The Hauntings of Scott Remington

by Robert B Marcus Jr

  “My money is in George Town.”

  His eyes flickered a few times in surprise. “Long way to George Town.”

  “My money’s in the bank there. I don’t have any on me. My wallet’s gone.”

  His eyes furtively darted from side to side, avoiding mine. Again, I wanted to tell this petty little thief that I knew the truth, but both of us had a role to play if I was to survive my escape.

  “How you get money from bank? You have no identification.”

  I did, but I wasn’t going to let him know that either. “There’s a code I have to use.”

  “Give me the code, and I get money for you.”

  About as safe as a cobra petting zoo! I thought. “They also will take my fingerprints.”

  His enthusiasm dissipated. “Ah, yes. Take no chances, probably. You must go yourself.”

  Inwardly I breathed a sigh of relief. At least he hadn’t thought of chopping off my fingers and carrying them to George Town with my fingerprints. But it wouldn’t have helped anyway. The bank wouldn’t examine my fingerprints. They would be happy with the ID I carried in the sole of my right shoe, since it matched the bank’s records.

  “We go together, and I will give you fifty thousand for expenses when we get there, and reimburse you for the cost of the boat,” I said.

  He didn’t contradict my figure, so I made the assumption that we had come to a financial understanding. As I had planned, the demand for a boat and the need to go to George Town, Grand Cayman Island, had distracted him from the negotiation.

  “I take you as a friend, almost nothing for me, I do this as friend, but too many other people greedy. The Customs men, rent a boat . . . need lots of money for expenses.”

  I was glad that his concept of “lots of money” differed from mine. What I had promised him was not insignificant, but if he had known what I really was willing to pay to get out of Mexico . . . I had a lot more than fifty thousand pesos in the protection of the banking industry in George Town.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  According to the tour guide who took us to Tulum, each tiny Mayan village had the equivalent of a priest who could read and write the Mayan hieroglyphics.

  Although most Mayan codices and other records were burned by Bishop Diego de Landa in 1562, rumor had it that in many villages ancient books still existed and were passed down through generations that told the complete story of the Mayan civilization, still unknown to the modern world.

  I don’t know whether that is true or not—I never saw anything resembling a book, or a codex, the more appropriate term—but I do know that when I looked into the eyes of the old man who had nursed me back to health I saw an ancient wisdom that haunted me. I wondered what he could tell me if we spoke the same language. We didn’t, and we never would. I tried to teach him a few words of English, but he was uninterested. Nor had he been willing to even acknowledge my attempts at Mayan. I learned the few words I did by trial and error. He was content to leave the gulf between us impassable.

  Nevertheless, I said goodbye to him a week later with sadness. I had the feeling that he knew far more about me than I did about him, even though I had stayed in his house and watched life in his village carry on around me. Again, I wondered what secrets he knew as Manuel and I rode away in the old Volkswagen.

  The rut wandered through scrub forests, hemp fields, then another village before it finally widened into an actual dirt road. I was amazed his Volkswagen made it, since it wasn’t a four-wheel-drive vehicle. Looking back as we exited the forest for the last time, I could see that the rut we had been riding on looked like an animal trail. As I stared behind us, thinking of the tiny Mayan village, I had an odd thought: there still were places in the world where no one watched cable news. It was a comforting thought.

  We bounced over the dirt road for an hour before running into Mexico highway 261, the main road from Progresso on the coast to Mérida, the largest city in Yucatán.

  Turning toward the coast, we found ourselves in a little cove a half hour later. Warm tropical breezes drifted in from the sea, bringing with them smells of fish, saltwater, and seaweed. Bobbing in the water about ten feet from shore beside a rickety pier was what looked like a relic from the bottom of the sea, somehow resurfaced. Barnacles grew along its sides, and I swear that there were cracks in the wooden hull. It had to be sitting on the bottom; it couldn’t possibly be floating. The boat was about twenty-five feet long and once might have been painted, but now it was the color of driftwood, even the deck and the cabin. I don’t know what kept the cabin on top of the hull; probably just the promise of repairs.

  Two men stood on the deck behind the cabin, one with a large mouth and gleaming teeth, while a third just behind them held onto a rope that was in turn connected to a rowboat wallowing in the waves behind the boat. Manuel nodded me toward the larger boat, following close behind. Just as I was wondering what would happen to his car, another man appeared on the beach from somewhere and drove it off. Manuel and I stepped cautiously along the fragile pier into the old boat, followed by the third man, after he had given the rowboat a shove, sending it adrift.

  As one of the men pulled in the anchor, the breeze picked up and we began to drift away from land. Simultaneously, the engine coughed, sputtered, and wheezed a few times without catching. How would we ever make the three hundred miles across open water to George Town? I was glad it wasn’t hurricane season, though tropical storms could congeal in just an hour or so into something that a small boat wouldn’t want to face.

  At some point they would go for my money. That was inevitable. The problem was, from their point of view, I didn’t have the money yet. So what would they do? I knew I would have to be wary, but it was hard to believe that they would make a move yet. Still, thugs like this were unpredictable.

  Manuel didn’t introduce me to his friends. I didn’t expect him to. Why introduce me to people who were probably going to try to rob and kill me?

  I would have to be especially vigilant on this trip—I’d been outmaneuvered in Progresso and I didn’t want to be outmaneuvered here.

  Finally, after a number of attempts, the boat wheezed louder than ever, and the engine caught with a rumble that reminded me of thunder. The boat shook all over but gradually responded to the push of the engine and the guidance of the helm to move toward the open sea. The waves were gentle and small, not more than a foot or two a few hundred feet from shore. Here, the large thug manning the helm pushed the throttle wide open and the boat leaped forward, displaying considerably more energy than I had anticipated.

  We accelerated rapidly until we were running at about fifteen knots.

  The boat had three levels. Above, about mid-ship, was the helm on a small platform. Six steps descended from the helm to the rear deck, where a couple of aluminum chairs slid around. From the rear deck, six more steps led forward and downward to a small cabin buried in the front of the hull. I didn’t bother to look down there, but sat in one of the aluminum chairs on the back deck and warily observed my surroundings, making sure no one snuck up on me.

  The weather held as we puttered northeast across the water. The sun dipped beyond the western horizon, slowly turning redder as it fell, finally disappearing. The only sound was the roar of the motor. No one talked to me or even looked my way. I’m told that on death row no one wants to talk to the dead man walking, the prisoner about to be executed. He’s ignored, as if ignoring him will change his destiny.

  Manuel, who had been standing up by the large man piloting the boat, now came back and sat with me. I noted that his baggy shirt had two or three top buttons undone and that his left armpit looked especially bumpy. A few minutes later, the man who had been holding the rope at shore wandered up from the cabin and leaned against the rail near
me. That left two men unaccounted for at the moment.

  I had hoped they would wait until we were nearer shore, but that was apparently not to be. Outnumbered four to one, I couldn’t afford to be put on the defensive. I had to be the aggressor.

  “Is there a head down below?” I asked, just as the large man at the helm yielded it to one of the missing men, who had appeared from the front of the boat.

  The larger man nodded. I couldn’t see him very well, but I could catch the gleam of his teeth. I felt as if I was his dinner.

  As I walked toward the stairway down to the cabin, I felt their eyes on me, boring into my back. When would they make their move? It would be soon. I expected—hoped? —that it would only be the man with the gleaming teeth. Or would they wait until after I picked up the money in George Town? It depended on whether Manuel believed my fabrication regarding the identification needed to access my account. I wondered what they expected to get from me if they attacked before George Town. Probably thought I had money hidden somewhere on my body. I didn’t.

  Timing is everything. I had always been able to move faster, react quicker, and punch harder than everyone I encountered. I also had that special sixth sense that keeps certain people alive. I knew when I was in danger.

  I felt I was in danger now.

  I ducked and twisted to the left as I descended the stairs, but it was a waste of effort.

  No blow came. Instead, as I stumbled a little after losing my balance trying to dodge a non-existent punch, I heard the click of the cabin door being locked.

  Damn! My sixth sense was rarely wrong, but it was this time.

  I went up and checked the door.

  It was a very sturdy door and solidly locked. It could be locked from either side, so I locked my side as well, then went back and sat down in a chair at the galley table.

  The thugs were smarter than I had given them credit for. Obviously, they believed Manual’s story about my money being in a George Town bank, and not on me. I was a little disappointed, almost wanting them to come after me now, since I wasn’t worried at all about handling all of them, even if they had a gun or two.

  Now I would have to take care of them when we arrived on land in the morning. I would just have to wait them out.

  I looked around for some food in the galley, but found nothing, not even a can of beans.

  Oh well, I’ve done without food for a long time before--I could do it again. Luckily there was still water in the boat tank, because the spigot in the sink worked fine, and there were glasses in one of the cabinets, so I filled a large glass of water, and sat down at the table to drink it.

  I guess I had two advantages for the night.

  I had the water.

  And I had the bathroom.

  Of course, they were guys so they could stand at the rail of the boat, and pee over the side. Part of me hoped that they would misjudge the direction of the wind.

  It’s harder to poop over the side, so it would be interesting to see what they would do if that need arose. Odds were, with four guys, that one of them would have to relieve that urge.

  I lay down and relaxed on the couch next to the table. Above me I could hear the thugs lumbering around on the deck. After awhile I drowsed a bit.

  Somehow, I knew I had arrived at a very important time.

  I had lived sixteen tuns and was a son of the Balam family. We were an old family, born of the jaguars. Last tun my family had chosen an atanzahab, who was to pick my bride. The Xiu family wanted more power in the city. Though we were poor, we were respected and, like the Xiu, were enemies of the Cocom family, so he had chosen me a Xiu bride named Raxka. Then at one of the festivals, I’d met Ichika, whose name meant rainbow, a wonderful association for me. She was certainly my rainbow.

  The festival had been going on all day, and now the dancing in the streets had slowed down a little. As darkness came, it would pick up. I was seated on the wall of a small building in Mayapan, watching a bunch of children bouncing a caoutchouc ball around without using their hands, trying not to let it hit the ground. In a real game, the goal was to bounce it through a round hoop high in the wall of the ball court. As I watched, I suddenly sensed someone beside me, a young girl about twelve.

  “Do you play Pitz?” she asked. I liked her voice. It was soft but not at all timid.

  “No, I’m a mason. I played some when I was little, but my skills developed in another direction. Besides, we don’t have a ball court in Mayapan.”

  “There’s the big one in Chichén Itza.”

  “Does anyone still use it?”

  “I think so. The ball court and the Sacred Cenote are still used, sometimes.”

  “I guess I’ve heard that, too. Certainly, the Cenote is used.”

  “I’m Ichika, of the Cocoms,” she said.

  “I’m of the Balam family,” I replied.

  “Oh yes, you’re the one who will marry Raxka soon.”

  “That’s what I’m supposed to do,” I said.

  I could feel her staring at me, so finally I turned and gazed into her dark eyes. They didn’t flinch. It was as if they knew I already preferred her over Raxka. Though she was only twelve, we immediately knew we were meant for each other.

  But she was Cocom, so our families would never approve. We could never marry.

  My family had already arranged for my marriage to Raxka. I’d met Raxka once and was not impressed; she was cold and distant. But the rules were straightforward. My atanzahab was still negotiating how long I would work for her father.

  But I didn’t want to work for him at all. I didn’t want to marry Raxka.

  Raxka was named after the bolts of fire from the sky that come before the loud rumbles. And that was what I thought of her. Not as a rainbow, but as a fire that was dangerous and could hurt me.

  Ichika meant rainbow, and I could see the colors of her soul.

  But I knew that I had no choice.

  Morning bursting through the cabin window to my right woke me up, and I put my mind back together and got up. My eyes were heavy and sticky, and I felt as though I hadn’t slept in three days. The last thing I wanted to do was get up. My only wish was to close my eyes and go back to sleep. Besides, my dream had been a good one.

  Minutes later, I heard someone unlock the other side of the cabin door. I left my side locked, while the person on the other side rattled the door, trying to get in.

  “It’s Manual, may I come in? We at anchor at George Town.”

  I knew we were close to shore now because we had to pull in close to anchor. Six hundred feet offshore the small ledge on which Grand Cayman rests abruptly plunges fifteen thousand feet into the Cayman Trench. Our anchor chain wasn’t quite that long, so like most boats we had to putter in to about a hundred feet offshore and drop the anchor into twenty-five feet of water.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I d-didn’t know they would lock you down here,” he said.

  “Sure you didn’t.”

  “No, I swear!”

  “You hired them.”

  “Yes, only to help.”

  “It’s fine. I’m still going to pay you.”

  I could see his eyes lighting up on the other side of the door. “You just have to keep them from killing me on my way to the bank,” I added.

  “I-I-I save your life in Progresso. I save it now.”

  It was true. He had saved my life then. But now a lot of money was involved—as well as three probably bloodthirsty thugs.

  “They have t-to let you get to the bank. We. . . and . . . I-I not h-have your code.”

 
“What?”

  “Code to bank.”

  I stared at him through the door, wondering if he could feel my anger.

  If he had been able to see my eyes, I probably would’ve been able to glare just a little harder and make him jump over the side without an objection. He was a whimpering little creep, but I still needed him. Besides, his reasons were sound. He apparently believed my story about the code and fingerprints, but even if he didn’t, he obviously had to realize he didn’t have even the name of my destination bank, my account number, or any other clue to my money. He might have planned to use the three men he had hired to torture the information out of me, but I didn’t think he had the intelligence to make such an elaborate plan. He probably hadn’t known their plan.

  “I will still pay you what I promised,” I told him, “unless you try the slightest trick. Even a hint of a trick and you’ll go for a long swim. Don’t do anything strange without asking me first.”

  “No, no, no! I with you all the way.”

  Realizing I had no choice, I eventually unlocked my side of the door and opened it. Manual was alone.

  “We go to bank now?” he asked.

  I saw that we had raised anchor and were slowly motoring toward the pier.

  “As soon as we dock,” I replied.

  This was accomplished quickly.

  I didn’t expect any trouble, and we had none. We were ignored by the authorities. Lots of strange people keep lots of money in the Caymans, and to keep that business the banks must be nice to visitors, no matter how unusual they might be. I had my identification, which I had removed from the compartment in my shoe just before docking. Manuel had stared with interest, but I didn’t think it mattered at this point. In my profession you kept a couple of extra identities around if you could. In the Caymans, I had five different bank accounts under five different identities. Edward Windsor was one of them, and I had a passport with that name and my photo in a safety deposit box at the Bank of George Town. And I had the key to the box and a New York driver’s license with the same name in my shoe.