On Tenterhooks

by Greever Williams

  “Para evitar malos olores y para comodidad de todos los pasajeros, este bano esta disenado solo para orinar. Gracias./ To avoid uncomfortable odors, please understand that this restroom is designed for urination only. Thank you.”

  She laughed as she passed it around for the others to read. Steve was glad to see that she seemed to be bouncing back from her encounter with Preacher. The mounting responsibility he felt for each of them made him acutely aware of their demeanors.

  As the trip began, he picked up snatches of conversation through the steady loud drone of the diesel engine. Copious cameras and clutched guidebooks all around him told him that they were on a bus loaded with tourists. Their journey southward down the Mexican coast was uneventful. There was no sign of Preacher or anything out of the ordinary.

  Steve dozed by the window as the low, flat, green Mexican countryside passed by. After several hours of travel, they pulled into the town of Felipe Carrillo Puerto. The driver announced their arrival.

  “Bienvenidos amigos, to Felipe Carillo Puerto, the place of birth of my mother. We stop here, rest your legs and eat, maybe, yes? We leave again 30 minutos, yes? You come back soon, and we go to Chetumal. Adios.”

  With that, he sprang out of the bus and left the doors open for anyone brave enough to follow. The lure of life in an exotic and authentic pueblo overcame the crowd’s consternation at his rapid departure. The passengers moved en masse toward the front of the bus, with Steve and company swept up in the slow, sweaty rush toward freedom and fresh air.

  The driver had parked in what looked to be a town square, with a massive stone fountain surrounded by a cobblestone traffic circle. Just as Biker had told them, they spotted the car rental lot. To its left was a small market. Once again, they split up, promising each other to keep a sharp watch on their surroundings. Steve and Martin went to the rental lot, and Veronica and Abby headed for the market to stock up on food.

  The men finished first, went back to the now-empty bus and grabbed their entire luggage stash. As they carried the baggage down the aisle, Steve marveled at how many expensive digital cameras, video cameras and other personal belongings were loose on the seats of the vacant bus. The door was wide open, and the passengers had scattered in all directions. The bus company seemed to have no concern over guarding the belongings, but perhaps more telling was the fact that the passengers seemed to have let down their guard as well.

  Perhaps there were still some tiny rays of light in the world after all.

  Martin and Steve loaded the small, dark red rental with the group’s luggage, and then went to find Veronica and Abby in the market. As they entered the dimly lit store, they saw the women were checking out with several bags of groceries. Each of the foursome took three bags of groceries and returned to the square, heading for the car rental lot.

  “Wow,” said Martin, hefting the bags he was carrying, “did you ladies leave anything for the other customers?”

  “Stuff it, Martin,” said Veronica, smirking. “Biker made this place out to be pretty desolate, so we wanted to make sure we were covered.”

  “Besides,” added Abby, “I had no idea what I was buying. Anytime I saw a picture on the label of something I recognized, I grabbed it. I hope you can make up something spiffy for us with it.”

  “I shall endeavor to delight your taste buds.”

  As they crossed the square, they passed a long row of street vendors crowding the walkways with multi-colored serape blankets used to display their wares. Steve stopped to admire the finely carved copal-wood animals. He picked up a stylized eagle head and admired its heavy weight in his hand. It reminded him of the souvenirs in his office, a million miles away.

  Veronica was admiring the colorful linen skirts, when she felt a tug on her elbow. She turned to see the wizened face of a native woman, stooped with age. Her long gray hair woven in thick plaits wound down the back of her bright orange dress. As she smiled up at Veronica, her face rippled with a thousand tiny wrinkles, but her eyes were bright and alert. She held out a closed hand.

  “Señorita,” she said. “Rosario para usted—muy bonita.”

  Veronica opened her hand and the woman dropped a beaded necklace into it—a rosary made from a carved oyster shell.

  “Ah, si,” Veronica nodded. “Muy bonita. Cuanto?”

  “Five,” said the woman, the word sounding foreign in her heavy accent.

  Veronica smiled. “Bien.” She pulled a ten-dollar bill from her wallet and handed it to the woman.

  “Gracias, Señorita.”

  “De nada,” Veronica replied, putting the rosary around her neck and caressing the sides of the shells as she watched the others chatting and browsing the marketplace.

  Once they were all together again, they passed the bus, and Steve noticed that it was still devoid of any passengers. For just one fleeting moment, he had an urge to grab the whole group and shove them back on the bus and force them to go all the way Chetumal, as if that would resolve their demonic predicament. He gritted his teeth and paced them into the parking lot.

  “Shotgun!” called Abby, as they closed the trunk, now full with luggage and groceries.

  No one argued. Steve handed Martin the keys and gave Abby the complimentary map that came with the rental. He climbed into the cramped back seat with Veronica. Martin started the car and pulled it up to the exit of the parking lot. Abby consulted her notes for Biker’s instructions, and then she unfolded the map.

  “Around the circle and take that road right past where the tour bus is. Drive to the first crossroad, which should be Federal Highway 307, and it’ll take us right out of town toward Majahual.”

  Martin followed Abby’s instructions, and once again they were traveling through the green lowlands of Mexico’s east coast. Traffic was light, and the early afternoon sun radiated waves off the blacktop ahead of them.

  Conversation was light and airy, a stark contrast to the apprehension that grew as they closed in on their destination. Abby spent her time reading and re-reading her notes. She frequently consulted the map, despite the fact that the road was straight for 50 miles in front of them.

  Steve was content to watch the countryside roll by. Lush rolling hills in the distance, dotted with cattle and extensive lengths of undeveloped land, acre after acre. He was thankful for a chance to take the back seat. It was downtime before what felt like must inevitably be the final leg of their journey. Their destination was in sight, but what would happen when they got there was a game of high-stakes guesswork that gnawed his gut like a rat on a rotting radish.

  Almost an hour out of town, the road forked and they exited the highway onto a smaller road marked with a road sign for Majahual. Moments later, Abby announced the second and final turn of the journey.

  “There it is. Look!”

  The land was so flat and the greenery so low to the ground that they saw the large rock outcropping Biker had instructed them to find two miles before they reached it. It stood out like a giant brown fist breaking through the skin of the earth. As they reached it, they saw the non-descript dirt road across the way. There was no sign, but they knew that they were in the right place. The road around them was empty, and Martin made the quick turn to hide their trail.

  As they traveled down the dirt road, small foothills began to dot the landscape around them. The scrub trees and brush closed in on the road, and it would have been hard to pass an oncoming car. But the likelihood of seeing another vehicle seemed remote. The road itself was overgrown. The tires and bumpers flapped through giant leaves and weeds, and large puddles, ruts and an occasional branch or stone made it obvious that they were getting more desolate with each passing minute. Martin had to take it slow around the blind corners, and they all watched for obstacles.

  After traveling for about 40 minutes, they came to the “campsite” Biker told them about. It was more a dead-end to the road than what Steve had envisioned as a campsite. There were no signs, nothing man-made. With a glance around, he didn’t even see
any litter. Martin stopped the car and they got out and stretched. This was remote. There were no signs of the highway, no sounds of industry. The place smelled of flowers, trees, and moisture. Birds and bugs chorused in the distance. A slight wind bent the small branches of the nearby foliage. All in all, it was peaceful and inviting.

  The group spread out and wandered the small circle.

  “I found the trail!” said Abby. “It’s here—looks a little overgrown.”

  The others joined her at the edge of the clearing. They saw a small, winding and overgrown path.

  “Good,” said Steve. “Now we just gotta ditch the car.”

  “Yeah,” said Martin. “I think I saw a good spot across the way there.”

  “All right,” said Steve. “Veronica, Abby, why don’t you guys scout this trail a bit and make sure it leads somewhere. I’ll pile our bags up here, while Martin hides the car.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?” asked Veronica.

  Steve scanned the clearing.

  “Yeah, I think we’re fine. We’re definitely alone. Besides, Biker said he wouldn’t drop the defenses until tonight. We’ve got several more hours,” he said, looking at his watch. “And, Biker was pretty confident that Preacher skulked away yesterday. I think we’re clear for a little while at least.”

  Veronica nodded. Abby was already several steps down the path, waiting for Veronica to catch up. The men went back to the car, Martin unlocked the trunk and Steve unloaded the bags onto the ground. Then he watched Martin maneuver the car into a single small opening in the heavy brush. “Great spot,” he remarked to himself. Although the car was less than 10 feet from the clearing, it was almost impossible to see.

  That morning they had each packed a small bag of extra clothes and necessities to take to the cabin. They left everything else in the car. Steve took the small bags and as many grocery bags as he could carry across the clearing to the path’s entrance. Martin picked up the rest of the bags and joined him, as Abby and Veronica returned from their cautionary examination of the path.

  “It looks good,” said Veronica. “No sign of anybody. It goes somewhere, but I don’t think it’s been used in a long time.”

  “Good,” said Steve. “That’s what we’re looking for.”

  They distributed the bags for the hike and left the clearing behind them. Their car and the clearing disappeared, as they climbed through the thick underbrush. The path was narrow, too narrow in most places for walking in anything other than single file. Steve took the lead, with Veronica behind him. Abby was next, and Martin brought up the rear. Although it was a pathway, it was not easy going. Long grass hid sharp stones and jutting roots. The earth dipped in places and rose up in small hills. This was no casual stroll. The mid-afternoon heat was bearing down hard, and the low trees offered little to no shade. As they pressed on, Steve was glad that Veronica had thought to bring some bottled water with them.

  “You know,” called Martin from the back, “isn’t this like some kind of marathon or something? I mean, we’ve traveled in one day by boat, bus, car. . .and now foot!”

  “Just need a train!” said Veronica.

  “Or a plane,” said Steve.

  “At this point, I’d just settle for a nice bench!” Martin called back.

  “Yeah, good call Martin,” said Steve. “No bench here, but let’s take five.”

  He dropped his bags and his backpack on the ground and settled in to take a breather. The others joined him.

  “Woo!” said Martin, easing himself onto a small boulder, rubbing the small of his back. “It is hot! How long’ve we been walking anyway?”

  “A little over an hour,” said Veronica.

  “And we’re still looking for the campo tree or whatever it’s called?”

  “Campechy, yes,” said Veronica. “It’s taller than these, with small yellow flowers . . . when it’s in bloom.”

  “Well is it in bloom now?” asked Steve.

  “What the hell do I look like, an arborist?” asked Veronica.

  “No,” Steve replied immediately. “You look—and sound—like a stereotypical hot-tempered New Yorker who doesn’t want to be here.”

  “Well, all right, then.”

  “You know, if this thing isn’t in bloom,” said Martin, “how are we gonna find that next path he told us to look for?”

  “It’s there!” squealed Abby, taking her earbuds out. “Look!”

  Although the thick knot of trees swallowed up the winding path, it was easy to spot the tall tree that towered above the others, nearly a quarter of a mile away. Small golden flowers budded from the ends of its slender, sinewy branches.

  “That’s it!” agreed Veronica, standing up for a better look. She nudged Steve in the shoulder with her foot. “And yes, it is in bloom right now!”

  “Then let’s get to it,” he said, standing up and gathering up his bags. Martin groaned and followed suit.

  “You gonna make it?” asked Steve.

  “Yeah, yeah,” grumbled Martin, “but there’d better be a cold beer and a big screen TV with the game on when I get there.”

  They headed out to follow Abby and Veronica, who had already moved down the trail.

  “Will you settle for some well water and the serenity of this beautiful nature around you?”

  “It’ll do in a pinch I suppose.”

  They reached the campechy tree in minutes. Steve noticed that it wasn’t a large tree. The small stature of the surrounding trees gave it the illusion of size. It was only about twenty feet tall and two feet wide, but it was what they were looking for. They pushed through the overgrown brush surrounding the tree and located the “trail” Biker had instructed them to find. Had he not told them to look for it, it was doubtful they’d have ever found it. Not only was it on the opposite side of the tree from the trail on which they'd arrived, but it was a much smaller walkway—more like an overgrown animal path than a hiking trail. They trudged on, trying to avoid scratching themselves or whipping the person behind them as they passed by the springy, thin branches that clawed at their clothes.

  After 15 minutes of navigating the leafy gauntlet, they reached their destination. Steve was still in front, and he was so intent on fighting off the branches that he was startled when he stumbled out of the woods and into a clearing with a small house in the center. It was a welcome site after a long day of traveling. As the others caught up, they paused next to him, startled, but also thankful for the respite.

  Chapter 40

  The house in front of them was old. Halfway across the clearing of low, scrubby grass, a simple dirt path formed the front walkway. Steve had pictured a log cabin, but this was just a simple house with battered stucco siding. A front porch ran the length of the house. A rusted tin roof covered the two gables that strutted from the front. Plain, simple curtains hung in the windows, but the structure was otherwise unadorned. It lacked a lived-in look—no flowerpots, no front-porch rocker and no house numbers. It was a place for transients, as Biker had said. It had no personality. But its age and remote location still lent it a bit of charm in Steve’s eyes.

  Above the front door was a small sign bearing the house name: La Casita Del Paloma.

  “Folks,” said Steve. “Welcome to the Little House of the Dove.”

  The clearing itself seemed to be a perfect square, with the brush and small trees closing in on every side. Around the back of the house, they saw the work shed and the well, just as Biker had described. On the ground outside the shed, they found the red rock. Underneath it, pressed into the red clay earth, was the key.

  Climbing simple wooden stoop that served as a back porch, Steve unlocked the back door. When he pushed it open, it gave a concerned squeal, trumpeting the fact that this was the first time it had been opened in years. If the house looked old on the outside, it was ancient on the inside. The scents of stale air and dust were heavy. In the corner of small kitchen, there was an iron cook stove. On the wall opposite the back door was a small,
primitive wooden table with four chairs, all painted red. As they dropped their gear and groceries on the table, it groaned under the weight.

  “Nice,” said Veronica, running her fingers over the table and leaving trails in the dust.

  The kitchen opened into a den with one small window, a fireplace and some threadbare furniture. Exposed dark, wooden beams stood in stark contrast to the white plaster of the walls and ceiling. Beyond the den, they passed the front door. Above it, a sign painted on the wall in English read: Good friends can turn any house into a home. Down a short hallway were two bedrooms, each with two double beds. Simple rough-hewn dressers and nightstands furnished the rooms. Both bedrooms had two oil lamps on each dresser. There were curtains over the windows, area rugs on the floor and simple linens on the beds. At the end of the hall was a bathroom with a washbasin and a toilet bowl with no water tank.