Aaron Elkins - Gideon Oliver 05 - Curses!

by Curses!

  He had struck Gideon as not very bright, not very subtle, and not very principled. But he had done his homework. He had a copy of the curse and a binder full of earlier reports about the theft of the codex.

  "Look, Stan,” Gideon said uneasily as Ard continued to fill up the page with his round, methodical script, “this thing with the coati was just an in-joke, not something that was intended to make the newspapers. If it's all the same to you..."

  Ard stopped writing and held up a hand in acquiescence. “Hey, no problem. Fine, great, we'll forget all about it.” To show his sincerity he ripped out the page, crumpled it, and tossed it into an ashtray. “Okay, Gid, let's get down to brass tacks. Let me tell you what I'm doing here.” He leveled two thick fingers and the cigarette between them at Gideon. “I think you're going to like this."

  Why was it, Gideon wondered idly, that he had never much cared for anyone who called him “Gid"?

  "What I'm doing here is I'm doing a three-part feature for Flak on the curse, the dig, the whole schmear. You couldn't ask for better publicity."

  "Flak?" Gideon said doubtfully, putting aside his questions about the need for better publicity. “Isn't that one of those papers you see at the checkout counters? ‘Boy Weds Own Mother to Get Even with Dad over Allowance Dispute'? ‘Priest Splits into Four Segments While Addressing Congregation'?"

  "You got it."

  No wonder Ard had hedged with Abe. “Oh, God,” Gideon said, “I can see it now. ‘Grisly Curse of Death Stalks Jungle Excavation.’”

  Ard blinked thoughtfully. “Hey, not bad.” Apparently he meant it, because he wrote it down on a fresh sheet. “Got any other ideas?"

  Gideon laughed. “I don't suppose you'd go for ‘A Textual Analysis of a Post-Classic Mayan Incunabulum'?"

  "You're right, I wouldn't, and neither would the schmucks at the checkout counter.” His heavy chuckle turned into a gangly cough and died away. “Okay, look, I was reading the original report you wrote up in ‘82 and I needed to check some things with you. Make sure I've got it straight.” He flipped back a few pages in his notebook.

  On the glass table in front of them were a Tecate beer for Gideon—which he didn't really want, but Ard had insisted on ordering him something—and a double scotch on the rocks for the reporter. Nearby, others also chatted and drank, enjoying the relative coolness of the predinner hour. Behind Ard, a few tables away, Emma was hectoring Leo Rose on cosmic consciousness. Leo, in his usual manner, was jollying her along. Or maybe she was converting him. Who could tell with Leo?

  "Okay.” Ard gulped Scotch. “I want this to be human-interest stuff, not just facts.” The face he made showed what he thought of facts. “Let me ask you this.” While he chose his words he rooted with a finger in the curly hair at the base of his throat, jiggling the thin gold chains nestling there. “Describe to me how you felt in the...in the dark, damp depths of that passageway when your eyes beheld the long-lost Tlaloc codex.” He thought a moment, then wrote that down too, visibly impressed.

  Gideon decided to have a swallow of beer after all. An hour with Stan Ard was going to be a long time. There were still fifty-one minutes to go. “I don't know, Stan. It's hard to remember. It was a long time ago."

  "Yeah, but you must have thought something,” Ard said. He decided to clarify the question. “I mean, you must have thought something."

  "Well, I didn't know it was a codex when I first saw it,” Gideon said, aware that he wasn't providing very good copy. “I thought it was just some bundles of cloth."

  Ard frowned and shook his head. “Nah, that's no good,” he said reprovingly. “What are you, kidding me?” He downed another slug of Scotch, made a pained expression, belched, sucked on his cigarette, and gave himself over to coughing again while he hammered on his chest with the flat of his hand.

  "Okay, let's start with basic concrete facts,” he said when he could speak again. “The five Ws: who, why, what...uh, which...you know. Maybe that'll get us to something we can use. Now, according to what I read, the tunnel started looking like it was going to cave in right after you found the codex, while all you guys were down there, right?"

  "Right."

  "At 4:12 p.m."

  Gideon nodded.

  "Great,” Ard said without enthusiasm. “How much more concrete can you get than that?” Squinting, he flapped at the cigarette smoke. “So how did you happen to know the exact time?"

  Gideon shrugged. “I guess I looked at my watch...” He hesitated, seeing a sudden ray of hope. “No, wait, it was his watch.” He gestured in Leo's direction. “When that post broke and some of the ceiling came down it broke his watch. Stopped it at 4:12. We noticed it later, when we were on our way back to the site."

  "Broke his watch? Did he get hurt or anything?” Ard asked hopefully.

  Gideon saw his chance. “You know, Stan,” he said, “Leo Rose is really the guy you ought to be talking to; you've already got my version in those clippings. But Leo was right there with me, up there on that—that dark, lonely pyramid when it happened. He could give you a fresh perspective."

  This wasn't as low a trick as it seemed. By now even the durable, resilient Leo was withering under Emma's remorseless, high-volume barrage (".... because which reality plane you select doesn't really matter,” she was saying. “That's what past-life regression is all about. If you think about it in terms of Jungian synchronicity...") For some minutes Leo had been paying more attention to Gideon's and Ard's conversation than his own. His eyes were cast plaintively in their direction for possible escape.

  And regardless of what the irrepressible Leo might say, Abe had nothing to worry about. An article in Flak was not going to be read by anyone in the academic world; not admittedly, anyway. And even Dr. Villanueva couldn't claim there was any danger that it might be taken seriously.

  "Yeah?” Ard said with interest. He reached for the cigarette he'd put down during a coughing spasm, peered interestedly over his shoulder at Leo, and gave him a small, welcoming wave. Leo was quick to take advantage of it. In a flash he was out of his chair, leaving behind a sulking Emma displeased at having Leo's mind expansion interrupted. Four quick strides put him at their table.

  "Hi,” he said brightly. He blew out his cheeks, rolled his eyes, and grinned at Gideon.

  "Leo here was lucky to escape with his life when the ceiling gave way,” Gideon said. “It not only stopped his watch at 4:12, it almost took his arm off. There was blood all over the place.” It was but a small exaggeration for the greater good. Leo's wrist had, after all, been scratched, if Gideon remembered correctly.

  Leo was more than happy to go along. “There sure was,” he agreed. “There was blood everywhere."

  This obviously appealed to Ard, and Gideon pressed on. “Leo, Stan is doing a story on Tlaloc for Flak. He was thinking you'd be a good person to talk to."

  "Flak!" Leo was clearly impressed. “You work for Flak?"

  "No, I'm a free-lancer. I work out of L.A."

  "L.A.!” Leo was even more impressed. “L.A. is a great place to live. Wonderful. You're only a hundred and fifty miles from the Salton Sea, did you know that?” He slid a chair next to Ard's. “Stan,” he said, bulking sincerely at his side, “have you ever thought about the benefits of time-share ownership of a waterfront hacienda in the desert?"

  He was reaching for a soggy brochure when Gideon made a discreet exit, and the last he heard from them, as he headed up the stairs, was a brayed "bueno-bueno." Leo was calling for another round.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 10

  * * * *

  Later that evening Julie and Gideon were on their balcony, about as relaxed as people can get without being asleep. After Gideon's abbreviated interview, they had showered and changed, then gone in to dinner by themselves. They'd had sea bass in pesto sauce, with a more-than-decent bottle of Frascati. Later, they'd spent a highly satisfactory interlude in their cool and darkened room, marred only by their working up another sweat. They h
ad showered for the third time that day, and now they were sitting in the wrought-iron rocking chairs, snifters of brandy beside them. Above them the tops of the trees were hidden by the night, but the gardens and pathways were lit with a mellow amber glow from ornate, fern-shrouded lanterns.

  "Ah...” said Julie.

  "I know,” Gideon said. “The raw, primitive—"

  "No,” she said, smiling, “just ah. This is lovely."

  "Mmm."

  "Gideon, I've been doing some more thinking about whoever's been digging in the temple."

  They had talked about it several times with Abe and arrived at no useful conclusions. The site was now patrolled at night but there had been no sign of the diggers, and Abe had decided to go ahead with the legitimate excavation, or re-excavation, of the stairwell the next day. Four Mayan laborers had been brought on for the heavy work, and Abe had asked Leo, as the only one of the crew who knew something about shoring, to supervise them, at least to begin with. Another crew member, assigned on a daily rotation basis, would be stationed at the foot of the pyramid to sift the fill that would be brought down in buckets on a clothesline arrangement. After that it would be trucked away.

  The crew had expressed surprise when they were told about the surreptitious excavating, but little interest. They were more concerned with griping about having to sift the rubble even though the stairwell had already been excavated once before. As always, the screening table was the most unpopular of dig assignments. But Abe was firm, as he should have been. No fill or dirt would leave Tlaloc without sifting.

  "What I was wondering,” Julie went on, “was whether the codex might not still be down there."

  Gideon looked at her, surprised. “That's impossible. Howard's been trying to peddle it for years. That's what the committee was all about."

  "Has he? Have you ever actually seen it again? Since that first look you had at it, I mean?"

  "No, but there have been reports from all over the world—"

  "Reliable reports?"

  "Well—"

  "That you can vouch for?"

  "Well, no, not personally—"

  "Has anybody produced any photographs? Or detailed descriptions that you could check for accuracy?"

  "Well...no, not that I know of, but—"

  "Gideon, there are reports from all over the world on flying saucers, and Adolf Hitler, and...well, all kinds of things. Even photographs, but that doesn't prove they're really out there."

  "No, of course it doesn't, but why would Howard have left it behind? And are you saying he took the codex out of the chest, threw it down the steps to the bottom, collapsed the tunnel on top of it, and then just walked away from it? What would be the point? How could—"

  "I don't know, I don't know,” she said, laughing and exasperated both. “I'm trying to be creative. Look, maybe Howard didn't cave in the stairwell. That is, not on purpose. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe he—now wait, just hear me out—you said that one of the supports had already been knocked out accidentally, right? Well, maybe they weakened some more when he was smashing the lid to get at the codex, and maybe they just collapsed by themselves. Isn't that possible? Maybe...maybe he dropped it and it fell down the stairs, and then the wall caved in on it and he had to leave it because he had no choice."

  "Then why not just stick it out and say he had nothing to do with it? Why run off?"

  "Well...hmm. I'll have to work on that."

  "It's creative, all right, I'll say that.” Gideon lifted his snifter to his face, inhaled, and thought about it. “If you accept the premises, it even has a certain bizarre logic."

  She laughed. “I love it when you get carried away."

  "No,” he said, smiling back, “I think you have a point. Except—"

  "I knew it."

  "—why would Howard write a letter to Horizon bragging about stealing the codex, when he didn't?"

  "Because...” She paused, groping. “...because he wanted you all to think it was gone.” She brightened, taken with the idea. “He didn't want anyone to look for it and find it before he could come back and dig it up himself. And nobody did,” she finished triumphantly. “Did they?"

  Gideon lowered his glass to the table and turned to look at her. “No, they didn't, Julie,” he said slowly. “And so you think it's Howard himself who's been digging, trying to get to the codex before we do?"

  "Well, he's the only one who'd know it was still there—if it is still there. It makes sense, doesn't it?"

  For a moment Gideon almost thought it did. Then he sank back against the chair. “No, I don't think so. Aside from everything else, the timing's all wrong. Why would he wait until now, the very worst possible time, to try to get it? He could have given things a couple of years to blow over, come back to dig it up with no one around, and be long gone by now."

  "True,” Julie admitted after a few seconds. She leaned back in the chair and began rocking again. “Back to the drawing board. Or, on second thought, I think I'll just let you solve it."

  "Ah, come on. Coming up with ideas isn't any fun. I'd rather criticize yours."

  On the veranda a fluid tenor had joined the guitarist; a sweet, soft version of “El Venadito” floated up to them. They reached across to clasp hands and slowly rocked, listening to the old folk song.

  Soy un pobre venadito que habita en la serrani-i-i-a. Como no soy tan mansito...

  Gideon sighed, took a long, sleepy stretch, and stood up. “Ready for bed?"

  "Whew, again? The tropics really agree with you, don't they?"

  "I was thinking,” he said, “of going to sleep.” He held out his hand to lift her out of her chair, and pulled her into his arms. She rubbed her forehead against his cheek and slid her hands slowly up and down his back.

  "On the other hand,” he said, “I suppose I could be coaxed."

  Julie smiled at him. “Why don't we finish our brandies and then see how we feel? Or if you're still awake."

  "Good thinking."

  Inside the room, they pulled the louvered balcony doors shut behind them, and Gideon crossed to the front door to flick on the light and start the slow ceiling fan they liked to have on when they slept. Not for the breeze, which was nil, but the lazy tropical ambience.

  "Is that something you dropped?” Julie said, pointing toward his feet.

  He looked down to see a white sheet of paper folded into quarters on the red-tiled floor. “No, someone must have slipped it under the door."

  The brief message was centered on the page.

  Gideon Oliver, leave Yucatan or you will die. This is not a joke.

  —The Gods of Tlaloc

  After he had stared at it for a few seconds Julie took it from his hand and read it. “I don't...is this supposed to be funny?"

  "I don't know. Personally, I thought the bloodsucking coatimundi had more going for it."

  "Do you think it's really a threat? A death threat?” Gideon shook his head slowly back and forth. “I just—Christ, what am I thinking of!” He flung the door open and leaped out into the hallway.

  But no one was there, of course. The tiled hallway gleamed emptily at them, peaceful and benign, and the potted plants weren't big enough for anyone to hide behind. When he came back into the room, Julie's face was anxious.

  "Hey,” he said softly, putting his arms around her again and pulling her close, rocking slowly back and forth with her. “Hey, there isn't anything to worry about, believe me. Really."

  She lifted her head from his shoulder to throw him a mute, skeptical look.

  "No, honestly,” he said. “Threatening letters are just so much bluster. No one takes them seriously. I certainly don't, and with all the forensic work I do, I get a lot of these things."

  She looked at him again, this time with surprise. “You do?"

  "Sure, all the time."

  Well, twice. Once he'd been scheduled to testify that the skeleton of a Mafia figure found in Lake Michigan showed signs of strangulation. The other time had been w
hen he was going to give evidence on the identification of a dope racketeer whose face and fingerprints had been scraped off before he'd been dumped in the desert near Las Vegas. Both times he'd gotten anonymous letters explaining in repellent detail just what would happen to him if he showed up in court.

  "And they never amount to anything?” Julie asked, not looking overly convinced. “Nope, never."

  Well, once. The night after his testimony in the Mafia murder someone had fired two shots through the door of his room in the Holiday Inn, but he hadn't been there at the time. It was only Gideon's second case for the FBI, and he had been thrilled.

  "What about the time someone mailed you a letter bomb?” Julie said. “What about the time someone set that monstrous dog on you? On us, rather. How about—"

  "We're talking about threatening letters,” he said sensibly. “People who write threatening letters don't follow through. Never.” Or was he laying it on too thick? “Well, almost never."

  She gazed at him doubtfully.

  "It's an accepted fact,” he told her. No question about it."

  It wasn't that he was feeling especially brave, but how could anyone get very excited about this silly note? The two he'd received in the past had been poisonous; explicit enough to bring on a sweat just from the reading. This one was so...quaint, so juvenile. This is not a joke. The Gods of Tlaloc. Almost certainly a joke was just what it was, probably by the same person who had put the coat in the work shed.

  Besides, what he had told Julie was true. People who wanted to kill you, killed you. They didn't write you letters about it.

  He grinned at her. “Come on, Julie. Would I lie?"

  She was not reassured. “Why,” she wondered, addressing a window over his shoulder, “do these things happen to him? They don't happen to other people. They only happen when he's around. Curses, death threats..."