Near the opening, one of the Maya helpers stood looking cowed while Fernando Aguilar snapped at him, his face stormy and livid—but the moment Aguilar saw the approaching Americans, his expression transformed miraculously. He swept off his spotted hat. “Look what we have found, amigos!” he said. “Equipment stored by Señorita Rubicon’s team!”
In the temple shadows, a pile of crates huddled under a tarp. Like a matador taunting a bull, Aguilar grabbed the corner of the tarp and yanked it off to reveal the cache of supplies.
“Señorita Rubicon’s team must have left these crates here protected from wild animals. Though the other equipment has vanished, these items appear to have been untouched. What a lucky find for us.”
“But why would she leave all this here?” Scully said quietly.
“Look, food supplies and the radio transmitter,” Aguilar said. “This large box has something else inside it.” Aguilar bent down to scrutinize the crate. He gestured for one of the Indians to help him pry open the top.
“Mulder,” Scully kept her voice low, “do you know what this means? Cassandra couldn’t have gone off in search of supplies. There’s enough food here for weeks, and the team could have used the transmitter to call for help any time.”
Vladimir Rubicon eagerly bent forward to inspect the large crate, shouldering aside the Indian and using his big-knuckled fingers to pull open the top of the crate while Aguilar stepped back to observe.
Scully watched, surprised to see the contents. “It’s an underwater suit and air hoses,” she said, puzzled. “Was Cassandra intending to explore the cenote?”
“That makes good archaeological sense,” Rubicon said, nodding vigorously. “In those deep wells artifacts are preserved for centuries and centuries. Yes, she would have wanted to go down there, my Cassandra—just like Thompson.”
Scully swatted away a stinging fly. “Who was Thompson? I don’t recall any member of their team with that name.”
Startled from his concentration, Rubicon looked up from the weather-stained crates. “Who? Oh, Thompson—no, I meant Edward Thompson, the last of the great amateur archaeologists here in the Yucatán. He spent years studying the cenote at Chichén Itzá, where he found the single greatest treasure trove of Maya artifacts ever recovered.”
Skeptically, Mulder held up the diving suit’s limp sleeve of rubberized canvas fabric. “He dove down into a deep sacrificial well like the one out there?” He gestured back toward the main plaza and the tall pyramid.
Rubicon shook his head. “Uh, not at first. He spent years dredging, dropping a cast-iron bucket down to the bottom, scooping up loads of muck, and sifting through it by hand. He recovered bones and cloth and jade, several intact skulls—one of which had been used as a ceremonial censer and still smelled of perfume.
“But after a while, Thompson decided that the clumsy dredge couldn’t do as good a job as a diver working hands-on. He had planned for that possibility when he launched his original expedition, buying the equipment, acquiring training. He taught his four Indian helpers how to operate the air pumps, the winches.”
Rubicon looked down at the diving suit his daughter had intended to wear, and seemed to suppress a shudder. “When Thompson went under the cenote, the solemn Indians waved goodbye to him, confident they’d never see him again. In his own words, he sank ‘like a bag of lead,’ thirty feet down into water so dark that even his flashlight couldn’t penetrate it. At the bottom he felt around in the mud to find artifacts—coins, jade, sculptures, rubber objects.
“But despite his armored diving suit, Thompson sustained severe ear damage from his dives. The locals looked on him with awe from that point on—he was the only living person ever to have gone into the sacred cenote and survive.”
Scully nodded. “And you think your daughter intended to follow in his footsteps, exploring the Xitaclan cenote.”
Mulder pawed around the equipment packed into the crates. “Doesn’t look like she had a chance to use the suit, though,” he said. “The manufacturer’s warranty sticker is still on it.”
“She was interrupted before she could complete her investigations,” Rubicon said.
Mulder saw Fernando Aguilar flash a final angry glance at the Indian, who turned away, his shoulders slumped.
“Yes, but interrupted by what?” Mulder said.
Together, they climbed the steps of the central Pyramid of Kukulkan. Panting in the humid air, they exerted themselves up the steep incline and the narrow and uneven limestone stairs.
“Careful,” Mulder said seriously. “It’s not very stable.”
Rubicon bent to inspect the weathered stairs themselves, pointing out carvings that had been picked clean, the moss removed, the dirt and limestone powder brushed away from the cracks.
“See, Cassandra’s team has cleaned the first twelve steps. If I could read these glyphs, we could learn why the Maya built Xitaclan, what made this place such a sacred site.” He stood up, pressing a hand against his lower back. “But I’m not an expert in this form. Few people are. Maya glyphs are among the most difficult of all mankind’s written languages to decipher. That’s why Cassandra brought her own special epigrapher with her team.”
“Yes,” Scully said, “Christopher Porte.”
Rubicon shrugged. “I understand he was quite skilled.”
“Let’s see what’s on the top of the pyramid,” Mulder said, and trudged higher up the steep incline.
“Probably an open-air temple,” Rubicon answered. “The high priest would stand on the platform and face the rising sun before he made his sacrifices.”
At the top, Mulder stopped, placed his hands on his hips, and drew a deep breath as he took in the spectacular view.
The Central American jungle spread out like a flat carpet as far as he could see, trees laden with vines, everything a lush, lush green. Stone temple ruins in the distance poked up through the foliage like giant tomb-stones.
“The past is strong in this place,” Rubicon muttered.
Mulder could imagine the Maya priests feeling godlike, standing so close to heaven under the pounding morning sun. The crowds would have waited in the plaza below, congregating after their labors out in the forest where they slashed and burned to plant crops of maize and beans and peppers. The priest stood here at the top, perhaps with his drugged or bound sacrificial victim, ready to shed blood to honor the gods.
Mulder’s runaway imagination was jarred when old Vladimir Rubicon cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted “Cassandra!” into the jungle. His words echoed across the landscape, startling birds from the treetops. “Cassandra!” he bellowed again.
Rubicon looked around, listening, waiting. Mulder and Scully stood next to the archaeologist, holding their breath. The old man had tears in his eyes. “I had to try,” he said, shrugging his bony shoulders.
Then, looking embarrassed, Rubicon turned to the tall temple pillars and the flat platform. Mulder saw elaborate stone designs chiseled into the limestone, flecks of paint still visible in the protected crevices and crannies.
The builders of Xitaclan had repeated the feathered serpent motif again and again, creating conflicting impressions of fear and protection, power and subservience. Other drawings showed a tall man, faceless, with some strange body armor or a suit, flames flowing from behind him. A rounded covering on his head that looked unmistakably like a…
“Doesn’t that figure remind you of something, Scully?” he asked.
She crossed her arms over her chest, then shook her head. “You’re not going to connect ancient astronauts with a missing-persons case, are you, Mulder?”
“Just looking at the evidence with my own eyes,” he said quietly. “Maybe Cassandra found some information that others wanted to keep hidden.”
“That is Kukulkan,” Rubicon said, not hearing Mulder as he pointed to other images that showed a strangely shaped ship, coiled designs that may well have been pieces of machinery or equipment. “Very powerful and very wise, he brought kno
wledge down from the sky. He stole fire from the gods and delivered it to the people.”
Mulder looked at Scully, raising his eyebrows. “Just a myth,” she said.
Rubicon put his half-glasses on his nose; then, realizing how useless the gesture was, slipped them back off again to let them dangle at his throat. “God of wind, the master of life, Kukulkan brought civilization to the Maya people at the beginning of time. He invented metallurgy. He was the patron of every art.”
“A Renaissance kind of guy,” Mulder said.
“Kukulkan ruled for many centuries until eventually his enemy Tezcatlipoca drove him out—uh, the guy whose corpse gave off such a smell. Kukulkan had to return to his homeland, so he burned his own houses, which were built of silver and shells, and then set sail to the east on the sea. Kukulkan disappeared, promising he would return to the people one day.”
Mulder felt the excitement beating in his heart. “Houses built of silver and shells” could have meant metal and glass; adding all the fire imagery, he pictured a rocket or a spaceship.
“The Maya people were so convinced by their legend,” Rubicon continued, shading his eyes to look toward the horizon, “that they stationed sentries to watch the east coast, uh, waiting for Kukulkan. When the Spaniards came in their tall galleons, wearing bright metal breastplates, the Maya were convinced Kukulkan had returned.”
“Men in silver suits could easily be confused for spacemen,” he said.
“You’re welcome to your opinion, Mulder,” she said. “I know it’s no use trying to talk you out of it. But we’ve still got a missing archaeology team to find. What do Maya gods and ancient astronauts have to do with our case?”
“Nothing, I’m sure, Scully,” Mulder said in a voice that said exactly the opposite. He kept his smile to himself. “Nothing at all.”
19
Xitaclan ruins
Monday, 3:10 P.M.
On their way back down the steep stairs on the opposite side of the pyramid, where the steps were more uneven and crumbling, Scully watched as Rubicon pointed out where someone with a clumsy pickaxe and chisel had broken free ornate carvings, alcoves perhaps containing jade artifacts and other valuable objects.
Rubicon, his temper rising, said in disgust, “These artifacts are probably for sale on the black market in Cancún or Mexico City to self-styled pre-Colombian art collectors, or just people who want to own something so no one else may have it. Cassandra may have run into some of these thieves.”
“But this area is so isolated,” Scully said, following him down the last few steps of the central pyramid. They walked across the flagstoned plaza. “How would the artifacts be distributed? There would have to be some kind of network in place.”
“I wouldn’t put it past men like him,” Rubicon said, gesturing with a sharp elbow toward Fernando Victorio Aguilar, who bustled up to them, tossing aside the remains of another hand-rolled cigarette.
“Did you find anything up there, amigos?” he said, pandering.
A deeply offended anger burned behind Rubicon’s blue eyes. “We’ll complete our initial inspection of the area today, but if we haven’t uncovered any sign of them by tomorrow morning, we should use Cassandra’s transmitter and contact the Mexican officials, request immediate assistance. They can send their own inspectors and security forces. National forces, not locals—the locals are probably in on any black-market trade.” He scowled. “Many artifacts have already been illegally removed.”
Aguilar looked at him, his expression a combination of miffed annoyance and wounded pride. “What you see could have been caused by treasure seekers from long ago, Señor Rubicon. Xitaclan has been unprotected for a long, long time.”
Rubicon glared at him. “Mr. Aguilar, anyone with eyes can see the fresh scars. I know these items have been removed very recently, uh, within months, probably weeks.”
Aguilar crossed his tanned arms over his chest, pursing his lips. “Then perhaps your daughter’s archaeology team removed the most valuable pieces for their own profit, eh? They work for museums back in America, do they not?”
Rubicon leaned closer to Aguilar, thrusting his lower lip out so that his yellow-gray goatee bristled. “My Cassandra and all of her team members would never do such a thing,” he said. “They know the value of historical artifacts, especially artifacts that must remain in place for further study.”
“I sense that you do not trust me, Señor Rubicon,” Aguilar said, tugging on his hat. His voice held a conciliatory tone. “But we must work together, eh? We are isolated here at Xitaclan. We must make the best of it and not become enemies. It could be dangerous if we fail to work as a team.”
Scully headed back to their campsite as the discussion between Rubicon and the long-haired Mexican guide became more heated. She removed her pack and dropped it beside the tent. Though it was broad daylight, the entire crew of Maya helpers had once again vanished into the jungles, nowhere to be seen. It made her feel strangely uneasy.
Scully stopped by the nearer of the two tall stelae, elaborately carved with feathered serpents. She examined the eroded carving in the bright daylight, noticing a change in the dull weathered limestone—bright red splattered the carvings, dollops of thick crimson like paint that dripped from the fangs of one of the largest feathered serpents. She leaned forward, curious and revolted at the same time.
Someone had rubbed blood inside the stone mouth of the feathered serpent, as if giving the carving a taste…a fresh sacrifice. She followed the trail of blood droplets down the tall pillar to the buckled flagstones at its base.
“Mulder!” she cried.
Her partner came running with an alarmed expression on his face. Rubicon and Aguilar stood frozen, their faces flushed from their argument, looking to see what had interrupted them.
Scully indicated the bright red streaks on the stela…and then gestured to the severed human finger that lay in a pool of congealing blood on the flagstone.
Mulder bent down to look at the amputated finger. The expression of disgust flickered for only an instant on his placid face.
Aguilar and Rubicon finally came up and stared down without words at the blood, the severed digit.
“It looks fresh,” Scully said. “No more than an hour or so.”
Mulder touched the tacky blood. “Just barely starting to dry. It must have happened while we were up on the pyramid. I didn’t hear any screams, though. Aguilar, you were down here.”
“No, I was out in the jungle.” He shook his head in dismay and took off his ocelot-skin hat, as if in reverence for a dead friend. “I was afraid of this, very afraid.” He lowered his voice, looking around furtively. He narrowed his eyes, as if concerned the Indians might be watching from the fringes of the jungle, spying on their potential victims. “Yes, very afraid.”
Aguilar walked around the stela, as if searching for other evidence. “The Maya religion is very ancient. Their rituals were celebrated for a thousand years before white explorers ever came to our shores, and they became much more violent when they mixed with the Toltec. People don’t forget their beliefs so easily, eh?”
“Wait a minute,” Scully said. “Are you saying that some of the Maya descendants still practice the old religion? Cutting out hearts and throwing people into sacrificial wells?”
Scully felt a sense of dread as she began to piece together a scenario that even Mulder would believe—how Cassandra Rubicon and her team had become victims in a bloodthirsty sacrificial ritual.
Rubicon said, “Well, some of the people still remember the ancient Toltec chants and observe the festivals, though most have been Christianized…or at least civilized. Some few, though, continue to practice the bloodwork and self-mutilation. Especially out here, away from the cities.”
“Self-mutilation?” Mulder said. “You mean one of those Indians cut off his own finger?”
Rubicon nodded, touching the pattern of blood on the limestone pillar. “Probably with an obsidian knife.”
Scully tri
ed to imagine the religious fervor required to take a splintered stone knife and hack away a finger, sawing through sinew and bone without making so much as a cry of pain.
Rubicon seemed more detached, as if the possibility of his daughter and her companions becoming a blood sacrifice had not yet occurred to him.
“The Maya and Toltec rituals shed a great deal of blood, both their own and that of prisoners and victims. At the holiest of festivals, the high king would take a stingray spine and reach under his loincloth to pierce his own foreskin.”
Scully saw Mulder swallow hard. “Ouch.”
“Blood is a very powerful force,” Aguilar agreed.
“The blood that flowed out dribbled across long strips of mulberry-bark paper, tracing patterns of red droplets. Some of the priests could divine the future from these patterns.” Rubicon looked up at the sky. “Afterward, the strips of blood-spattered paper were rolled up and burned so that the sacred smoke could send messages to the gods.”
Scully looked grimly at the fresh blood. “If one of those Indians just chopped off his finger with a stone knife,” she said, “he requires medical attention. With this kind of crude amputation, the man could easily get gangrene, especially in a tropical climate such as this.”
Aguilar found a bent and mangled cigarette in his pocket and tugged it out, sticking it between his lips without lighting it. “You will not find him, Señorita, never,” he said. “The man would have run away, far from Xitaclan. He has made his sacrifice to the guardians of Kukulkan—but now that we know his true religion, we will not see him again. The Maya people here have a long memory. They are still deathly afraid of the white man and persecution. They remember one of the first white governors here, a man named Father Diego de Landa. A butcher.”
Rubicon grunted in agreement, his face showing an expression of distaste. “He was a Franciscan friar, and under his guidance temples were torn down, shrines smashed. Anyone caught worshipping an idol was whipped, their joints stretched with pulleys, boiling water poured on their skin.
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