by Ann Charles
He grabbed her arm, trying to pull her toward safety, but she slapped at his hand, pushing him away.
The screech of brakes and grating sound of tires sliding over the hardpan made him cringe; the blare of a horn nearly blasted his heart out of his chest cavity. He reached for the woman, dodging out of the way right before a huge chrome grill shoved into the thick cloud. The Maya woman screamed next to his ear; her chickens squawked and fluttered out of the way.
Crap! That had been a close one. Too close.
Over the bedlam, Quint heard the shouts of the bus driver. He was leaning out the window, shaking his fist.
“Lo siento,” he apologized to the driver, trying to smooth things over now that a fatality had been avoided. He coughed from the dust and the pungent odor of burning brake pads.
Another gust of wind blew Quint’s hat off, sending it tumbling, rolling out of the dusty chaos. With one last check on the chicken lady, who was busy stuffing hens back into the cage, he jogged after his hat.
Escaping from the swirling dust devil’s clutches, he found his hat resting against the back tire of a tandem bicycle. Standing next to the handle bars was a man probably in his mid-sixties, wearing a straw hat, a green sweat-soaked T-shirt, blue jeans, and leather sandals. His heavy eyelids and large earlobes gave away his Maya heritage.
The cyclist held a piece of cardboard with a name scrawled on it—Quint’s name.
“Howdy,” he shouted to the bike rider over the rattle of the bus engine. Quint bent and grabbed his hat, brushing off the dust. He slammed it on his head and nodded at the sign. “That’s me.”
The man’s forehead wrinkled. “Señor Parker?”
Nodding, he held out his hand. “Call me Quint.”
The biker gave him a thorough onceover. Then he crossed himself as Catholics tended to do, muttered something undecipherable under his breath, and spit over his left shoulder.
Quint cocked his head to the side. That was a new ending to the centuries old ritual.
The bike rider grasped his outstretched hand and gave it two hard shakes. “Teodoro Cruz,” he said, squinting up at Quint. Then in a blink, he smiled coat-hanger wide.
Quint smiled back, glad to see a friendly face after staring down a bug-splattered bus grill.
“We go now?” Teodoro asked.
“I’m ready when you are.” The sooner he made it to the dig site, the sooner he could get started on his reason for returning to this overgrown, godforsaken sweat lodge. “Let me grab my backpack.” He walked over to the store’s stucco wall and collected his things.
Teodoro took Quint’s pack from him and secured the bulky bag to the metal shelf over the back tire.
Meanwhile, Quint tried to swipe the dust from his clothes, smearing it across the sweat-soaked cotton. He gave up on his clothes and shook the dust from his hair. Every nook and cranny of his skin felt gritty, damn it. When he looked up, Teodoro waited on the bike’s front seat. He motioned for Quint to take the seat behind him.
With a chuckle, Quint climbed on. He hadn’t figured his first trip to the dig site would be by two-seater bike. Hell, nothing had gone as planned since he’d agreed to take this trip to the Yucatán to solve a twenty-year-old mystery.
As Teodoro steered past the bus, Quint squirmed on the rock-hard seat while he pedaled. He’d had rougher rides in his line of work, but sitting too long on this bike was going to impair his ability to have kids someday.
“Do you usually take a bike to and from the dig site?” he asked.
Teodoro glanced back. “Curse got our motorcycle.”
He stopped squirming. “Did you say curse?”
“Sí.”
No shit? This must be his lucky day. Not for the first time since he’d stepped off the plane, he wondered if he should turn around and fly back to the States.
Teodoro steered them onto the raised white sacbe.
Quint remembered the limestone-coated, ancient Maya roadway from the last time he had been at the dig site. As he peddled along behind Teodoro into the shadow-filled jungle, several other memories surfaced, including Dr. Hughes’ love of solving puzzles from the past.
And who could forget that son of a bitch, Jared Steel?
* * *
Angélica waited for the last of her crew to leave the mess tent after lunch before facing off with her father. “Dad, I swear,” she shook her spoon at him, “if I hear one more word about this stupid, damned nonexistent curse, I’m throwing you in the nearest cenote.”
“It’s not my fault. You’re the one who read that glyph.”
She tossed her spoon onto the table. “Well, the least you could do is support me on dispelling all of this superstitious bullshit, especially in front of my men.”
“You need to stop swearing so much, gatita. You’re beginning to sound like your mother.”
“Quit trying to change the subject.”
“Fine. You don’t believe in the curse.” Juan picked up her spoon and used it to scrape the remains of her lunch onto his plate. “But your crew does. If you want to quell all of the whispers and fears, you need to come up with a believable explanation for what happened to Francisco, Lorenzo, and Rafael.”
“What? They got sick.”
“You know it’s more than that. It’s not normal for three young men to come down with severe stomachaches at the same time. And don’t blame María’s cooking either, because we all shared the same meal.”
“It was a twenty-four-hour flu. Period. End of story.”
He lifted his coffee, glancing over her head at the entrance to the mess tent. “You don’t find it odd that all three were working in the Ik Temple?”
That was the third time in the last few minutes that she’d noticed him looking at the entrance. Angélica checked behind her and found it empty.
She focused back on her father. “No, I do not find it odd. Just because they were working in a temple named after the god of wind does not mean their sudden illness has anything to do with some kind of superstitious jinx.”
He sipped from his cup, frowning at her over the rim. “A destructive wind did blow after you read that curse.”
“It’s not a curse, Dad.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. How many times did she have to say it for crissake?
Lowering his cup to the table, he shrugged. “Okay.” He didn’t sound convinced though. “So you’re going to stick with the notion that the Temple of the Crow caving in on Fernando and Alonso was just an accident, too?”
“Of course.”
“They could have been killed.”
Angélica held up her hand, counting off on her fingers. “First of all, only a small section of the ceiling crumbled. Second, they merely suffered a few scratches and bruises. Third, you yourself told me at the end of last year’s dig that we might need to shore up the ceiling in that part of the temple.”
“No, the chamber to which I was referring is not the same one that came down on them.”
She stood and stretched her arms upward, thanking this whole curse sham for several new knots in her back. “It’s an old structure, Dad. Don’t you think it’s inevitable something that ancient would periodically succumb to the effects of gravity?”
Juan brushed crumbs from the table as he rose. “Sure. But how do you explain Diego being shoved into the cenote this morning while collecting water for María?”
“He slipped.”
“Your crew happens to think he was pushed by Xtabay.”
Her crew also believed in malevolent gods and the evil eye. It was no surprise they blamed Xtabay rather than something rational.
“And what do you think?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Diego swears he felt her hands on his back, and he’s not usually one for tall tales.” Juan carried their plates to the counter that divided the kitchen from the eating area. “I know you think this is all a bunch of delusory nonsense, and maybe you’re right, but you have to admit that ever since we found that curse, things keep happening th
at are hard to explain.”
“Not that hard.” She joined him at the counter.
“Maybe not in your logical left brain, but your men don’t always think like scientists.” His brow wrinkled, his brown eyes serious. “You need to keep that in mind when calming them down after the next incident.”
“There isn’t going to be another incident.”
“You can’t control everything, Angélica.”
María slid through a side tent flap at that moment, putting an end to the curse debate. She nodded at Angélica and her father. Angélica waved back, complimenting her in Mayan on the beautiful, handmade white huilpil dress she was wearing. With her round face looking more flushed than usual, María thanked her and then gathered up their dishes and waddled into the kitchen.
Angélica stared after her, realizing she hadn’t seen Teodoro at all during lunch, and María’s husband made it a priority to make it to every meal.
“I like how María still wears traditional Maya clothing,” Juan said. “It makes her cooking taste more authentic.”
She turned back to her father. “Have you seen Teodoro?”
Juan looked all around, avoiding her gaze. “No, nope, I … I sure haven’t. Not for a while. He must be busy doing uh … something else.” He nodded as if agreeing with himself and then made a beeline for the exit.
Please, she wasn’t born yesterday.
“Dad.” She caught up with him out in the hot sunshine, grabbing his sleeve. “Where’s Teodoro?”
“He’s probably out gathering more herbs to make another one of his foul potions. You should really rein him in on using those horrible tasting, eye-watering pastes on poor, injured men.” He was still avoiding her.
A pair of jays chased each other across the sunburned landscape, flying from the tree-cresting top of the gray-streaked Temple of the Water Witch to the single-story Ik Temple in front of her. The birds’ noisy calls pierced the air, interrupting them for a moment.
“Dad, just answer my quest …” The sound of twigs snapping in the jungle to the side of the mess tent made her look around. Teodoro stepped out of the thick bushes edging the trail to the sacbe.
“There he is,” Juan said from behind her.
The brush shivered again and a stranger stepped out, following in Teodoro’s wake. He was tall, dirt-streaked, and uninvited.
Angélica took in the stranger’s wide shoulders and confident gaze. She’d dealt with enough machismo-filled, cocks of the walk in her time to know trouble when it came strutting up to her front door.
“Dad, who’s that?” she spoke under her breath.
“Uh, yeah. Sweetheart, I forgot to mention something about this year’s dig.”
Teodoro pointed at Juan and then he darted into the mess tent. Without hesitation, the stranger headed their way.
Angélica growled. “What have you done?”
“You must be Dr. García,” the stranger said to Juan, sliding a frowning glance her way. He lowered his backpack to the ground and held out his hand toward her dad. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”
Juan looked down at Angélica, wincing visibly at whatever he saw on her face. Then his lips curled into a smile and he shook the newcomer’s hand. “Glad to have you here, Mr. Parker.”
“Please, call me Quint.”
Angélica’s left eyelid began to twitch. He couldn't have. He just couldn't have. “Dad.” It was more of an accusation than question.
“Angélica, this is Quint Parker.” Juan ignored her glare. “He’s a photojournalist who’s going to write a piece about what goes on behind the scenes at our dig site.”
What? No. Absolutely not. No way in hell. Heat crept up her neck and singed her cheeks. She was going to pay Teodoro to torture her father with one of his shaman cures—the one using leeches would be a good start.
Juan gestured toward Angélica. “Quint, this is my daughter, Dr. Angélica García.”
How could he have done this to her? This year of all years?
Quint’s grin faltered. “Your daughter?”
“And please, call me Juan. My daughter is the only ‘Dr. García’ on this site. I hope the ride in wasn’t too grueling. Our motorcycle refuses to start, so we had to rely on backup transportation.”
“The ride was … interesting,” their visitor said, his smile returning. “It’s been a while since I’ve eaten that many bugs in one sitting.”
In no mood for polite conversation, Angélica grabbed Juan’s arm. “Could you excuse us for a moment, Mr. Parker?”
“Sure. I’ll just stand here and watch for passing snakes.”
Swell, a comedian. Her dad was going to love this guy.
Angélica towed her father a small distance from Quint, and then shot Juan a scorching look. “Why didn’t you tell me about this before he showed up?”
Juan held her gaze. “Because I know you.”
“Humph!” Then he should have known better. “And just who is he supposed to follow around while he’s here?”
“The both of us.”
“Really?”
Juan nodded. “But mainly you.”
“Ahhh!” Angélica threw her hands up in frustration. “Just as I suspected.” Her father had lost his mind.
“Well, since you’re the one with the crew, he’ll gain more insight into what we do here from you.”
“Dad, I don’t have the time—”
“I know, darling,” Juan said, waving at Teodoro as he passed them on the way to the latrine.
“Or the energy—”
“Yes, gatita.” He squeezed her shoulder.
“Or the patience—”
“Of course not.”
“To take care of this … this …” Words escaped her sparking brain.
“Photojournalist,” Quint supplied from behind her.
“Thank you, Mr. Parker,” she snapped without taking her eyes from her father. “To take care of a photojournalist right now. Especially with all of the other little problems we’ve been having lately.” Not including this damned curse bullshit.
Juan smiled. “I agree with you completely.”
“Great.” She blew out a sigh of relief. He’d come back to his senses. “Then what’s your solution?” They should probably offer to feed Mr. Parker first and then have Teodoro haul him to the village.
Placing his hands on her cheeks, Juan leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “Play nice.”
He stepped back and said to Quint, “I’ll catch up with you after my daughter gets you settled.”
“Dad!” She jammed her hands on her hips when he turned to leave. “Don’t you walk away!”
Her father winked at her and did just that, whistling as he left.
* * *
Quint watched Juan stroll toward a small, crumbling temple, leaving his daughter standing there spitting and sputtering.
Angélica García.
In the flesh.
Damn.
He’d almost fallen over when Juan had introduced her. Jared Steel’s ex-wife was one of the last people he’d expected to run into down here.
That old newspaper photo had been deceptive. She didn’t look anything like the cold bitch he’d imagined her to be. On the contrary, she was fiery. He risked a peek down over her shirt, settling on where her khaki pants rode low on her hips. Curvier, too. The black and white picture didn’t do her justice, especially when it came to the flames of red in her hair.
His focus returned to her face and ran into her hard green gaze.
She waved him over to where she stood glaring at him.
He cringed, wishing he were wearing a cup—just in case she starting swinging.
“Mr. Parker.” The calm tone in her voice surprised him.
“Quint,” he reiterated. How had he missed that she was an archaeologist, too? He’d been too fixed on her father and his long association with Steel, maybe.
Her lips were pressed tight when she held out her hand, her expression schooled. “It�
��s nice to meet you, Quint.”
Figuring there was some anger smoldering beneath the surface, he cautiously shook her hand. She had a firm grip with rough calluses dotting her palm. A hard worker, too. Another misconception about Steel’s ex-wife crumbled.
“I apologize for being a surprise, Dr. García.”
She pulled her hand free. “That you were. My father has a habit of …” she sighed. “Well, let’s just say he keeps my life exciting.”
Quint stood there for a few seconds, his eyes locked with hers, not sure if she expected him to head back to the village or set up camp. Trying to break the standoff, he motioned toward his dirt-stained shirt. “You wouldn’t happen to have a place where I could clean up and change, would you?”
She glanced down his front, her forehead wrinkling as if she’d just noticed how much of a mess he was. “What’d you do? Fall off the bike?”
He didn’t want to make a big deal of the old woman and him almost becoming bug splatter on the bus grill, so he kept it short. “I rescued some chickens.”
Her grin was the spitting image of her father’s. The softening of her features made him do a double take. She needed to smile more often.
“Grab that.” She pointed at his backpack sitting next to him on the ground. “I’ll show you where you can park yourself for however long you plan to stay with us. You can take the afternoon to settle in and acclimate.”
In other words, she was going to let him stick around, but she didn’t want to deal with him at the moment. That was fine with him. He needed a break to figure out how to keep Dr. Angélica García from interfering with his reason for returning to this hellhole.
He hoisted his pack and followed her lead, debating whether to ask if she knew of Dr. Hughes. No, better to bide his time, step carefully. Her rigid spine and no-nonsense gait made it clear that she wasn’t in the mood for questions.
After leading him past several tents, including a large green one, she opened the flap of a weathered gray tent.