by Alex Archer
“I can stay in the area through Friday,” she said. “Then it’s Morocco.”
“Ah, the life of a—”
Annja got out of the car, then leaned in and put her hand on Manny’s arm. “Thanks for the ride. Thanks for a lot of things. I’d give you my cell-phone number so you could call me tomorrow, connect in Lakeside. But it’s in pieces.”
He fished his card out of his wallet. It had his cell number. “In case you get another phone,” he said. Then he handed her a jump drive. “This is a copy. And I’m not giving you this. Understand? You don’t have this copy.”
“Copy of what?”
“Something Arnie found in the stairwell of the eighth floor. It was jammed into the light fixture on the wall, had broken the bulb.”
Annja recalled that when she entered the stairwell after first learning of Edgar’s death, the landing had been dark, the landings below and above it lit.
“Belonged to your professor. A clever hiding place so the guy coming after him wouldn’t find it. Smart, you archaeologists, but your professor would’ve been smarter if he hadn’t run. If he’d have stayed put and called us...”
“Indeed,” Annja said.
Then he was gone and she was on her bike. It protested starting, and so did her leg, but she shrugged off the pain, and the bike sputtered to life. She revved the engine; the thing was noisy, and it coughed exhaust. She hoped the police wouldn’t pull her over for violating local ordinances—she was already in trouble for not having the registration.
Several blocks from the hotel, she found a twenty-four-hour pharmacy and bought a bottle of aspirin, a prepaid cell phone and a pair of cheap, relatively comfortable sneakers.
She called Rembert, cradling the phone on her shoulder.
“What?”
“Did I wake you, Rem?”
“No. Not exactly. Just got ready for bed. Where have you been?”
“Long story, Rem. I—”
“—don’t want to hear it, Annja.”
“I’ve an opportunity for you to pick up some extra cash. You interested?”
He didn’t answer.
“How about doing some video for me tomorrow? I’ll get Doug to pay you overtime, maybe double overtime.”
Still no answer.
“Rem?”
“Yeah. Yeah. I’ll think about it. Tell me where I’m going for this video, and if I show up, I show up. And I need to know if I’m getting double overtime.”
Annja gave him an address in Lakeside. She started up the bike again and drove the last few blocks to the hotel, finding an open spot on the street. Her leg still ached from the grazing and the stitches, and the bandage felt tight. Despite that, she moved quickly, up to her floor, and discovered the thug had been right...he hadn’t found the gold in her room. The meager contents of her duffel were strewn everywhere, and her laptop was gone. She stared at the jump drive in her hand. Rembert was still up, but all he had was an iPad. She wasn’t about to wake one of the other conference-goers to borrow theirs.
That hot bath she was envisioning would come at the beach cottage in a few hours. She changed out of the scrubs, stuffed everything back into her duffel and gave a last look around the room.
She stopped at the front desk only long enough to leave her key card, check out and ask directions to a twenty-four-hour Starbucks. Somebody would have a laptop there. She only had to be polite and persuasive. Annja could be both when she worked at it. She patted the jump drive and headed toward her motorcycle.
Chapter 24
Sunday
Thankfully, one of Madison’s Starbucks was open even after midnight. She didn’t have to borrow a laptop from one of the customers; the coffee shop had three available for use. She bought a zucchini-walnut muffin, thinking that bordered on healthy and would offset the double-chocolate brownie and the cinnamon scone that she’d already chosen. While her left hand was wrapped around one of the shop’s signature drinks, the fingers of her right hand worked to key into the various folders on the jump drive.
“Talk to me, Edgar,” she coaxed. “Tell me what caused all this mayhem and death.” The drink disappeared before she’d realized it, and she ordered a second. She told herself that the caffeine would help get her through this, but more likely her nervous energy would power her past the fatigue that was pulling at her eyelids.
MAYANS IN GEORGIA. That was the first folder she delved into. It carried a report from December 2011 of an Atlanta-based couple who suggested that Georgia’s highest peak had been the site of a Mayan outpost. One hundred miles from their home, the spot was similar to locations in Mexico and Guatemala that the Maya people had favored. The couple demonstrated that terraces on the side of the mountain were unique to the United States, yet identical to ones in southern Mexico attributed to the Maya. It was complete with pentagonal mounds. They further suggested the Maya had been mining the mountain for gold and that words from their language had crept into the vocabulary of Native Americans in the area.
The documentation looked both plausible and fantastical.
There were scans of newspaper clippings about the couple’s contention and the subsequent controversy. Annja hadn’t recalled reading anything about it before and made a mental note to bookmark some of the internet sites referenced...when she got around to replacing her stolen laptop. She drained her cup.
She thought about the aspirin and maybe stretching out on one of the couches here, just for a short while. But she thought of Edgar and...she didn’t have time for that.
More clippings. The crux of the argument boiled down to one side claiming the Maya people had a connection to Native American tribes in the southern United States and the other side arguing against it. Some of the opponents, Annja extrapolated, had been railing against the notion their entire careers. And to be proven wrong would be disastrous to their credentials.
THE FLORIDA CONNECTION. Some of the files in this folder were duplicates, some scans of college newspaper articles. She raced through the material to get the gist of it. Near Lake Okeechobee, student researchers found early evidence of corn growing...before it had showed up anywhere else in the southeast, suggesting it arrived to the United States via people who brought the seeds by boat. Another article by a college professor out of Miami suggested the Mayans arrived in Florida first via boats and then migrated to Georgia. Lake Okeechobee had originally been called Lake Mayaimi, after a tribe that lived on its shores. The city of Miami derived its name from that. Interesting...Mayaimi...Maya.
Annja was fascinated and forced herself to skim things she wanted to totally lose herself in. There would be time for that later, maybe during her flight to Morocco; now she just needed the basics.
There wasn’t a folder on Wisconsin or Rock Lake, so she kept going.
There was, however, a section on the Chontal Maya and their seafaring exploits. The people at one time dominated coastal trade routes along Mexico and into Central America. There were also records of their voyages to the Caribbean, and so Florida to Georgia wouldn’t be all that much of a stretch.
Mayan jade was found in the Caribbean and on Antigua.
A historical tidbit that put Annja on the edge of her chair: Ponce de Leon’s records mentioned that the people he met in what would become Florida were aware of the Yucatán peninsula and provided navigational headings.
“Fascinating. But what does this have to do with Wisconsin?” Annja said.
“Pardon?” a weary-looking barista gathered up Annja’s empty plates.
“Oh, nothing. Just talking to myself.” She took a break and got a third Frappuccino and a blueberry muffin, her sticky fingers trembling from the caffeine overload.
One section covered traditional history, and Annja glanced through it only to reacquaint herself with what she’d read years ago. The Maya people had the only f
ully developed language of the pre-Columbia people, were known for the architecture, art, astronomy and mathematical systems, their impressive calendar that some believe predicted the end of the world, and their interaction with other Mesoamerican cultures. Their civilization was recorded as stretching from 2000 BC through the arrival of the Spanish. The Maya never wholly disappeared, not like the Anasazi, whom Edgar had apparently given up on. They existed throughout Central America today, many pockets of population holding on to traditions and the language still spoken.
She knew there were disagreements to this day on when the Mayan civilization began. Carbon-dated Mayan relics in Belize dated to 2600 BC; a Mayan calendar held a date that equated to August of 3114 BC. The general acceptance of the first wholly Mayan settlements and structures were in the neighborhood of 2000 BC to 1800 BC. Between 250 and 900 AD, the Maya people numbered in the millions. They had empires and kingdoms, erected temples and held elaborate ceremonie, and perfected their intricate hieroglyphic writings.
Their gods were numerous and not stagnant, shifting between concepts of good and evil, neither trait necessarily admirable, some representing the sun and some the underworld, some of death and putrefaction. They believed heavily in the supernatural and that magic could be imbued in objects. They placed great importance on rituals and honored the destructive heart of their gods. Death rituals were numerous, and they believed that those who died in battle or by sacrifice or suicide were granted a route straight to heaven.
The civilization eventually collapsed around 900 AD, and speculation remained rife to the cause. Annja’s eyes raced over the notes, trying to find some link to Edgar’s Wisconsin theory and seeing only discussions about overpopulation, revolt, dissolution of trade routes, epidemics, climate change and foreign invaders. Highlighted was a passage about an intense drought, magnified by the deforestation the Maya people had conducted to expand their farm fields, which may have tipped the scales against them.
“There’s nothing here. Nothing... Wait.” Annja found folders within folders within folders, labeled only by numbers. A code Edgar had developed.
Annja’s kidneys were arguing with her, but she forced herself to keep going. She felt so close to uncovering the crux of Edgar and Papadopolous’s evidence and the meat of their hypothesis.
Maps of Canada showed jade deposits, including where people were mining today. Obsidian deposits were marked, too, as well as gold and silver deposits and present and past mining operations. The Maya people had historically treasured and used all of those things—jade, obsidian, gold and silver. There were more maps, and Annja clicked on each one in turn. These were of Wisconsin, places in the north highlighted, some in the central part of the state, right around the Lakeside area. There were accounts of veins of gold, silver and other minerals, and an article about early prospectors trying to coerce the Ojibwa people into revealing where the thick veins were. The research went on to say that the indigenous Ojibwa did not want the miners to dig out the sacred metals and so remained silent.
At the heart of what Edgar and Papa believed was that the Maya people did not originate in Central America and find their way to Georgia and Florida, but that they originated in Canada, migrated quickly to Wisconsin and from there went south. Edgar believed they had at one point mingled with the Anasazi...the connection that started his interest in all of this.
“Oh,” Annja breathed, “is it...was it...possible?” The research could turn Mesoamerican history on its head.
There was more. They had collected old records from traders and trappers who worked this part of the country long before the United States was formed and Wisconsin’s boundaries were established. In scattered segments pulled from explorers’ journals and from reports by the French who traded for furs with some of the local indigenous people, Edgar and Papa had found the mortar for their theory. Local chiefs had passed down stories from one generation to the next. These tales were of a tribe that fashioned jewelry from gold, that traded in jade beads and that believed in blood sacrifices—a practice the natives thought “most horrid.” Tales continued that they built a nine-step temple in which to bury their most honored dead and that “great treasures” were buried inside it, as well. They crafted items of supernatural power, including a green stone knife that would cut down any foe and that granted its wielder more strength with each drop of blood it drew.
One French trapper wrote of sharing a fire with a chief who regaled him of these tales long into the night and who said his ancestors feared the “hungry green knife,” rose up against the blood-letters and drove them from these lands. But that they couldn’t knock down the great temple. Eventually the gods did that, the chief said, changing the land and calling up a lake that grew bigger and bigger “and swallowed every last evil stone.”
And according to Edgar’s notes, that temple should be somewhere at the bottom of Rock Lake.
Chapter 25
The room was dark, so Garin crept in and switched on the bathroom light. The glow bounced off the mirror on the closet and provided just enough to see by. He gently leaned the portfolio case that held his precious shield up against the luggage stand. Keiko was sleeping on her stomach, the sheet down to her hips. The tattoo she had of a cobra was partially hidden, making it look as if the snake was slithering up from beneath the covers, ready to strike whoever got too close.
The clock’s blue numbers showed it was 1:00 a.m.; she’d probably drunk herself to sleep or got tired of waiting for him. He’d make it up to her. She had to be back to work Monday night, so he’d take her to Milwaukee later today, to the zoo to see the penguins then to a German restaurant he fancied. He ate there a few years ago when he’d visited the city.
First, he’d tend to the matter of Roux, and then he’d wake her, order a fresh bottle of wine from room service.
As silently as possible, Garin crossed to the desk and opened his laptop. The light from the bathroom didn’t quite reach here, so he felt with his fingers, turning it on and angling it so the light from the screen wouldn’t disturb Keiko. It took a little wiggling to get the camera memory card from Rembert into the slot. He ran his thumbs over the space bar, waiting for it to load, and listened to the soft chime the computer made to signify it was finished. Garin edited the clip slightly, taking out the part where he asked Rembert if he was able to record the sound. Satisfied, he sent it to an email address he hoped was still active. He’d know soon enough. Then he sent a copy to Annja so in the event the first email address was no longer valid she would get it to the right place...after she saw it and came looking for him. But Annja wouldn’t find Garin unless he wanted to be found.
“Keiko, my sweet, we’ll be checking out early,” he murmured, deciding to avoid a run-in with Annja. He removed the memory card, closed the laptop and stored both in the thin leather computer valise. Then he picked up the phone and dialed room service, ordered the bottle of wine—they said it would be right up—and shrugged out of his gray blazer. “As soon as we finish the wine that’s coming and have a bit of a...well, have a delightful bit of a—”
He took off the tie and moved to the bed, setting his knees against it and jiggling it. “Sweet, you said you liked to watch me undress. Keiko.”
Garin reached behind him and found the desk lamp, turned it on and stared.
He crossed to the other side of the bed, turned on the lamp there so he could get a better look under brighter light. She appeared serene, peaceful, as if she’d just gone to sleep. But she wasn’t breathing. He put his hand on her back and knew immediately that her heart had stopped. He set the back of his hand to her arm and held it there a moment. She was still warm, a barely noticeable drop in temperature. He carefully pulled back the sheet and saw that her toes were starting to turn purple and stiffening. Dead about three hours; Garin had seen enough bodies through the centuries to know when the soul had fled. On the floor, partially hidden by the bed skirt, was t
he bottle of wine she’d ordered from room service earlier. She’d drank it all, and it had killed her. She’d died shortly after the gathering in Aeschelman’s room had begun.
He reached deep into the pocket of his jeans for his last packet of coke, rubbed the envelope against his shirt to take off any trace of his fingerprints and flipped it on the nightstand. Gary Knight didn’t exist, but enough people had seen Gary Knight at this conference to get the police looking for him. Let them think she’d OD’d, as the poison that Aeschelman had somehow gotten into the wine would no longer be detectable.
Garin packed quickly, nesting his computer valise inside his rolling suitcase. He checked all the drawers and the bathroom, making sure nothing of his remained, pausing only to answer the door for room service. He wouldn’t let the woman in the room, taking the cart himself and passing her a twenty for a tip. He hooked the do-not-disturb sign on the door handle and watched until she got on the elevator.
He looked at Keiko and scowled. She hadn’t deserved that. He pawed through her suitcase to make sure she hadn’t appropriated anything of his. She had—a packet of cocaine, which he wiped down and left there. Then he wiped down the rest of the room, everyplace he knew he’d touched and everyplace else as a precaution, fast and meticulous. His prints weren’t on record and he didn’t want them to be, even if they were connected to an alias.
Finally, he took the new bottle of wine, wrapped a small bathroom towel around it and managed to barely squeeze it into the suitcase, the zipper and seams protesting. He’d paid for the expensive bottle, and so he wasn’t going to just leave it behind when he could enjoy it later. If, by chance, this wine was poisoned, too, it wouldn’t matter; it certainly wouldn’t kill him.