White Bird (A Mayan 2012 Thriller)

by Tom Rich

  A blanket?

  “Whoa, easy. Easy, girl,” said Trish.

  The full brunt of her first hangover in over four months hit Aly. “Oh, man.”

  “Bad dream?”

  Aly eased her head onto the cushion on the floor. “Something like that.”

  “We’ve got some catching up, alright-alright. But from the looks of you I guess it’ll have to—”

  “They killed Arby,” Aly mumbled into the cushion.

  “What? Who killed what?”

  Aly sat up. “Arby’s dead. I’m not joking. Doctor Arbanian. The man I was working for down in Guatemala.”

  “Yeah. The name you mentioned when you called. Killed? Like some political thing?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Aly said very softly. “I guess there could be politics in there somewhere.” She picked up the cushion and hugged it. “He’s dead. That’s all. Murdered.”

  “Okay. It’s okay now. You’re home. It’s over. You’re safe.” Trish sat down and wrapped her arms around Aly.

  Aly felt a sob welling. But too many elements were clouding her emotions for a good cry: remnants of the dose weaving in and out, the hangover, suddenly arriving home after five months of being immersed in another culture capped by seven days of lamming it like a guerilla. “I thought they were here last night. Coming for me. There was this man with a scar on his face, a…and—” Aly gasped. She tightened in Trish’s arms.

  “Oh. That’s just Jones. Jones, this is—”

  “Hello, Aly. I believe we met last night,” he said, buttoning his shirt. “Just outside the End of the World. Look, I’m sorry about the little display a minute ago. Trish thought you’d be out until noon and I have a long drive to work.”

  “Looks pretty beat up, doesn’t he?” said Trish. She laughed. “No, it wasn’t me. This one needed very little training. But if you think you saw a scarred man last night?”

  Aly looked Jones Pelfry up and down. “I…yeah, maybe. No, that guy’s dead. But I saw you somewhere. Outside Clove’s, you said? Then who…where…?”

  “Who what where?” said Trish. “Where’s the Guacamolian death squad hiding?”

  “God damn it, Trish! Don’t trivialize this. This is real. Real fucking real. Maybe I didn’t see who I thought I saw last night, but Arby is dead. Real fucking murdered.”

  Pelfry pulled his belt tight and buckled it. “Oh?”

  “I believe you, girl,” said Trish. “I believe you, all right? Look, we got ourselves an expert on murder right here. Why don’t you talk to Jones about it.”

  “Trish, I said real. Not some mystery book shit.”

  “Jones is a cop. He investigates real murders. Well, for two more weeks he does.”

  Aly looked up at Pelfry. “You nailed Trish just to get to me?”

  “Whoa-ho, girl,” said Trish. “Tell the astronomers to pack it up, we just found the center of the universe. Everything is suddenly about you?”

  “Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s the hangover talking. Paranoia. Something.” Aly looked Jones over. “Last night… I remember I thought it was Blue.”

  “Ohh, that’s done, baby,” said Trish. “Over and done. You know that. Besides, he’s waaaay up in Vermont right now. A college gig in Burlington.”

  “If you know something about a murder,” Pelfry said, taking a glass of water from the coffee table, “you should contact the police department where it occurred.”

  Aly said nothing. She spotted her backpack leaning against a wall; Arby’s Dodgers cap perched atop it.

  “Aly just got back from Guatemala,” said Trish.

  “Guatemala? You said your friend was out of town,” Pelfry said. “You didn’t say she was in Guatemala.”

  “Excuse me. My good friend Aly—Alyssa—Roarke is way, way out of town. There. We caught up?”

  “Alyssa, this may sound like it’s coming from out of the top row,” said Pelfry, “but have you ever heard the name Alvaro Xaman?”

  “No. It sounds like some of the names I heard down there. But, no.”

  “Of course not,” said Pelfry. “Sorry.” He took a drink of water.

  “You know, though, Arby may have mentioned that name once or twice.”

  Pelfry looked at Aly. “Arby?”

  “Phillip Arbanian,” said Aly. “The man I worked for.”

  “The dead guy,” said Trish.

  “You know Phillip Arbanian,” said Pelfry.

  “Hey,” said Trish, “careful with the water.” She took the glass from Pelfry’s hand.

  “And now Phillip Arbanian is dead,” said Pelfry. “How long?”

  “About a week. They…they hacked him…” Aly jumped up and ran to the bathroom.

  Trish stood. “What gives?”

  Pelfry looked at his hand as if he couldn’t understand where the glass of water went. He took a deep breath. “I think she’s about to shed light on a case I was—am—working on.”

  “Those kids that were drowned?”

  “Something else entirely.”

  “Well, go easy.” Trish followed Aly into the bathroom.

  Jones straightened from leaning against the wall when the girls returned.

  Trish said, “Jones, why don’t we do this later.”

  “No, I’m okay,” said Aly. She and Trish sat on the couch. “I want to know how he knows about Arby.”

  “Also about a week ago,” said Pelfry, stepping forward, “the severed head of a Guatemalan national named Alvaro Xaman was found in a basket hanging outside the football stadium in Indianapolis. Xaman was an expert on Mayan culture. It’s my belief, and I’m totally alone on this, that Xaman was doing business with Kurtwood Franz in Indianapolis on the night of his murder. You know who Kurtwood Franz is?”

  “Uhh, one of the ten richest guys in the world? Something like that? Oh, that guy with the building that pissed off so many people.”

  “He collects Mayan artifacts. Even sponsors archeological digs to supply his habit. Phillip Arbanian’s name came up as an associate of Franz.”

  Aly looked at the glass of water on the table. Pelfry handed it to her. She took a sip. “Dr. Arbanian never mentioned Kurtwood Franz,” she said, “and we were in pretty close contact for several months. Isolated together, practically. There was some talk up at Tikal. That’s where I started out down there. I mean, now that I think of it, I may have heard Franz mentioned, but I never paid attention. But there were some artifacts stolen from the second site I went to. Ones valuable enough for people to kill for. According to Tencho, anyway. He’s a poor dirt farmer from the village where I stayed. He helped me get away.”

  “Get away? So whoever killed Phillip Arbanian thinks you’re involved with stealing the artifacts?”

  “And you think Kurtwood Franz is involved?” asked Aly. “Why would a billionaire commit murder? Seems he’d have enough money to pay for anything without having to kill anybody.”

  “The prevailing sentiment. What are my chances of talking to Tencho?”

  “I do have to contact him. I owe him money. Not to mention my life. But he’s not big on governments, talking to cops, that sort of thing.”

  “You owe him money,” said Pelfry.

  “For the flight back.”

  “A poor dirt farmer gave you money for an airline ticket.”

  “Just enough. Money he needed to reunite with his family. That’s why its urgent I pay him back.”

  “You ever meet Tencho’s family? See any pictures?”

  “No. What are you getting at?”

  “Would you be willing to come to Indianapolis with me?”

  “Jones, back off,” said Trish. “Can’t you see she’s been through enough. Besides, you’re giving your two weeks.”

  “Could it help solve Dr. Arbanian’s murder?” asked Aly.

  “And Alvaro Xaman’s. But I have to warn you, if Kurtwood Franz is behind this, which I’m convinced he is, things could get dangerous.”

  “Uh huh, I see. The long arm of the billionaire.�
�� Aly took a sip of water. “Well, I suppose if it gets too dangerous I could always lose myself in the jungle.”

  “You’d consider going back after what you’ve been through?” asked Trish.

  “Back to where the trees you hug, hug you back, and there’s always the guiding spirit of a bird to watch over you? Anytime.”

  28: Cenote Explained

  There was tension in the silence. Serious, palpable tension.

  Aly tried to imagine something pleasant to pass the time. A forest filled with twittering birds? A quiet forest was all she could summon. Okay, wrong forest. There was always some screech or howl or even the occasional roar in the Guatemalan rain forest. She gave that a try. Nothing. No wildlife whatsoever. She remembered once seeing a grizzly while hiking in the Wind River Range in Wyoming. Oddly, that great big bad symbol of fearlessness splashed through a stream and lumbered up the side of a mountain. How lucky she’d felt seeing without being seen. But what in hell would a grizzly have been running from?

  She wondered how much longer she could appear interested in looking around the office. Finally, “What’s with the Dan Quayle?” she said.

  His eyes came back from nowhere. “Just to see.” He half smiled. “Just to see if anyone notices.”

  “Oh.” More silence: irrepressible, uncomfortable, ever-expanding silence. “Many people notice?”

  Already halfway back to nowhere. “You’re the first,” said Indianapolis Chief of Homicide Melvin Weeks. He opened a desk drawer.

  “Oh. That where you keep the kewpie dolls?”

  “Antacid.”

  “Oh.” Aly wished she’d taken the time to shower.

  Silence.

  Finally, “Jones have a long way to go to get that file?”

  “One floor up. But Detective Pelfry is easily distracted.” Weeks shook out a handful of tablets. “Perhaps you should start without him.”

  “Oh. Okay. Well, um, like I was telling Jones, uh, Detective Pelfry, on the ride from Cincinnati, the People of the Maize ritualistically painted their victims blue before sacrificing them.”

  “Maize. That’s corn, right?”

  “Yeah. They—the ancient Mayans, most people call them…which is actually a misnomer—believed they were created from corn. Maize. See, the gods failed in their first three attempts to create humans. They tried mud, wood, other materials. It was the Fourth Creation that finally succeeded. That’s when the gods finally hit a homer with us. Well, them: the People of the Maize. But here’s the thing. They used to play a ball game. It wasn’t football, exactly. But they played it on a long court and the idea was to get the ball from one end to the other. And the game was really violent. Players were actually sacrificed at the end of the game. The losers, obviously. Hey, even I can get pretty mad when a pitcher can’t bunt a runner over to third. Huh. But…” She wished she had something in her stomach. Jones had detoured into a drive-thru on the way in. But she had one of those hangovers where as much as she craved food, the smell of it made her nauseous. “Uh, anyway, the People of the Maize played the game as a sort of replay of Creation. See, there were these Hero Twins, and they had to go into the Underworld to conquer Death by playing this same ballgame against him. They got down to where Death was by chopping off their own heads. Look, I’m really not an expert on this. So if Jones thinks that what I tell you passes for research—”

  “I’m not an intimidating man, Miss Roarke,” Weeks said through a mouthful of antacid. “Not my style. Please, continue. You’re doing just fine.”

  “Well, it’s just that Jo…er, De-tec-tive Pelfry, thinks, uh, because of the ex-con smuggler that works for Mr. Franz—”

  “He told you about that?” Weeks shook his head.

  “I don’t have an opinion either way. I really don’t know, so I would never… It’s not like I don’t—”

  “The corn people, Miss Roarke?”

  “Right.” Probably better she hadn’t eaten. “They believed a certain life force permeates all matter. They called it k’ulel. The k’ulel flowed between the gods and through the maize and into the people. And back, of course. It’s a very reciprocal arrangement. See, their rituals—”

  “It’s just that I expected this case to have been taken over by the FBI. But it doesn’t have terrorist implications.”

  “Oh? The people who killed Dr. Arbanian aren’t terrorists. Least I don’t think—”

  “Terrorism is keeping the FBI very busy these days.”

  “Yeah, I guess with all the…” She waited a moment for him to elaborate. “So, their rituals always involved bloodletting. And lots of head lopping and ripping out of hearts. They’d make big shows of it on top of their pyramids. The people in charge wore big masks, and they’d hold up whatever they’d cut off, or out, and most of it was painted blue. The blood that spilled saturated their temples—those great big stepped pyramids you may have seen in travel posters—with k’ulel.”

  “The government doesn’t want people to panic. Panic might be construed as a victory for the terrorists.”

  “Right. Right. Got to live life like we always do.” Feeling hungry again. Maybe Jones was getting donuts. “Anyway, the more blood spilled on a temple, the more k’ulel it had. And more k’ulel meant more power for the kings. Because, you know, it put them in thicker with the gods.”

  “I myself believe in panic. As a tool, that is. Please continue. I’m listening.”

  “Uhh, but it wasn’t just blood from people they captured in raids that provided k’ulel.”

  “No?”

  “No. The kings and queens themselves would go inside the pyramids and draw their own blood. Always from really painful places. Their tongues. Their genitals. I think that more pain might have meant more dedication. I never heard anyone say as much. That’s really my own—”

  “I believe we live in a time when people are not willing to make the sacrifices that are necessary. Until, that is, they see it’s almost too late.”

  “Yeah? Yeah, I can see the, uh, analogy.”

  “Then, of course, it is too late. Panic as a motivational tool, Miss Roarke. Panic as a way of shaking up people who do nothing but sit back and joke about the situation.”

  “Uhh huhh.” She was glad she hadn’t mentioned donuts. “Well, inside the pyramids there’s a shaft that goes deep into the ground. It connected the kings with the gods of the underworld. The shaft is called an ol.”

  “I’m not a grim man, Miss Roarke. Oh, I have my fears, just like any other man. But I do have a sense of humor. In fact, I very much believe that humor is important.”

  “Oh?” Now bring up donuts? “Anyway, see, the ol is like a psychic hotline. The kings and queens would draw their own blood and drip it down the ol and that would dial up the gods and then the kings could make prophecies that would keep the people believing in them.”

  “It’s just a shame—a got damned shame—that children have to pay the price.”

  “Yeah, well, we should all try to leave the world a better place, I guess. No, I know. Uhh, there were other ways to make prophecies. I suppose pricking your… Ha! Well, you know, got old, so they’d get really blitzed, and that would put them in touch. I mean really, really blitzed. There was some drug use, but alcohol was the most common potion for talking to the gods. They’d suck it down ’til they were nearly blind.”

  “There’s a sick person—strike that. Sick implies one’s-self being a victim. There’s a depraved person out there. Someone who refuses to let God into their soul. I don’t know.” Weeks shook his head grimacing. “Maybe God made the choice not to enter.”

  “Yeah, uhh, lot of that going around.”

  “A killer of children.”

  “That’s awful. Jones mentioned something about that on the way here. But he didn’t—”

  “Someone so Godless that merely killing children isn’t enough.”

  “What could be worse?”

  “Enjoying their screams for mercy, Miss Roarke. There’s a killer on the loose
who tosses children down wells just to listen to their screams for mercy.”

  “That’s…quite a coincidence.”

  Weeks looked up from screwing the cap onto the bottle of antacid. “What? What is quite a coincidence?”

  “Well, here we are talking about Mayan rituals for prophesizing, and—” What was Dan Quayle doing up on that wall? And maybe just noticing him wasn’t enough for the kewpie doll. Maybe some kind of connection needed to be made. “Another way the kings talked to the gods was by throwing children into sinkholes filled with water. Supposedly the children would shout out divine messages as they drowned. Actually, the sinkholes…”

  Melvin Weeks rose from his desk.

  “…are called…”

  He left his office.

  “…cenotes?”

  Several minutes later Jones Pelfry returned. “Where’s Captain Weeks?”

  “He didn’t look so good,” said Aly. “He should probably see a doctor.”

  29: Buzzer Beater

  Diane came into the kitchen. “You’re home early.” She placed a grocery bag on the breakfast table. “Melvin, what are you doing?”

  Melvin Weeks turned so that his back was fully to his wife. “Nothing you haven’t seen me do a thousand times.” He turned off the stove, reached for a spatula.

  “I know what you are doing. I want to know why you’re doing it. Now you know I’m cooking you a nice dinner. Those fries are going to ruin your appetite.”

  “I have work in my den.”

  “You said you weren’t going to bring work home. We’re supposed to be spending every hour you aren’t working together.”

  “This is different. Where are the paper towels? The roller is empty.”

  “In the bag. Go ahead, I’ll clean up. And go easy on the salt. You know what it does—”

  “Like that matters now.”

  “Melvin!”

  Melvin turned to his wife. “Please, Diane, this is not the time.”

  “We talked about maintaining a positive attitude. How important that is for you. For us.”