Quintana Roo

by Gary Brandner

  With the map propped beside him, Heinemann took a course from the western edge of the jungle east toward Ascensión Bay on the Caribbean coast.

  “This should take us over the spot marked on the map by the missionaries. Whether or not there is anything down there is another matter.”

  “Let’s hope there is,” Connie said. “I don’t want to spend a lot of time flying over it.”

  Amen to that, Hooker thought. That day’s bright sunlight only revealed how thick was the rain forest below them. He could see nothing but the thick green tops of the trees.

  They reached the east coast of Quintana Roo without spotting anything in the jungle below that was not growing there. Heinemann swung the plane north and circled over the spectacular ruins that were the ancient Mayan city of Tulum. Clear evidence remained of some forty stone buildings and a wall that had bordered the city on three sides. On the fourth side, fifty-foot cliffs dropped away to the sea.

  “It was the largest city of the Mayan civilization,” Heinemann said. “The sight of it from the sea so impressed the Spaniards that they never did land in Quintana Roo.”

  “What happened to it?” Connie asked.

  “Like all other Mayan cities, it was abandoned by its people for reasons we do not know. Plague, perhaps. War. Or if you believe the old legends, something even worse.”

  Heinemann brought the Stinson around, and they began their sweep back in the other direction. They were well into the auxiliary fuel tank when Hooker saw a flash in the jungle well off to their right.

  “What’s that?” He leaned forward, pointing at the section of jungle where he’d seen it. The flare of light came again.

  “Something there is reflecting the sun.” Heinemann checked the map. “It is about ten miles north of the spot marked on the map.”

  “Nothing that grows in the jungle reflects light that way,” Hooker said. “Let’s take a look.”

  Following the flash, which repeated at irregular intervals, Heinemann steered the plane to the north of their course. He dropped down as close as he dared to the tops of the tall mahogany trees.

  As they flew over the spot where the flashes came from, all three of them saw it — a curved piece of metal that looked like burnished aluminum. It was wedged in the topmost branches of a tree. As they passed overhead, the reflecting surface shifted, dazzling them for a moment.

  “What the hell is it?” Hooker said.

  “I can’t be sure,” Heinemann said, “but it just might be part of an engine cowling.”

  “Nolan’s plane?” Connie said.

  “There is no way of knowing. It seems most unlikely that a piece of wreckage would remain balanced on a treetop in the jungle for more than a year.”

  “It moved,” Hooker said. “What made it do that?”

  “The wind,” Heinemann suggested. “Or some animal in the tree. I would not get our hopes up.”

  The plane circled, and the piece of aluminum shifted again.

  “Our fuel is running low,” Heinemann said.

  “Is there any way we can mark the spot so we can find it from the ground?” Connie asked.

  Heinemann showed a thin smile. “Do you mean like dropping a smoke bomb or something? I am afraid you have seen too much cinema.”

  “Can’t we work it with the map and a compass if we calculate the distance?” Hooker asked.

  “It is possible, but I cannot recommend it. Things will look much different down there on the ground than they do from three thousand feet.”

  “Nobody said it was going to be easy.” Hooker turned around in the seat. “It’s up to you, Connie. Do we go in?”

  “We go in,” she said without hesitation. “The sooner the better.”

  “I’ll need tomorrow to work out the details,” Hooker said. “If all goes well, we can leave the next day.”

  Connie looked back across the green sea of jungle toward the spot where they had seen the reflector. “Do you think anybody’s alive down there?”

  “I wouldn’t want to guess,” Hooker said, “but I think it’s worth going in to find out.”

  Heinemann shook his head sadly, like a healthy man in the presence of the hopelessly ill. He pointed the nose of the Stinson toward Campeche and gunned the throttle.

  CHAPTER 16

  The three of them were a little drunk with their discovery when the Stinson brought them in for a landing on the Campeche stubble field. Connie laughed delightedly at everything and anything, and even the sober Heinemann was smiling. Hooker still had his doubts about the project, but it felt good to be taking some positive action.

  It was quickly decided that the first move would be back to the hotel where they would treat themselves to a drink and a little relaxation. For 100 pesos, Gonzales was more than happy to hand his truck over to the gringos for as long as they might need it. They left him wiping down the airplane, to which he had become quite attached, and headed for town.

  On the drive in, while Hooker and Connie joked, Heinemann grew serious. “I do not wish to dampen the occasion, my friends, but I hope you remember my feelings about personally entering the jungle on foot.”

  “Sure,” Hooker said. “You told us from the start you weren’t going in. That’s the deal we made.”

  Heinemann cleared his throat. “Still, I cannot feel good about letting the two of you undertake this foolishness without me.”

  “Baloney. You flew us down here; you flew us back and forth over the jungle for two days. You’ve done your share. We’ll pick up a couple of men in Campeche to help with the heavy work. We need you to keep an eye on that kite so we’ll have a ride off this lousy peninsula when we’re finished here.”

  Heinemann glanced back toward the airfield. “I do not think I should stray too far from the plane. Gonzales is an eager helper, but I fear he has an urge to fly himself. I had better be here to discourage that.”

  • • •

  As they entered the Hotel Azteca, the desk clerk beckoned Hooker over. “Señor, there is a lady to see you. She waits now in the bar.”

  “A lady?” Hooker looked at the others, who could only shrug. He led the way into the bar, then stopped short.

  “Alita. What are you doing here?”

  She slipped off the stool and ran across the room into his arms. “Johnny, Johnny, I was so worried about you.”

  “Worried? What are you talking about?” He eased out of the girl’s grasp, aware of Connie’s eyes upon them.

  “The little man who was at El Poche … the one who smelled so good …”

  “Earle Maples?”

  “That one.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s dead, Johnny. In the alley out back of your building. Somebody crushed his little head. Like this.” Alita demonstrated by squeezing her hands together while making a crackling sound in her throat.

  Connie gasped and put a hand to her mouth.

  “That’s tough,” Hooker said, “but why come all the way down here to tell me? And how did you get here, by the way?”

  “I catch a ride on a fishing boat. Johnny, the little man, he was coming to see you. He had something to tell you; I’m sure of it. That’s why they killed him.”

  “Who?”

  “Muerateros. Nobody else kills like this.” She did the business with her hands and the crackling sound again.

  Hooker took hold of Alita’s arm. To the others, he said, “Excuse us for a few minutes.” He led her out of the bar, through the entrance of the hotel, and down the street to a bench under a fat palm tree. He sat her down and stood over her with his arms folded.

  “Now what the hell is the idea, and I don’t want any more of that mueratero crap.”

  “Don’t you remember the message, Johnny? Quintana Roo means death. One has died already. You got to come back with me.”

  “Like hell I got to.”

  “Please.”

  “Look, honey, I appreciate what you’re trying to do for me, but I’m working now. A woman does
not interfere with a man’s work. Comprende?”

  “You won’t come back to Veracruz?”

  “No.”

  Alita stood up and faced him, setting her jaw. “Okay, then I go with you to Quintana Roo.”

  “Like hell.”

  “Please, Johnny. I can help. I have Maya blood.”

  “I don’t care if you’re queen of all the Mayas; you are not going into any jungle with me, and that’s that.”

  Alita knew Hooker’s moods well enough to know when to break off a discussion. She let her shoulders slump and looked down at the ground.

  He took her by the hand. “Come on; I’ll get you a room at the hotel. Then I want you on the first boat heading back to Veracruz.”

  “Can’t I stay in your room?”

  “Not when I’m working.” Thinking of Connie Braithwaite, Hooker felt a pang of guilt, but he quickly swallowed it. “Let’s go.”

  • • •

  Nobody was comfortable at dinner that evening. Alita and Connie smiled politely, but their eyes measured each other like two boxers going into the ring. Heinemann was distracted, and Hooker was not in the mood for small talk. When he suggested they all could use a good night’s sleep, there was no argument.

  Hooker was up early the next day. He got the names of local suppliers from the hotel manager and set out to buy the equipment they would need for the trek into the jungle. Judging the distance from the end of the last usable road to the approximate spot where they saw the sheet of bright metal, he figured a generous two days for them to get in and two more to get out. To leave a margin for error, he bought enough supplies to sustain them for five days.

  He chose the foodstuffs for portability more than for flavor, settling on flour, coffee, dried beef, beans, and hard cheese. Everyone would carry water. Even if they did come across a river, and none showed on the map of Quintana Roo, you could never be sure who was pissing into it upstream.

  In picking out sleeping gear, he was surprised to learn that everybody on Yucatan, except in hotels, slept in hammocks. When he thought about it, it made sense, considering the variety of snakes, insects, and other nuisances that crawled up out of the ground at night. The hammocks were also easy to carry and to hook up once you got the hang of it.

  By noon, Hooker was congratulating himself on being ahead of schedule. He had the supplies locked into a storeroom at the hotel and went out to hire a couple of sturdy men. There his luck ran out. Everybody was interested, even eager, until he mentioned Quintana Roo. Nobody, not even the hungriest Indian, wanted to go into that savage land. Not for any price. A dead man, they said, had no use for money.

  By late afternoon, Hooker had talked to twenty men referred to him as willing to do anything for money and had come up empty. He went back to the Azteca bar and told the bartender to leave a bottle of tequila on the table. His high spirits had vanished. Even if he had found the two men, the chances of successfully marching through the jungle to the remote spot they marked on the map were remote. Sure, he had covered rough terrain before with just a compass and a map, but this was Quintana Roo.

  Connie and Heinemann came in and joined him at the table. The look on Hooker’s face discouraged conversation.

  “I didn’t get the men,” he said. “People down here would rather walk into quicksand than into Quintana Roo.”

  “How much did you offer to pay?” Connie asked.

  Hooker shrugged. “I kept raising the ante. Hell, I finally told them to name their price, but I still got no takers.”

  “I don’t suppose you and I could go in alone.”

  “Not a chance. It’s hard work, and it’s dangerous. I’ve been around jungles a little, and I know we can’t make this trip with less than two men.” A slow minute ticked by, and nobody said anything. Finally, Heinemann cleared his throat.

  “Don’t look so discouraged, Hooker. You gave it a good try. There’s probably nothing out there, anyway.”

  “Damn, I hate to give up now. Even if we went into the jungle and found nothing but that hunk of metal, it would be better than quitting.”

  “Do you want me to get the men for you?”

  They looked up, surprised. Alita was standing behind Hooker’s chair. No one had seen her come in.

  “What are you talking about?” Hooker said.

  “I can get you the two men you need. I speak the language of these people. I know their ways.”

  Hooker looked around at the others, then back up at Alita. “If you think you can do it …”

  “I can do it,” Alita said firmly, “but then I go with you.”

  “Nix. I told you that was out.”

  “Listen, Johnny, if you go into Quintana Roo with two strange Indians, you will need me. I speak Spanish better than you, and I know the Mayan language.”

  Hooker looked doubtful.

  “She has a point,” Connie said.

  “Besides, if I don’t go along, you don’t get the men.”

  Hooker knocked a fresh Lucky out of the pack and took his time lighting it. “Okay, chiquita, you get us the men and you’re included.”

  Alita smiled brightly at all of them, kissed Hooker on the cheek, and hurried out. He could feel Connie watching him. He swallowed some tequila and wondered what the hell he was doing. Taking one woman into the jungle was folly. Taking two was madness. He almost hoped Alita would fail.

  • • •

  By dusk, she had returned. Hooker met her at the entrance to the hotel.

  “I got them, Johnny,” she said.

  “You actually found two men willing to go into the jungle with us?”

  “Better than that. They know where the plane crashed.”

  Hooker stared at her.

  “The men are chicleros. They saw the wrecked airplane.”

  “Chicleros?”

  “Ai, that part is not so good. They are no better than bandidos. When they work, they go into the jungle to take the sap of the chicle trees. More often, they are robbing and killing. Are you sure you want them?”

  “Hell, I’d take Pancho Villa if he could show me where that plane is down. Let’s go meet these beauties.”

  Their names were Chaco and Manuel, and their looks suited Alita’s description. Chaco was small and sharp featured, thin as a snake. He wore his hair greased straight back. Manuel was big and brutish, with no forehead and an outthrust jaw. What little they had to say was said by Chaco. He spoke a mixture of Spanish and some Indian dialect Hooker did not recognize, but Alita had no trouble with it.

  He repeated the story of seeing the downed aircraft deep in the Quintana Roo jungle some two months earlier. They had not investigated, according to Chaco, because there were strange Indians nearby, and even the tough chicleros wanted nothing to do with those untamed Mayas. However, for a price, they were now willing to guide Hooker’s party to the spot.

  “Remember what I told you about these men,” Alita added when she had passed on the story.

  “Tell them they will get their money when we all return safely to Campeche,” Hooker said.

  Alita relayed the message. From the tone of Chaco’s grunted reply, Hooker gathered that the terms were reluctantly accepted. Throughout the exchange, the bright black eyes of the smaller man never left Hooker’s face.

  Glaring back at Chaco, Hooker said, “Tell them one more thing. Tell them if there is any funny business while we’re on the trail, I will personally rip their hearts out.”

  When Alita translated this, Chaco’s eyes wavered and fell away. Manuel maintained his sullen silence.

  “I want them in front of the hotel ready to go with the sun tomorrow morning,” Hooker said. “Tell them to bring machetes.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Alita said. “Men like these never go anywhere without their knives.”

  • • •

  The next morning, the supplies, now increased to accommodate Alita, were loaded into the back of the pickup. The two chicleros climbed in with the equipment, while Hooker and the
women got into the cab. Klaus Heinemann wished them good luck and watched as the pickup rattled away down the main street of Campeche and out the single road leading east.

  The skies remained clear, although the heat grew intense as they traveled inland. Soon the road dwindled to a rutted trail. More than once, as the sweat dripped from his nose and he battled the steering wheel to keep them on the road, Hooker cursed himself for ever getting into this.

  Four hours later, they came to a stop when the jungle of Quintana Roo rose before them like a green wave. A cluster of Mayan huts marked the end of the road. A small, dignified Maya came toward them.

  “It is the headman of the village,” Alita said. “I will talk to him.” After several minutes, she came back to say they could leave the truck there. The villagers would take care of it.

  “Can we trust them?” Hooker asked. “I’d hate to have to walk back to Campeche.”

  “The truck will be safe,” Alita said. “These are good Mayas, not savages like in the jungle.”

  The villagers watched with interest as the truck was unloaded. They kept a wary distance from the two chicleros, who looked more menacing than ever with the machetes hanging at their sides.

  Alita held a brief conversation with Chaco, then talked to the headman again. The Maya nodded and pointed out a trail that led into the jungle. He held Alita back for a moment, talking rapidly, his eyes flicking over at Hooker and the chicleros.

  “What was that about?” Hooker asked.

  “He wanted to know if you were really loco. I told him yes, but it is all right because I love you. Indians understand these things.”

  The truck was parked, the equipment unloaded and sorted into backpacks. Hooker placed the two chicleros at the head of the party where he could keep an eye on them. He jacked a cartridge into the chamber of the .45. They started into the jungle.

  CHAPTER 17

  The first thing they all felt was the heat. On the drive across the state of Campeche from the coast, the sun had blistered the little pickup, but their movement had generated enough breeze to make it bearable. Once the jungle closed around them, all breeze died. The vegetation seemed to exude a hot mist that made breathing a chore.