Effigy

by Theresa Danley

  “Maybe when things slow down—” she offered with a steady tone.

  “Lori. It’s summer break. If things aren’t slowing for you now, they never will.”

  She looked frustrated. “You don’t understand,” she said.

  “I do understand. I understand that someday you’re going to wake up and realize just how lonely you are.”

  Lori bowed her head, but not out of guilt or shame. She was thinking. Her mind was always thinking.

  “Well, Derek,” she said stiffly. “I just wanted to come by to apologize and I guess I’ve done that.”

  “That’s fine,” he said.

  With a weary nod she turned around and began to walk away. Derek watched her go before he turned back to his apartment. A pang of desperation surged through his veins and he both loved and hated her for that.

  Mexico City

  The Agave Azul wasn’t much of a hotel. It was more of a tile-roofed, family-operated boarding house whose rooms happened to occupy the entire length of a refurbished hacienda stable conveniently nestled against a quaint suburb of adobe and stucco. It held a rich atmosphere that came with people lacking money, complete with a family-owned and operated cantina and taqueria brimming with the welcoming aroma of fresh sopapillas and advertising its specialty Mezcal and Pulque.

  He knew it was the perfect place to find Shaman Gaspar.

  The hotel lobby, if you could call it that, was little more than a warm wood counter situated in the greeting room of the family home. The Virgin of Guadalupe hung high near the red brick ceiling and a small rack of Mexico City’s highlight brochures had been placed nearby for added hotel affect.

  He’d just stepped up to the counter when a young girl bounded in from another room. She was only thirteen, perhaps fourteen, but already quite handsome and firm. She smiled at him with a restrained level of caution.

  “Bienvenido a la Agave Azul,” she said in rehearsed fashion.

  She had a strong voice. He liked that in a girl. He smiled, wondering if there were other services she provided within her family’s establishment.

  “That’s a beautiful smile you have,” he said in his best Spanish. “I just returned from the states and I can tell you the flight attendants couldn’t compare.”

  The girl blushed, apparently unaccustomed to flattery. She would be easy to manipulate.

  “You speak well for an American,” she said.

  “I spend a lot of time down here,” he said, leaning against the counter. “The people are much more friendly.” He could smell the masa on her hands. No doubt she’d been helping in the taqueria when he pulled in. She smelled good enough to eat.

  “I’m supposed to meet a good friend here.” He flashed her a wink. “Can you tell me if he’s arrived yet?

  The girl didn’t hesitate. “His name?” she asked, turning to a register log lying open on the counter.

  “Juan Joaquin Gaspar.”

  The girl shot a look back at him, even more obliging than before. “I know Señor Gaspar,” she said. “He stays here often. He gives my brothers peppermints whenever he comes.”

  “Will he be here tonight?”

  The girl turned back to the register and flipped the page. He held a curious appreciation for antiquated business practices.

  “No, Señor Gaspar is not listed for tonight. But he was here earlier today.”

  “He’s already been here?”

  “Sí. He arrived this morning. He wanted a bed for the day. It was strange for him. We barely had time to clean the room.”

  “Is he still here?”

  The girl shook her head without even consulting the logbook. “He left about an hour ago. My sister is cleaning the room now if you need a bed for the night.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “No. I assume he’ll be out of town though, since he didn’t reserve his room for tonight.”

  He mulled over her response while her big doe eyes watched him inquisitively. For a brief moment, he thought he might take her up on the room offer. But there was still something that needed clarification.

  “Just out of curiosity, was he carrying anything with him?”

  “Sí. A box. It looked heavy. My brothers have been trying to guess what’s inside all day.”

  He debated his next move. Gaspar was proving to be slippery, but he was also predictable. It wasn’t too difficult to guess where to search next.

  He pulled a carnation from a bouquet sitting on a stand nearby and handed it across the counter. The girl looked surprised. She was blushing again.

  “Thank you for your help,” he said, leaning in close to smell her fragrance as she took the stem.

  As he turned to walk away, the girl called him back. “Señor? What’s inside the box?”

  He smiled at her childish curiosity. “Just a package my good friend is delivering to me.”

  “Oh,” she said. She didn’t look satisfied, but she was smart enough to recognize confidential matters. Before he turned away, she slipped the flower behind her ear, the pale yellow petals brightening against her glistening raven hair. “If you ever need a room...”

  He smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said smoothly. “I’ll keep you in mind.”

  Acatzalan

  The ring of his cell phone jolted him awake. A rush of adrenaline sent his heart pounding. He’d been sleeping soundly, and dreaming too, but the jolt back to reality successfully eliminated any memory of whatever dream he’d had. Given the hardness in his groin it must have been good.

  The phone rang again and he irritably jumped out of bed and began fumbling through dark piles of laundry strung across the floor. He really needed to change that annoying ring tone. The only person who would bother calling him this late at night was Shaman Gaspar. As his hands fumbled through the darkness he cursed himself for not shutting the phone off before he went to bed. What he actually needed to do was seriously consider changing his number.

  He found the phone in the pocket of his jeans but to his surprise, the number on the caller ID wasn’t Gaspar’s.

  “Yeah?” he croaked.

  A woman’s voice came over the line. “Are you the one they call Acatzalan?”

  He looked at the clock as he paced in front of his night stand. One thirty-four a.m. Great. Just what he neededan impatient New Ager looking for guidance he couldn’t give.

  “Who is this?”

  “You probably don’t remember me. I’m Eva Gaspar. I’m calling about my father.”

  Acatzalan’s senses snapped to full attention. He remembered her all right. She was at Gaspar’s house last month when he stopped by for a visit. An image of her was still vivid in his mind. Middle-aged, dark hair, dark complexion, unfriendly as hell. Gaspar fondly called her Evita. She wasn’t very pleased with Acatzalan’s visit. Come to think of it, she didn’t seem too pleased with Gaspar at the time either.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. When was the last time you spoke with my father?”

  “Last night. Why?”

  Eva’s voice took on an urgent tone. “Where was he?”

  “Home.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Acatzalan was growing impatient, and he was still pacing in his underwear. “Yeah I’m sure. I was there with him. Why?”

  “He called me about ten minutes ago. He sounded scared.”

  “Scared of what?”

  “I don’t know. I’d never heard him sound like that before. I’m at his house now, but he isn’t home.”

  Acatzalan sat down on the edge of his bed and wearily ran his fingers through his matted hair. It had an oily feel to it, reminding him of the shower he’d intended to take first thing in the morning.

  “That doesn’t make sense. Do you know where he might’ve gone?”

  “No. But he told me that no matter what happens, I should...”

  Acatzalan waited, leaning forward with his elbows digging into the muscles above his knees. He hardly noticed t
he discomfort as her words left him hanging in the silence of his room. “You should what?” he pressed.

  There was a pause, as though she didn’t quite believe what she was about to say. When her voice came back over the line, she sounded annoyed and confused.

  “He said I should go to Mexico.”

  Teotihuacán

  Shaman Juan Joaquin Gaspar couldn’t remember the last time he’d driven a manual transmission. That had been his primary concern when he first pulled himself into the spare interior of the pickup. It obviously concerned the Mexican who had hesitantly turned over the keys, but a wad of cash convinced him otherwise.

  Thankfully, working the stick came back like riding a bicycle, aided tremendously by the amount of play in the clutch. By the time Gaspar crashed through Teotihuacan’s gated entrance, he was jamming the gears like a pro. The noise of the collision had been tremendous with gates flying off their hinges and landing in a heap of twisted wire, but he didn’t have time to slow down. A headlight went out despite the grill guard, but he still had cash on hand to amend that easy enough. It was the cargo on the seat nearby that concerned him, so when he parked inconspicuously at the far end of the ruins, he was relieved to find that the crate had survived unscathed.

  Now, with the pickup having fulfilled its purpose, Gaspar slipped from the dark shadows shedding from the plaza walls near the Pyramid of the Moon. The pyramid’s bright namesake orb hung clear and white in the darkness above. The stars had never been so bright; the flying serpent rarely so sharp. It seemed the night sky was positioned in his favor. Perhaps it had predestined him to be there tonight, completing an ancient quest that began exactly one thousand and twenty-five years ago.

  Two miles stood between him and his final destination. The Avenue of the Dead paved a perfectly straight course, but he didn’t dare take it. Out there, he would be too exposed, too visible to watching eyes.

  And he could feel them watching.

  He was being followed. He didn’t know that for a fact, he just sensed it. Something inside had been warning him all day. Perhaps it was his own paranoia urging him to be cautious. He’d made it too far to have his mission spoiled now.

  The cool night air seeped into his aching bones. He shouldn’t have waited so long. Just after dark, after the last park employee had gone home, would have been sufficient. He could have even taken the road to the parking lot near the Pyramid of Quetzalcoatl, but that would have been too obvious for anyone checking the immediate area for the vehicle that had busted through the entrance gate. Gaspar would rather err on the side of caution, and so he parked behind the Pyramid of the Moon instead, prepared for the long walk ahead of him.

  The silence expanded eerily around him as he kept to the shadows of one ruin wall, and then another. His pace was painstakingly slow, but at least he was moving. The artifact knotted within a large hotel towel threatened to slip, but Gaspar held tight.

  Not yet, One Reed. Not yet.

  He focused on placing one foot in front of the other. His labored breath hung in the still night air. The muscles in his legs were already aching, but he dared not stop for fear he’d never get going again. He shouldn’t have waited so long.

  A flash up ahead caught his attention, a brief glimmer of blue moonlight, and then it was gone. Or was it even there? That feeling of being watched loomed again. He shook his head. His eyesight wasn’t what it used to be. His night vision was even worse. Regardless, nobody would be out at this time of night. He was being paranoid again.

  The ruins played out briefly along the avenue. He could faintly see the dark mounds of crumbling temples on the other side. He’d reached the depression of a dry canal running across the avenue and carefully scrambled down to the bottom. There, he’d be less noticeable as he crossed the Avenue of the Dead to the haven of shadows on the other side.

  His weary arm wrestled with the towel to hold it in place as he continued along the ruin walls. His feet were heavy and shuffling. This Herculean effort was taking its toll on his energy.

  He shouldn’t have waited so long.

  Another flicker of light caught him by surprise. This time he was convinced it wasn’t his imagination. This apparition was much closer, like the spirit of a ghost flashing past his face. He’d been so shocked by it that he stopped in his tracks, blinking the light out of his eyes.

  The darkness was heavy this time. The shadows of the ruins ahead had folded into the night. He was temporarily blinded, disoriented. Gaspar searched the darkness for anything that would help him regain his bearings. His legs were cramping. He dared not stand still much longer.

  There ahead he could see the outline of the ruins again, but just as he was about to step forward, the shadows evaporated. The darkness shimmered like a black pool of oil. Gaspar blinked but his eyes were dry.

  The shimmering darkness lightened to charcoal, then a steel blue. There was nothing to see but the gray light. It grew hypnotically into a dull round glow. He couldn’t look away as it grew rounder; grew brighter. Suddenly, from the center of the glow, as though centered within the night itself, Gaspar recognized the reflection of his own face!

  There was but a moment to ponder this strange phenomenon before something fluttered in the air like the whisper of bat wings. And then a sharp pain pierced his left side just below his ribs. As if in slow motion, he watched his own horrified expression gasp for breath. His gaping mouth resembled that of Quetzalcoatl’s—dark and oppressive—but nowhere near as menacing. His eyes were wide, taking in nothing but themselves.

  Shaman Gaspar was dying but he couldn’t turn away from his own twisted reflection until the mirror flicked away. Groaning in pain, he searched the starry darkness, suddenly realizing he’d fallen flat on his back to the cold hard ground.

  Another face appeared above him. It didn’t have the shimmering effect of a mirrored reflection. This one was gravely dark. Two piercing eyes stared down at him from a mask of black paint. Another black band was painted across his lips, darkening his assailant’s chin into the shadows of his neck. And then the smile. Pearly white teeth slowly emerged, mocking the sudden powerlessness washing over Gaspar.

  The shaman felt his meager strength seeping from his body. His legs were numb, his muscles were relaxing; his task no longer burdensome. Yet, he couldn’t pull his terrified gaze from the black and white face smiling down at him.

  A low gurgle began deep within his chest. There was a pull at his left shoulder as his lung filled with blood. He was slipping away. Slipping through the darkness, toward the stars.

  From out of nowhere, a pair of hands tugged his coat away from his chest. He faintly heard his shirt rip open. The cold night air found the sticky, wet wound as Gaspar noticed the flick of a dark, irregular knife blade.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, old man.”

  The words floated eerily above the shaman and then settled deep within his heart. He knew that voice!

  The knife plunged into his bare skin again, scraping across a lower rib. The pain seared through him as the knife continued to carve, but Shaman Juan Joaquin Gaspar had no strength left to fight.

  As the knife threatened to steal the last breath from his body, the painted face and the voice came together like a vision. The shock was too much to bear. With the last ounce of breath he had to pull over his thick, metallic tongue, he released a single penitent gasp into the night.

  “Mateo!”

  PART III

  Friday, May 18, 2012

  These four year signs…as many times as they came to appear, they came to be the beginning year signs.

  Fray Bernardino De Sahagún, Florentine Codex

  Mexico City

  Eva Gaspar vaguely remembered Acatzalan’s face, but that smart-ass voice of his on the phone clarified memories of the cocky punk who’d visited her father last month. She’d had a strong dislike for him then but that was several weeks and a thousand miles ago. Her distrustful nature was to blame for many hasty first impressions but now she suspect
ed Acatzalan might just win her over. Bringing her to Mexico was a good start.

  They’d met within the hour of her phone call just outside of the terminal at Salt Lake City International. He wasn’t hard to find. There just weren’t many departing travelers at that hour. Unfortunately, there weren’t many customer service agents working the airline counters either.

  They waited two hours before they were helped by a red-eyed agent who’d completely sucked down his twenty-ounce latte in the short time it took to book them in the last two seats on the first available flight to Mexico City. Mexico, as Acatzalan had explained, was her father’s all-encompassing term for Mexico City. The tickets weren’t cheap, but without hesitation, Acatzalan put the charges on his credit card. That one act alone expressed devotion which could only benefit Eva Gaspar.

  She couldn’t remember much of the flight. She’d fallen asleep shortly after take off and didn’t wake up until the flight attendant asked her to return her seat to its upright position. Once back on the ground, she found herself in a foreign world of marble-floored, glass terminals and quake-cracked street shops with entrance facades brandishing dried strings of chilies.

  For the most part, Mexico City wasn’t much different from any other city she’d been to. Arteries of traffic swept through a vast sea of concrete. Glimmering commercial high rises stifled antique cathedral bell towers and smothered views of the mountainous volcanoes they’d just flown over. Parks and gardens drew attention away from aging suburbs and alleyways in disrepair. English was tagged like a footnote to the native language in a fashion not unlike that of southern California. However, laced within the mask of a flourishing economy were signs of an opposite extreme dramatically highlighted by swarms of street vendors peddling their meager wares to each passing car; scenes as abstract as modern architecture was to baroque.