Bones of the Sun God

by Peter Vegas

  And now he couldn’t decide if he should bolt and find some place to hide. But he’d come so far . . . and this was his only lead.

  Besides, the lady hadn’t really reacted to the name Sam Force. Chances were she had never heard of him.

  A few minutes later, a man in a faded black suit walked in the front door. The woman behind the counter saw him and nodded in Sam’s direction. When the man turned, Sam’s mouth dropped. He was dark-skinned, like most of the locals, and in his late twenties or so, with long hair pulled back behind his head. But what shocked Sam was the angry scar on the right-hand side of his face. Sam had seen scars before, but nothing this big or ugly. Instead of a lumpy line of scar tissue, a jagged red trench ran from above his eye down to his jaw.

  The man watched Sam gaping at him with something like amusement. “You are Chester, yes?” he said with a thick accent.

  Sam nodded, moving his eyes away from the man’s face.

  “Come this way, please.” The man waved Sam toward an open door and a set of stairs. Sam went up, with the man close behind. On the second floor, the man slipped past and opened the door, ushering Sam down a narrow corridor, past a bathroom, and into a small interview room. It was painted pale green and contained an old wooden table and two chairs the same color as the walls. The man pointed toward the nearest chair. As Sam sat, he heard the door shut, and then the man settled into the seat on the other side of the table.

  Sam swallowed. It looked like an interrogation room.

  “Tell me, Chester, why are you interested in the submarine?”

  The harsh white light of the single bulb above the table made the man’s scar look even more gruesome, something Sam wouldn’t have thought possible downstairs. He couldn’t take his eyes off it, but then he noticed the look on the man’s face had changed. His smile had gone; his eyes narrowed as he waited for Sam to answer.

  “I’m . . .” Sam took a breath. I’m Chester, and I’m English, he reminded himself. That is, if the lady downstairs hadn’t already spilled his real name. “I’m here on a student exchange,” he said slowly and politely, hoping it sounded English enough. “And I heard about the submarine found near here a few years ago.”

  “From who?” the man demanded.

  Sam swallowed, caught himself staring at the scar, and averted his eyes again. “I read about it in a paper.”

  “Which paper?”

  “The Belize Times.”

  The man laughed. It was more of a snort than a laugh. He leaned across the table. “You get the Belize Times in . . . Where are you from?”

  “England,” Sam answered quickly.

  “Really?”

  Sam was shaking, and his hands were getting sweaty. He rubbed his palms together under the table. “I read about it on the Internet, on the Belize Times site.”

  The man nodded as he considered Sam’s answer. “Would you like to see it?” he asked, looking down at his watch.

  “The submarine?”

  “Yes,” said the man. “I can take you there. But we have to go now.” He got up and walked to the window. “My car is parked outside. Look,” he said.

  Sam walked to the window, trying to steady his heart. He didn’t trust this man, but his apprehension warred with excitement. He needed to see that submarine, and here was his chance.

  He glanced down to see what the man was pointing at so proudly. It was a bright yellow convertible Mustang.

  “Shall we go?” the man asked, moving toward the door.

  Sam watched him, but this time it wasn’t the scar he was focused on. It was the man’s eyes. The way they kept darting to his watch.

  “Okay,” Sam said.

  The man smiled as he opened the door. Sam slipped past him and into the corridor, heading for the stairs, but when he got to the bathroom he darted inside and shut the door.

  “I’ll just be a sec,” he called out as he quietly slipped the bolt into place.

  The bathroom wasn’t much bigger than the interview room. It had the same kind of window and, more important, the same fire escape balcony outside. Sam turned on the taps to cover his sounds, then he grabbed the window and lifted. It didn’t move. Apparently, fire safety wasn’t a big concern for the Orange Walk Police; the window had been nailed shut.

  The door rattled. “We must hurry,” the Scar-Faced Man called out.

  There it was again. Why the rush? It felt to Sam like the man was keen to get out of the building. And what about the car? Hardly standard police issue.

  There was another knock, faster, more insistent, but the man spoke in a hushed tone this time. “We must go now!”

  Sam didn’t reply. He moved back to the door and placed his ear against it. He could hear breathing and shuffling feet, and then the shuffling became footsteps that faded away down the corridor. Sam turned off the taps and returned to the door, listening for any signs of life in the corridor, but it was silent.

  Sam raced to the window just in time to see the Scar-Faced Man getting into his bright yellow car. As the man sat back in his seat, he twisted his head and looked straight up at the bathroom window. Sam stepped back into the shadows, but he was sure the man had seen him.

  A loud knock made Sam jump. He turned and stared at the door.

  “Hello,” said a voice from the other side. “Mr. Billington, are you in there? I’m Officer Castillo; you have an appointment with me at two thirty.”

  Sam took another look out the window. The yellow car was gone. He unlocked the door and opened it. In the corridor was a round-faced man of medium height wearing an Orange Walk Police Department uniform.

  “I’m Jerry Castillo,” he said, grinning and holding out his hand. “Someone downstairs told me a foreign boy had come up here. You are early, yes? I was told you had changed your appointment to three.”

  Sam gathered his thoughts as he shook the man’s hand. The woman at reception had definitely been expecting Sam at two, the time Mary had booked for him, and she had called the Scar-Faced Man. Sam had known there as something wrong about him, but how did he know if he could trust this new guy, even if he was a cop?

  “So, how can I help you, Chester?”

  “I was interested in the World War Two sub that was found here a few years ago,” Sam said.

  “May I ask why?” Jerry said, still smiling.

  “I’m here as an exchange student, and I read about the sub, so I thought it would be cool to check it out,” Sam replied casually. “I heard it was found by a policeman, so I figured this was a good place to ask about it.”

  “That’s right,” said Jerry. “Superintendent Ramos.”

  “Is he still around?” asked Sam.

  “Kind of,” said Jerry. “These days Felix Ramos is a very rich and powerful man. He owns the Xibalba Crocodile Park, and he says he is a follower of Kinich Ahau.”

  Sam stared at the policeman, trying to work out if he was serious or not.

  “Do you know who Kinich Ahau is?” asked Jerry.

  Sam shook his head.

  “He’s the Sun God.” The smile faded from Jerry’s face. “But also”—the man lowered his voice—“the god of the underworld.” Jerry stared into Sam’s eyes, then broke out in another big grin and slapped him on the back. “It’s all for show,” he said cheerfully. “But the tourists seem to like it.” Jerry made a show of looking around, then lowered his voice. “Personally, I think the guy is a bit loco.”

  “What about the submarine?” asked Sam.

  “That’s locked away in the scrap yard by the river. Superintendent Ramos had it towed there after he found it. You can’t get in there, I’m afraid. It is private property.” Jerry placed his hand on Sam’s shoulder and guided him toward the stairs, signaling the end of their meeting. “You should forget about the submarine. It’s been rusting away for years. The thing is a death trap. There are a lot of other fun things to do in Orange Walk. Have you checked out the pyramids at Lamanai? They’re pretty spectacular.”

  There was a new woman at
the front desk when they got to the ground floor. Sam thanked Jerry for his time and assured him he would visit Lamanai. Before he stepped out of the building he checked for the yellow car, then he walked quickly back toward the hotel, checking behind him at regular intervals.

  When the soft tones of a male opera singer reached Sam’s ears, he stopped to locate the source. It took a few moments to work out that it was coming from his pocket. His new phone was ringing.

  “How’s it going, Sam For—uh, I mean, Chester?” said Mary, on the other end of the line. “How do you like the ringtone I programmed into your phone?”

  “Very funny,” said Sam. He was trying to sound angry, but it was good to hear her voice.

  He explained what had happened at the police station and what he had found out about Felix Ramos.

  “You’ve done well, Sam, but you’re going to have to be careful. That man with the scar could be a problem.”

  “I’ll be okay,” Sam said, sounding a lot calmer than he felt. “I came here to find out what happened to my parents. I’m not going to let some creep in a yellow sports car scare me off.”

  “Good on you, Force,” said Mary. “So, what next?”

  “I need you to do something for me,” said Sam.

  “Name it.”

  “The cop said the submarine is in a scrap yard near the river. He said the scrap yard, so I reckon that means there is only one in town. Do you think you could locate it for me?”

  “Sure,” replied Mary. “What are you going to do now?”

  “I’m going to follow Jerry’s advice and see the sights of Orange Walk. Starting with a trip to the Xibalba Crocodile Park.”

  5

  DINNER AND A SHOW

  DESPITE HIS ENCOUNTER WITH THE Scar-Faced Man, Sam felt more confident than he had since his adventure to Belize had begun. He had a plan. Tracking down Superintendent Ramos was a good step forward.

  He asked directions to Xibalba and marked it on his map. The walk took half an hour, and Sam stuck to the backstreets, keeping an eye out for a yellow car and the man with the hideous scar. Who was he? An opportunist who saw the chance to make some money off a boy who wanted to see an old submarine? That made sense. The woman at reception could have been a friend of his.

  Or she could’ve recognized the name Sam Force and tipped somebody off.

  As Sam wandered through Orange Walk, a text arrived from Mary with the address of what she assured him was the only scrap yard in town. He felt his confidence growing.

  The dusty streets gave way to fields of crops and lumpy green stands of palms trees. For a while, Sam enjoyed the walk. The first pangs of apprehension hit him when he saw Xibalba. Even from a distance, it was impressive. A twenty-foot stone wall surrounded the complex. The name had been carved into the stone in giant letters. In front of the wall was parking for hundreds of cars. It was less than a quarter full, but as Sam approached the entrance a sleek white tour bus rolled in and stopped by the two big wooden doors.

  A stream of chattering people poured out of the bus and bustled through the entrance. As Sam merged with the crowd of excited tourists, he saw they were all Asian and wearing identical white baseball caps with a logo that matched the one on the side of the bus.

  A small man with a red baseball hat led the way, talking excitedly into a loudspeaker in an Asian language. Sam was caught in the press of people as they flowed through the doors. He kept his head down, and that’s how he spotted one of the white caps lying on the ground. He grabbed it and slipped it on his head.

  The heat of the afternoon sun faded away as they entered the gloom of a long tunnel. It was lit along each side by a series of small glass boxes. As the crowd slowed and bunched around the first box, Sam peered over the shoulders of the people in front and saw a huge stuffed crocodile head. Its rows of razor-sharp white teeth were gleaming under a spotlight, and the black marbles in the eye sockets gave it a ghostly stare. The group moved on, stopping to peer into each box. They all contained crocodile heads of various sizes.

  Sam couldn’t see the end of the tunnel, but the reason for that became clear when the tour group rounded a sharp right turn and entered a dimly lit gift shop. Rows of shelves were packed with an array of souvenirs. There were caps, T-shirts, golf balls and key rings, and they all had the same design on them—a fierce-looking crocodile head. People began fussing over the merchandise, but the man in the red hat activated his loudspeaker and directed them toward the light.

  They stepped into a small, open-air arena, with a large circular pool in the center. Rows of seats ran around the pool; each row was higher than the one in front. There were ten rows in all, and Sam’s group was led up the stairs to the very top. Each seat had a Xibalba brochure on it, and Sam picked his up before sitting down. From his bird’s-eye view of the pool below, he saw huge symbols carved into the stones around the pool, and recognized them as the Mayan calendar that his uncle had sent him. And then Sam noticed something. Four tall white poles positioned evenly around the pool and angled in to meet at a center point high over the water. The effect, for Sam at least, was the frame of an invisible pyramid.

  The man with the red hat switched on his loudspeaker and said something to the group. Sam guessed it was a request to switch off cell phones, because the people on either side of him fussed over their devices, but then the man was peering down the aisle, checking his instructions were being obeyed.

  Sam ducked his head and raised the Xibalba brochure in front of his face. He made a show of studying the crocodile design and prayed he hadn’t been busted.

  Suddenly the seats began vibrating as the sound of trumpets blared out of speakers mounted on the wall behind the seats. Sam lowered the brochure and saw that the man had sat down. The music faded just as the sun dipped below the rim of the amphitheater. The temperature dropped, and a cool breeze blew across the crowd as the sound of drums echoed around the pool. But it wasn’t coming from the speakers. Sam followed the direction of turning heads in the crowd. A small door had opened in the wall near the entrance to the gift shop, and out of it marched a line of figures. They looked like monks, wearing bulky black robes with the hoods pulled down over their heads. There were four of them, and each one was beating a small drum in time to their steps.

  The crowd clapped enthusiastically as the procession marched slowly around the edge of the pool until each of them was standing by a pole. The drumming stopped, the applause died and for a few moments the only sound was the clicking of cameras. Then a loud voice boomed out of the speakers.

  “Welcome to Xibalba. Home of Kinich Ahau, Sun God!”

  Down at the pool, the black monks began to beat their drums again, faster this time. White smoke billowed out of the doorway, and Sam saw a flicker of movement, then a huge man in a white robe stepped out. His hood was also pulled over his head, and around his neck hung a wooden disc with a cross carved into it. He thrust his hands in the air like a boxer entering the ring, and the crowd rewarded him with a fresh wave of applause.

  The frantic drumming continued as the voice began again.

  “At night, Kinich Ahau, Sun God, becomes god of the underworld, and he summons his guardians.”

  The figures by the poles peeled off the tops of their drums and pulled out hunks of meat, which they tossed into the water. The blood in the meat spread like stains across the surface of the pool. The crowd made loud, appreciative noises, and cameras clicked. Then, long dark shapes appeared in the pool. The surface of the water began to churn, and the crowd gasped as four crocodiles rose to seize the meat. The picture taking became a frenzy; white bursts of light flashed around the amphitheater.

  “The guardians of the underworld demand sacrifices,” boomed the voice. “This is the key to rebirth.”

  The lights dimmed and spotlights lit up each of the four robed figures as they stepped down onto a ledge running around the inside of the pool. The water lapped around their waists. Sam narrowed his eyes. Why would someone get in the water with crocodile
s when they’d just been tossed an appetizer and were surely eager for the main course?

  At first the crowd kept taking photos. The man beside Sam clapped wildly. When the first monk went under, Sam thought they had slipped. One moment they were standing there, hands outstretched; the next, they were gone and the spotlight switched off.

  Somewhere in the crowd a woman screamed, and that was when it clicked.

  The crocodiles were attacking the people.

  Two more went down, the first rammed from the side, the second pushed from behind. Arms flailed, water churned, and then there was only one person left lit up in the water. It was a young woman; her hood had fallen back, and Sam could see she was terrified. When she screamed, Sam realized it was the first noise that had come from any of the victims. The piercing tone echoed around the crowd and triggered new screams from the spectators. Down at the pool, the woman scrambled back toward the edge, but before she could climb out, her legs were pulled out from under her and she disappeared beneath the surface.

  Many of the audience were hysterical by now. Women were crying. A mother and child got up and ran for the gift shop.

  But Sam was frozen to the spot, confused and horrified. Had he really just seen four people die?

  The man in the white robe had remained still, with his head bowed the whole time, but now, as a spotlight hit him, he thrust his hands back into the air, and the speakers crackled to life again.

  “Only he who is ordained by Kinich Ahau can control the guardians of the underworld.”

  A fresh wave of screams erupted as the man stepped down into the water. At the same moment lights in the bottom of the pool switched on, illuminating the crocodiles, who were still holding their human sacrifices. The surface was choppy as the black, scaly bodies, twisted and turned with their victims in their mouths. Suddenly, the man thrust his arms out and took another step forward. He dropped and the water rose to his neck. “Watch now as the power bestowed by Kinich Ahau controls the forces of life and death,” the voice said ominously. The crowd went crazy as the man waded toward the beasts. And then the four objects on the bottom of the pool became eight as the beasts appeared to spit out their victims. The crocodiles, unburdened by their prey, swam to the far side of the pool and disappeared into the tunnel.