The Girl in the Glyphs

by David Edmonds

  I spoke to him about it at our little French restaurant, half expecting him to protest. Instead, he listened, said he understood, and said he was okay with less time together.

  “Are you saying it’s over?”

  “No, Jen, only that we should be more careful.”

  I left the restaurant with the nasty feeling that I’d been dumped, that Sutter had been playing me for a fool, that I was just another student he’d charmed into his bed. And I still had that feeling the next morning when a pale woman with straight hair and no makeup showed up in my office. “We need to talk,” she said with the stern look of a traffic cop.

  She introduced herself as a member of the sexual harassment committee, sat down without an invitation, and placed a recording device on my desk.

  “Would you like to file a complaint?” she asked.

  “Wait a minute. What is this about?”

  “It’s about you and Dr. Sutter. He’s your dean, isn’t he?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “In fact it is, Ms. McMullen. You’re a graduate teaching assistant. He’s your superior. Even if it was consensual, an affair is inappropriate.”

  “Are you saying we’re having an affair?”

  “That’s what the complaint says.”

  “Who filed a complaint?”

  “I’m afraid that’s confidential.”

  I stood and pointed to the door. “Get out of here.”

  She stood and gathered her things. “You haven’t heard the last of this.”

  In my dreams that night, I saw Sutter again, handcuffed and shaven head, following an anorexic woman down a dark corridor to the execution chamber. The woman turned to me. Her face was Annie’s face. “What goes around comes around,” she said.

  Nothing more came of the accusation. Winter melded into spring. And on the day of the Vernal Equinox, I allowed myself a long cry. It had been one year since I met Alan. One year and it still hurt. God, did it hurt, especially on those nights when I dreamed he was beside me, holding me, only to wake up and find myself alone and crying. I fantasized that he too would remember and send flowers or a card. Or call me. Or show up at my door.

  But there were no cards or flowers or phone calls. Nothing but memories.

  The next few days went like that:

  The anniversary of our first kiss.

  The Spanish Embassy party.

  Our first night of lovemaking.

  Ana Maria Island.

  And still no word from him. Damn him. Did he remember?

  Did he care?

  Chapter 72

  Wallowing in self-pity hadn’t worked for me before and it wasn’t going to work now, not with so many unfinished tasks hanging over me. There were certifying exams to take, articles to write, glyphs to decipher—and Father Antonio’s manuscript to send to a literary agent.

  I read it again and decided it was a masterpiece, a movie waiting to be made. All it needed was the right publisher and it would be on the NY Times best-seller list. Or maybe not, but it didn’t hurt to dream. I titled it The Heretic of Granada, made a copy at Kinko’s, boxed it for shipment, and decided to drop it at the faculty mailroom after my evening seminar.

  It was after ten, the campus deserted, and a late cold front was blowing in from the north. The wind howled through the maples, creating dancing shadows on the walkways, rattling the flagpole and blowing rain in my face . Flashes of lightning lit the street, thunder rumbled, and the air was heavy with the smell of dampness.

  The building that housed the archaeology department was as desolate as a Florida nursing home at midnight. The desk where Domingo usually sat was empty. I wiped rain off my sleeves, furled my umbrella and crossed the lobby to the elevator.

  OUT OF ORDER.

  Any other time, I’d have bounded up five flights of stairs and been grateful for the exercise. But not at night when I was cold and exhausted. And certainly not with a shoulder bag as heavy as a bucket of wet sand. Grumbling, I hitched up the bag and started up the stairs.

  One landing. Two. Then another, adjusting the straps that were cutting into my shoulder.

  The place reeked of cigarettes.

  How could that be? Smoking wasn’t allowed in this building.

  On the third floor, I stopped to catch my breath. Somewhere above me a door slammed. I heard a muffled cough. The cleaning crew, I figured, making their rounds.

  At last, I was on the fifth floor, at the far end of which stood Boris and Irena with their buckets and a cleaning drum, Boris with a cell phone to his ear.

  I waved. They nodded.

  And that was when the lights went out, plunging the floor into darkness.

  My heart seemed to jump right out of me. “Boris!” I called. “Irena?”

  No reply.

  Where were they? I could still smell ammonia from their mops. But all I saw was the glow from a window at the far end of the hall. Street lamps reflecting on the tiled floor. Lights outside but not inside. This made no sense.

  Against this backdrop, I saw movement.

  “Is that you, Boris? Irena?”

  A howl of wind was my answer.

  A cold fear came over me. Suppose it was Gonzales? Or one of his henchmen?

  Retreat down the stairs?

  No, he might have friends on the stairs. Best to barricade myself in my office. Call security.

  I crept along the wall, feeling for door knobs and name plates. One office, two. Yes, this had to be mine. I fumbled for the knob and got the key in the lock. It turned.

  The click was as loud as a metal bucket being thrown against the wall. The door creaked.

  I was about to step inside when another horrible thought stuck.

  Suppose Gonzales was in there, waiting?

  I tossed in my shoulder bag, slammed the door, and bounded to the opposite side of the hall. If anyone was inside, he’d soon be charging out. If he was down the hall, he’d think I’d gone in.

  Either way, I wasn’t going to wait.

  It was too dark to run, so I eased along the wall, feeling my way in the darkness, stopping now and then to listen. God, what I’d give for my Beretta. The only weapon I had was a small canister of pepper spray. I flipped off the little safety catch and felt for the nozzle.

  Something squeaked. When I realized it was my own shoes, I slipped them off.

  From down the hall came a shuffling sound.

  Footfalls; someone was coming—from the opposite direction of the cleaning crew.

  I found the mailroom by touch, eased inside, crouched down, and peered out.

  There! Against the backdrop of the window.

  The silhouette of a man.

  Just like when Fuentes appeared in the cave.

  A light flashed in his hand, a small penlight. He was checking nameplates on the doors. Panic told me to flee toward Boris and Irena. But it was a long way to the stairs that way.

  He was almost at the mailroom now, shoes squeaking. I heard his breathing, heard a jangling sound. My breath grew more labored. Every nerve in my body seemed alert to his presence.

  Please, dear God, don’t let him come into the mailroom.

  His light flashed briefly into the mailroom. The air stirred. I caught a whiff of cigarettes, and then he moved past.

  I breathed again.

  He stopped at my office door, no more than ten or fifteen paces away. His light flashed from the nameplate to the lock. A rattle of keys, and he was pushing the door open, easing inside.

  Into my office, the bastard, and he had keys.

  I drew in a deep breath, stepped into the hallway, and crept toward the stairs.

  One step, two steps, three. Faster now, picking up the pace. Ten steps. Eleven.

  I never saw the chair that some idiot had left in the hallway, not even when I slammed into it. The noise was like a thunderclap in the darkness; the shock couldn’t have been worse if I’d been struck on the shin with a hammer.

  “Mierda!” cried a voice behind me.

/>   I ran, crying for help. In my bare feet. With a gimpy leg.

  “Flaca!” yelled the voice behind me. “Stop her!”

  Flaca? A woman?

  I reached the stairs, rounded the corner with a skid, and was bounding down when a light on the landing below flashed in my face.

  “Hold it, bitch! You’re not going anywhere.”

  Chapter 73

  Up the stairs came Flaca, one step at a time, a cigarette in her mouth, pistol in one hand, flashlight in the other. My heart drummed. I could hear myself gasping for breath. The man behind me was also closing in, yelling to Flaca to stop me.

  She was a step below, looking down for her footing, when I raised the pepper spray canister to her face and pressed the trigger.

  She shrieked. She reeled around. Pistol and flashlight clattered along the stairs. Then I was running again, eyes burning, crying for help. In the darkness.

  “Domingo! Where are you?”

  The landing came sooner than I thought. The floor rose up to meet me. A light flashed in my head, and the next thing I knew, Flaca’s companion had a knife to my throat.

  He pulled me to my feet, clamped a hand over my mouth and half dragged me up the stairs, passing Flaca who was leaning against the wall, wiping at her eyes.

  “Bitch,” she snapped. “You’ll pay for this.”

  We were almost at the top when another light flashed on below us.

  “Let her go,” Domingo yelled in Spanish. “Sueltala.”

  The man holding me panicked and ran. But Flaca, either stupid or suicidal, or too blinded by pepper spray to see the gun in Domingo’s hand, went for her pistol.

  Domingo fired. A spray of crimson blossomed around me. Flaca went down. I collapsed beside her. Then Domingo was at my side, wheezing and panting, shining his light from her to me.

  “Ay bendito. Estás bien, mija?” Are you okay?

  “I think so.”

  “Stay here. Help’s on the way.”

  He took off after the man, his footfalls fading down the corridor, leaving me alone in the darkness of my cave, naked and filthy and crawling around in bat dung next to a dead body.

  How could this happen again? Suppose she was still alive?

  I found her flashlight, which was still lit, and was making my way back up the stairs, backward, trying to get away from her, when more lights appeared below me.

  “Hold it! Hands in the air!”

  It was campus security—yellow rain gear, pistols drawn, dripping rainwater. They charged up the stairs, flashing lights in my face, on the body, on the blood-spattered wall.

  “Christ,” said one of them, “is that a woman?”

  What happened next was a blur of questions and flashing lights. I heard Domingo saying the other assailant had gotten away. More cops showed up. Someone got the lights on, and in the confusion, I limped down the hall to my office, wincing with every step.

  My office was a mess: drawers and filing cabinet open, papers strewn about, window open, rain and cold blowing in. Worse, the canister that contained the photos of the plates was gone. So was the folder with all my negatives, and the CD’s on which I’d loaded the photos. Ditto for all my computer discs. Gone, everything gone.

  One of the female security guards stuck in her head. “Don’t touch a thing. We need to dust for prints.” She stepped inside. “Are you okay? You’ve got blood all over you.”

  In time, chaos turned to order. Campus security gave way to NYPD and FDNY. I cleaned up in the ladies’ room and let them escort me downstairs to a brightly lit classroom. Boris and Irena were there, too, whispering to each other in Russian, as if trying to get their stories straight.

  Damn them. Where were they when I needed them?

  Domingo was there too, sitting quietly beneath the blackboard. I thanked him with a nod, but when I tried to speak, the words died in my throat.

  “No te preocupes,” he said, and put a fatherly arm about me. “It’ll be okay.”

  More people arrived, including a weary-looking detective in a rumpled jacket. He pulled up a chair, straddled it backward, and opened a note pad. “Tell me what happened.”

  His questions seemed to go on forever. I told him about the men in the van, and about Boris and Elena, and was explaining depredadores, when the door opened and in marched a young man in a white medical jacket. He caught the detective’s eye and nodded.

  The detective nodded back and turned to me. “We’d like you to take a look at the body.”

  “Why?’

  “You might know her.”

  I followed them outside, down the corridor, and into the lobby. The body lay on a gurney in front of the elevator, with men in white around it. The medic unzipped the bag.

  I covered my mouth and stepped closer.

  Flaca had silver-capped teeth, frizzy hair, and dark Indian features. The detective showed me her drivers’ license, but I didn’t have to look. Flaca by any other name was still Blanca Gaitán, my pistol-toting guide from the volcano.

  Chapter 74

  Predictably, I became the talk of the campus, again. It was even rumored that I’d pulled the trigger and poor old Domingo was covering for me. Phones rang endlessly at home and in the office. Rosario called. So did Elizabeth and the Nicaraguan Consulate. People stared. It became so uncomfortable for me that I took to wearing a wig and sunglasses on campus.

  Holbrook Easton also called. “It hasn’t gone unnoticed,” he said in his uppity way of speaking, “that of the four suspects involved in the disappearance of Catherine Cohen, two of them died a violent death in your presence.”

  “What do you mean…in my presence?”

  “Oh, come now, Ms. McMullen, it’s pretty clear what happened to Lieutenant Fuentes. Sooner or later we’ll get to the truth of the matter.”

  A week after the shooting, on a rainy Friday afternoon, Domingo stopped in to say he’d been cleared and reinstated. We hugged each other. I cried. He cried. He begged me to be careful, and then handed me a little gift-wrapped package—another canister of pepper spray.

  Industrial strength.

  I was still holding the canister when I went home that evening and discovered a houseguest, Traci, Carla’s three-year-old, who’d come up for a visit with Carla’s older sister. The sister had gone off to visit relatives. Meanwhile, Carla was scurrying around, getting dressed.

  “Got a hot date,” she said. “Would you mind looking after Traci?”

  “You’re going out in this weather?”

  “You’ll understand when you see him.” She grinned, turned up the volume on the Golden Oldies station and danced out of the room to the tune of Roberta Flack’s Killing Me Softly, leaving a trail of perfume, looking like a sixties hippie in long dress and scarves.

  The intercom buzzed. “Would you get that?” Carla called out. “It’s probably him.”

  I turned down the radio and listened to a tinny voice from downstairs security: “We’ve got a guy down here for Carla. Is it okay to send him up.”

  “Did you check his identification?”

  “Name’s Ricardo. Passport says he’s from Nicaragua.”

  My stomach did a little flip. What was Carla thinking? Ricardo was probably the guy with the knife. The one who’d gotten away. And he was here to finish the job.

  I darted into my bedroom, grabbed the pepper spray and cell phone, and returned in time to hear the doorbell. “Let him in,” Carla yelled. “Please. I’m not ready yet.”

  “But they said he’s Nicaraguan.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sakes. He’s an archaeology student. I met him in class.”

  I peeped through the spy hole. Outside stood a handsome young man in a black raincoat, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, an earring on his left earlobe. His unshaven face gave him the hunky look of a male model. Not at all like the monster I imagined.

  I unbolted the door and opened it. He stood there a moment, studying my face with his dark eyes. “You must be Jennifer,” he said, and kissed me on bot
h cheeks.

  Traci came running out for a wide-eyed look. Ricardo swept her up in his arms. Then Carla strutted back in and hugged him, her bracelets jangling, doing that little mating dance she did so well. “See,” she said, tapping me on the arm. “Didn’t I tell you?”

  She served Merlot, crackers and cheese, and as we sat around the coffee table, Ricardo eyed the water jug I’d unearthed in the cave.

  “Early polychrome,” he said, dark eyes shining.

  “How do you know about pottery?”

  “My specialty. I’m writing a thesis on the pottery of Lake Nicaragua. I’ve heard about your research on glyphs. I might be able to help.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, I was with the army in the mountains. This was during the war, mind you. Glyphs all around, the most magical things I’ve ever seen. Birds, animals, geometric symbols, spirals. We had no idea what they meant, but the Indians who lived there knew.”

  My blood stirred. “Did they explain any of it?”

  “They did, but we were in a war, understand. Contras trying to kill us in daytime, the Norteamericanos at night. They flew over in those—what you call them—gunships, and shot up our camp. One night they dropped napalm. Poof, there goes my notes.”

  He pulled up his pants leg to show a horrible burn scar. “But I still have it here,” he said, tapping a finger against his temple. “Seared into memory by fire.”

  “What’s your interpretation for a flying bird?”

  “Direction. It’s like the arrows you see on highways. Snake means river. Delta means mountain. So a bird flying, say, toward a snake, could be a pointer to a river.”

  “What about a spiral?”

  “Depends on the spin. Clockwise means falling into something, biting off more than you can chew. Counter-clockwise means the opposite—getting out of it.”

  “Like falling in or out of love?”

  “Why not? Falling in love is like, well…getting into trouble, isn’t it?”

  Carla rolled her eyes and glanced at her watch. “We better get going.”

  As soon as the door closed behind them, I set the chain, got Traci settled in my bedroom with a sketchpad, and turned the focal lights on my sketches.