Curses!

by Aaron Elkins

  "None of us are, Worthy. That's why I'm talking to you."

  Worthy eyed him mutely across the table in his room.

  "How much does a coati cost?” Gideon asked.

  Worthy shrugged. “It was fifty-five dollars American."

  "That's a lot of money to spend on a joke.” He smiled in spite of himself. “Not that it wasn't funny."

  Worthy seemed gratified by this, and even smiled faintly himself. “Well, I was trying to make a point, you know, although it may have been a little too subtle for Emma. Gideon, is there some point to this? You have my confession. What more is there to discuss?"

  Gideon sat back and studied him. There was quite a bit more to discuss: Had Worthy been making any other subtle points? Like putting something nasty in the apple juice? (Who, after all, would know more about laxatives?) Digging in the temple when he wasn't supposed to? Slipping death threats under doors? Skulking around Chichen Itza with a pipe wrench?

  He decided to lay at least part of it on the line. “I was wondering if you had anything to do with this problem we're all having today."

  "If I...why would...” He stared at Gideon.

  "You're saying someone did this to us on purpose? Poisoned our food?"

  "Well, ‘poison’ is a little strong, but I think so, yes. I wondered if it was another little joke."

  "But that's...that's monstrous!” Worthy cried sincerely. The sweat had sprung out on his pale forehead again. Fooling around with the digestive system was no joke to Worthy Partridge. “And you think that I...that I would..."

  Gideon didn't know whether to believe him or not. Worthy was an intelligent, subtle man; Gideon didn't doubt his ability to dissemble. He had denied the coati incident convincingly enough on the morning it had happened. Still, his outrage seemed like the real thing.

  "Gideon, how can you say this?” he cried. “Do you really think I'd do such a thing? I'm as sick as anyone else. My God, sicker, sicker!"

  "Everybody's sick, Worthy. Whoever did it is smart enough to realize he'd stick out like a sore thumb if he was the only healthy one."

  Worthy twisted his gangling, sandy-haired legs around each other, left knee behind the right, right ankle behind the left; an arrangement most men's pelvic anatomy made impossible.

  "No,” he said after a moment, “I wouldn't say that"

  "Wouldn't say what?"

  "Wouldn't say we're all sick."

  They had looked sick enough to Gideon. “What do you mean? Who isn't sick?"

  "Stanley Ard,” Worthy said evenly.

  "Stanley Ard?"

  "The reporter."

  "Yes, I know, but why would—” But of course he knew very well why. It just hadn't occurred to him before. As Abe had implied, Ard wasn't the kind of reporter who would have scruples about manufacturing events when it came to improving a story. And if it meant bellyaches for a few others, well, that was a price that just might have to be paid.

  "Worthy,” he said, “that's an interesting thought."

  "Yes,” Worthy said, and wiped his forehead again. “And now I really think I should lie down."

  * * * *

  When Julie awakened at five-thirty she was hungry and cheerful. They ate omelets for dinner (Julie having overcome her reservations about the brown-yolked eggs) and then brought some more soup to a shaven and largely restored Abe. They had talked about Stan Ard, whom Gideon offered to confront, but this time Abe had been adamant. It was his job, and he would talk with Ard the next day about the tainted juice and see where it led. As to the attack on Gideon, it was agreed that Marmolejo was the one to follow up on that.

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  Chapter 15

  * * * *

  It was the end of the next workday before Julie, Abe, and Gideon got a chance to talk again at length.

  They were on their way back to the hotel along the path. The crew was eighty or ninety feet ahead of them, out of sight and hearing. Behind, the policeman maintained a discreet twenty-foot distance, ambling as casually as a man strolling through a zoo.

  Indeed, they might have been in some wildly extravagant walk-through aviary. They moved along a moist green corridor impossibly crowded with gorgeous little birds of blue, red, and orange, which darted by their heads as nimbly as swallows or watched gravely and openly from the branches. Motmots, jacamars, cotingas, manakins, according to Julie. And some she swore were not in her Birds of Mexico.

  "How did it go with Ard?” Gideon asked. “I noticed him around today."

  "We had a nice talk. He fervently denied putting anything in the apple juice. He was thoroughly shocked at the idea."

  "That's not too surprising,” Julie said.

  "You want a surprise?” asked Abe. “How's this: the mysterious digger was at it again. Two more steps excavated."

  Julie looked at him open-mouthed. “What happened to the guards you hired?"

  "I hired them for night duty. But the site was deserted during the day yesterday, and someone took advantage.” He shrugged. “I didn't think of it. I had other things on my mind yesterday.” He retreated gloomily into his own thoughts, walking along, head down, hands clasped behind him.

  Gideon shook his head. “What in the hell are they looking for?"

  "Well, I hate to repeat myself,” Julie said, “but I keep thinking that no one's actually seen that codex since the cave-in..."

  "Impossible. If that codex was down there and anyone knew it—or even thought it—that stairwell would have been dug long ago. Besides—"

  "I know,” Julie said, sighing. “I know."

  Gideon paused to let a beaded, spiny-backed iguana scuttle across his path and into the foliage. “Julie, you don't suppose that was the point of getting us all sick—so that someone could have the site all to himself?"

  She glanced at him. “That just might be. And Stan would have been the only one who was healthy enough to go out there and dig while the rest of us just flopped around at the hotel."

  "Oh, I wouldn't say that. I could have done some digging yesterday if I'd had a good enough reason. I wouldn't have wanted to, but I could have. So could most of the others, I imagine."

  "Maybe, but Stan makes such a satisfying villain."

  Gideon smiled. “I can't argue with you there."

  Abe returned from wherever he'd been. “Did you hear Ard's leaving tomorrow night? He says he's got all he needs for his first installment."

  "He is?” Julie said. “Shouldn't Marmolejo talk to him first?"

  "Don't worry, I'm calling the inspector as soon as we get back.” He laughed suddenly. “I almost forgot. I have some good news for you. Emma buttonholed me this afternoon to tell me now she's established a second-level pretersensory interface with Huluc-Canab."

  "Terrific,” Gideon said. “Maybe he'll tell her what we have to do to propitiate the gods."

  "He did. He says we have to be more respectful of personality entities from other culturotemporal horizons."

  Julie cocked her head. “Meaning?"

  "Sorry, that's as specific as he got."

  "Emma,” Julie mused. “Emma always gets in her two cents’ worth, doesn't she?"

  Gideon knew what she was thinking. Just after lunch Abe had passed on some information: Preston had proudly told him that Emma was writing a book on the events of Tlaloc, to be told from the perspective of Huluc-Canab, who had revealed himself to be a tenth- century ahlelob from nearby Xlapak. (The fact that the loquacious Huluc-Canab predated the curse by five hundred years did not seem to affect his intimate knowledge of it.) According to Preston, Emma had already spoken on the telephone to a New Age publisher in Los Angeles and gotten a tentative six-figure offer for Beyond Dreaming: The Tlaloc Dialogues of Huluc-Canab.

  Thus, as Julie now pointed out, Emma would seem to have a considerable stake in the fulfillment of the curse; even more than Ard did.

  "I don't know, Julie,” Gideon said. “I don't have any trouble imagining her slipping something into our water, but I
still can't see her as the one who jumped me at Chichen. I just can't."

  "I can,” Julie said. “The woman is wacko, if you haven't noticed. But let's be fair. As long as we're talking about eccentric characters, what about Worthy?"

  "What about him?” Gideon asked.

  "Well, what's he doing here anyway? Does he strike you as the type who thinks sweating over a spade in the jungle is fun?"

  "He's working on that adventure series about Mayan kids, remember?"

  "Oh, that's right."

  "Not to mention,” said Abe, “that this dig is all-expenses-paid. Everything's on Horizon. People will go to the most miserable places in the world if it's free. Not that this is so miserable."

  "That's certainly true,” Julie said with a smile. “All right, what about Harvey, then? Aside from its being free, what draws him here? He's some kind of computer specialist now, isn't he?"

  "He has ulcers,” Gideon said. “A nice, stress-free vacation in the jungle was supposed to be good for them."

  "Not only that,” Abe said, “but once anthropology gets into your blood it stays there. And don't forget,” he added with a nod in Gideon's direction, “Harvey learned his anthropology from a wonderful teacher. So who does that leave, as long as we're being fair and casting aspersions equally?"

  "It leaves Preston,” Gideon said, “but Preston's presence doesn't need a lot of explanation."

  Abe nodded. “Withersoever Emma goes, Preston goes too."

  "It also leaves Leo,” Julie said slowly. “Now just what is a guy like Leo doing here? What was he doing here last time?"

  "Leo,” said Gideon. “Hm."

  "Hm,” Abe said “Leo."

  They walked on silently for a minute or two, while inquisitive birds zipped and swooped around them. From a pendulum-tailed, cinnamon-colored bird in a branch above them came a shy, liquid ch-ch-chwipp. At their feet another iguana shuffled resignedly out of their way, muttering.

  Abe was muttering too. “Whoever did it, I can't make it add up. All right, Emma, or Ard, or someone, wants it to look like the curse is coming true. Fine. But where does the threatening note come into it? Tell me what the point of that's supposed to be."

  "What's the point of the whole thing supposed to be?” Gideon asked. “Why try to kill me if it was only my soul that was supposed to get pounded?"

  "Pummeled,” Julie said. “And why use something like a pipe wrench if you're trying to make it look like a Mayan curse? It's so, so..."

  "Anachronistic,” Abe supplied. “And what about the digging? What's that all about?"

  There were plenty of questions. There weren't many answers. They were already on the hotel grounds when Julie thought of one more. “What's next?"

  "Next?” Abe echoed, deep in his own reflections again.

  "In the curse. Setting our entrails on fire was third. What's fourth."

  "Something about Xecotcavach,” Gideon said grimly. “I don't think it was very pleasant."

  It wasn't. “Fourth,” said the copy they examined in Abe's bungalow, “the one called Xecotcavach will pierce their skulls so that their brains spill onto the earth."

  They stood looking at it for a long time. Julie moved closer to Gideon, her shoulder warm against his chest.

  "I think,” Abe said, “I'll give Marmolejo that call right now."

  * * * *

  Just before dinner Gideon went down to the hotel gift shop to buy some stamps. Leo was there, browsing among the postcards.

  "Leo,” Gideon said forthrightly, “let me ask you something. What are you doing here?"

  The question seemed to startle him. He straightened up from the revolving postcard rack. “Doing here?"

  "At the dig. Why do you come to these things? To tell the truth, I can't say you really strike me as someone who's that interested in Mayan archaeology."

  "Mayan archaeology?” Leo's happy honk of a laugh bounced off the walls of the little shop. “Who gives a shit about Mayan archaeology? I come to these things, because it's a great way to meet buyers, people who can afford to buy what I sell. What else?"

  Gideon blinked. “And do they?"

  "You better believe it. Harvey's gonna fly down to the Salton Sea with me next month to have a look-see. Hell, I've been on cruises down the Amazon, I've been turtle-watching in the Galapagos, I've been on a dig in Turkey, and I've never yet failed to make a sale. And it's all tax-deductible. You can't beat it. That's why I come.

  "Oh,” Gideon said. “Well, I just wondered."

  * * * *

  He lay on his back watching the ceiling fan revolve slowly in the moonglow. Julie was on her side, facing away from him, her warm, naked bottom against his hip. She was breathing steadily and quietly, but he knew she wasn't sleeping.

  "Julie?"

  "Hm?"

  "I've been thinking."

  She turned onto her other side to face him, making rustly, comfortable nighttime sounds. Her fingers found his arm and slid down it to gently encircle his wrist. She waited for him to speak.

  "Well, I was just thinking that if you want us to pack up and get out of here, we can. If someone's got it in for us—for me in particular—maybe it doesn't make sense to stay. There's no reason why another physical anthropologist can't take over. Marmolejo's going to increase security tomorrow, so I don't think there's any real danger, but who knows? I was the one who said that threat wouldn't amount to anything."

  Her head came up, silhouetted against the louvered windows. “Get out of here?” she repeated, obviously surprised. “Because some miserable rodent is going around slipping vile notes under doors and sneaking around with a pipe wrench? To quote one of the eminent G. P. Oliver's more penetrating statements, “'You have to live your own life. You can't let the creeps and cruds of the world run it for you.’”

  He laughed and stroked the soft, moist line of her jaw, first with his fingertips and then with the back of his hand. Her black, ringleted hair gleamed in the dim light, stirring in the faint breeze from the fan.

  "Besides,” she said, “I've been married to you for over two years now, and I've gotten used to a certain amount of, uh, adventure in my life."

  "Good,” he said. He'd known what her answer would be, but she deserved a say. His hand drifted to her throat, to the silky, tender side of her breast, beneath her arm. “Are you having trouble sleeping too?” he said.

  "A little.” She snuggled down again and draped a leg over his. “Got any suggestions?"

  "I don't suppose you packed any Ovaltine?"

  "Uh-uh.” Her leg slid slowly up and down his thighs.

  "Well, then,” he said, and pulled her all the way onto him, “I suggest we discuss the matter."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 16

  * * * *

  Marmolejo's increased security came too late. And it wasn't Gideon who needed it.

  He and Julie were almost out the door, on their way to breakfast, when the telephone rang. Gideon picked it up.

  "Dr. Oliver?” The voice was tentative, urgent. “Er, this is Dr. Plumm speaking. Perhaps you remember me?"

  "Of course. Is something wrong?"

  Plumm was the house physician, a gentle, unpresuming Englishman of sixty-five with baby-smooth skin and an immaculately groomed little white mustache. He had retired from practice in Portsmouth, lost his wife to cancer less than a year later, and come to Mexico hoping that a change of locale might help him cope with his grief. He had never gone back. Now he lived an expatriate's lonely life at the Mayaland, providing his services in exchange for a room—a superannuated old Brit, as he called himself.

  He was something of a crime buff in his ample spare time. He subscribed to the Journal of Forensic Sciences and was familiar with a series of papers that Gideon had written on cause-of-death determination from skeletal remains. He had looked Gideon over the night of the attack and had been transparently delighted to find out the name of his patient. He had been eager to discuss some of the points in Gideo
n's articles, and they had spent a pleasant hour over coffee the next evening.

  "Yes,” he said, “I'm afraid something is very much wrong, and your help would be invaluable. Would it inconvenience you to come downstairs? It's in your line of work, and I'm sure you'll find of interest."

  What was wrong was Stan Ard. He lay sprawled on one of the more distant and isolated jungly paths that wound through the hotel grounds, some hundred yards from the main building, near the chain-link fence that separated the Mayaland property from Chichen Itza. He was half-in, half-out of one of the white plastic lawn chairs that were placed along the paths. The chair had been tipped over onto its right side, apparently with Ard in it. His body had twisted sideways, so that he'd landed on his back, his bare, fat, hairy legs akimbo. His left knee had wound up hooked awkwardly on the armrest. He was wearing a blue guayabera, tan Bermuda shorts, and tennis sneakers without socks. The left sneaker had come loose and hung from his big toe.

  His head was a bloody mess.

  "A jogger found him half an hour ago,” Plumm said. “It's the reporter, isn't it?"

  "Yes. Stan Ard.” Not that it was easy to tell. Tight-lipped, Gideon forced himself to look down at the shattered head. There was nothing enigmatic about this, no veiled meanings, no obscure nuances. This was the end of the cigar, brutal and unequivocal.

  Fourth, the one called Xecotcavach will pierce their skulls so that their brains spill onto the earth.

  Standing guard was a jumpy young policeman in a tan uniform and a brown baseball-style cap. He was resolutely looking anywhere but at the body.

  "No toque," he said curtly when Gideon approached it.

  He needn't have worried. Gideon wasn't about to touch it, for Dr. Plumm was very wrong—this was definitely not in his line of work, and he didn't find it of interest at all; not in the way the physician had meant. Yes, Gideon did forensic consulting and, yes, he frequently enjoyed his work for the FBI. But he was an anthropologist, a bone man, and the older and the browner the bones were, the better. Body fluids, brain tissue, and torn flesh were things he was constitutionally averse to, and the farther he could stay away from them the better.