Everyone leaves but me and Roger.
“Let me guess,” he says. “You want to see the scene of the crime.”
“And you’re coming with me. I hope you have your gun. Night is falling and there are some creatures that come out around here at night that I’d prefer seeing over the barrel of a six-shooter.”
He pats a bulge in his coat.
To beat the darkness, we go up the steps as quickly as we can, leaving us both a bit breathless.
The only evidence of the terrible assault on the man are the bloodstains on the sacrificial block. But I’m glad I came anyway. We’re only a couple hundred feet above the ground, but the darkening night sky already looks different.
“Did you know that the ancients used the sky as their map?” I ask Roger. “Traven told us that.”
He grunts. “Very interesting. I listened to your dissertation about ancient evil. But I’m not convinced we don’t have a copycat—a falling-out among thieves and someone throwing the suspicion away from themselves.”
“Maybe. But I doubt it. The glyph is too … too Aztec.” At the moment, I am too fascinated by the sky to argue the point. It is astonishing. I never really looked at the sky before as something other than a black field with a shiny moon and stars, meaningless except as pretty objects. Now I see it in a different way—the way that Howard, the prospector, meant when he rambled on in a drunken state.
Like he said, the answer is in the stars.
I wondered what I would do if I had to follow the stars and planets to get somewhere. It doesn’t look easy. It’s even a little hard to tell the difference between planets and stars unless you keep staring at them. The planets, of course, are the lights that don’t sparkle.
“Did you know that planets don’t twinkle?” I ask Roger.
“Everybody knows that.”
“What would we do if we had no map and you had to get back to New York and I had to get back to Pittsburgh by following what we see in the sky? Like Christopher Columbus crossing the ocean.”
“I think you’ve gotten dizzy from the altitude.”
“No, for the first time on this trip, I’m thinking clear. You know what, Roger, it’s all in the stars. That’s the answer.”
I lean up and give him a kiss.
“What was that for?”
“For bringing me up here so I could see the stars.”
“Let’s get going down. If we manage to reach the bottom without breaking our necks, you owe me another kiss.”
Going up the steps was challenging. Going down them in the dark is a hair-raising experience. Like climbing a tree or a mountain, getting back down is the biggest challenge.
We are about a third of the way down when Roger says, “You know something.”
“I know lots of things.” I laugh at my bold statement.
“No, I mean you know something important. I’ve been thinking about your voice back there. It was like you’d had an epiphany. Spoken to God or something. Tell me what you’ve figured out.”
“Smart man. Okay. I’ll tell you if you tell me what you know about the Louisiana Purchase.”
“What? What’s the matter with you? And Gertrude. She also asked me about that.”
I pause and sit down. My heart is pounding a bit. Getting down the steps is scary. Roger sits beside me.
“Both of us wondered why a soon-to-be history professor would not know any more about the biggest land purchase in the history of our country than a schoolboy.”
“Hmm. I know we bought it from Napoléon. He was trying to conquer Europe and needed the money. Is that good enough for you?”
“Not even close. I know that much, and I’m no professor.”
“What if I told you I wasn’t a college guy?”
“I’d say you are finally telling the truth.”
He pulls something out of his pocket and then strikes a match to show me a badge.
“Oh no, not another badge. Thompson has one, too.”
“Not like mine. Thompson’s a customs inspector.”
I take a closer look at Roger’s silver badge as I get up to continue the climb down. It reads United States Secret Service.
“What is the Secret Service—”
“Doing in Mexico—”
“Along with a customs agent,” I finish. “Is Thompson’s badge a phony?”
“His is as genuine as mine. The difference is, he’s dishonored his. He’s been running a racket with Don Antonio for years. Antonio provides Thompson with bills of sale that reflect a fraction of the true value of goods being exported from Mexico to the States, and Thompson passes them through customs, pocketing a pretty penny for doing it.”
“Like passing off expensive Thoroughbreds as workhorses?”
“Yes, but that’s chicken feed compared to say a thousand head of cattle at a time or a priceless ancient artifact.”
“So where do you fit in?”
“The Secret Service and customs are both part of the Department of the Treasury. Customs collects money and we investigate when we get suspicious that there’s monkey business.”
“So what are Thompson, Gebhard, and the rest of the cowboys up to?”
“I didn’t know when I jumped on that train out of El Paso at the last minute with a rather pretty traveling companion. We’ve been watching Thompson and Castillo. We know that Aztec and Mayan pieces have made their way across the border and through customs labeled as pottery in the past.”
“And ultimately to Gebhard?”
“Yes. So when the whole bunch of them headed out for Mexico at the same time with an outlaw gang—”
“I figured they were gunfighters.”
We finally step onto solid ground, to my relief. It’s dark, but there is a bright moon, which brings light and shadows along the Avenue of the Dead.
“You figured right. They all headed for Teo, bringing along Lily Langtry, who, I suspect, just wants to see Mexico and isn’t part of the customs fraud.”
“They gathered here because the prospector had discovered—”
“¡Señor!”
The voice comes out of the dark shadows and Roger turns to it. A man is suddenly there with an object that looks like a piece of pipe poking from his mouth. Roger steps back and reaches for his gun as the man blows dust in his face from the pipe.
“Dream dust!” comes from me. I hold my breath, determined not to have the substance capture my mind.
More men emerge. I drop to my knees, clutching for Roger’s gun under his coat, but someone grabs my hair and jerks me back.
My screams get smothered as they grab me and gag me.
A blindfold goes over my eyes as my heart ricochets in my throat.
58
Coffin black.
I can’t see anything. It’s pitch-black, without a speck of light, not even the twinkle of a star. And it is dead still.
I’m alone.
My hands are no longer tied and the blindfold has been taken off by the men who brought me here. They disappeared like wraiths as soon as they untied me, leaving me standing alone, surrounded by dark and silence.
I’m afraid to move.
Brought from the tepid night outside to a cool place that smells like earth, I feel like I am in a cave. I’m sure of it. But I still fear taking a step because I don’t know what is around me. It’s too dark to see anything—not even my hand in front of my face. Am I at the edge of a cliff? Where would a step take me?
I feel as if I’m suspended in midair, but my feet tell me I’m on solid ground. I put my hands out to see if I can feel a wall, but I feel nothing.
All I can do is wait in a place darker than night and quieter than a crypt.
The queasy feeling I’m experiencing—my heart in my throat, my mouth dry, my breathing shallow, the strange sensation of my mind being detached from my body—is much like I had when I awoke in the culvert in Mexico City. But this time, they didn’t attack me with dream dust, and I’d only gotten a whiff of what Roger was hit wi
th. It’s my panic that’s creating a sensation of déjà vu.
Poor Roger. I hope he is okay, that he wasn’t harmed. The fear that they might have ripped out his heart is petrifying.
While the air in Mexico City has the foul taste that only humans can create, this air smells as if it has not been stirred in an eon. Is it a cave underneath the city? Why not? The ancients built incredible edifices aboveground, so there’s no reason to believe they didn’t put tunnels under their city.
A light appears. A small light, not much more than how a match would appear dozens of feet away. Like a star. Or a planet—it’s not twinkling.
It’s something for me to move toward. Maybe it’s beckoning me.
I carefully feel around me, moving very cautiously to the side until I feel a wall. Dry earth surrounds me completely. For sure I’m in a cave.
I slowly take a step toward the light, making sure my feet are planted on solid ground, worried that the star might be luring me to something evil or deadly. I suddenly get an image of stepping into a hole and falling face-first down it, flying downward, to be impaled by spears that savages have rigged to kill big game.
Why did they leave me like this, disorientated and helpless?
“Help.” I mutter the word, not shouting it, but then clamp my mouth shut. Never show fear to a dangerous animal. Who would help me down here anyway?
A door flies open for a second and a ball of fire flies at me.
I stumble backward as it falls and hits the dirt floor in front of me, sending off a spray of sparks. A torch. It lies there, burning and smothering. I stand frozen, staring at it, unable to move my arms and legs.
There is no more movement. No more flaming torches. Nothing. I’ve been thrown a torch. Why? What in the name of God is going on?
Gathering my courage, I bend down and pick up the torch. Raising it to chest level, I confirm in the sudden light that I am in a dirt tunnel—and that I am not alone.
They’re present, on both sides of me—lifeless forms.
Not statues of stone, but costumed figures, as if I’m in a wax museum. A museum of horror. Bizarre figures that I realize I’ve seen before—they look like the wall paintings I saw at the Aztec museum and here at Teo. Not the exact ones, but drawn by ancient hands with the same technique.
Aztec gods with huge eyes, gaping jaws, ugly, twisted, even demented features stand erect and glare at me. Each one is adorned in its own tall headpiece, cloaks of bright feathers, and shields befitting Aztec warrior kings. The feathers are long and brilliantly colored: reds, greens, yellows, purples, oranges.
Only one of the inanimate creatures is not bedecked in feathers, and I stare at him, my heart racing. His back is to me, but I can still tell it is a man, not a god. He’s almost naked and has that strange gray skin that strikes me as dead—cold dead as gray marble, but without the shine and luster of polished stone.
He turns and looks at me as I scream and scream.
It’s Howard, the prospector.
I back up as he comes toward me.
His face is distorted; his skin is … is … stretched.
It hits me like a blow to the chest, knocking the wind from me, startling me so much, I freeze in place.
Howard’s skin is stretched.
It’s someone wearing his skin. What was I told at the museum? Xipe, the flay god, skinned people alive, removing the skin whole and then stretching it over his whole body?
Howard had jumped from the train and made his way to Teo. And into the arms of those who feared he had uncovered their secrets. He’d been flayed, skinned alive. And now someone is wearing his skin.
A door flies open, the same opening that the torch was flung out of.
A man—a beast—a were-jaguar—is standing in the doorway.
A creature of the night with the body of a man but facial features that have some of the shape of the jungle beast guards the door, preventing me from any escape.
A beast I have seen before.
59
In front of me, seemingly materializing out of nowhere in the darkness, is the creature I saw outside the train after I argued with Traven. The thing is naked except for the sort of short skirt ancient indios wore.
My heart jumps back into my throat. I don’t know what it is. Man? Beast? An Aztec magician who inhales magic mushrooms and changes shape?
I can see for sure now that it is not wearing a mask, but I don’t know if the animalistic features of its face are formed by the hands of the gods or by a good artist.
It turns away from me and goes deeper into the cavern. Its intent seems to be that I am to follow. There is nothing behind me but an otherworldly darkness, so I follow, passing the thing in a dead man’s skin, staying behind the were-jaguar for want of any place to hide.
My knees are weak and my courage is waning. I want to cry and flee at the same time, but I have nowhere to flee. And I’m afraid to show fear, to turn tail and run, sure that the creature will chase me down and rip my flesh to pieces if I try to flee or expose the terror I feel.
I follow the thing into a larger cavern lit by torches. There are more things in the room, more creatures from nightmares. All appear lifeless, statues of stone, until one of them speaks.
“Do you know where you are?” it asks.
It takes a second to recognize the voice, to realize where I have heard it before—the curator at the Aztec museum in Mexico City. His name is Torres.
Then I see him. He is on an elevated throne in front of me. He’s dressed as an Aztec nobleman, with robe, tunic, and the brilliant headdress made of the dazzling feathers of rare tropical birds. His features are concealed by a golden jaguar mask.
Do I know where I am? In the caverns of a netherworld? I hope it’s not hell. I’m not ready for that place, yet.
“Under the city,” I say. “Somewhere. The Pyramid of the Sun, Moon, or one of the other ruins?”
“The archaeologist told you there were secret places.”
How did he know that? From Traven? Or his workers?
“Yes. He said he believed there were passageways and chambers but that they would be difficult to find and access.”
“Do you know why you are still alive?”
I find this a strange question even in these peculiar circumstances.
“The Good Lord has spared me. So have you.” So far. “Besides, I’ve done nothing to deserve to have my life taken. And enough blood’s already been shed.”
“Don Antonio used his position of trust to permit foreigners to rob Mexico of priceless and irreplaceable antiquities. There are museums in your country and Europe that have finer collections of our art than our own museums. He paid with his life for his crimes against our history.”
“I’ve done nothing to hurt your country.”
“Sometimes a life must be sacrificed to save something much more important. You’ve trespassed. You came to the City of the Gods to find the golden disk of the sun god.”
“No, that’s not true. I came to Mexico to write entertaining stories about the people and the food. I got involved innocently because people believed the drunken old prospector had passed me information. I was lured here by others who are trying to find the treasure. I don’t have any interest in treasure. I came to Teo only to find out what was going on.”
“Why? So you can also expose the location of the disk in a newspaper story?”
“I’m not a treasure hunter. I don’t care about the disk. I came here in the name of justice, to find out why two men were killed on the train. At least I thought I saw two killed. But back there…”
“You saw the skin of the prospector. He didn’t die on the train. He had arranged with two conspirators to pretend to be killed so they could get to the treasure first and not split it with so many others. The porter on the train was one of us, sent to watch those we knew were seeking the artifacts that we have sworn to guard.
“In terms of the justice you mention, the prospector received what he deserved. Followin
g the conquest, the Spanish conquistadors tortured the native people to get them to reveal where they hid their valuables. Their favorite method was to roast the feet of people over a blazing fire until the information was revealed or they died from the pain.
“The prospector was a cruel demon who learned the secret to where the golden disk of the sun god was hidden by torturing one of our members in the same way until the man revealed the map. But he paid for his crimes and atrocities when he returned here. Before our man on the train was killed, he sent a message, telling us that the prospector had faked his own death. We were waiting for the prospector when he arrived here.”
“Are all these deaths and horrors necessary? Why don’t you just turn your golden disk over to the Mexican government and let them put it in your museum?”
I already knew why. The government is unstable at best, with veins of corruption running deep. As Torres told me at the museum, the artifact he saved from being exported ended up at el presidente’s house rather than in a museum.
I lamely answer my own question. “You don’t trust the government.”
“I trust no one but a few like myself who have devoted their lives to the sacred duty. Don Antonio was a good example of how faithful to historical treasures our government will be.”
“But you can’t kill everyone who seeks your treasure. There are a lot of them in Teo right now and they have guns. And even if you did, more would come.”
“They will come as long as they believe there is treasure here. That is why we have brought you here.”
“What do mean?”
“There is no treasure, no golden disk. It is true that a golden calendar that is round and as tall as a man once stood atop the sun god’s pyramid, but that disk was moved centuries ago, after its location was revealed under another torture. Where it is stored”—he shakes his head—“is a secret taken to the grave by those who hid it. They knew that where it rests could be again revealed by torture and thus they allowed the secret to die with them rather than passing down its location.”
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