great man. He has even stayed at my house. Now, he is a crazy person. He kills because of drugs. He has many followers. Some of the peasants, they idolize him. In the old days he was always helping them. Now, he helps himself to everything. He is the leader of the insurgentes. He wishes to return Mexico to its Mayan roots. He has turned his back upon the Church and upon God.”

  The cab driver asked a question.

  “Sí.”

  The cab came to a quick stop. The headlights revealed a sign:

  Chichén Ítza, 1 km.

  “We walk from here,” Samuel said.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Once we were outside, the cabbie turned around and got out of there in a hurry.

  “You didn't pay him,” I said.

  “He didn't even notice,” Samuel said. “Come. We will not approach from the road. Let's enter the forest.”

  “I've heard there are jaguars in the jungle.”

  “How you say, lions and tigers and bears.”

  “Oh my.”

  I thumbed the safety on my pistol, tucked it into my waistband, and followed Samuel into the jungle.

  *****

  The road to Chichen Itza diverges from the road to the airport at the one kilometer marker. Had we veered to the left instead of going straight, we would have found ourselves at the airport. Instead, as Captain Samuel Monsiváis stated, we took to the dense, dark woods to the southwest and around a set of buildings apparently housing the bureaucracy that oversees the pyramid complex. After a hundred yards we emerged into an open field that was overgrown. At some time in the past the land had been cleared for crops, and was yet left fallow, the farmer perhaps having found the soil not to his liking for its intended purpose. The jungle once again attempted to reclaim its own in a creeping fashion. Vines—the kind that can trip a fellow—were everywhere. I very nearly ran into a spiked bush of some kind, but Samuel put out his arm and stopped me. I didn’t understand how he could see so well with only the starlight and waning moon just cresting the horizon, but then again this was his land. If we were in Texas, I’d probably have stopped him from walking into a mesquite tree.

  We angled once again toward the pyramid complex, making good time on foot.

  “Travis,” Samuel said, “we must avoid the Villas of the Arqueologicas.”

  “You mean where the archaeologists and anthropologists live?”

  “Si. Yes. We have passed the guard at the entrance. We will come out upon the parking area.”

  “Ah. That’s fine. It’ll be nice to have some pavement under my feet. I keep thinking I’ll step on a snake.”

  “Don’t do that,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Depending upon the snake, you would not live long.”

  “Hmph. And you think Walt Cannon will be here?”

  “I think your friend is already dead. But I think the men who killed him will be here.”

  “What makes you think he’s dead?” I asked, putting my hand on his arm and bringing him up short.

  “No one survives the anger of La Luz Del Sol.”

  “Let me tell you something, Captain Monsiváis. My friend has survived drug cartels, satanic cults, and the worst thing of all—Texas politics. If these people who’ve taken him make one slip-up, he’ll kill them all. And you seem to think the snakes here are deadly.”

  I couldn’t see his face in the dark, but I detected the nod.

  “Just so you know,” I said.

  “Come, Señor Travis.”

  I followed.

  *****

  After ano
ther plunge into the woods—this one the longest stretch by far—we emerged onto the asphalt of the parking area. There were half a dozen vehicles there, but no artificial lighting. My eyes had fully adjusted to the darkness.

  “What makes you think the insurgents are here?” I whispered.

  “They will either be at the pyramid itself, or at the Cenote Sagrado.”

  “The Sacred Cenote? That sounds ominous.”

  “It is the hole into which the Maya cast their victims.”

  “You’re talking about sacrifice,” I said. “Ritual sacrifice.”

  “Yes. If they have not already done so, they will kill your friend. First they will plunge a knife into his heart, then they will weigh down his body with chains, then it is the Cenote Sagrado for him.”

  “It’s always something like that. Cheerful people.”

  “Gringos always with the jokes.”

  “It’s our way of coping.”

  “You are the Travis, then. You think nada por dying.” Nothing for dying.

  “It’s not my favorite thing, but being afraid all the time isn’t exactly what I’d call living. Let’s get this over with.

  *****

  Samuel led me across the parking area, and along a path that led up and over one of the archaeological treasures of the site, a low stone plaza carved with stone pilings carved into strange and arcane shapes. I couldn’t make them out in the dark.

  As we crossed, I noticed the glow. It stood above the tree line, from our vantage-point, about ten degrees up where there should have been sky. It had a reddish, amber tinge, and seemed to be suffused into the air itself.

  “They are here,” Samuel grabbed my arm and whispered, bringing us to a halt.

  “The glow?”

  “Yes. They are atop Chichen Itza.”

  “Ah. The pyramid itself.”

  “Yes.”

  “It seems like a guard or someone from the government would have reported this.”

  “You are in Mexico, Señor Travis. It is a simple thing to purchase anything. Or, if you have the power, to demand it. The archaeologicas—”

  “Archaeologists.”

  “Yes, the archaeologists know to remain in their villas, where it is safe.”