The Girl in the Mayan Tomb

by Kevin Tumlinson

  Her impertinence had set Masters back by more than five years, but now he could see that this was necessary. The wait had tempered him. He'd been forced to adjust, to accept, and to start planning again. He'd nearly altered his course entirely, but had instead doubled down on what he knew was the right move. He had learned, long ago, that instinct was the key to achieving one's goals. He knew, by instinct, that the opportunity would arise again. He'd have vindication. All he had to do was wait.

  And now that wait was over.

  “Señor,” Servando Lopez greeted him, grinning. He had a package in his hands—plain brown paper, rolled and tied with twine. It resembled a large, makeshift cigar, but what it held was oh so precious.

  Masters felt the tingle of anticipation stir. Finally, he thought, welcoming it. The feeling washed through him, replacing the impatience and the eagerness with something more palatable.

  He nodded to one of his mercenaries, and after a quick motion the young Mr. Simmons was dragged into the clearing. He'd been kept just out of sight, forced to kneel on the jungle floor, his hands bound and a gag in his mouth. Necessary, as he had simply refused to stop talking, even with a gun to his temple. His incessant questioning and whining had almost made it too unbearable to even keep him alive. But, Masters sighed, a deal was a deal. The bonus money would be paid, and Mr. Simmons would become one more opportunity for revenue for the Campesinos. A ransom, as they'd agreed.

  Simmons was fairly squealing through the gag in his mouth, and his mercenary handler shoved him forward, letting him fall to the ground in a heap, hard enough that it must have knocked the wind from him. He became blissfully silent, for the moment.

  Lopez eyed Simmons the way a rancher might eye livestock on an auction block. Certainly he would not draw much of a ransom, Masters thought. But considering what they'd been paid for this little excursion, Masters knew the Campesinos would think of Simmons as gravy. Lopez appeared to find the bonus agreeable, and gave a barely perceptible nod. He handed over the package.

  Masters took it, and breathed deeply, to calm himself, to keep his hands from shaking.

  Lopez stepped forward, toward Simmons, and the men surrounding Masters all drew on him, weapons clacking and ready to fire.

  This caused the guerrillas to stir, to raise their own weapons, and to chatter in Spanish from a hundred different directions.

  Masters held up a hand. “We'll get to the handoff,” he said. “You've been paid already. The bonus, and Simmons, are insurance.”

  “We have delivered your statue!” Lopez spat.

  “And once I've verified that the item is what it appears, and is intact, you'll get the remainder of your payment.”

  Lopez stared at him for a long, hard second, then nodded to his men. They lowered their weapons, and a beat later Masters' mercenaries followed suit.

  Masters paused again, letting the tension of the moment pass, then slowly worked at the twine securing the package. It was tied in a slip knot, and he was able to pull it free with a single, satisfying tug. He let the twine drift to the ground, curling like one more tendril of vine on the jungle's floor. He now began pulling at the paper, unrolling it, careful to keep the contents from falling free.

  If he were being honest with himself, his deliberation was only partly caution. He was also savoring the moment, relishing in the feeling of anticipation as his plans, so long delayed, resumed their tack. An indulgence, to be sure, but one he would allow himself. It was so hard to have fine moments, in this place of sweat and rot and ignorance.

  At last, the finely carved stone of the statue emerged, and Masters held in his hand a skeletal figure. “Ah-Puch,” he said quietly, reverently. “The Mayan god of death.”

  “This seems not so good, not so much a thing you would pay such a high price to receive, Señor,” Lopez said, standing close enough to peer down at the statue.

  “This is just a beginning,” Masters said in awe. “This is merely where it starts.”

  He looked up to the confused faces of the Campesinos, and nearly laughed. They didn't understand, clearly. They would never understand. Masters could explain all of it to them, speaking slowly, using visual aids, and they would never understand.

  And that was right. That was the way it should be. For as of now, Masters was no longer a man, but a god. And gods—their thoughts were above the thoughts of men.

  He chuckled, and went back to contemplating Ah-Puch. He studied the fine carving, the symbolism, the bones of the legs, the chest, the arms, the …

  He stopped, and the breath went out of him. He looked closer, sure that what he was seeing was a mistake, a trick of the light. But no. It was real. It was unquestionable.

  Ah-Puch's mouth was open.

  In actuality, two of the teeth on either side of Ah-Puch's skull-like face were missing. Or rather, they had been removed—slid out of view by a simple action. Masters held the statue firmly, gripping the body of Ah-Puch with his left hand as he turned the base of the statue with his right. It took more than just casual strength. One would have to know that the base could be turned in this way—so fine was the carving, and so well-crafted the internal mechanism, no one would suspect its secret.

  But Masters knew. And as he gripped the statue and its base, firmly turning them against each other, he felt as much as heard the two loud clicks he'd been expecting, as the two stone teeth slid back into place. They were once again seamlessly hiding a set of gaps in the skull's mouth—two small vents, from which all of Masters' plans had once more eluded him.

  “It …” he said, feeling his pulse pounding in his temples. “… is … empty!”

  He looked up at Lopez, his face full of fury. “Empty! You … what did you do? Did you open it?”

  “Open it?” Lopez asked, confused. “No, señor, we had no idea …”

  Masters threw the statue at Lopez, who ducked to avoid being hit in the head. Ah-Puch, the god of death, struck the loamy ground on the other side of Lopez. Lopez himself rose then, and pulled a chrome-plated 1911 Colt from his waistband, at the small of his back. He leveled the weapon at Masters, only to have it knocked from his hand an instant later by one of the hired mercenaries. Lopez was pinned to the ground then, with the mercenary on top of him. He spat a stream of cursing Spanish at the man, but was silenced as the mercenary struck him with the butt of his pistol.

  The guerrillas barely needed an excuse to attack, but before any of them could fire a storm of shots rained into the soil at their feet, forcing them back to take cover. Some of the guerrillas managed to return fire, but they were quickly suppressed by Masters' men, who swept into the camp from all directions. They'd left nothing to chance, having scouted this site and positioned a veritable army in multiple locations.

  The gunfight was over in a moment.

  A calm and eerie silence came over the clearing then, as Lopez's men hid themselves, trying to keep away from the mercenaries that were now revealing themselves from every conceivable hiding place. They were well hemmed, surrounded on all sides.

  Masters knelt beside Lopez, who spat blood on the ground as he wiped at his mouth with one grimy wrist.

  “You opened it,” Masters said, his voice quiet and menacing.

  “I did not even know it could be opened!” Lopez said in a hiss. “We brought it to you just as we found it!”

  Masters stared at him, then stood and walked to Simmons, who had cowered from the weapons fire, though he couldn't reach cover himself. He had wriggled close to the base of a tree, where he had promptly wet himself.

  Masters yanked the gag from his mouth. “When you retrieved the statue, was it missing two of its teeth?” He asked.

  Simmons, disoriented and afraid, stammered. “Wh-what?”

  “Were the teeth missing!” Masters soured.

  Simmons again tried to scramble back, but was restrained by the mercenary. “I … yes! There were gaps! One on either side. S-symmetrical!”

  Masters studied him, then cursed and stood. He looke
d down at Lopez again. “You've failed me,” he said.

  “We did exactly as you asked!” Lopez said, angry. “We delivered your statue!”

  Masters shook his head.

  “This will not do. I am owed,” he said. “You'll go back.”

  “Back?” Lopez said, then laughed and shook his head. “No, Señor. We will not go back.”

  Masters considered, then knelt and picked up the 1911 that Lopez had intended to use to kill him. He hefted it first, pulled the slide and checked that a round was in place, then pointed it at Lopez's head. He was somewhat gratified to see that Lopez was unafraid, and in fact kept his eyes locked with Masters as he pushed his forehead into the barrel of the weapon.

  Such courage, Masters thought, approving. The courage of utter ignorance.

  Masters nodded at Lopez, then turned the weapon and aimed at Simmons.

  “Wait!” Simmons shouted. Too late.

  Masters fired, and Simmons rocked back and then forward, his head exploding as the 45 caliber round erupted from the back of his skull.

  Masters turned again and faced Lopez. He let the weapon dangle at his side.

  “You're right,” he said. “You have failed me, and I've grown weary of failure. Now, time for a new plan. You and your men will lead my mercenaries back to that temple.”

  “What good will that do?” Lopez asked, angrily. “We brought you the statue. If it isn't what you wanted, what are you after?”

  Masters laughed. “Mr. Lopez, I'm not after the statue. I'm after Ah-Puch.”

  Lopez, confused, looked to the mercenary above him, and then back to Masters. “I do not understand.”

  Masters shook his head. “No, I suppose you do not. Suffice to say, that statue would have been the most expedient path to attaining my goals. With its contents gone, I'll have to go to plan B. Somewhere within that temple is a cache of items, hidden away by the former … well, we'll just call him the custodian. He had managed to elude me for some time, to keep the location of his cache a secret. I suppose, now that I consider it, that I'm forced to thank Ms. Hamilton for ultimately revealing the location to me.” He paused, considering this, shaking his head lightly. “Thanks, then, to Ms. Hamilton, for finding the custodian, and ultimately locating his hidden cache. Among those items, we'll find what I'm looking for. It was dangerous to try for the entire cache before, but now we have no choice.”

  Lopez studied Masters for a moment, then asked, “Where?”

  Masters shook his head. “I do not know, Mr. Lopez. But I trust that you will find it. It's within that temple. I'm told that the custodian had more than one way to get in. There was the front door, and there was the back door. I want you to lead my men there, and find that back door.”

  Lopez shook his head. “I have no idea where to start,” he said. “It could be anywhere.”

  Masters grinned then. “Oh, I believe I can narrow it down for you,” he said.

  Lopez again studied him, and Masters saw the realization finally spark to life in his eyes. This was no longer a transactional relationship, as it had been before. Now, Masters owned him, and all of his men. Now, Masters was taking a more direct hold.

  Masters would have what he'd come for. He would have Ah-Puch. He would have the power of life and death.

  Chapter 14

  It had been hours, and they were no closer to getting into the tomb than the unnamed guerrilla had been five years earlier. Kotler had even considered resorting to the same tactics—finding a pick axe or sledge hammer and hacking or smashing his way in out of frustration. He dismissed this, of course. He could never live with himself, if he contributed to the destruction of such a rare and beautiful piece of history.

  Still, it was tempting.

  He heard Graham curse from his side of the room, obviously just as frustrated with trying to solve this ancient puzzle.

  “Maybe the trigger isn't in the antechamber,” Kotler mused aloud.

  “What good would it possibly do to have the trigger to this door be anywhere but in here?” Graham replied, his tone dripping with annoyance and contempt.

  Kotler shook his head. “Just trying to think outside the antechamber, Graham. We've been at this for hours.”

  In fact, their time was starting to run out. The work lights might run all night, but the daylight wouldn't. The temple was close to base camp, and there were patrols, but it was still a dangerous play to stay here into the night. Kotler was nearly certain that the guerrillas had gotten what they were after, and wouldn't risk another attack on the camp. But nearly certain was not certain, all considered.

  There was also the issue of focus fatigue. They needed to retreat, and come at this from a new direction, and a new perspective, in the morning.

  Besides, their last meal had been a couple of protein bars washed down with water from their canteens. Kotler knew that Sarge and his men had hot food back at camp, and just the thought of it was inviting. He wasn't ashamed to give in to some of his baser instincts, in light of having made no headway.

  “We need to wrap up for the evening,” Kotler said.

  Graham looked as if he were about to reply, and none too kindly, but instead he took a deep breath and let it out in a huff. He nodded. Impatience wasn't really a good trait to nurture, when it came to exploration and research. Kotler was glad to see that his old rival and grudging friend adhered to the same philosophy.

  They packed up, and hiked their way out of the antechamber, down the hidden corridor, and past the entrance to a side passage, which Kotler found alluring and inviting as much as it was dark and indiscernible. “Maybe tomorrow we should follow this,” Kotler said. “We might find clues to how to get into the tomb.”

  Graham huffed. “Perhaps.” Kotler took this as a subtle assertion that it was Graham who was in charge of this exploration, and it would be Graham who decided their agenda.

  Kotler opted to keep his mouth shut and carry on. There was no use starting a turf war over this place. He'd already decided that his role here was support—of both the FBI and of Graham's work. He already had a major archeological site or two calling on him for guidance, at any rate. He was happy enough to let Graham keep this one to himself.

  As they reached the entrance of the tunnel, Graham shut off the work lights, immediately throwing a deep shade into the corridor, making all detail disappear. It was still daylight out, though the light was starting to fade as evening approached. They were leaving just in time.

  The generator, which supplemented the solar chargers, kicked on suddenly, startling Kotler.

  “We must have used more power than I thought,” Graham said. “The batteries must be low. They've been sitting idle for weeks, so they may not have had a full charge when we entered the tomb.”

  “How much fuel does the generator have?” Kotler asked.

  “It runs from a thirty-gallon reserve. It only kicks on when the batteries reach a certain level, and only runs until they are charged to full. At that rate, we should have fuel enough to last for weeks. The solar cells will normally keep the batteries charged to full, if we aren't constantly using the work lights. They're a supplement to the generator. It's possible the charging cable has come loose, or was damaged. I'll have one of Sarge's men look at it.”

  Kotler nodded.

  They made their way back to camp, in search of Denzel. The agent had left them to explore the antechamber on their own, while he saw to other matters, primarily making arrangements to accommodate his incoming team of specialists and reinforcements.

  Kotler and Graham found Denzel chatting with Sarge and Knoll.

  “Any luck?” Denzel asked.

  Kotler shook his head. “Not yet. I'm certain there's a trigger, but we've searched the antechamber itself pretty thoroughly. No luck, so far.”

  “It must be in there,” Graham said grimly. “It would do little good to put the trigger somewhere other than the antechamber.”

  “Unless someone didn't want just anyone getting in there,” Denzel sa
id.

  Kotler blinked, then smiled. Denzel might, at times, seem a little slow on the intake, but Kotler had come to recognize that as an act. Denzel was as sharp as they come—able to think strategically even in high pressure scenarios. Part of that was his training, Kotler knew. Denzel's military and FBI background had drilled certain traits and habits into him. But Denzel himself had brought an inborn set of uncanny common sense and instinctive logic into the mix. He just naturally had a way of cutting right through the tangles, like slicing through some logistical Gordian knot, and getting straight to the simple truth of a problem, particularly when everyone else was snarled in the details.

  “That's a good point,” Kotler said, turning to Graham. “It's entirely possible that the tomb was meant to remain sealed forever. There may be no trigger.”

  Graham scoffed. “I refuse to believe that. Why build a chamber at all, then? And why craft an ornate door, signaling its entrance? Why not simply bury whatever is inside that tomb in the deepest hole you could find, and fill it with stones and dirt?”

  Kotler shook his head and shrugged. “I don't have any answers to that one. But I do agree that there's a purpose to that chamber. I'm not sure how it ties in yet, with Ah-Puch or with Maggie's death, or with anything else we've experienced so far. But I do believe it would be wise to find a way in.”

  “Why not blast it open?” Knoll asked.

  Graham turned on him. “Blast it … are you insane?”

  “Careful, Squint,” Sarge grumbled. “Knoll here is as sane as they get. He didn't mean nothin', he's just solving a problem.”

  Graham wheeled on Sarge, and Kotler was sure the man was about to unload on him, but again he calmed himself. To Graham's credit, Kotler had to admit, he had certainly learned to school his temper, since the old days.

  But something wasn't quite right. Kotler had a nagging impression, as if some signal were being given and he wasn't quite catching it. Something about Graham's demeanor was off. Several times that day he had displayed a hair trigger, but had reined things in just before going too far. Looking at him now, Kotler could see strain registering in his jaw, a tightness that could be barely contained rage or, at the very least, extreme annoyance. Or could it be something else? Before Kotler could put any further thought into it, Graham seemed suddenly to relax.