by Storm, Buck
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Drawing Moustaches on the Saints
Sammy seemed infinitely proud of his ancient diesel Toyota Land Cruiser. Hollister thought the back seat could have used a little more leg room.
Plus the stinking back window wouldn’t roll down, and Crystal was beyond ripe.
Simmons rode shotgun up front, listening to Sammy’s non-stop informal tour.
Yeah, of Dante’s nine levels of hell. Ugh, Mexico. What Hollister wouldn’t give for an In-N-Out burger right about now.
“So, Sammy,” Simmons said. “What would a guy have to do to get a little time with your cousin?”
Sammy didn’t turn. “What cousin?”
“I thought the waitress at the café was your cousin?”
“I have many cousins, señor.”
“Yeah, but what would I have to do to get some time?”
“That one? You’d have to crawl back in your mother’s womb and come back out Mexican. She doesn’t like gringos. Even rich ones.”
“Now who’s rude?” Hollister muttered.
“You ask, señor. I tell you the truth. It is what it is.”
Sammy steered, bounced, and verbally tortured them through a never-ending maze of adobe, metal, and even cardboard shacks. Hollister grudgingly admitted to himself the Mexican’s usefulness. They’d never have navigated this place on their own, and the GPS in the Hummer had handed in its resignation a day and a half ago, suggesting with irritation that they make a U-turn in two-hundred-thirty-seven miles.
Simmons wiped his brow with a silk handkerchief. “What a dump. Sammy, please tell me you don’t live in one of these shacks.”
A boy, snot running down his face, ran into the narrow dirt street chasing a soccer ball, and Sammy slowed. The boy smiled and waved, and Sammy gave a couple toots on the horn.
Simmons reached over and added his own long blast. “Get out of the way, you little brat! C’mon, Sammy, move. Let’s get there, already! I’m roasting in here.”
Hollister pressed down the strong urge to break the good doctor’s arm.
The boy joined a small army of others like him on a large patch of dirt that served as a field. Jungle pressed in around.
“How much farther?” Crystal asked.
“Just ahead,” Sammy said.
The barrio gave way to bigger, very old buildings.
“This part of Dia Perdido has been here for four hundred and fifty years. Before the United States of America was even a gleam in George Washington’s wooden eye,” Sammy said.
“Teeth,” Simmons replied.
“Qué?” Sammy said. “What?”
“Teeth. He had wooden teeth. How could he see if he had wooden eyes?”
Sammy shrugged. “That’s your problem. That over there?” He pointed toward a graceful, two-story adobe building. “That is the Mission Del Dia Perdido.”
A high arch topped the mission, holding a large bell, green with patina.
Sammy parked the Land Cruiser on the street. The engine clacked and sputtered for a full ten seconds after he switched off the ignition.
Hollister swung the door open and breathed in deeply, trying to purge Crystal from his nostrils. Out of nowhere, a small army of children engulfed his legs. Sammy shouted at the hoard in Spanish, and they began to disperse, though with obvious reluctance.
“Aggressive little ankle biters, ain’t they?” Hollister said.
“They’re excited. It’s not often visitors come to the home,” Sammy said.
“Yeah, Simmons said something about that. It’s a home for children, right?”
“Sí. Some orphans live here, and some come from the barrio to have a meal and to play. The staff is very good to them. I hope you will not give them trouble.”
“What a daisy,” Crystal said.
Hollister shot her a warning glance. “No trouble. We just want to look around.”
“We’re very interested in the history,” Simmons added.
“Please don’t insult me, señor. I’m not a fool. You paid me well to guide you and provide with the pistola. I do these things. I ask no questions. I tell no one. All I ask is that you make no trouble for the staff and the children here.”
“Or?” Crystal said.
Sammy waved an arm back toward the barrio. “Or my cousins will be very upset. And like I said before, I have many cousins.”
“We just want to look around. That’s it, okay?” Hollister said. “No trouble. Like the doctor says—consider us just a few curious gringos.”
“Sí. Okay. I’ll wait with the car. I’ve seen the church.”
A white woman emerged from the mission. Young. Pretty in an I-live-in-Mexico-and-couldn’t-care-less-about-makeup sort of way. Thin blonde hair pulled back into a severe ponytail. “Welcome. Sammy told me you’d be coming. I’m Leena Rogers, the orphanage director. Can I show you around?”
Simmons stepped forward, making introductions all around. His hand lingered too long on the girl’s, and Hollister’s skin crawled.
The thick, adobe walls kept the sanctuary surprisingly cool. Pews filled much of the available space. Thick columns rose floor to towering ceiling, on either side of the center aisle. Two confessionals beckoned and threatened from one wall, and a stage, altar, and pulpits fronted the airy space. Niches stuffed with statues of saints filled the high wall behind. Frescos covered other walls. “This is the main chapel, of course,” Leena said. “Built by Spanish missionaries around 1560.”
“And it’s still a Catholic church? I thought it was a children’s home. Run by Protestants or Baptists or something,” Hollister said.
Leena squinted up at him. “Baptists are Protestants.”
“Oh, okay. Sorry.”
She laughed. “Don’t be. Just think of most of the Christian faith outside of Catholicism as Protestant. It’s not important. But yes, the home is run by a nondenominational church based out of Seattle. That’s where I’m from. I oversee things, but teams from various churches come down from the States about every other month to fill out the staffing. Some people come more often or even spend the whole winter down here. They do Vacation Bible School, puppet shows—all kinds of things. It’s no end of work. We also have a few locals on the full-time payroll as well. We’ve built dorms, a kitchen, common rooms, a playground—all kinds of things—out on the back of the property. That’s where the kids and staff live. Do you want to come see? The children love visitors.”
“Not particularly. What’s upstairs?” Simmons said.
“I do,” Crystal said. “Let’s go see the kids.”
Hollister raised an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”
She flashed her shark teeth. “I want to see the kids, sweetie dear.”
Leena’s eyes flicked between the two. “Um … upstairs … some offices nobody uses, another small chapel, and the stairway up to the bell tower.”
Simmons fanned himself with the Panama. “Fascinating. No need to trouble you. Do you mind if we look around on our own? Do some exploring?”
Leena reached up and tightened her ponytail. A nervous habit, maybe. “But I thought you were here to take a look at the ministry.”
Simmons made his way to a wall and studied the fresco. “Yeah … well … you thought wrong. We just want to see the church.”
“I’ll see ’em,” Crystal repeated. “I’ll see the kids.”
Visible alarm bells registered in Leena’s eyes. “Yeah. Okay. The church is public and never locked, so you’re free to look around and take as long as you like. I’ll be getting back to the kids then, if you don’t mind. Nice to meet you.” She glanced at Crystal. “You sure you want to meet them?”
“Love ’em. Love the kids.” Crystal rolled her head back and her neck cracked. “Let’s see ’em.”
Simmons turned to Hollister once the ladies had exited. “What was that about? Since when does Crystal like kids? Or anybody, for that matter?”
“I have no idea,” Hollister said. “She’s an
interesting bunch of women. That head of hers is a strange and scary place.”
“Is she safe with them? The kids? Out there?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Oh, well. Leave it alone. Let’s look for the gold. Where do we start?”
Hollister shrugged. “You’re the doctor. You tell me.”
“It’s been, what, three hundred years since those brothers had the coins? I bet this place looked pretty much the same back then. Lucky for us, they built separately out back for the little riffraff. If they had torn into this place to remodel or something, they might have found it already.”
“You know, nobody ever said whatever those guys hid even was gold. It might have been worthless. Or a map to some stupid myth like the Fountain of Youth. I read it online. Those Spaniards ran all over the place looking for junk like that.”
“Nah, it’s gold. Has to be. Otherwise, why go to all the trouble?” Simmons took a slow three-hundred-sixty-degree survey of the room. “Our advantage is that the locals never knew anything was ever hidden here, so they wouldn’t have thought to look. And we got here first. Before my tramp daughter and her friends.”
If there was gold, there had to be a way of cutting Simmons out. Maybe Crystal was right about pounding the guy and leaving him in a ditch. It certainly would be an enjoyable workout.
“Yeah. I guess.”
“Let’s start upstairs and work our way down.”
“You’re the boss, boss.”
The bell tower proved to be solid adobe and offered nothing but a crystalline view of the Caribbean where a large island rose up on the horizon. From the tourist map back in the hotel room, Hollister marked it as Cozumel. Closer in to shore, a double-masted sailboat approached the mainland, sails white against the sea and sky.
What would that be like? To sail off without a thought?
The search through the upper rooms continued to disappointment. Solid bare walls of thick, mud brick offered no opportunity for a hiding place.
Nothing, nothing, and more nothing.
That left the sanctuary …
Once back downstairs, Hollister moved to the center of the space, trying to put himself in the brothers’ shoes.
Where?
“Don’t just stand there like an idiot. Start looking. You know, false walls, loose bricks—you’ve seen the movies.” Simmons began moving along the edges of the room, tapping as he went.
Hollister ignored him. The brothers had been both careful and smart, secreting the location of whatever-it-was on two separate coins. Clue and cipher—both useless without the other. This was too easy. Besides, why hide something of value in such a public venue? Even if you were planning on returning for it soon, as the brothers must have been, why risk such a public place where the chances of someone stumbling on it would be high?
Simmons moved to the platform, tapping, and stomping.
Good, knock yourself out.
The wall-to-wall frescos pulled Hollister’s eyes upward. Even the ceiling. Blue sky filled with angels soared high above the tile floor.
No. Hollister wouldn’t have hidden treasure here … But maybe another clue? Yeah, definitely another clue. One that could be in the frescos. He moved his eyes along the closest wall with forced deliberation, and he began to take the scenes apart in his mind inch-by-inch, stroke-by-stroke. Some of the scenes he recognized from stories he’d heard or read. Peter denying Christ in the courtyard. Judas and his thirty pieces of silver. Along the wall, scene after scene, story after visual story, he went.
Nothing.
The fresco on the high wall behind the pulpit made little sense. Some biblical epic he apparently wasn’t familiar with. A muscled, bearded man in the midst of a nasty battle held a sword above his head. The weapon dripped with enemy blood, and the slain lay around him in piles of limbs and other body parts. High above, both a sun and moon hung over the gruesome scene.
More like a late night horror flick than Sunday morning material. Real Elvira stuff. Hollister studied the depiction for long minutes, but nothing jumped out. Nothing, nothing, and more nothing.
It had to be there somewhere.
Simmons grunted from the stage as he threw his weight against the massive altar. “Hollister, when do you think was the last time anyone moved this thing?”
“Probably never. Must weigh at least a ton.”
“C’mon, get your head in the game. You have to think like the brothers. If you wanted to hide something in here, where would you do it? I’d say behind something like this. Give me a hand.”
Hollister sighed but threw his considerable weight into moving the piece away from the wall.
Maybe a ton wasn’t an exaggeration.
The altar creaked and budged a fraction of an inch. Hollister moved his hands, searching for better purchase, found it, then heaved again. The wood groaned as it slid, but once inertia kicked in, the thing kept sliding.
Burt knelt down, examining the wall and floor. “There’s a good chance nobody’s seen this wall in hundreds of years.”
Hollister still studied the fresco above. “Yeah. I’ve got chills.”
Dull thumps from Burt … “Wait. Did you hear that?”
Another thump. This one hollow sounding.
“There’s a hollow place back here.” Burt reached up and grabbed a silver candelabra from the altar and started beating at the adobe wall. So much for respecting sacred places. The guy never ceased to amaze. What was next, mustaches on the saints? Still, Hollister couldn’t help crouching for a better look. Maybe Simmons was onto something. Hey, even a broken clock is right twice a day.
“I’m through!” Dust rose as Simmons yanked dirt and chunks of adobe brick from a hole about a foot high and two wide. “Definitely something in here. This has to be it!”
Hollister rocked back and forth, trying to see around Simmons. “What is it?”
“A box. Yeah, it’s a wooden box. Heavy. Old, too. But it’s locked.” Simmons pulled the object from the hole, and it dropped to the floor with a heavy thud—and the unmistakable jangle of coins.
Lots of coins.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Dominoes and Tequila
Doc stood on the bow holding a line, ready to make landing. Lan guided the Lazarus around a rough, limestone breakwater and motored into a small harbor nestled against the jungles of the Yucatan Peninsula.
Doc stole a glance at Paradise, who watched the shore from the rail, shading her eyes with a hand.
Scarf and cat-eye sunglasses—Audrey today.
Birds screeched in the dense forest, and the air hung heavy and hot as if shaking off the natural law of gas form and opting for solid instead. A narrow beach stretched out on either side of the breakwater, dotted with a few shacks and a thatch-roofed cantina. Five rust-streaked fishing boats and an oxidized, fiberglass sloop—waterline heavy with hanging marine growth—populated the crooked, sun-baked docks.
“Hey! Chuey!” Lan called from his perch behind the wheel.
A tin-roofed, stained stucco building sulked in the heat at the edge of a sand and crushed shell parking lot. A man stepped out of it into the bright day. He blocked the sun from his eyes with his hand. “Ah! Señor Lan! Bienvenida! Welcome, my friend! Welcome!” He scurried toward them at a fast trot, pumping short, bowed legs.
“Dat’s Chuey, the harbor master.” Easy stood at Doc’s elbow, ready to climb down and catch the line on Lan’s order.
“Isn’t he hot?” Doc said, taking in the man’s grease-stained jeans and long-sleeved shirt.
“No. He was born here. Right on dis beach. Dis ain’t nothin’ to him.”
The man arrived at a patched and splintered dock at the same time Lan dropped the Lazarus into reverse and edged up. The boat inched slowly to the side and gently touched the berth.
“Look at that,” Lan said. “Wouldn’t have cracked an egg.”
Easy tossed a line to Chuey, who caught it and wrapped it around a cleat. Several days’ worth of gray beard
covered the man’s face. A ragged captain’s cap that had the word Harbormaster handwritten on it in English with a black permanent marker was cocked down over one eye. An old Pepsi bottle with a cork stuck in the top hung around his neck, fastened with a piece of twine.
“What’s in the bottle?” Doc said, his voice low enough that only Easy could hear.
“Don’t know, mon. But if he offers you some, don’t take it. Trust me, I spent a bad, bad night on dis beach one time cause of dat nasty, little bottle.”
Chuey spoke passable English, though with a heavy accent. “Señor Lan. It’s been too long, amigo. I begin to wonder did you drown or something?”
Lan’s reply had the easy familiarity born of long friendship. “No dice, Chuey. Davy Jones hasn’t got me yet. Listen, my passengers want to go to Dia Perdido. Does your car still run?”
“Does it run? Does the sun still come up? Does my wife hide my tequila every Friday? Of course, it runs! And I still owe you one, eh? From last time? But you have to give me a ride to my sister’s casa first. Feeling too old to walk today—most days, I think. And my sister, she likes to play dominoes.”
Lan hopped to the dock with the agility of a much younger man and dropped a big arm around Chuey’s shoulders. “No problem. And you owe me more than one, amigo. I took quite a chance for you. The Cartel is probably still ticked off about that whole deal.”
Chuey laughed and waved a dismissive hand. “Those guys are always ticked off. But sí, I owe you lots. Ha! You’re not bad for an old gringo hippie, eh?”
Easy jumped down and tied off the line Doc tossed him, then three more. With the Lazarus secured at five separate points, he gave a satisfied nod, then unfastened and lowered the wooden steps from the boat to the dock.
“Easy, take Chuey to his sister’s and bring the car back, will you?” Lan said.
“Yes sir, boss,” Easy replied. With Chuey leading the way, the men headed toward the parking lot, talking and laughing as they went.
Lan boarded again, and Doc and Paradise began helping him secure the sail covers.
“What did you do to make them mad, Lan? What did you call them, the Cartel? How did you help that man?” Paradise said.