The Death Relic

by Chris Kuzneski

  ‘Are they on display in Mexico? I’d love to see them.’

  He shook his head. ‘Like most items plundered from the New World, they are currently in Europe. As such, each of the codices is named for the city where it eventually settled. The Dresden Codex is being held in the Saxon State Library in Dresden, Germany. The Paris Codex is in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, France. And the third one, The Madrid Codex, is in the Museo de América in Madrid, Spain.’

  ‘It’s being guarded by Spain? That’s disturbingly ironic.’

  ‘Trust me, it’s a fact that isn’t lost upon Mayan scholars. If they had their way, all three of the codices would be returned to the Yucatán, where they rightfully belong.’

  In 1965, a fourth codex was supposedly discovered in a Mexican cave, but its authenticity has been questioned ever since. Named after the Grolier Club of New York City, an association of bibliophiles that first presented the document to the world, the Grolier Codex consists of eleven damaged pages from a presumed twenty-page book. Since its pages are far less detailed than the other codices and its information is very similar to the Dresden Codex, most experts believe it is a forgery. Therefore, it is usually ignored by academics.

  ‘With your background, I assume you’ve worked with codices.’

  She nodded. ‘The Romans invented them as a replacement for scrolls in the first century AD. Their widespread popularity is generally associated with the rise of Christianity, which used the format for the Bible from the very beginning. No pun intended.’

  Named for the Latin word caudex, which literally means ‘block of wood’, a codex is a book with multiple sheets of paper (or papyrus, etc.) that have been folded, stitched, bound together and given a cover. Developed by the Romans from wooden writing tablets, the codex has multiple advantages over the scroll, which had been the main form of book in the ancient world. In addition to its sturdiness, a codex provides random access to the information it contains, meaning it can be opened to any page, as opposed to the scroll, which offers only sequential access. Furthermore, codices – the plural form of codex – were much cheaper to make than scrolls, because both sides of the page could be used, thus saving paper.

  Hamilton took the napkin from his lap and placed it on the table. Then he began folding it lengthwise, similar to a paper fan, one careful fold after another. ‘Mayan codices are different from Roman codices because they were painted on bark cloth, not paper, and screen-folded in this fashion. Made from the inner bark of fig trees, the cloth was far more durable than papyrus and better for writing. Unfortunately, the three codices that survived are relatively new. They were written during the Colonial period, an era that started with the arrival of the Spanish.’

  ‘That’s less than five hundred years ago.’

  He nodded, all too familiar with the maths. ‘Based on the carbon dating of a site in Belize, the Mayan civilization started as early as 2600 BC. That means over four thousand years of history was destroyed by Landa and his men – information we may never recover.’

  As a historian, Maria knew the Maya had been around for a long time, but she had never grasped quite how long until that moment. Growing up in Italy, she had heard many stories about Romulus and Remus, the mythical twin brothers who had founded the city of Rome on 21 April 753 BC. Her father used to preach about the date’s significance, saying it, and not the emergence of Ancient Greece, was the ‘true’ beginning of Western Civilization. Despite her hatred of the man, his notion of history had wormed its way into her brain, somehow becoming the benchmark of comparison for anything she examined.

  Constantinople? Founded a thousand years after Rome.

  The Ottoman Empire? Two thousand years after Rome.

  And so on.

  In her field of study, she never had to go before that date. Her mental timeline started in 753 BC and marched towards the birth of Christianity and the present.

  But the Maya? They were off the chart in the other direction.

  Their civilization started 1,800 years before Rome.

  Five hundred years before the first dynasty in China.

  Even before the Great Pyramid of Giza.

  Maria dwelled on the numbers as they danced through her head. ‘Four thousand years of history is tough for me to comprehend. That’s twice as long as the Catholic Church’s.’

  Hamilton nodded. ‘Who knows what we might learn about the world if additional codices were found? They might change our view of everything.’

  When he said it, the cocksure grin returned to his face – the same grin that had been present when he had talked about blowing her mind. It had disappeared during their lengthy discussion of the Spanish Conquest, but it was back now in full force, tugging at the corners of his mouth like the strings of a marionette.

  She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘You found another codex?’

  He refused to answer directly, but the twinkle in his eye spoke volumes. ‘Let’s just say the last few weeks have been interesting.’

  ‘That’s great!’ she said, trying hard to contain her enthusiasm. Although she barely knew Hamilton, she was thrilled he had found something to cap his illustrious career. For her, it was proof that good things happened to those who worked the hardest – a thought that did much to keep her going in the male-dominated world of archaeology. ‘What’s the next step?’

  ‘Funny you should ask.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because the next step … is you.’

  ‘Me?’ she shrieked.

  He laughed at her reaction. ‘Come now, Maria. Is it really that hard to believe? I mean, I flew you here for a reason – and it wasn’t to drink daiquiris.’

  ‘I know, but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I’m not a Maya expert.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that!’ he said, laughing. ‘We already have one of those, and his name is Terrence Hamilton.’

  She cracked a smile, despite her continued confusion. As an expert in the field of Christianity, she honestly didn’t know how she could help his cause.

  ‘Listen,’ he said in a soothing voice, ‘I know it doesn’t make much sense right now, but trust me when I tell you, I need your help more than you can possibly imagine.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘I certainly do.’

  ‘And it has something to do with my field?’

  ‘Definitely. It’s right up your alley.’

  She paused for a moment, thinking things through. ‘I have to admit, I’m intrigued by your project. I can’t imagine what it has to do with me. I really can’t.’

  He smiled. ‘Just say the word, and I’ll fill you in on everything.’

  She took a deep breath, then nodded. ‘OK. I’ll do it.’

  ‘You’ll do it?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll join your team. But only because I’m so intrigued.’

  Hamilton jumped from his seat with a burst of excitement. ‘Excellent! You’ve made an old man very happy!’

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘Seriously, my dear, I am truly grateful.’

  Maria beamed with pride. It had been a long time since she had felt so appreciated. ‘Don’t go thanking me yet. Let’s hold off on the flattery until I’ve done something to merit it.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said sheepishly. ‘It’s just, I don’t know. Now that you’re in my corner, I feel like everything is going to be all right.’

  She laughed at him. ‘There you go again. More flattery.’

  He shook his head. ‘That wasn’t flattery. Just confidence in our abilities. Nothing wrong with a little confidence, is there?’

  ‘No. I guess not.’

  ‘What about gifts?’

  ‘Gifts?’ she said, confused.

  ‘What’s your stance on gifts?’

  ‘Um … I tend to like them.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ he said, reaching into his pocket. ‘Because I have a gift for you.’

  She immediately tensed. ‘I hope it isn’t jew
ellery. Otherwise, we might have to revisit the dirty-old-man conversation we had earlier.’

  He brushed aside the remark. ‘Good heavens, Maria. It’s nothing like that. In fact, it’s the least romantic gift I can think of.’

  She relaxed slightly. ‘What is it?’

  He extended his hand to reveal a metal cross. Approximately six inches in length, it appeared to be quite old. Accented by four red stones, which were mounted near the ends of the beams, it had a small hole in the middle of the cross. At first glance, she couldn’t tell if a jewel had been pried from the centre or something had fallen off over the years. Whatever the case, the cross was still beautiful, despite the hole.

  She took it in her hands. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘On a recent dig,’ he explained. ‘Unlike you, I’m not a religious person – never have been, never will be – so I have no use for this trinket. I’m simply not the praying type. However, I thought someone in your field might appreciate it. If not, I’d be happy to return it to our box of goodies. You’d be surprised what you find when you search for long enough.’

  12

  After dinner, Payne and Jones went to a sports bar on East Carson Street, where they could shoot pool and watch the hockey game. Led by Sidney Crosby, one of the best players in the world, the Pittsburgh Penguins were playing a late-night game against the Vancouver Canucks. Despite the bad weather outside, the bar was packed with Penguins fans, many of whom wore the team’s black and gold colours as they guzzled beer and shouted profanities at the dozens of TVs.

  For Payne, a joint like this felt like home. Despite his military academy education and his title as CEO of Payne Industries, he was a blue-collar guy at heart. Raised by his grandfather, who had started out as a labourer at a local steel mill before starting his own company, Payne spent much of his childhood in a hard hat. During the school year, he was allowed to concentrate on academics and athletics, both of which he excelled at, but during the summer months, his grandfather put him to work on the floor alongside grizzled men more than twice his age who picked on him because of his surname. The experience did more than toughen Payne up. It showed him how blessed he was to have opportunities outside of the mill.

  ‘Nice shot,’ Jones teased as he put down his beer and grabbed the pool cue from Payne. ‘Too bad you missed.’

  Payne shrugged. ‘The hockey game distracted me.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. It’s still my turn. Let me show you how it’s done.’ Jones eyed the table for a few seconds, then pointed to the far end. ‘Six ball, corner pocket.’

  He calmly lined up the shot, then buried the ball with one swift strike.

  Payne grunted but said nothing, which was standard protocol for them. When they competed against each other, compliments were nonexistent unless someone did something miraculous – like a hole-in-one in golf or a 300-game in bowling – and even those comments came begrudgingly. Once their match was complete, their friendship returned to normal, but during the heat of battle, they were competitors who did just about anything to gain an advantage. And that included playing mind games.

  ‘So,’ Payne said, ‘I’m surprised you like eight-ball as much as you do.’

  Jones moved around the table, looking for his next shot. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because it’s a blatantly racist game.’

  ‘You mean like hockey? I haven’t seen a black player yet.’

  ‘No, I’m talking about the game’s hidden meaning.’

  Jones shook his head, trying to ignore Payne. ‘You are so predictable. As soon as I start to win, you start yapping. Yap, yap, yap. Like a little dog. It’s pathetic.’

  Payne remained silent, patiently letting his remark fester. He knew the comment about race would eventually be addressed, and when it did, it would mess with his friend’s mind.

  Jones studied the table. ‘Four ball, side pocket … No, wait. Scratch that. Two ball, far corner. I think I can squeeze it in past the twelve …’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Payne asked.

  Jones repositioned himself for the shot. ‘Nothing’s wrong.’

  ‘Are you sure? Because it looks like something’s wrong.’

  He ignored the question and attempted the shot, which he missed by a few inches. Not because he was distracted, but because it was a difficult shot. ‘Shit.’

  Payne fought the urge to smile as he snatched the cue back. ‘Wow! That was really close. You must be heartbroken. I’ll tell you what: if you want, we can move the balls back and I’ll let you try again. That’s what my dad used to do … when I was three.’

  ‘Screw you.’

  ‘I can even pick you up so you can see over the edge of the table a little better. For a short guy like you that’s a pretty big disadvantage.’

  Jones sneered as he returned to their corner table. He took a long swig of beer before he spoke again. ‘What were you talking about before?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Earlier.’

  ‘Yeah, that really narrows it down.’

  Jones growled softly. ‘That bullshit about eight-ball.’

  ‘Oh, that. I was wondering when we’d get back to that. I heard some sociologist talking about it on TV. He claims eight-ball is a racist game that should be boycotted by everyone.’

  ‘Really? Why’s that?’

  Payne explained the theory. ‘The cue ball, which is white, is used to knock around all the coloured balls. The balls that are solid in colour have the lowest numbers on them. In other words, they have the lowest value according to society. Meanwhile, the striped balls, which are half white, have higher numbers, giving them a greater intrinsic value.’

  Jones grunted. ‘I never thought of it like that.’

  ‘But that’s not the worst part.’

  ‘It’s not?’

  Payne shook his head. ‘The object of the game is to knock the eight-ball, which is black, off the table. Nobody wins until the black ball gets eliminated. Once it does, we celebrate.’

  ‘Son of a bitch! We’re playing a racist game.’

  ‘Just say the word and we can quit.’

  From his seat in the corner, Jones eyed the playing surface. He had a three-ball lead in their current game. ‘Not right now. I’m winning.’

  ‘Are you sure? Because I’m more than willing to quit—’

  Jones interrupted him. ‘Not a chance in hell! It’s funny how you didn’t mention this racism thing when you were kicking my ass in the last game.’

  ‘I didn’t think of it then.’

  ‘I wonder why.’

  ‘Wait! What are you suggesting? That I’d stoop so low as to use race issues to my personal advantage.’

  Jones nodded. ‘Just like a whitey.’

  Payne faked indignation. More like brothers than friends, they constantly joked about race without offending one another. It had been that way for as long as they could remember. ‘How dare you call me whitey! I’m an honorary black guy. You said so yourself.’

  ‘You were until you made up that bullshit about a sociologist.’

  ‘Bullshit? What bullshit?’

  Jones called his bluff. ‘Sociologist, my ass! That eight-ball-is-racist skit is one of the oldest jokes in the world. I’ve heard everyone from Martin Lawrence to Chris Rock talk about it. If you’re gonna distract me, you need to come up with fresher material.’

  Before Payne could respond, he heard his phone ring above the din of the bar. It was sitting on their table, right next to Jones. ‘Can you grab that for me?’

  ‘Not a chance. You’ll use it as an excuse to quit.’

  ‘No, I won’t.’

  ‘Yes, you will.’

  ‘At least tell me who’s calling. I won’t pick up unless it’s important.’

  Jones sighed and grabbed the phone. He did a double take when he read the caller ID. The name on the screen was a blast from the past. Not Payne’s past. His own past. For a moment, it took his breath away, like a sucker punch to the gut. Why in the hell was she
calling Payne in the middle of the night? The two of them didn’t talk – or did they? If so, his best friend had been keeping it from him.

  Suddenly his world was filled with doubt.

  Payne searched for his next shot. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Maria,’ he said softly.

  ‘Who?’

  Jones cleared his throat and spoke louder. ‘Maria.’

  ‘Maria who? I don’t know any Marias.’

  He glared at his friend. ‘Maria Pelati.’

  Payne stopped what he was doing and focused on Jones. From the look in his eyes, it was obvious he wasn’t happy about the call. ‘Really? Why’s she calling me?’

  He continued to glare. ‘I was about to ask you the same thing.’

  13

  Angel Ramirez was second-in-command within Hector’s organization. Pronounced ‘AHN-hell’ in Spanish, Angel was phoned a few hours after Hector received the proof-of-life call from the kidnappers. Hector wouldn’t tell him what was going on. He just told him to get his ass to the mansion as soon as possible. He would explain everything when Angel arrived.

  Hector was waiting for him in the library. As he paced back and forth, the look on his face was one of rage. Not anger, but all-out fury. Unaware of the crisis, Angel assumed that he had done something to upset his boss. He racked his brains, trying to remember any mistakes he’d made in the last few days, but he came up empty. Nevertheless, Angel was so concerned about Hector’s wrath that he glanced at the floor to make sure plastic hadn’t been laid down to protect the wood. On more than one occasion, Hector had fired an employee by literally firing at him.

  Angel breathed a sigh of relief when he saw floor.

  Still pacing, Hector blurted out, ‘They have my kids.’

  ‘What?’ he said in Spanish.

  ‘They have my fucking kids.’

  ‘Who does?’

  ‘How should I fucking know? If I did, I would get them!’

  Angel shook his head in confusion. His boss wasn’t making sense. ‘Hector, what are you talking about? Someone stole your children?’

  ‘Yes!’ he screamed. ‘They got my kids!’