by R. J. Jagger
Wilde shrugged.
“I don’t know.”
“Well I do,” London said. “That’s what the map shows.”
Wilde looked at it again.
It was modern paper.
It wasn’t ancient parchment.
“This isn’t old,” he said.
“I know.”
“How could it be a map then?”
“That’s a good question.”
“You say that like you have a good answer.”
“I do. Do you want to hear it?”
He did.
He did indeed.
With that, she told him a story so rich and vivid that he felt as if he was actually there.
Under the cloak of a moonless Mexican night the young American lawyer chipped away as quietly as she could at the outside wall of the ancient temple. The structure couldn’t be more than two feet thick and she’d already gone almost that far. She wiped sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand.
Her 26-year-old body ached.
If the guards stumbled on her she’d be weak.
She wore all things black. Her long raven hair was fastened in a ponytail and pulled through the back of a green baseball cap.
Her body was well-conditioned and taut.
Her face-ordinarily sensual and mysterious-was tense and focused.
The temple was located on the Avenue of the Dead, midway between the Pyramid of the Sun and the Pyramid of the Moon, in the middle of the Teotihuacan archeological site twenty-five miles northeast of Mexico City.
No one had ever been inside this particular ruin.
It was nothing special from the outside, just a rectangular stone structure with fifty-foot sides and a ten-foot height. Unremarkable pillars stood upright on the four corners and four midpoints. Hundreds of years ago they supported a wooden canopy. The structure paled against the mystery and grandeur of dozens of larger and more ornate works, not to mention the pyramids of the Sun and the Moon, where most of the archeological efforts had been directed to date and, even at this time, were still in their infancy.
Legend had it that the temple was cursed.
The reason for the curse had been lost to antiquity.
A hole opened up, not a big one, but enough to indicate the beginning of the end. She chipped away at the edges with renewed energy and didn’t stop until the opening was large enough to crawl through.
She took a look around and saw no one.
Okay.
This was it.
She stuck her head close to the opening and took a sniff followed by several deep breaths. The centuries-old air had no detectible odor. No lightheadedness followed, indicating the oxygen hadn’t been eaten away by mold.
She shined a flashlight inside.
The chamber was large and not broken into smaller rooms. As she anticipated, several support pillars for the stone top came into view. There were no snakes, spider webs or sounds. Whatever dust had been there at one time had settled many hundreds of years ago.
She turned the flashlight off, tied a rope around her backpack and slithered backwards through the opening until she was inside.
The air was cooler by several degrees but not damp.
She stood up and turned the flashlight on.
Intricate murals ordained all four walls.
In the middle of the room was a stone box the size of a casket, also with ornate sides.
The top was wooden, elegantly carved and hand painted.
She pulled the backpack through the opening, took out a hammer and chisel and carefully pried the top up, managing to keep it in one piece. She maneuvered it to the side, tilted it over the edge and lowered it carefully to the floor.
Then she shined the flashlight inside.
What she saw she could hardly believe.
A cold chill ran up her spine.
Outside a bright arc of lightning flashed, so close and violent that the inside of the chamber lit up.
Thunder snapped.
The flashlight dropped out of her hand.
The bulb exploded with a blue flash.
Then everything in the world turned black. The darkness was so absolute that she couldn’t even tell where the opening was.
She stood there, breathing deep and heavy, hearing nothing but the sound of air moving in and out of her lungs.
Suddenly a noise came from behind her.
It was a heavy breathing not more than a few steps away.
She backed away, tripped over the side of the casket and fell inside.
20
Day One
July 21, 1952
Monday Afternoon
When Sean Waterfield disappeared into a meeting, Waverly wasn’t quite sure what to do. They were supposed to go out to dinner tonight but hadn’t discussed the time or place, no doubt because he planned on her being around the rest of the afternoon. She almost headed for the elevator but instead took a seat at the reception desk.
Ten seconds later the door swung open and an out-of-breath librarian-type walked over.
“I’m Evelyn from the temp agency,” she said. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”
Waverly’s heart sank.
She was busted.
Then she said, “You’re late.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“They didn’t think you were coming. They got me.”
Silence.
“For tomorrow too?”
“For all week, as far as I know.”
“What agency are you with?”
“That’s not important,” Waverly said. “What’s important is that they have more than one temp agency in their phonebook. Be on time next time, that’s my advice.”
The woman left.
The phone rang.
The caller wanted Bobby Baxter.
The phone had transfer buttons 1 to 10 but none were labeled.
“Do you know what extension he is?”
No.
He didn’t.
“Just give me a minute.”
She asked around until she found him, back in a corner with a drafting pad working on some kind of mathematical or engineering calculation. He had a mean, square face and narrow caveman eyes. “Put him through on line 2,” he said. His mouth smiled and his voice was calm, but he scared her. There was something behind his eyes that he didn’t want anyone to see. She didn’t know what it was but it was definitely something.
An hour passed.
People came and had her do things.
One of the men, a young man named Aaron Gull, sat on the corner of the desk and hit on her for ten minutes. In another time and place she might have been interested.
Another hour passed.
Then Sean Waterfield appeared.
He looked battered but happy, as if he’d been in a fistfight and won.
“I had a meeting with two of the partners and convinced them to throw away the mold and approach the project from a modern perspective,” he said. “We had a conference call with the client. At first they were reluctant but then they came around. They gave us the go ahead to come up with something fresh and present it to them for consideration. They’re going to pay us for all work done no matter which way they eventually decide to go. Now my job is to come up with something they can’t say no to.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I don’t have a clue,” he said. “All I know is that I’m excited as all hell. Help me think about it. We’ll discuss it over dinner.”
Okay.
Fine.
He looked at his watch.
“I have to go and I’ll be gone the rest of the day,” he said. “Why don’t we say seven o’clock?”
She nodded.
Perfect.
“Where do I pick you up?”
She hesitated.
Then she told him.
She was staying with a friend in Chinatown. He could pick her up in front of the Green Dragon Oriental Massage. “Have you ever been there?”
&
nbsp; He diverted his eyes and was about to deny it. The words that came out of his mouth though were, “Not recently.”
21
Day One
July 21, 1952
Monday Afternoon
Unless there was something he was missing, River didn’t see January James, the biker woman, as wanting to kill him. She was more like someone who’d been kicked around for a long time and just didn’t want to be kicked anymore. He took her home, showed her where the shower was and threw her clothes in the washer. Then he drove the Indian over to the department store and did a little shopping.
When he got back, the woman was sitting on a rail with a towel wrapped around her.
Gone was the road grime.
Gone were the tangles in her hair.
Gone was the bandana.
Soft hair blew over her face and she didn’t brush it away.
River handed her two May D amp;F bags and said, “I got you some things.”
The words surprised her.
She looked inside, pulled out a pair of shorts and checked the size, which was right. Next came out a pair of jeans, two tank tops, two T-shirts and five button-down blouses. Under all that were a half dozen pair of panties and bras.
She checked the bra size-34C.
“I think you gave me a little more credit than I deserve.”
“I took my best shot.”
She dropped the towel into her lap.
Bouncy breasts came into view, one with the tattoo of a rose on the cleavage side. She paid no attention to River and put the bra on. It was too big but not by much. She tightened the straps.
There.
Good enough.
In the other bag were more feminine clothes-three dresses, nylons, garter belts and black high heels. She held up the simple short white one and said, “I haven’t worn a dress in a hundred years.”
River turned his head.
“Try it on.”
“Why?”
“Because I pictured you in it,” he said. “I want to see if I was right.”
He focused on two BNSF workers turning a wrench under a flatbed coupler as the woman rustled behind him. Then she said, “Okay, turn around.”
He did.
What he saw he didn’t expect.
Take away the tattoos and she’d be a pinup girl.
“Were you right?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“No, I wasn’t even close.”
22
Day One
July 21, 1952
Monday Morning
Last Monday night, London broke into a temple on the Avenue of the Dead. “No one had ever been inside. It wasn’t big or overly remarkable, definitely not the kind of place where you’d expect a king or queen to be entombed. What intrigued me about it was the curse.”
Wilde set a book of matches on fire.
“The curse?”
Right.
The curse.
“I don’t believe in all that ancient voodoo crap,” he said. “There’s no such thing as a curse.”
“That’s what I used to think,” London said.
“Used to?”
The flames drew her attention.
“The curse drew me to it because it still exists to this day,” she said. “The reason for the curse was long forgotten but not the rumor. Anyway, I felt it was worth going into so I did it.”
The fire was down to Wilde’s fingertips. He looked out the window, found no one below and dropped it out.
“And?”
“And it was a burial site of someone important,” she said. “Live people had been chained to the wall.”
“And left to rot?”
London nodded.
Wilde screwed his face in disgust. “That’s sick. Why?”
“I don’t know,” London said. “Maybe they were sacrifices, maybe they were some kind of soul currency, maybe they were virgins he was taking to the next place.”
Wilde pictured it.
“What a way to go.”
“Here’s the important thing,” London said. “The person was buried in a stone casket with a wooden top. When I took off the top, there was a painting on the underside. As soon as I saw it I knew what it was. It was a map of a catacomb system.”
She pointed to the map.
“This section here is the entrance,” she said. “It’s been buried with rock for thirty feet.”
“Why?”
“To prevent looting, that’s my guess,” she said. “These squares most likely denote rooms where past kings and queens were buried. The system was probably guarded as well, possibly for decades and maybe even centuries.”
She lowered her voice.
“When I was inside the tomb, my flashlight dropped and went out. I was in the blackest blackness you could ever imagine. All of a sudden there was something behind me. Something alive. I could hear it breathing.”
Wilde pictured it.
“What was it?”
“I don’t know,” London said. “I like to think it was just a stray dog that followed me in, or something like that. It only lasted for ten seconds or so and then disappeared as quickly as it came, but it was real, it wasn’t my imagination. I made my way to the entrance and got out alive. I almost got the hell out of there, but I was too close to history. The past had a fist around my throat and was pulling me back in. I grabbed my other flashlight and a paper and pencil and went back in. Then I made a sketch of the painting on the underside of the casket lid.” She tapped on the map. “That’s what this is. Then I scraped the painting off with a rock, all the way down to the wood.”
Wilde tilted his head.
“So this is all that’s left.”
London nodded.
Then she got a distant look before refocusing.
“Something strange happened. That night, starting even before I got out, the sky exploded with lightning bolts, one after another after another after another. The sky literally screamed with thunder.”
Wilde wasn’t impressed.
“Don’t tell me it was the curse.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’s no such thing. There’s only science.”
“Maybe you’re right,” London said. “But this particular science started right over where I was and then set off for Mexico City. It ended up burning down a good portion of it.” She exhaled and added, “There was no rain, only lightning.”
“That happens sometimes.”
“Maybe.”
“It was just a coincidence.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Someone broke into my place yesterday,” she said. “I didn’t notice it until this morning, but things were definitely moved. They were careful but not careful enough.”
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know but they were after the map,” she said. “I want you to take possession of it and keep it safe.”
Wilde looked at it.
“Sure. Anything else?”
She nodded.
“Actually there is. I want you to find out who’s after it,” she said. “I want you to persuade them to go away. And most importantly, I want you to protect me in the meantime.”
23
Day One
July 21, 1952
Monday Evening
San Francisco was so exotic and atmospheric that Waverly could live there forever, starting right now. The trolley cars, the hills, the water, the bridges, the diversity, the fog, the harbors, the downtown skyline, it was all conspiring to make her stay.
Sean Waterfield didn’t see the need to leave Chinatown for dinner and took her to a place called the Hong Kong Clay Pot at 9th and Grant.
He looked nice.
Better than nice, actually.
“A woman named Kava Every used to work at your firm,” Waverly said.
Waterfield raised an eyebrow.
“That’s right. Do you know her?”
“She’s my cousin. That whole temp thing today, th
at was sort of unintended,” she said. “I came to town to see if I could find out what happened to her. That’s why I came to the firm, to see if anyone might know something.”
The words sunk in.
Waterfield’s face changed.
“So you aren’t really a temp?”
“No, but after you wanted me to get you food, well, you seemed nice so I figured, what the hell,” she said. “Then one thing led to another …”
Waterfield shook his head in amusement.
Then he got serious.
“Kava was a good person,” he said. “It was a damn shame, what happened to her.”
True.
“Do you have any idea who might have done it?”
Waterfield got a distant look.
“There’s one little thing,” he said. “I don’t know if it’s anything or not.”
“Tell me.”
He hesitated.
“Do you live in San Francisco?”
“No, Denver.”
“That’s a long ways off.”
Right.
It was.
“I’m actually thinking of moving here,” she said. “Trade the sunshine for fog.”
“Well, if there’s anything I can do to convince you to do it, let me know.”
“I will.”
He speared a shrimp, chewed and swallowed, washing it down with a sip of tea. “The cops talked to a number of us at Bristol after the fact. The theory was that it was a murder rather than an accident or suicide and that the murder was done by someone who knew her and knew her well, a boyfriend or lover to be precise. None of us at the firm knew anything about a boyfriend or lover.”
“So it was a dead end,” Waverly said.
“It was. Over the years it’s been gnawing at me. She was a vibrant woman. She wasn’t the kind of woman to not have a sex life. In hindsight, I think she was seeing someone in the firm. I think they were keeping it quiet to avoid complications.”
“Who was it?”
“Two people come to mind,” he said. “One is an associate architect named Brian Fernier.”
Waverly tried to picture him and drew a blank.