by Ann Charles
“Okay.” Angélica sank visibly into sleep, her shoulders slumping. Her breathing slowed down, became rhythmic.
Brushing a damp, auburn tendril from her face, Quint’s thoughts returned to what she’d said earlier about his being temporary.
Christ, what a mess he’d gotten himself into down here. He’d come to this dig site to find a missing man and had ended up getting lost himself.
He watched her sleep, wondering how creeped out she’d be if she woke up right then and found him staring. She’d probably sock him in the nose or at the least dump him off his cot.
“Goodnight, siren,” he whispered.
She sighed in her sleep, her lips looking soft and tempting. With a groan, he rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, trying not to think about the sexy woman wearing nothing more than a tank top and panties sleeping a couple of feet away.
* * *
Quint woke to a squawk-fest of jays outside his tent. He put his pillow over his head to drown out the commotion and then remembered where he was. Jackknifing up in his cot, he looked over at Angélica.
Her cot was empty.
Where was she? He tried to keep his head straight while he slipped into a pair of jeans, telling himself she was probably over in her tent working. Maybe she had to go to the bathroom and had been the cause of the jays squawking.
When she hadn’t shown up by the time he’d finished lacing up his boots, his stomach was also knotted up. Damn it, where was she?
He looked around under the cots and in the corners. Rover was gone, too. He prayed that they were out taking a morning stroll together.
When he grabbed his water bottle from where it sat on his desk he saw her note beside the Tupperware they’d pulled out of the wall in the Dawn Temple.
Sleeping Beauty—Got up early. Didn’t want to wake you. Going to grab some food and head back inside the T. of the W.W. Took the camp knife, machete, and flare gun with me, so don’t worry. Come and find me when you get your lazy ass up.
P.S. I took advantage of you while you slept.
In spite of her being armed and ready for any unwanted visitors, her being alone in that temple didn’t settle well with him.
He read her note again.
So feisty! He missed her already.
Damn. He was going to have to get used to tent life for months on end.
And the bugs, snakes, and heat.
He tucked her note into his pocket.
And these godforsaken temples.
He headed over to the mess tent. Gulping down cold dregs of bitter coffee as he collected some food to take to her, something niggled at his brain about last night, something that he’d thought of as he was drifting off.
What had they been talking about? She’d wanted him to tell her a story about … oh, Mrs. Hughes and the plane crash. Why hadn’t Mrs. Hughes believed her husband had been in the crash? That was it.
The lucky ring.
What about the ring? He took another swig of caffeine.
The ring was at the crash site and it should have been inside the liner of Dr. Hughes’ luggage. That was it.
Okay, so what was the big deal about that? He closed his eyes, trying to focus on what it was about the lucky ring that had his wheels trying to spin this morning.
… Angélica’s eyes drowsy … why didn’t Mrs. Hughes believe her husband was in the crash … lucky ring …
Oh! Shit!
“There was a ring next to the pair of glasses in that photo,” he told the empty tent. He put his coffee cup down on the counter, scooped up the food, and headed back to his tent to take a quick look at that picture again.
Once there, he shuffled through the photos from the Tupperware, finding the one with the map of the Dawn Temple.
There—the ring.
Was it Dr. Hughes’? He rushed next door and retrieved Angélica’s magnifying glass. Turning on his lantern to add more light, he peered at the picture of the ring. The name of the university where Dr. Hughes had worked was carved on the outside of the thick band below the red stone. He lowered the picture, grabbing Mrs. Hughes’ notebook. What had she written?
He never wore his lucky ring. He carried it in a small leather pouch that I’d sewn into the liner of his luggage.
So if he hadn’t worn the ring, why was it sitting on this map next to his glasses?
Quint examined the picture again, thinking back to twenty years ago while sitting across from Dr. Hughes on the ground as the older man taught him how to read a grid.
Wait a second. Dr. Hughes’ glasses had square wire rims, not round like these in the photo. If they weren’t Dr. Hughes’ glasses, whose were they? And if the glasses didn’t belong to Dr. Hughes, maybe the ring didn’t either.
Quint raised the magnifying glass again. He couldn’t see anything distinctive about the outside of the band. Only the typical … he caught a glimpse of something lower on the band under the year.
“What’s this?” The initials N.A.S. were barely discernable.
Did this ring belong to Steel? The last initial was the same. Maybe it was his father’s, a family heirloom. Another examination of the ring made him realize it looked more like a woman’s class ring. Maybe Steel’s mother had gone to college there, too.
Those initials seemed familiar though. Why? His gaze drifted to the picture of the woman in the article Dr. Hughes had stored for two decades.
Her name was printed in bold type under the fuzzy image. “Norah Ann Sutcliffe,” he read aloud. N.A. S.
“Son of a bitch.” He scanned the article again.
The body of Dr. Norah Ann Sutcliffe was found at the bottom of Schrock Lake three months after her reported disappearance. Dr. Sutcliffe was a well-respected Associate Professor in Anthropology at the University of …
He skipped over her accreditations.
According to authorities, she must have hit her head when her car plunged into the water, knocking her unconscious. It is believed she then drowned in the frigid water …
He flipped to the second page and skimmed the end.
… saying black ice on the road is most likely the cause of the accident. Funeral arrangements …
Quint held the magnifying glass over the black and white newspaper photo. She had her arms crossed in front of her. It looked like she was wearing a ring on her right ring finger, but the image was too fuzzy to be sure.
Why would Dr. Sutcliffe’s ring have been down here? And the year Dr. Hughes had written in pen on the bottom of the photo was a year later than the date on the newspaper article. Quint rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the beginning of a tension headache.
If the article was linked to the ring photo, then what was the significance of the other picture? The one with Dr. Hughes and Steel standing in front of the Dawn Temple?
He picked it up and studied it, searching for something out of place in the background. The Dawn Temple looked different but most likely due to twenty years of the jungle around it aging and the restoration work Juan and Marianne García had done.
In the foreground, Dr. Hughes stood next to Steel, who clutched what looked like a map, holding his hand over it as if explaining something about it to Dr. Hughes.
Quint picked up the magnifying glass, moving closer to the light. Then he saw it—the ring—on Steel’s pinky finger.
“I’ll be damned.”
Something nudged his calf. He glanced down at Rover and realized he hadn’t zipped his tent flap closed in his hurry to get the magnifying glass. He reached down and scratched Rover under his snout, worrying about Angélica again. She had her arsenal, but he’d feel better after he went and checked on her.
He looked back down at the picture of Dr. Hughes and Steel in front of the Dawn Temple. But first he needed to figure out something he was close to grasping with this whole Dr. Hughes business. He peered through the magnifying glass again. What was Steel doing with that ring?
He lowered the photo to his desk. Where had Dr. Hughes gotten the article? Ha
d he asked his wife to mail it down to the site? Why was it worth stuffing it into a piece of Tupperware, hiding it away in a temple wall?
Dr. Hughes must have been suspicious of Steel. He must have noticed the initials on the ring and put two and two together, realizing it belonged to Dr. Sutcliffe. Did that mean he’d suspected Steel of having something to do with her death the year prior? Why else would he have that article?
Leaning back in the chair, he closed his eyes. Why was her name so familiar? Had her disappearance been a big deal in the papers back when he had been in high school? No, he’d seen her name somewhere else—but where?
He sat up straight, looking around for the blue plastic folder. When he found it, he fingered through the documents, looking for the picture Mrs. Hughes had copied from the university newspaper.
“Here we go.” He pulled it out.
The article was about the new anthropology department head, and Quint had assumed that Mrs. Hughes had copied it because it had a picture of Steel in the background talking to a pretty brunette. But he hadn’t paid attention to the name of the brunette before.
Now he did; sure enough, it was Dr. Sutcliffe. He peered closer. But Steel wasn’t just talking; he had his hand on her lower back. The smile on Dr. Sutcliffe’s face as she looked up at Steel suddenly had more depth, more meaning.
So what did he do, Dr. Hughes?
What had Dr. Hughes been thinking? That Steel had seduced Dr. Sutcliffe and then sent her into that lake to drown? But why? What was in it for Steel? Something with his career? Or had Dr. Sutcliffe seen something that would lead to her death? Learned something Steel didn’t want known?
Quint banged his fists against his forehead. Somehow, instead of solving the mystery of what had happened to Dr. Hughes, he’d managed to get mixed up in the mystery of what had happened to Dr. Sutcliffe. Jesus, as detectives went, he doubted even Daffy Duck would hire him to work at Quackbusters.
It was too bad Juan wasn’t around to help with this. Then again, Angélica’s father would probably have him back in that damned temple digging out more rocks, especially back around that hat.
That hat!
Mrs. Hughes’ words played through his mind: a boot with his name scrawled on it (an old Navy habit) was found close by.
Could that be Dr. Hughes’ hat? If so, his initials might still be on the inside band. Did finding his hat even matter?
Maybe. He might as well go see, since he’d hit a dead end on Dr. Sutcliffe and the ring. Grabbing his flashlight and the stash of food he’d collected for his and Angélica’s breakfast, he stepped out of his tent.
Rover trotted out next to him.
“Get back inside, Rover.”
The javelina ignored him, heading toward the mess tent.
Quint shrugged and then zipped the mesh flap closed. It was a free country in javelina-land.
He looked across the plaza at the Dawn Temple and then over at the Temple of the Water Witch. Should he go check on Angélica first? He’d probably be busy over there working with her for a while. Just a quick look at that hat, and then he’d hop over and join her. His decision made, he headed toward the Dawn Temple.
Pausing at the steps leading up to the temple’s dark mouth, he glanced around. Sweat pooled in the usual places and a few new ones thanks to thinking about trying his luck again in that goddamned chamber of terror.
Stop being such a wuss.
Cursing, he started up the steps.
* * *
Angélica rested her head against the warm wall. Her shoulders sagged, her shirt soaked. Defeat tasted like shit.
Where could that shell be? She’d been through her charts, her mom’s notes, even the drawings that Esteban had done of several different temple walls. The damned thing seemed to thwart her at every turn.
And where was Quint? He should be awake by now. Then again, they were both low on sleep, playing catch up. He’d looked so relaxed when she’d left him. She’d been tempted to forget her quest for the shell for a while longer and spend the morning convincing him to follow her back to her house in Cancun until his next job took him away. But time was of the essence, and she wouldn’t stop worrying about her father until she was there with him.
She stood, collecting her drawings and books. She’d reached the hole in the outer wall when she remembered that she’d left the lid of the tomb open in the king’s burial chamber.
“Crud.” Maybe she could let it go until she returned later with Quint. Then she thought of the mouse she’d shooed away when she’d arrived early this morning.
Dragging her feet, Angélica approached the wall. Each time she had to go through that hole, it looked like it had shrunk a little more.
Shoving her tool belt and water bottle through ahead of her just in case, she inched through the hole. On the other side, she wiped her face with her T-shirt and noticed how much her hands were trembling. It was funny how her courage seemed to wane as her age increased.
Leaning over the stone casket, she shined her flashlight into the darkness once again. “Where did you hide it?” she whispered, directing the beam on the jade necklace around his neck. That was where it should be, right there, damn it.
She flipped the skeleton off. “You paranoid freak.”
In spite of the missing shell, she still had lots of work to do documenting this burial chamber. The Mexican government would be happy to hear that she had found the king. Maybe happy enough to overlook the tasks she hadn’t accomplished and the problems with keeping her crew intact and safe this year.
Something shifted down by the feet of the skeleton. When she shined the flashlight in that direction, two tiny eyes twinkled.
“You little shit.” She grabbed a paintbrush from her tool belt and leaned further into the tomb, careful not to crush anything under her palm. She tried to scare the mouse toward the opening. It cowered against the far wall.
Grabbing the lid of the tomb, Angélica braced her foot against the wall and tugged on the stone slab. It scraped open a few more inches, sliding off the back corner, making another hole big enough for the mouse to escape.
She set her light next to the skull and stood on tiptoe as she leaned over the dead king, reaching toward the foot-end of the tomb. If a skeleton hand grabbed her boob, she was going to piss her pants.
“Get out of there.” She nudged the mouse with her paintbrush. It let out a squeak and shot out through the opening she’d made.
She drew her arm back. Thanks to the shadows caused by the angle of the light, she noticed a small, irregular lump under the pelvis bone. Carefully she reached down and pulled out what felt like a wad of scratchy cloth from under the skeleton. Something clicked in the cloth as she moved it away from the pelvis.
Back flat on her feet, she pulled the wad several inches toward her and smoothed it out, doing her best not to disturb the rest of the skeleton. Whatever was inside, it must have been part of a burial cache, or maybe even attached to what was left of the king’s robe. Her fingers brushed over something hard under the tattered fabric. She moved the flashlight closer. It was probably a bone tangled in the cloth. She’d seen that too many times to count.
Pulling a pair of tweezers from her tool pouch, she pinched the very edge of the cloth and pulled it back.
Her breath bottled up in her chest.
Holy crap!
She scrambled out, her heart taking a turn around the Indy 500 track.
She’d found it! She’d finally found the …
Something scuffed across the floor in the outer room.
Her heart did a tailspin, screeching.
What was that? Or rather, who? She opened her mouth to say Quint’s name, but then realized he would most likely call for her right off.
She strained, listening for more scuffs or crunches from the loose pebbles that littered the floor.
Or breathing.
There! She heard it again. Another scuff.
Someone was on the other side of the wall.
Glancing around for her weapon, she swore under her breath—so was her machete.
* * *
Quint carried the stone across the chamber and placed it on top of the pile of others. In his hurry to get to the hat, he wasn’t wasting time with the wheelbarrow this morning and was paying for it already in his lower back.
The hat was almost within reach.
After a few back stretches, he lifted a stone about the size of a concrete cinder block and almost dropped it on his foot when he saw what had been underneath it.
A hand.
Or at least what was left of it. More like bones with some dried flesh barely holding it together.
He tossed the block aside and squatted down to get a closer look at the cracked, yellowed bones. What was a hand doing here?
More importantly, whose hand was it?
This wasn’t another one of Juan’s practical jokes was it?
He touched one of the finger bones, grimacing. It felt real enough.
Hauling away another large stone revealed a tattered, faded, blue shirtsleeve.
The next stone he moved exposed the shoulder joint.
Quint blinked the sweat out of his eyes. He pushed onward, his back twinging as he hefted rocks aside, uncovering the remains grunt by grunt.
The chest cavity had been flattened by one big motherfucker of a rock. The skull had a partially crushed eye socket. He used a pencil to sift through a tuft of dusty hair. His sweat dripped down into its gaping jaws.
Whoever it was must have been in this chamber for a long time. The fabric covering the body was chewed on and holey with dust permeating the weaves of the material.
When Quint rolled a large stone out of the way near the feet, he found a pair of square-rimmed wire frames. Crushed glass sprinkled the dirt and stone.
He stood there huffing in the dusty chamber, dread chilling his blood. He knew those glasses.
Lifting the wire frames by the nose bridge, he carefully placed them off to the side. Hefting two more stones to the side, he cleared the left foot, fibula, and tibia. A boot lay in pieces around the ankle, the thread seams rotted away.