The Girl in the Glyphs

by David Edmonds

  Easton stood. “The ambassador sends his congratulations to Ms. McMullen,” he said. “He’s also asked an embassy representative, Don Eduardo, to tag along with you.”

  Everyone turned to look for Don Eduardo.

  Easton consulted his watch. “He’s not here yet. He’s running the boat up from Rivas.”

  Boone was the next speaker. “Don’t forget we’ll be photographing you from every angle. It’ll be more impressive if all of you dress in boots and khakis. Think Jungle Jim.”

  “Jungle who?” Abby asked.

  “Character in those old movies about Africa. Think Tarzan. Think Nyoka, the Jungle Girl.”

  “Nyoka was always half-naked,” Frieda said.

  “Maybe Nyoka’s not the best example. What about—”

  “Crocodile Dungee,” said Hosmer.

  “It’s Dundee, but yeah, that’ll work. Crocodile Dundee meets Jungle Jim in Nicaragua.”

  Sutter waited for the laughter to fade and again tinkled his spoon against a goblet. “I think our doctoral candidate, Ms. McMullen, would also like to say a few words.”

  The room grew still enough to hear the clatter of dishes in the kitchen. “The lake can be rough,” I said. “Take a motion-sickness tablet. You’ll also need sunscreen and insect repellent. Raingear if you don’t want to get drenched. And the one thing I should warn you about is—”

  The lights flickered and went out.

  Groans filled the room. “Neat,” said Boone’s girlfriend. Hosmer grumbled about Third World countries, and Holbrook Easton’s wife whispered, “Déjà vu all over again.”

  A few minutes later, with the room darker and smelling of scented lamp oil, I went on. “What I was going to warn you about is a plant called chichicaste. Don’t touch it. It’s the meanest—”

  “Best way to deal with chichicaste,” said a voice in the shadows, “is push it away with a forked stick and whack it at the base.”

  “Don Eduardo,” said Holbrook Easton.

  Everyone craned around to see Don Eduardo.

  I didn’t have to look. I’d know that drawl anywhere.

  Chapter 84

  Alan, a.k.a. Don Eduardo, rose to say a few words. Though I tried to listen, I was in such turmoil that all I could absorb was how he looked. He was dressed in jeans, khaki shirt, and one of those vests with all the pockets. “Not the embassy’s boat,” he was saying, “because we didn’t want it to look like a North American affair…though big enough for our party…”

  When it grew silent in the room, I realized he’d asked me a question.

  Easton leaned into me. “He asked what time we should get started in the morning.”

  “What time does the hotel serve breakfast?”

  The place burst into laughter. Obviously, he’d already answered that question. “They start at six,” Alan said. “Is seven okay by you?”

  I nodded.

  “Seven it is. I’ll have Miguel in front at seven. Please don’t keep him waiting.” He thanked us for our attention, apologized again for being late, and sat down.

  Sutter ended the meeting with a rap of his knuckles. By then I’d drained another goblet of wine. As we left the dining room, I glanced back and saw Alan following.

  Oh God, how could I explain him to Sutter?

  Holbrook Easton touched my arm. “When you wrap up your business with the cave, please don’t leave until you stop by the embassy. We still have a few matters to clear up.”

  He shook my hand, bussed me on the cheek and took his leave. Alan caught up to us in the courtyard. Now that he was closer, I saw streaks of gray in his hair, also a scar that wasn’t there before. He introduced himself to Sutter and shook his hand.

  “Would you mind if I borrowed this young lady a few minutes?”

  Sutter looked at me.

  “It’ll be okay,” I said.

  Sutter said goodnight and left. Boone, who’d been filming the entire episode, also left. So did the others, and then I was alone with this man of my dreams, in the lamplight of the lobby.

  “Listen, Alan. What’s this Don Eduardo stuff?”

  “It’s a long story. Got time for a drink?”

  I had time, and a minute or two later we were sitting on the same outdoor patio at the same table where we’d sat fifteen months ago during another power failure, again listening to a trio of drunken street guitarists. Other couples also sat around enjoying the music and cool night breeze, including Abby and Frieda, who were now cuddling like the couple they were. Alan nodded at someone across the street in the shadows.

  “You remember Paco, don’t you? Wave to Paco.”

  I waved to Paco. The guitarists who fifteen months ago had melted my heart were badly out of sync. Alan leaned a little closer. “You look great, Jen.”

  “Let’s get back to this Don Eduardo business.”

  He smiled. “Well, that’s my name—Edward Alan Page—hence Don Eduardo.”

  “I like Alan better. What are you doing here anyway?”

  The server brought rum and coke. Alan touched his glass to mine. “To us,” he said. “To all the wonderful memories and to the future.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  “Look, until this morning I had no idea you’d be coming, but since I’m the embassy guy who handles water resources, it fell to me. That’s why I’m here. Okay?”

  “No, it’s not okay. It’s clumsy meeting you like this.”

  He cupped his hand around a lighter and lit a cigarette.

  “When did you start smoking?”

  He took a puff and ground it out. “It’s this job, this country. I’ve started and stopped a dozen times. Stopped a couple weeks ago, but seeing you tonight, well…I need a cigarette.”

  My archaeological mind studied his face, every line and every wrinkle. What caused the scar? Who had he been sleeping with? “What about Maritza? Are you still with her?”

  “Divorce went through about six months ago.”

  He reached for my hand. “Like it or not, Jen, we’ve got unfinished business.”

  I yanked away. “No, Alan, It’s too late.”

  “It’s never too late. Tell me about the Brit. Are you two an item?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know yet.”

  He shuffled in his chair. “Listen, Jen. My whole life crashed that day in Georgetown. All my dreams. The worst moment of my life was when you climbed into that taxi.”

  I put a finger to his lips. “Please, Alan. We were together for what, three weeks?”

  “The happiest three weeks of my life. I never got you out of my system.”

  “It was you, wasn’t it?”

  “Me, what?”

  “You engineered this little coincidence of getting me in this same hotel, same room.”

  He shrugged. “Whatever it takes.”

  We drank and talked. There were questions and explanations, long moments of silence, another rum and coke. My head spun. The guitarists drifted away. So did other couples. Alan shifted his chair so close I felt his warmth.

  “Listen, Jen, can you honestly say you no longer have any feelings for me?”

  His words were still in the air, heavy and oppressive, begging for the answer I was afraid to admit, and his hand was on mine when I became aware of a presence behind us.

  “Excuse me” said Sutter in his Cambridge accent. “I was getting worried.”

  I sprang to my feet as if we’d been caught in bed. Alan stood as well. I told Alan it was a pleasure chatting with him, shook his hand, waved to Frieda and Abby, and let Sutter guide me back through the lobby to the stairs. On the stairway, I stumbled and almost fell.

  “How many drinks have you had?” Sutter asked.

  “Too many. Not enough. I don’t know.”

  He followed me into my room, lit candles, and sat in the same chair where Alan had once sat.

  “You and that Don Eduardo fellow know one another, don’t you?”

  I sank onto the bed. The room was spinning. F
rom the open balcony door came the sounds of salsa. “I had no idea he was going to be here.”

  When I looked up, I could see he was taking this almost as hard as I was.

  He leaned forward in his chair. “How do you feel about him now?”

  “I don’t know. Ask me tomorrow.”

  He opened his mouth as if to reply, seemed to think better of it, and left the room.

  Chapter 85

  Chains rattled all night. Chickens clucked. Alan and Sutter floated in and out of my dreams, and I was trying to explain my confusion when a blast of fireworks woke me.

  My head ached. My stomach had that wretched feeling of a woman who wakes up in bed with a stranger. Worse, buses and trucks with busted mufflers roared up and down the street. Roosters crowed, and somewhere outside my window, that damn street vendor was still hawking his fresh chicken. “Pollo! Aqui tenemos pollo!”

  Damn it. This was to be my day of glory, a day of discovery and accomplishment, but all I could think about was Alan coming back into my life and how it must hurt Sutter.

  Why now? Why today?

  I ordered down for breakfast, took a hot shower, put on my jungle outfit for Boone’s camera, pulled my hair back in a ponytail, and went downstairs to face the world.

  Sutter and the others were waiting at the van, sipping coffee from foam cups, chatting with each other, and looking as if they’d just come from a Banana Republic outlet store. They grew quiet when they saw me. No one smiled. There were only a few good-morning nods.

  Then I noticed Daniel Boone with his camera, green light flashing.

  “Smile,” he said. “Show us some grit, some determination to find the cave.”

  I wanted to throw something at him. Instead, I tossed my pack into the van and climbed in, hoping no one would notice the guilt on my face. The others climbed in as well, smelling of coconut-scented suntan oil. There was also the smell of alcohol, as if someone had taken a nip or two. Sutter avoided my eyes, and I think we were both grateful when the driver turned on the radio and cranked up the volume.

  The drive to the lake might have taken ten minutes or it might have taken thirty. All I know is I sat there in my own world, trying to absorb this new development.

  “Look,” Hosmer said, “It’s that Channel Four van. They’re behind us.”

  Everyone twisted around, but there was only dust in our wake.

  Frieda fanned her face with an open palm. “What have you been drinking?”

  “What I’ve been drinking is my own damn business.”

  Around a curve, through a gate, and there it was, the Asese landing with its boats and great waterside trees. The same half-sunken wrecks offshore. The same spot where Alan had given me his little effigy witch. Happy memories. Sad memories. Alan back in my life.

  Even at that hour, the island dwellers were coming and going with their produce and cardboard boxes. The driver took us right up to the waters’ edge and pointed to a trawler with a cabin. “The Indigo,” he said. “It’s an Island Gypsy.” Whatever that meant.

  Rosario and two men in khakis and hiking boots stood at the boarding plank. Alan was there too, dressed in jeans and crimson ball cap, unshaven and looking as if he’d also had a bad night.

  “Hurry,” Rosario said, “before that TV crew finds us.”

  I followed the others aboard and tried to stay as far away from Alan as possible. Paco emerged from somewhere amid the people and crates on the dock, unleashed the Indigo from its mooring, and gave a thumbs-up signal.

  The engine roared to life, the boat lurched, and as we began our voyage, I joined Sutter at the aft railing. The port of Asese fell away. Seabirds skimmed the water, diving for their breakfast.

  “I’m so sorry about last night,” I said. “I was caught off-guard.”

  “It’s okay, Jen. We’re here now and have to make the most of it.”

  Damn him. Why couldn’t he show some passion?

  We rounded the point, but before anyone could settle in, Alan killed the engines and came back. “Gather round,” he said. “Let’s talk.”

  Boone broke out his camera. I didn’t know what to expect and had a sudden urge to swim back to shore. Alan offered bottled water and coffee and then told us the Indigo was a 36-foot trawler with twin Leaman diesels made by a company in China.

  “As for the lake,” he drawled, “it’s fresh-water, the second largest in Latin America. It also has more than four-hundred islands, some tiny, some large. Some even have little cabins you can rent. They’re great for a romantic week with the person you love.”

  Right, I thought. Nothing but tropical fuck cabins.

  He glanced as me as if he knew what I was thinking and went on, now talking about sharks and sudden storms. Damn him. Did he really think I’d just dump Sutter and hop back in his bed? Sutter was stable, secure, a guy you could count on. Alan was like the kid with long hair and tattoos who rides Harleys and crashes through barbed-wire fences.

  “Any questions?”

  “Yeah,” said Hosmer. “How long’s this trip going to take?”

  “I have no idea. I don’t even know where we’re going.”

  I glared at him. He knew damn well where we were going.

  Frieda punched me on the arm. “Tell him.”

  “No,” Rosario said, taking a step forward. “No announcements until we get there.”

  “Why not?” Hosmer said.

  “You’ll know soon enough.” She nodded at me. “Show Don Eduardo on his charts.”

  Alan motioned me toward the cabin. I glanced around at Sutter, hoping he’d tag along, but he remained at the railing with his binoculars and Panama hat. Go ahead, he told me with his eyes. Go have a private chat with your old boyfriend.

  Rosario didn’t seem interested either, so I followed Alan into a cabin that smelled of leather, tar and salt. “Why the charade?” I asked. “You know where we’re going.”

  He started the engines, adjusted the throttle, and turned to face me. “We should talk.”

  “Now’s not the time to talk.”

  “We have to talk, Jen. You know it and I know it. I’m not letting this go.”

  He picked up a chart and motioned me closer. “Here, pretend you’re showing me.”

  I glanced over my shoulder as if I were planning a secret rendezvous with a lover, which in a way I was. There were already enough undercurrents on this boat to suck down a battleship.

  “There,” I said, pointing to the north size of Zapateras.

  “The Brit doesn’t look happy. He giving you problems?”

  “The Brit’s a perfect gentleman,” I said, and hurried out.

  Chapter 86

  Lake Nicaragua

  The Indigo lumbered along in slow motion, rising and falling in the swells. Black clouds rose up in the distance. There were flashes of lightning, and it wasn’t long before we were in the midst of a storm. The wind howled. Spray blew against the windows, and things rattled and vibrated. Boone picked up a cooler that had crashed to the deck. His girlfriend whimpered and said we were going to sink. Then she threw up in a bucket.

  I was wheezy too, and had no idea where we were until a stand of mango trees went by on the port side, close enough to see the cabin. And a hammock strung between palm trees.

  Ana Maria Island? Yes, no doubt about it. How convenient Alan would take us so close to Ana Maria but avoid all the other islands.

  Rosario, whose absence I hadn’t noted, appeared on the ladder above us, dripping water and wearing a yellow lifejacket. “Problems,” she announced. “Better take a look.”

  Alan throttled down, locked the helm, and grabbed a lifejacket.

  I grabbed one too. So did Sutter and Boone, and then we were all on the open top deck, getting drenched in the spray. Ana Maria was behind us now, but off to starboard was another familiar site, the Isle of Thieves where I’d spent a week with Niro and Tan.

  “Back there,” Rosario shouted above the wind.

  Alan raised his binoculars an
d took a long look.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Mystery boat, black and sleek. Looks like they’re following.” He handed me the glasses.

  Far behind us, the little boat rose and dipped in the swells, keeping its distance. Gonzales, I thought. It had to be him. I could almost see him at the helm, all scarred face and sunglasses.

  “What are we going to do?” I asked Alan.

  “Well, we’re not going to outrun them in this tub. Let’s get below and talk.”

  We crowded into the cabin, everyone dripping water. Rosario spoke first. “I say we scrub the mission. We can’t go with them following.”

  “I’m with Rosario,” Alan said. “This tub is visible for miles—too big to hide, too slow to run. We could do it tomorrow in a faster craft, but with only four or five.”

  Frieda came to her feet. With her wild hair and red poncho, she looked like a sheep rancher from Scotland. “And just who are you going to throw overboard?”

  “That’s for you guys to decide.”

  Tempers flared. Everyone started talking at once. Boone said he couldn’t do his work without his two assistants. Abby said she hadn’t come all this way to be bumped. Hosmer said, “No way in hell are you bumping me. I want to see that cave.”

  Rosario held up a hand. “Just calm down, we’ll work it out. As for today, why don’t we cruise over to Zapateras and have a look at Sonzapote. It’s a spectacular ruin?”

  I seconded the motion. Sonzapote had a reputation as the Sodom and Gomorrah of Nicaragua, an ancient city destroyed by some mysterious force. It was also the city where Glyph Girl lived.

  “But what about that boat?” Boone’s girlfriend asked.

  Alan marched to a locker, opened it, and began pulling out guns. “Take what you want? It’s just for show. They’re not going to bother us when they know we’re armed.”

  I took a Beretta and strapped it around my waist. Sutter took a telescopic rifle. Rosario took a revolver. Frieda, Abby and Hosmer looked on as in disbelief. Boone captured the drama on film.