The Girl in the Glyphs

by David Edmonds

  THE GIRL IN THE GLYPHS

  A Novel by

  DAVID C. EDMONDS

  and

  MARIA NIEVES EDMONDS

  THE GIRL IN THE GLYPHS: A NOVEL

  A Peace Corps Writers Book

  An Imprint of Peace Corps Worldwide

  Copyright © 2016 by David C. Edmonds

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America

  by Peace Corps Writers of Oakland, California.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations contained in critical articles or reviews.

  For more information, contact peacecorpsworldwide@gmail.com.

  Peace Corps Writers and the Peace Corps Writers colophon are trademarks of PeaceCorpsWorldwide.org.

  THE GIRL IN THE GLYPHS is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Glyph images are pencil drawings by Christopher D. Edmonds from photos taken in Nicaragua and the American Southwest.

  David C. Edmonds web site: www.dedmonds.com

  ISBN-13: 978-1-935925-68-2

  ISBN: 1-935925-68-7

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015959888

  First Peace Corps Writers Edition, January 2016

  Decipherments are by far the most glamorous achievement of scholarship. There is a touch of magic about unknown writing, especially when it comes from the remote past, and a corresponding glory is bound to attach itself to the person who first solves its mystery.

  Maurice Pope

  The Story of Decipherment

  Chapter 1

  Granada, Nicaragua

  1994

  The streetlights were coming on when I stepped out of a taxi and stared up at the dreaded Alhambra, the place that had haunted my dreams from the day I found Father Antonio’s letter. He had written it here, in his prison cell behind one of those balconies on the second floor. During the time of the Inquisition. Now I was here, with a copy of the same letter in my shoulder bag.

  “They say it’s haunted,” the driver said.

  “What’s haunted?”

  “Your hotel.”

  I put on my glasses. Even in the poor light, I saw bullet-pocked walls, a railing that hung down at an angle, and missing chunks in the columns. “What happened?”

  “The war, señorita.”

  “I thought the war was over.”

  “Tell that to the contras. They’re still in the jungle.”

  “Why do you say it’s haunted?”

  “All I know is what they say.”

  He stepped to the rear of the taxi, opened the trunk and began taking out my luggage. I put on my leather jacket and was reaching for my shoulder bag when something moved back in the shadows—a soldier, standing beneath a broken streetlight, staring.

  A chill came over me, like a cold whisper in the wind, and for a terrible moment, I imagined Father Antonio gazing down at me from his balcony, saying, “It is you he is spying on, mija. Be careful. What happened to Catherine Cohen could also happen to you.”

  No, that was silly. Why would a soldier be spying on me? He wouldn’t know the purpose of my visit. For all I knew, he could be waiting for his girlfriend.

  The soldier moved deeper into the shadows. At almost the same moment, a bellhop in a white jacket emerged from the darkness, a skinny little fellow with shaggy hair.

  “Señorita McMullen?”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “We’ve been expecting you,” he said in campesino Spanish. “People have been calling for you. Also a gringo stopped by, asking about you.”

  “Gringo?”

  “A North American, an official of some sort.”

  The knot in my stomach twisted tighter. This trip was supposed to be confidential. Now the hotel was haunted and someone was asking for me. By name.

  “Is he still here?”

  “Who knows, señorita? You can ask them at the desk.”

  I settled with the driver, shouldered my bag, and followed my luggage up the steps and into a lobby that must have once been elegant. The marble floors and crystal chandeliers probably dated back to colonial days, but the wobbly ceiling fans, evil-smelling cigar smoke, and guests in guayabera shirts gave it the feeling of an old Bogey and Bacall movie. No television either, but somewhere a salsa was playing, heavy on the maracas and cowbells.

  An American-looking man in a wicker chair glanced up from his newspaper and stared as if wondering why I was traveling alone. So did everyone else. I brushed back my hair and stepped to the counter. The clerk behind the desk was having a spirited conversation on the phone, but he hung up when he saw me.

  “Señorita?”

  “I’m Jennifer McMullen-Cruz,” I said in Spanish, and showed him my passport.

  “Of course, the archaeologist. Welcome to Granada.”

  I rolled my eyes. Damn my office. They were supposed to register me as a photographer. Archaeologists attracted attention. “I’m told a man was asking for me. Is he still here?”

  “I don’t see him, but you’ve got faxes.”

  He took two envelopes from a pigeonhole and handed them to me along with a room key. I opened the first envelope and saw the letterhead of Victoria, my director at the Smithsonian. The message was brief. Hope you took an evening gown.

  Well, yes, Victoria, I had brought a gown, just as you suggested. It was in my luggage along with khakis, boots, insect repellant and sunscreen, but I still didn’t understand why. It wasn’t as if I needed an evening gown to search for Father Antonio’s cave.

  The other message was from Stan. Cheating, lying Stan, who’d promised to come with me on this trip. I made a terrible mistake, Jen. Let’s don’t throw away three years of marriage.

  “Two,” I mumbled.

  I read it again. Could this be the same Stan who dumped me for a doctor’s wife? The same Stan who said we were finished? And now he wanted me back?

  I crumpled up the fax, scooped up the key, and was halfway across the lobby before I realized I hadn’t signed in, didn’t know where I was going, and everyone in the place was still staring.

  Easy, Jen. Get yourself together.

  The bellhop trotted over with my bags. His nametag identified him as Sabio. “Por ahí,” he said, nodding to the stairway door. “Let’s get you upstairs before the lights go out.”

  “Why would the lights go out?”

  “The war, señorita. They destroyed the power plants. We get electricity only half a day. Water goes out too.”

  I grabbed my bag and had scarcely turned around when the entrance door burst open. A woman in the lobby gasped, and as if I wasn’t stressed enough, soldiers came tramping into the place—dark-faced teenagers in combat fatigues and black berets, pants tucked into muddy boots, assault rifles at the ready, looking as if they’d just stepped from the jungle. Female soldiers were also in the mix: wiry-haired, rumpled, and wild-eyed.

  A seed of panic sprouted in my stomach. When I was a child in the Yucatan, daughter of a missionary father and Mayan mother, soldiers had come to our house and accused my dad of supporting the Zapatistas. I didn’t know what that meant, but I remembered the curses and the way they roughed up my dad and dragged my mom into a back room for “interrogation.”

  Now they were here again. Different country. Different uniforms. Same odors.

  The officer in charge, a squat man with an acne-scarred face, rapped his swagger stick on the counter. “Turn off that damn radio!”

  The salsa went dead. It grew quiet enough to hear the squeak of overh
ead fans. The officer marched to the middle of the lobby and glanced around, slapping his swagger stick into an open palm. “Listen up,” he barked. “We’ve been told contras are using this hotel. We need to see picture identification—drivers’ license, passport, whatever.”

  Run, said a voice in my head. It’s you they want.

  But it was too late. Soldiers had positioned themselves near the exits, looking like bronze statues amid the potted palms. Sabio leaned toward me and lowered his voice.

  “When you show your passport, be sure to include a gratuity. They prefer dollars.”

  “Are you serious? Is that all this is, a shakedown?”

  “Shh, not so loud. Happens all the time. Just don’t argue with them.”

  I pulled out a ten and slipped it into my passport. Other guests were also taking out money and handing it over like parishioners in a church. The man in the wicker chair caught my eye and shrugged. Texas, I figured, noting his jeans, boots, and silver-studded belt.

  “That’s him,” Sabio whispered, “the gringo.”

  The officer glared at us. He narrowed his eyes and took a long gaze around the lobby. At the man in the wicker chair. At a woman with a baby.

  At me.

  “Vos,” he snapped. “Get over here.”

  “Me?”

  “You, señorita. In the leather jacket. Move it.”

  Chapter 2

  With every eye on me, with only the shuffle of my feet disturbing the quietness, I crossed the lobby like a child summoned for punishment. Then he was in my face with his swagger stick, turning my head side to side, looking from my eyes to my breasts and down to my sandals, inspecting me like a drunk in a bar.

  “What’s wrong?” he said in a faux sympathetic voice. “Don’t you understand Castilian?”

  I nodded, too frightened to speak. My panic grew worse when I saw the nametag on his shirt—GONZALES. Surely he wasn’t the same man I’d read about in connection with Catherine’s disappearance. Gonzales with an S. An army captain.

  He took my passport with the ten dollars, stuffed the money into his shirt pocket, and compared the photo in the passport with my face, holding it up long enough for me to catch a glimpse of dark hair, dark eyes and the no-expression look of a mug shot.

  “You’re much prettier than this photo. Where are you from?”

  “Florida, the Tampa Bay area. It’s on the other side of the—”

  “Your matronymic is Cruz, but it says here you’re norteamericana.”

  “My mom is Mexican.”

  He snorted as if I’d said something offensive and waved over a Che Guevara look-alike with long unkempt hair. His eyes were shrewd and dark and penetrating, and I got the feeling he could see right through my jacket to my pounding heart. When he spoke, his voice was softer than the captain’s. “What brings you to our lovely city, señorita?”

  “Photography. I’m planning to visit the islands.”

  “Alone, you’re going to the islands alone?”

  Before I could answer, he marched behind the desk and began shuffling through registration cards. Not until then did I read his nametag—FUENTES—another name I’d seen in connection with Catherine’s disappearance.

  “What did you say your full name is?” he asked.

  The captain glanced at my passport. “Jennifer McMullen-Cruz.”

  A baby’s wail shattered the silence. “Here it is,” Fuentes said, holding up the card. “According to this, you work for the Smithsonian in Washington, D.C. Verdad?”

  I nodded.

  “And you’re an archaeologist?”

  Again, I nodded.

  “A professional archaeologist to take photos? That makes no sense.”

  “We’re having an exhibit on Native American glyphs. I know which glyphs to select.”

  “Really, and do you have a permiso?”

  “Why would I need a permit?”

  “It’s the law, señorita.”

  He marched over to Gonzales and pulled him aside. They glanced at me as they spoke. So did the man in the wicker chair and everyone else in the lobby. Though I couldn’t make out their words, I could tell from their whispers they didn’t believe my story.

  The captain snapped his fingers. “Prudencia, ven acá.”

  A chunky female soldier with cropped hair hurried over and saluted. “Capitán?”

  “Search her.”

  She pushed me against the counter, spread-eagled me, and began patting me down. I felt her hands on my breasts. Between my legs. Damn her. Worse, she had the disagreeable odor of a person who hadn’t bathed for a long time. As a final insult, she reached into my jacket and pulled out what looked like a self-rolled joint of marijuana.

  “What is this? You’re smuggling pot into the country?”

  “That’s not mine. You put that in my pocket. I don’t smoke. I’ve never—”

  “Calm yourself, señorita, that’s what they all say.”

  She gestured at the bag I’d left on the floor. “What’s in the bag?”

  I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Every part of me was numb. If they searched my shoulder bag, they’d find the copy of Father Antonio’s letter. They’d find my map of the island. Reports on Gonzales too. And they’d know I was here for the same reason as Catherine Cohen.

  “Take her to the truck and search her again,” the captain said.

  Prudencia gripped my arm and tried to guide me toward the door. I yanked free. How could this be happening? This was a public place with witnesses. Yet this murderer, this little creep of a captain, was going to push me out to his truck and do to me what he’d done to Catherine.

  No. Not without a fight. I turned to the hotel guests and spoke in Spanish. Loud.

  “Would someone please call the Embassy of the United States and—?”

  Prudencia clamped a hand over my mouth. Gonzales rushed forward.

  “Get that woman out of here! Now!”

  I tried to fight them, but soldiers came at me from all directions, clutching, pulling, pushing. An arm came around me from the back and lifted me into the air. Prudencia dragged me toward the exit, and we were almost at the door when a voice thundered across the lobby.

  “Ya, basta! Enough. Leave her alone!”

  Prudencia froze. I glanced around in time to see the guy from the wicker chair pushing his way through the soldiers. “Let her go,” he said again, speaking Spanish.

  The captain stepped forward. “Who the hell are you?”

  “My name is Page. Alan Page. And this señorita”—he tilted his head toward me—”is here on embassy business.” He reached into a back pocket, pulled out a black passport and held it up long enough for Gonzales to read the word, DIPLOMATIC.

  The captain puffed himself up. “No me importa who you are, gringo. You’re interfering in state business.”

  “State business, hell. This is your own private affair. Let that woman go.”

  Gonzales didn’t budge. Neither did Prudencia. The embassy man whipped out a cell phone and waved it in the captain’s face.

  “I’m calling Comandante Ponce. He’s upstairs.”

  The captain grabbed for the phone. The embassy man held on. Other soldiers rushed him. I tried to jump aside, but they swept over me like a hurricane.

  The momentum carried us against a potted palm. A boot came down on my foot. I screamed and dropped to my knees. Prudencia came down on top. So did the embassy man, the soldiers and the potted palm.

  Then the lobby lights flickered and went out.

  Chapter 3

  There may have been a light somewhere—a glowing cigar, a candle in the dining room—but in that pile of smelly bodies where I lay, it was as dark as the plagues of Egypt. Groans and curses filled the air. Someone said “Nicaragua” as if were an explanation instead of a country. I shoved a boot out of my face and tried to crawl away, but the more I struggled, the more Prudencia smothered me in her embrace.

  “Relax, dulce. You’re not going anywhere.”

&nb
sp; I punched her in the nose. She screamed. One final kick and I was free.

  Away I scurried on all fours. Into the darkness. Fast.

  Forget the shoulder bag. Get outside and find a taxi. Get to the airport. Go home.

  The shouts and commands grew louder, someone yelling for candles, a voice cursing contras and the power plant. The sound of traffic from the street.

  A cigarette lighter flared. Yellow pools of light blossomed around me. Someone lit a lamp, then another, and when my eyes adjusted, I realized I’d been crawling in the wrong direction.

  “Señorita,” said a booming voice above me. “What are you doing on the floor?”

  I gazed up into the eyes of a powerfully built man in a dark jacket and trimmed beard, the kind of man who could command respect by walking into a room. Before words could form in my mouth, he stamped to the middle of the lobby.

  “Who is in charge of this mess?”

  Soldiers sprang up and snapped to attention. I remained on the floor, my legs too wobbly to stand. Someone said, “Comandante,” and saluted him as if he were a commanding general. The embassy man struggled to his feet and picked up my shoulder bag. He wiped a trickle of blood from his lip, said a few words to the comandante, then came over and handed me the bag.

  “Are you all right?” he said, and dropped to a knee beside me.

  “I think so. Just need to catch my breath.”

  He put a hand on my face as if I were a child. It felt warm, comforting.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t speak up sooner. I had no idea it would come to this.”

  If he’d stayed long enough, I’d have been crying in his arms, telling him how grateful I was. Telling him about Stan too. But before I could say another word, he stood and began tucking in his shirt. “You’re not leaving?” I said, suddenly alarmed.

  “It’ll be okay. They won’t trouble you again.” He gave me a reassuring touch on the shoulder and lowered his voice to a whisper. “If you’ve got anything in your bag about Catherine Cohen, flush it as soon as you get upstairs.”