The Girl in the Glyphs

by David Edmonds

  Not satisfied with only photos, I drew sketches of all five glyphs, and was taking measurements when four shots sounded down the mountain: Blanca telling me it was four already. “Time to go,” I said, and began gathering my things.

  “The story is not yet told,” the woman said. “Do you not wish to know how it ends?”

  Yes, I wanted to know, but if I stayed another minute, I’d miss the ferry.

  “I’ll come another time,” I said, wondering if I’d have the courage to return.

  From my pack, I took a wad of Nicaraguan córdobas and counted off the equivalent of fifty dollars. It was small payment for all they’d done. But when I turned around with the money in hand, there was only the forest, the mist, and the chattering monkeys.

  Chapter 10

  The hideous hooting and shrieking grew louder. It was also darker, as if a cloud had blotted what little light filtered though the overhead canopy. From somewhere came a throaty growl. Twigs snapped. I hitched up my pack and broke into a run, bounding over logs and fighting tangles of vines. Every struggle brought down torrents of water. Every boulder became a lurking monster, and I was certain the old furry forest devil would grab me from behind and sink its fangs into my neck. What was I thinking? Why hadn’t I listened to the embassy man?

  At last, I burst into blessed sunlight, into the volcanic wasteland of hardened lava flows, steam vents, and scrubby bushes. Never had sulfur smelled so delightful.

  “Blanca!” I yelled. “Where are you?”

  No answer. Nothing but the caw of sea birds and whistle of wind.

  I hurried on. She was not at the spring. Not on the zigzag downward trail either, and I didn’t find her until an hour or so later when I reached the foot of the volcano. By then my legs felt as if they’d give way. My feet hurt from being shoved forward in hiking boots. There was debris in my hair, volcanic ashes all over me, and mud on my boots. But I was safe now, out of that cursed forest, and there was Blanca leaning against her Datsun, a cigarette dangling from her lips.

  “Well,” she said. “Did you find them?”

  “I found them, and I’ve got photos to prove it.”

  “Oh, please, señorita, you can’t take pictures of dead people.”

  She climbed into the car and slammed the door. I was about to climb in on my side when a green Jeep with a canvas top sped by, leaving us in a choking cloud of dust.

  “Pendejo!” Blanca yelled. “That’s the second time.”

  “Soldiers?”

  “Ugly black man with dreadlocks. He followed us from the landing.”

  I jumped in and locked the door, cursing my poor judgment for coming out here alone. Blanca fired up the engine, and we were soon speeding over hills and around trucks, Blanca blowing her horn at pedestrians, dogs, and an occasional cow in the road, stirring up clouds of dust. I wanted to ask about Dreadlocks and was forming the words in my mouth when she said one word.

  “Ectoplasm.”

  “What?”

  “Ectoplasm. It’s a vaporous, luminous substance that emanates from spirits. It gives them life-like form. That’s what you saw.”

  “They weren’t luminous. And why would they appear to me anyway?”

  She took another cancerous drag on her cigarette. “Because they don’t realize they’re dead. Ghosts are like that. Someone has to tell them.”

  I tried to concentrate on brushing debris out of my hair and off my clothes, but she went on with her theories, talking about Edgar Cayce, Nostradamus, and some entity named Seth, and it didn’t end until we mercifully slid to a stop in the port village of Moyogalpa, near the ramp that led up to the ferry. The odor of fish and decay came through the open windows. So did the squawk of gulls and shouts of street vendors.

  “Joda,” Blanca blurted. “It’s him.”

  “Who?”

  “Dreadlocks.”

  I grabbed my pack, hopped out, and hurried toward the ramp, passing street artists with their paintings of ship masts, volcanoes, boats, and crashing waves. Then it was up the ramp, onto the ferry, and along the railing, not daring to glance back. I took a chair near the bow, and there he came—all muscles, gold chain and a swagger—dressed in jeans and T-shirt.

  He sat down in full view. I moved to the stern.

  He followed.

  He even grinned at me, showing a mouthful of gold.

  My senses went on full alert. What were the odds that one person could have so many crises in a single day? And this after yesterday’s disasters. I ordered coffee and found a chair where I could keep him in sight. Maybe I should get off the ferry at the last second.

  But what if he followed? Then I’d be stuck on the island for the night. With him.

  Bells clanged, the gangplank came up, engines whined, and then we were speeding into the lake, leaving the island of Ometepe with its twin volcanoes and Indian ghosts behind.

  Chapter 11

  A voice over the p.a. system announced what everyone knew, that the lake is as large as the island of Puerto Rico, with hundreds of islands. That it is a two-hour voyage from Ometepe to Granada. Or maybe less since the wind was blowing from the south.

  “Enjoy your cruise and please visit our refreshment counter.”

  Enjoy? How could I enjoy anything with that man staring at me? I couldn’t even go to the ladies’ room for fear he’d follow. What I needed was a loaded pistol, but all I had was a Swiss Army knife. I tried to open it to the long blade—and instead got a saw blade, scissors, a magnifying glass, and a screwdriver.

  Damn it, what kind of Swiss idiot designed this thing? In desperation, I finally found the blade I wanted. Then I tried to count the reasons he wouldn’t toss me overboard:

  Too many witnesses.

  Gonzales wanted information, not a floating corpse.

  But what if he had a hypodermic and his intention was to get close enough to inject me with a knockout substance? Drag me into a cabin where Gonzales was waiting?

  Island after island slid by—Zapateras with its forest and hills and a hidden cave that had cost Catherine Cohen her life. The Island of Thieves with its sandy white beach and vacation cabin. The Island of the Dead with its swaying palms.

  The sun sank lower. Please, dear God, get us back before dark.

  At last, the great waterside trees of Asese came into view. A crowd stood waiting. If Dreadlocks was going to make a move, this would be his last chance. I moved to the railing in time to see a gull plunge into the water and come up with a fish.

  That could be me, a helpless fish.

  The ferry approached the landing at snail speed, engines roaring. It stopped. A gangplank went down. The gate opened. I took off my cap in a frenzied attempt to change my appearance, pushed into the middle of the departing passengers and hurried down like a frightened rabbit.

  A hand grabbed my shoulder.

  I whirled around with my knife. The man standing there was short and slight, bearing no resemblance to Dreadlocks.

  “You dropped this?” he said, and handed over my FSU cap.

  I thanked him, pushed through the waiting crowd, rushed across the parking lot, and dove into the back seat of the nearest taxi. “Hotel Alhambra,” I told the driver. “Hurry.”

  The driver, a heavyset older man with a gray mustache and the smell of cigars, twisted around for a look. “You that archaeologist?” he said to me in English.

  If I’d had a pistol I’d have shot myself. Shot him too.

  “Who told you I was an archaeologist?”

  “Heard it at the hotel. You’re pretty famous over there.”

  I glanced out the window. People were coming our way. “Can we just go. I’m in a hurry.”

  We sped away, taking the same dirt road Father Antonio must have traveled a hundred times, the driver blowing his horn at pedestrians and dogs, mumbling under his breath, me glancing out the rear window like a fugitive. Jungle on both sides, headlights in the distance, the odor of swamp and decay. Then another dreadful thought seized me.
/>   Suppose the driver was in the employ of Gonzales?

  Again, I took out my knife.

  Dirt road turned to cobbles. We turned left on the Pan-American Highway and rumbled into Granada. Not until we stopped in front of the hotel did I begin to relax. By then darkness had claimed the plaza as well, and it was lit by only a few dim streetlights.

  I paid the driver, climbed out with my pack, and trotted into the lobby, hoping to find the embassy man in his wicker chair.

  He wasn’t there, but other guests glanced up as if wondering why I was so rumpled and dusty.

  Sabio grinned from behind the desk. “Su madre le llamó,” he said as if the world was normal, meaning my mom had called. “She’s worried about you. Wants you to call back.”

  My wacky mom. The woman who tossed corn to the wind, believed in dreams, and found meaning in every bark of a dog. As if I didn’t have enough troubles.

  “Have you seen the gringo?” I asked, breathless.

  “Haven’t seen him. Sorry.”

  I hurried back to the entrance and glanced into the plaza. No sign of Dreadlocks. No soldiers either. Nothing but a few old men on the benches, a couple of strolling lovers, the beat of a salsa, and the clop and rattle of a passing horse and carriage.

  A horse and carriage? Was that the noise I heard last night? God, was I getting paranoid.

  “Better hurry if you want to clean up,” Sabio said. “Lights could go out.”

  I took my key and trudged up the stairs to my room, my legs wobbly. The hallway was dark and gloomy, and I was trying to insert the key when someone came running up the stairs behind me. Someone in a hurry.

  I fumbled with the damn key. Couldn’t get it into the keyhole.

  A shadowy figure appeared at the top of the stairs. A man. He came closer.

  “What’s your hurry?” he said. “Didn’t you see me at the landing?”

  The embassy man.

  Chapter 12

  He guided me into a small library across from my room. “Are you all right?”

  I nodded, unable to find my voice.

  “Why don’t we sit here a moment? Tell me what happened.”

  The way he said it, with a soft western drawl, gave me confidence. No wedding band either. But his neatness and good looks made me painfully aware of how disheveled I must appear to him. I took off my cap and brushed back my hair.

  “I should clean up first.”

  “Come on, tell me what happened. You’re shaking. I’m not going to bite.”

  I sank into a wicker chair and told him about Dreadlocks.

  He listened and gave me a reassuring touch on the shoulder. Then I told him about the brutal climb, my crazy guide, the glyphs, and the old couple and how they popped up from nowhere.

  “It was so weird. One minute they’re there, then, poof, gone. My guide says they’re ghosts, spirits of the old couple that was hacked to death.”

  “Well, the important thing is you’re safe.”

  He checked his watch. “Christ, power could go any minute.”

  I thought he was trying to escape my hysterical babbling, but when he led me to my room and opened the door, he said, “What you need is a good dinner and a stiff drink.”

  “I’m too tired to go out.”

  “We can eat downstairs. Food’s not bad. Besides, I want to show you something.”

  “Show me what?”

  “I’ll bring it to dinner. Okay?”

  “I don’t even know your name.”

  “It’s Page, Alan Page.”

  I gazed into his gray-blue eyes and at his unshaven face. He was taller than Stan, more tanned, trim, and fit, with the kind of features that would turn any woman’s head, and for a moment, I thought of the man in the glyphs. The princely fellow for the lonely woman.

  “Downstairs in an hour,” I said.

  I lit candles in case the power failed, took a hot shower, did my hair, took an Advil for my aches, and tortured myself about how to deal with this embassy man. How much should I tell him? Could I enlist his help? And what did he want from me anyway?

  I pulled out my sketchpad and opened it to the first page. There she was: The Girl in the Glyphs, all naked and needy. Could that be me, a woman with sad droopy eyes and turned-down mouth? Stan hadn’t done anything for my self-esteem, leaving me for a doctor’s wife. I looked in the mirror. Definitely sad and beaten. I should smile more often.

  The phone rang. Please, dear God, not Stan.

  I picked up the receiver. “Is this Jennifer?” asked a woman’s voice.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Elizabeth Alvarado—news anchor with Channel Four.”

  I sighed. I’d never met her, but I knew about her from reports I’d read on Catherine’s disappearance. The most familiar TV face in Nicaragua. Perfect English with a radio voice. Pushy and pretty. Miami-raised Nica exile. She’d want to grill me about the cave, and then follow me all over the lake—like she did with Catherine.

  “What’s this about, Ms. Alvarado?”

  “I’d rather not say on the phone. I’m in Managua now, but I could be there in an hour.”

  “Tonight’s not good for me.”

  “Tomorrow then?”

  “Listen, Ms. Alvarado—”

  “Elizabeth. Call me Elizabeth.”

  “Okay, Elizabeth, I don’t have time to talk right now.”

  “They tell me you’re going to the reception for the king.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’m a reporter, Jennifer. I have sources. And by the way, enjoy your date with the gringo.”

  The phone clicked. I hung up and took a deep breath. Did she say date?

  The thought didn’t help my stomach, which was doing nervous flips, and it was almost time to go downstairs. I changed into a white blouse and brown slacks, put on makeup, clipped on stud earrings, and inspected myself in the mirror.

  No, what was I thinking? This outfit gave me a frumpy, married, stay-away look.

  I changed the earrings to gold hoops, dabbed on perfume, went back to the closet and chose a black dress with small yellow flowers along the hem. It could be worn without a bra. Stan hated it because he said it sent the wrong message to men.

  All the more reason to wear it tonight.

  Chapter 13

  He was waiting in the same wicker chair where I’d first seen him, dressed in slacks, suede jacket and a dark shirt open at the collar. He sprang up and kissed me on both cheeks, Latin style, bringing with him a pleasant soapy smell.

  “Feeling better?” he asked.

  “I’ll feel better after a glass of wine.”

  He guided me into the dining room to the beat of a salsa, his hand warm on my back, pressing my skin through the thin fabric of my dress. Guests glanced up as if to say, “There’s the woman who got into it with the soldiers.” The maitre d’ led us to a table in a corner. A skinny little sommelier with a towel over his arm took our order for wine.

  As soon as we settled in, Alan leaned forward. “Listen, Jennifer, I—”

  “Jen, call me Jen.”

  “Okay, Jen, do you mind if I ask a few questions?”

  “Not until you show me some ID. How do I know you work for the embassy?”

  He laughed, pulled out his black passport, and placed it into my hand. I compared the photo in the passport with his face, determined from his D.O.B. that he was pushing thirty, and noticed his emergency contact was in Boulder, Colorado, someone named Maritza.

  “Who’s Maritza?”

  “Ex-wife. How about you? Married? Single?”

  I handed the passport back. “Didn’t Catherine tell you?”

  “In fact she did.” He reached into his shirt pocket, took out a notepad, and looked at it. “Says here you’re married to a lawyer named Stan.”

  “What else did she tell you?”

  He glanced at the pad again. “Educated at Florida State and Duke. Mayan studies. Works at Smithsonian as specialist in ancient writing. Live
s with husband in McLean, Virginia.”

  “You should update it. I’m separated, filing for divorce.”

  A server interrupted us with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. Another took our order for guapote, a local fish. Then the bearded comandante marched in with a woman on his arm, the kind of gorgeous Latina you’d find in a Miami night club—stylish jeans, heels, and a short pullover that showed a flat stomach. They waved and settled at a nearby table.

  “Who’s the woman?” I asked Alan.

  “Luz Maria. They’re married, but not to each other.”

  My stomach did another flip. That could be Stan and the doctor’s wife. I glanced at them more critically. Luz Maria was having a sharp exchange with the comandante, jabbing a fork in our direction, hostility in her eyes.

  “She doesn’t seem very happy,” I whispered.

  “You don’t seem very happy either.”

  I put down my goblet. “You said you wanted to show me something.”

  He sighed as if he wasn’t ready for business, then reached inside his jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper—a copy of Father Antonio’s letter to Father Paolo, the same copy I’d translated for Catherine. The one I’d burned in my room. It even had my handwriting at the top.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “Where do you think?”

  I shook my head. Damn that Catherine. “Has anyone else seen it?”

  “No one. Not that it’d do them any good. I’ve gone over it a hundred times and still can’t figure out how you came up with Isla Zapateras as the cave’s location.”

  “Who says it’s on Zapateras?”

  “I’m guessing. Help me out here.”

  “I thought embassy people were smart.”

  “Embassy people are no smarter than anyone else.”

  I took the letter from him and read a paragraph. Oh, Father Paolo, how the symbols on that wall burn in my head like the fires of eternal damnation. Could it be that God our Father delivered His message here? For asking these questions, I now find myself confined behind the walls of the Inquisition, a broken man, sinner and apostate, condemned by the truth…