by Ann Charles
“That’s absurd.”
“What’s absurd is us having this discussion.”
“You still don’t trust him.”
“Not completely, no.” She popped a piece of papaya in her mouth.
“He’s staying on to help us out.”
“True, but how do I know that he isn’t staying for the sake of that damned article, which,” she paused in emphasis, “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of since he arrived. And have you considered that maybe he’s staying for some other reason that has to do with Dr. Hughes?” It would be shortsighted to totally ignore Jared’s warning.
“Dr. Hughes is dead. Why would Quint want to stay because of him?”
“Hell, I don’t know. At this point, I’m keeping both Quint and Jared under a microscope.”
“You’re wasting energy watching Quint. Jared, on the other hand, is a whole other case.”
“Jared is nothing more than a paper tiger.”
“Maybe so, but I’d rather he not be here when we find the shell.” Juan plucked a couple of clean socks off her pillow and folded them together, reminding her of her mother. Next he would be telling her to clean her tent, just like old times. “He wants something down here.”
“How do you know?”
He shrugged. “Call it father’s intuition.”
“I’ll call it ‘father’s in an institution’ if you keep up this kind of talk about Quint and me.”
“Cute, gatita, but mark my words. Jared is up to no good. I can see it on his face when he watches you.”
She wiped her hands on a dirty T-shirt drooped over the back of her chair. “Well, I can’t find the shell, so it doesn’t matter how he looks at me.”
“What? I thought the answer was in that chamber.”
“If it is, then I’m blind.”
“Have you read through all of the glyphs?” Juan asked.
“Most. They tell factual things such as the date when the king died, his lineage, which takes up lots of space on the wall, and details of his wealth. But nothing about the shell.”
“How can that be? The stela showed him with the shell on his necklace.”
“I know. Maybe there are two different kings with similar names.” She rubbed her forehead. “Maybe the carver of the stela was using artistic license to exaggerate what the shell really looked like.”
“That shell is in that temple, gatita, but you’re tired and frustrated and a little overstressed, so it’s easier to give up right now than dig in and figure out the truth.”
She studied the lines fanning from his eyes. “I don’t know where to look next.”
“I’ll tell you what. Finish that last piece of papaya, take a shower, put on some fresh clothes, and go back in there tomorrow with Quint and just let your mind wander.”
“I’ll go back, but I’m not taking Quint.”
“Angélica,” he started in that stern, fatherly voice. The one that made her feel twelve all over again.
“No, Dad. We can’t spare the manpower. We’re behind schedule as it is. Believe me, I’ll be better off working alone than with Quint sitting there watching me.”
He sighed in resignation. “Fine. I’ll take Jared with me in the Dawn Temple and send Quint and Pedro with Fernando to work on clearing out the rubble from Sub Chamber M in the Owl Temple. When Francisco gets back from the village later this morning, he can direct the others as they finish going through the middle GOK pile.”
Juan stood, coming over and squeezing her shoulder. “We’ll take care of the Mexican government’s To-Do checklist for this year. You find that shell.”
* * *
For lunchtime entertainment in the mess tent, Steel and Juan were performing a high-noon, verbal shootout. Quint watched the bullets flying back and forth along with Pedro and Fernando, none of them saying a word.
“While I concur that you have more experience in the field of structural architecture,” Steel said to Juan, “I believe that your methods are antiquated.”
Taking the last bite of his tangy, pork-filled taco, Quint’s gaze bounced back and forth between the two archaeologists. Juan’s face was lined with tension while his body appeared relaxed. Steel’s face showed no emotion as he methodically cut his taco into smaller and smaller symmetrical pieces.
Who cuts a freaking taco? Nut jobs, that was who.
Juan took a sip of his coffee, his eyes narrowing as if he were either weighing his next words or the effects of dumping his drink on Steel’s head. Quint couldn’t tell which, but hoped like hell for the latter.
“Trust me,” Juan spoke evenly. “The beams will hold.”
“I didn’t say they wouldn’t. I said there are better, more modern methods to use that are less costly. Something you need to consider when petitioning for future grant money.”
Pedro grunted something that sounded like “asshole” in Spanish, then he rose from the table with his empty plate and headed toward the counter.
Juan set his cup on the table with a small thud, splashing some coffee over the rim. “Point taken, Jared. Thank you for the advice.”
Fernando shook his head, standing with his plate in hand. He looked down at Quint. “See you after your siesta.”
“Actually, Fernando,” Juan said, “I need Quint this afternoon. I believe Jared would be of more use to you.”
Fernando’s lips thinned.
Juan pointed at Fernando with his cup. “He could help you with the reconstruction of the fresco-covered wall.”
A muscle at the back of Fernando’s jaw twitched.
“Ah, yes, that fresco.” Steel laid his fork on his half-finished plate and frowned up at Fernando. “I noticed the last time I was in there that your grids were not lined up properly.”
Fernando gave Steel a flat stare, and then he turned to Juan and said something in Mayan. Juan fought back a grin but said nothing. Without another word, Fernando walked away, dropping his plate on the counter with a clang.
Juan looked at Steel. “Fernando can’t wait to hear your thoughts on how to finish the wall.”
Chuckling under his breath, Quint checked the tent entrance for the umpteenth time since he’d arrived for lunch. Where was Angélica? She’d skipped breakfast this morning; probably too busy working on deciphering the copies of those glyphs to remember food equals energy. He’d noticed Juan leaving the mess tent with a plate full of food and figured it was for her, which had killed his excuse for going to see her earlier. Now he wondered if anyone was taking her lunch.
Francisco appeared in the entrance, his gaze locking onto Quint.
“Señor Parker.” Francisco joined them, holding out a package covered with Express labels.
Quint took the package. “Gracias.” He scanned the return address before stuffing the package partly under his thigh. It was from Jeff.
“Who’s that from?” Steel nosed in.
None of your damned business. “A friend.”
“You’ve received a lot of those Express envelopes since you arrived.”
“What’s your point?”
“You must have a lot of these so-called friends, or one in particular who misses you dearly.” Steel pointed his fork at Juan. “Doesn’t it make you wonder why your photojournalist keeps receiving all of these mysterious Express packages? What could be so important that it couldn’t wait for him to get back home?”
Quint kept silent. He wasn’t going head to head with Steel in front of Juan today. For one, Angélica’s father was too sharp and might catch something Quint let slip in the heat of battle. For another, it was too damned hot to fight.
Juan shrugged, swishing the coffee in his cup. “Not really. Quint’s business is his own.” He glanced up at Quint with a devilish glint in his eyes, and then returned to Steel. “You of all people should understand that, Jared. If memory serves me right, you once had a talk with me about interfering with your marriage.”
A spasm of irritation flashed across Steel’s features. “I’d forgotten about that. It’
s interesting how time dims the importance of such minor annoyances.”
“Interesting, indeed.” Juan stood. “Quint, if you’re up to it, I’d like to skip a siesta and get busy at the Dawn Temple as soon as possible.”
Quint would rather find out what was in the package. Mrs. Hughes’ notes were getting him nowhere fast. But that would have to wait. “I’m right behind you.” He grabbed his plate and the package, rising.
“Parker.” Steel had waited until Juan was out of earshot to speak.
Quint paused.
“I wonder how Angélica is going to react later tonight when I tell her that you received another package.”
The fucker just had to have something to hold over everyone’s heads. That was how he’d controlled the crew back when Dr. Hughes had ruled the roost, and probably how he’d manipulated Angélica and her father for years. It was no wonder she’d left him; she was way too headstrong for Steel to keep under his thumb for long.
“Good luck with that.” Dealing with Steel was like stepping in dog poop. No matter how hard he tried to scrape the piece of shit off the bottom of his shoe, Quint couldn’t quite get rid of the dickhead—nor his nastiness. Not even after twenty long years.
Steel smirked, stabbing a bite of taco. “I wanted to let you know ahead of time so you could start packing.”
Christ! Were they still fighting over this bone?
“There’s something you need to get straight.” Quint leaned over the table, waiting for Steel to meet him eye-to-eye. “When it comes to this dig site and your ex-wife, I’m not going anywhere.”
* * *
“Do you mind if I take a few photos in here?” Quint asked Juan as he followed him through a maze of corridors and shoulder-scraping passageways in the Dawn Temple.
After two weeks, he should be acclimated to the heat by now, but oh no, his blood was being stubborn about thinning. He swiped away a stream of sweat dripping from his chin.
“Not at all,” Juan said, “But you might want to wait until we reach the sub chamber. There’s some rubble up ahead from the ceiling falling apart that’s dangerous if you aren’t paying attention to where you’re walking.”
Quint groaned. “Great. I love walking through tunnels where the roof is partly on the floor. Makes a guy feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”
Juan chuckled and continued forward. Several minutes later, he stooped under a very crooked beam. “Ah, here we are,” Juan whispered in the gloom.
Quint tiptoed in after him, frowning when he saw the thirty-degree slant of the rock slab making up most of the chamber’s ceiling. “Are you sure it’s safe to bring visitors into this room?”
“Well, I wouldn’t bet my retirement account on it, but sure, it’s mostly safe.” Juan turned on his lantern and tossed the flashlight he’d been using to Quint. “The ceiling doesn’t move unless you hit the wall with something hard.” He picked up a bat-sized piece of timber. “Something like this.”
Juan swung the piece of wood at the wall.
“No!” Quint reached for the mad man.
Stopping the makeshift bat just short of the wall, Juan looked back at Quint, his eyes crinkled with laughter. “Gotcha.” He dropped the wood and pulled a tape measure out of his front pants pocket.
Quint stumbled backward into the wall, holding his stampeding heart. “Pedro is right. You’re insane.”
“And you’re gullible. But not as gullible as Pedro. He won’t even come in this temple with me anymore.”
He couldn’t blame Pedro. Quint was surprised he hadn’t pissed himself when Juan had swung.
“This room is relatively stable considering the looks of it,” Juan mumbled around the pencil in his mouth. “It hasn’t shifted since I got to this dig site.”
Taking in the funhouse-like look of the room, Quint didn’t feel comforted even a little by Juan’s words.
“Go ahead and take some pictures.” Juan pulled his glasses from his pocket. “If you can capture the tilt of the walls and ceiling, this place will look great in the magazine.”
Quint moved silently around the room, snapping shots of the walls and ceiling, cracks and fallen rocks, and Juan as he took his measurements. The slide of the tape measure, the whispering of numbers, and the digital snapshot click were the only sounds as the two of them worked.
Shining the flashlight on a lower section of the wall furthest from the door, Quint moved closer and tried to make out the figures he could see on the pitted and worn fresco. He aimed his camera and snapped a picture, then paused as something below one of the figures caught his eye. He directed the beam on the picture, recognizing it with an inward gasp.
“Hey, would you look at this,” he said, touching it.
He heard footfalls behind him. “What?”
“This.” Quint pointed at the image. “It’s a head variant for the Sun god.”
Juan patted him on the shoulder. “Yes, Kinich Ahau, the Sun god—very good. Where did you learn that?”
“Angélica told me when I showed her the drawing from the back of Dr. Hughes’ journal. This head variant is on the back page.”
“Oh, that’s right. I’d forgotten about that.” Juan sounded surprised.
Quint looked at the other images surrounding it, not recognizing any of them. “Interesting that it’s here,” he said more to himself than Juan as he walked away.
“Not really.”
Quint turned, watching as Juan measured the width of the entryway. “It’s not?”
“No. You can find some type of representation of the Sun god in several chambers in this temple. Same with Kan ek’, Venus as a morning star.”
“Are they ever together?”
Juan nodded and shoved his pencil behind his ear. “Of course. Together they often signify dawn, as in sunrise. That’s why I named this place the Dawn Temple.”
Quint stared blankly at the head variant. Was Dr. Hughes referring to this temple with that drawing? Or was there something more to it? Was he giving a clue of some sort, or did he just like to doodle head variants?
He opened his mouth to ask Juan if he knew why Dr. Hughes would have drawn those head variants in his journal but stopped before uttering a word. He needed to think about this for a while. He wasn’t sure if actually questioning Juan or Angélica about it was wise.
“If you’re finished with your pictures, we can head down to the next chamber.” Juan said, bringing Quint back to the present.
“Yeah, sure.” He moved toward the entrance. He’d keep his eyes open for the rest of the afternoon. Maybe he could figure out what the drawing meant, if anything, on his own.
Juan waited for him in the hall, then led him deeper into hell, aka the Dawn Temple. Quint locked his focus on Juan’s back to keep from grinding his molars down to nubs with every visible crack and crevice.
“While we’re on the subject of Angélica,” Juan said over his shoulder, “I have a question for you.”
When had they been on the subject of Angélica? Oh, right, she’d explained the head variants. “Sure. Shoot.”
“How old are you?”
What did that have to do with Juan’s daughter? He ducked under another low beam, grimacing at the splintered crack running the length of the beam. “I’ll be thirty-nine in a few months. Why?”
“Are there any little Quint Parker juniors running around back home or in past ports of lading?”
That question surprised Quint into standing upright, which resulted in smacking his head into the ceiling. “Ouch.” He rubbed his head.
“I told you to wear that hard hat.” Juan knocked on his own. “It only took me about two dozen hits to the old noggin’ for me to learn my lesson. You okay?”
Quint nodded. “To answer your question, no, I have no offspring out there.”
Juan led him into another sub chamber, shining the light over the patch of rubble on the floor, then up to the fractured-looking ceiling. “How do you feel about children?”
Rubbing his throbbing bump
, Quint frowned at Juan. What in the hell did children have to do with any of this? Maybe he was making small talk or trying to distract him from the fact that they were bumping around in this death trap.
“That depends on the kid,” he answered. “I love hanging out with my sister’s twins. Whenever I’m back home, I spend as much time with them as possible.”
Juan turned the beam on Quint’s face, making him wince and shield his eyes. “You misunderstood my question. How do you feel about having children?”
Chapter Eighteen
Mentir: To tell an untruth; lie.
Quint had lied … sort of.
He’d told Juan that he hadn’t thought about having kids because he’d been too busy building his career. Truth was he’d considered having kids ever since his sister had given birth to her twins almost a decade ago, but with as much traveling as he did each year, even finding a long-term girlfriend was tough.
But he wasn’t comfortable telling the father of the woman he’d like to whisk away to some hidden bungalow and spend days and nights exploring every part of her body—and her mind—that he would like to have a kid or two someday. That might give Juan ideas about long-term commitment, and Quint knew from experience that women did not like being in a relationship with someone who was gone more than he was home.
After Quint’s answer, Juan hadn’t questioned him further about anything else domestic. Instead he’d wanted to hear about what being a photojournalist was like, the places Quint had traveled, the adventures he’d lived. The afternoon had passed quickly with plenty of laughs to distract Quint from the fact that he was sweating to death in a creepy tomb.
Now, after a shower to wash off the grit from the temple and a chicken-laden panucho filling his belly, Quint was having trouble keeping up with Juan’s supper conversation in the mess tent. More than anything, he wanted to escape back to his cot, read whatever it was Jeff had sent in that envelope, and drift off to dreamland. These long-ass days of work and sweat were for younger men. But he hated to leave Juan to finish up supper alone.