““Let’s do it,” he said. “But stay quiet. You never know.”
We unloaded in the darkness, Boone filming with his night lens. Ricardo, who until yesterday had been known to me only as a student, hopped back into the boat, said he’d keep watch at the entrance, and idled quietly into the gloom.
Then it was just the five of us waiting for dawn on the same spot where Fuentes’ body had lain. Boone with his cameras, Rosario with her pistol, and me with my two lovers.
In time, the great waterside trees with their tentacles and creepers became visible. So did patches of mist. I hitched up my pack and was testing the edge of the jungle with my machete when Boone said, “Hold on, we’ve got to do a reenactment.”
“Of what?”
“Your first trip here. Tramping ashore like General MacArthur.”
Rosario lit a cigarette and sat on a boulder. Alan shouldered an assault rifle and stalked into the shadows. Boone got his camera rolling on a tripod and stepped in front of it.
“A dismal backwater,” he said in his Aussie accent, “the setting for one of the great discoveries of our time…the only known ideographic script in the world. Proof positive that the earliest Americans communicated via written symbols. What is even more remarkable is the person who made the discovery is the same young lady who cracked the text.”
I puffed up with pride. This was my moment of glory.
Boone sent me into the reeds with my pistol and machete, and then trained his camera on me. “Swing that machete, girl. You’ve got alligators on your right, snakes on your left, bandits in the trees. Look up there. Stop. Now go to your left. Good, keep moving. Back up.”
I backed up, stumbled over a root, and went down in the water.
Sutter pulled me up and brushed off the muck. Boone settled us down and got the camera rolling again, walking backward in front.
We did a second take, and would have done a third except that Alan came running out of the jungle in a fury, anguish on his face.
“You’d better come see this.”
We grabbed our gear and trotted along the path behind him, splashing through water and past palmetto groves, pushing vines out of our way and wiping spider webs from our faces. Boone begged us to slow down so he could get it on film. Rosario fell behind, wheezing and gasping like an asthmatic. At last, Alan raised his hand to stop us.
“Other side of those boulders,” he said, breathing hard.
I slipped off my pack and bounded from boulder to boulder, crossing a distance of maybe twenty yards. Then I saw it—a freshly bulldozed trail. It wound down from the direction of the cave, passing around trees and boulders, looking like a wonderful little nature trail for hikers.
“Small dozer,” Alan said. “You can see the tracks. Fresh.”
Without thinking, I sprinted up the trail. Behind me, Boone was still yelling for us to slow down. “Not so fast!” Alan yelled. “They may still be there.”
I yanked out my pistol and kept running, dreading what I might find, hoping, praying.
The trail turned this way and that, passing around large obstructions, but always upward. Here and there the dozer had filled in depressions, or shoved trees and rocks into piles, creating a barren landscape that only a Florida developer would love. Monkeys protested in the trees. Birds squawked. My boots squished. I smelled freshly turned earth.
Finally, panting from exertion, I burst out of the jungle directly in front of the cave.
And dropped to my knees.
What had once been a wall of vines and creepers, was now a gaping hole. Loose vines dangled from overhead, swinging in the breeze like a hangman’s noose. The stone sentinels were still standing, but where once had been a magnificent wall of ceramic plates, there were now only empty niches in a black volcanic surface.
Chapter 91
The painful trip back to Asese was in silence. Boone linked up with his girlfriend. Rosario sped off in her SUV. Ricardo and Carla left in a taxi. Sutter and I crawled into the Land Rover with Alan and Paco for the hour-long drive to Managua.
As we entered the outskirts, Alan bought newspapers from a man on crutches at an intersection. “Christ,” he mumbled. “You’re already front page news.”
I took the paper and saw myself standing in the Sonzapote ruins with Hosmer, Abby, Frieda, and Sutter. The headline read THE NICARAGUAN COMMANDMENTS, and some witty journalist has rendered them into the archaic language of the Old Testament.
1. Thou shalt not kill.
2. Thou shalt not steal.
3. Thou shalt not fornicate promiscuously.
4. Thou shalt not wage war against thy neighbor.
“It had to be Hosmer,” said Sutter beside me. “He gave Elizabeth your dissertation.”
Alan, sitting in front with Paco, turned around to face us. “I’m betting that thing about him stealing the ignition wire was also been staged, something he arranged with Elizabeth.”
“Exactly,” Sutter said. “What does he know about ignition coils?”
The sun was setting when we drove through the gates of a Mediterranean-style mansion in Las Colinas. Barking dogs and men with assault rifles came out to greet us. Alan guided us through a central patio shaded by mango trees. “Embassy guesthouse,” he said.
Another fuck pad, I figured.
Alan led us into the great room with its heavy wooden beams, wicker furniture, and native artwork. The television was on, and an expanded list of commandments was rolling down the screen like credits from a movie.
5. Thou shalt not lie with thy neighbor’s woman.
6. Thou shalt protect the land and the waters that nourish thee.
A background voice was saying the archbishop would have no comment until ecclesiastical experts had seen the evidence. Then they showed a coiffed preacher from Texas, railing against false prophets. “In the Book of Revelations it says—”
“Looks like they’re on to you,” Hosmer said behind me.
He was on the sofa with a drink cradled in his hand, looking like the victim of a bad accident with a cast on his leg and support around his neck. His crucifix dangled from his neck, but it was the smirk that made me want to kill him.
I shoved the newspaper in his face. “This photograph is from your camera, isn’t it? You also gave Elizabeth a copy of my dissertation.”
“Oh, please, Miz McMuffin, now you’re fabricating things again.”
I wadded up the paper and flung it at him, and might have smacked him with a candelabra if Sutter hadn’t stepped between us. Sutter pointed a finger at Hosmer. “We’ll get to the bottom of this soon enough. There’ll be a hearing as soon as we get back.”
He excused himself, saying he was going to shower. Alan, looking as beaten as the rest of us, said he was going home to change, but would stop by later.
I took a deep breath, poured myself a glass of wine, and was thinking I should also clean up when Hosmer began laughing like a mad man.
“What’s so damn funny?”
“Because now you’ve got no dissertation, nothing but three-hundred pages of bullshit.” He drained his glass. “All that shit about a female Moses saying we should protect the little ones. What a crock. All you goody-goodies are just alike. They should take away your Green Card.”
I flung a cushion at him. He threw up his arms to fend it off, but his tumbler flew out of his hand and shattered on the marble floor. Sutter came hurrying back into the room, barefooted and shirtless, towel around his neck—and stepped on the broken glass.
“Bloody hell,” he uttered, and flopped into a chair.
I grabbed a napkin and helped him staunch the bleeding. Behind us, Hosmer was on his feet again. “She has no thesis! Doesn’t have a goddamned thing.”
He came closer and pointed a finger. “You’re lucky you were never in my class. I’d have failed your sucking-up little ass for sleeping with the boss.”
Sutter went after him, tracking blood. I grabbed his arm. “No, he’s drunk.”
“I’m not
fucking drunk!”
Sutter found his cell and began punching in numbers. “I’m calling Abby and Frieda. We’ll settle this right now.” He reached them at their hotel in Acapulco, explained our misfortunes, and said Hosmer was drunk and behaving badly.
“I’m not fucking drunk!”
Sutter handed the phone to me. “Frieda.”
Frieda said she was sorry to hear the bad news and asked if I had other photos of the cave. I told her it was possible Smithsonian or Niro had copies. She asked me to make the phone calls, and I was asking how that would help when Hosmer snatched the phone from my hand.
“Photographs aren’t worth diddly-shit. They can be doctored.” Docktuhed.
I wrestled the phone from him. He fought to get it back. Sutter pushed him down on the sofa. Hosmer yelled he was going to report us for assault and battery.
I tried to get Frieda back on the phone but the connection was gone.
And still Hosmer ranted: “Photos aren’t worth diddly-shit.”
At last, he limped away on crutches and slammed his bedroom door behind him. I showered, changed and tried to reach Niro in Costa Rica. The only response was a ringing phone. I called Smithsonian. They were closed. I called Diane’s number. She didn’t answer.
The servants brought food. I wasn’t hungry, but nibbled on it anyway, sitting silently at the table with Sutter. When the clock struck nine, Sutter said we needed to get up early for our flight, so he pecked me on the cheek, said goodnight, and hobbled out of the room.
I tried to call Niro again and was about to give up when Alan arrived.
Chapter 92
He’d changed into jeans and a dark polo, and had a clean soapy smell. In his hand was a heavy folder. “Reports on Gonzales,” he said. “Interested?”
I motioned him inside and onto the sofa. He opened the folder and pulled out a photo of Gonzales. “Here’s your culprit, and in case you haven’t heard, he’s no longer in the army. They kicked him out. Prudencia too, saying they were a disgrace to their uniforms.”
“Why can’t they be hauled in and interrogated?”
“Because there’s no evidence.”
“So they’re going to get away with murder?”
“That’s not what I said.” He reached back into his folder and pulled out an Americas’ Watch report titled Extrajudicial Executions in Northern Nicaragua. “It’s pretty sickening. Details some of the atrocities they committed during the war. You might not want to read it.”
“What I don’t understand is why they’re still running around free.”
“Nicaragua. Contras were just as bad. If you rounded up everybody on both sides accused of war crimes, there’d have another revolution.”
He explained. We talked. We speculated about how Gonzales had found the cave and whether or not he’d found gold. We drank wine until we were both giddy, and were still speculating when the clock struck eleven. Alan stood and began putting away his files.
“I hear you’re leaving tomorrow?”
“That’s the plan.”
“I wish you’d hang around a few more days.”
“Why?”
“You know why.” He took a step toward me.
“No, Alan, don’t. Sutter’s just down the hall.”
He paced around the room, biting his lower lip. Then he picked up his folder.
“Can you at least walk me to my truck?”
It was dark outside, a moonless night with glittering stars. Alan put his arm on my shoulder and guided me around a mango tree. Night birds cooed, crickets sang, and when Alan’s lips found mine, I was back on Ana Maria. A bonfire to warm us, a salsa on the radio, the beat of waves against the breakwater, Alan saying he couldn’t get me out of his mind.
“Let’s go to my place,” he whispered, his breath hot on my cheek.
“No,” I said, and shoved him away. “This isn’t right. I can’t do this.”
When the alarm clock went off at five, I rolled out of bed feeling like an Olympic skater who’d fallen on her face. At this time yesterday, I’d been on the threshold of fame. Today, I was a nobody, a failure. Worse, I was an unfaithful woman—at least in my heart.
I showered and dressed, got coffee in me, and was about to try Niro’s number again when Carla and Ricardo showed up to drive us to the airport. Their rumpled clothing and weary faces told me they’d also had a rough night. Carla led me back into the bedroom.
“I’m scared,” she hissed.
“Of what?”
“They’re going after Gonzales,”
“Who is going after him?”
“Alan and Ricardo.”
The sound of a slamming door interrupted her. Sutter appeared at the door in his leather jacket and pressed khakis. “Ready?” he said.
I pointed to my packed bags. “I need to make a quick phone call.”
I tried Niro’s number again. His mother answered. She was down from Jersey—Joisey—and told me in a husky smoker’s voice she didn’t like being awakened at six in the morning. She was ill and couldn’t afford medical care in the States. The climate in Costa Rica was helping, but the food was upsetting her stomach. No, Niro wasn’t home. Yes, he had a cell.
By the time I finished jotting down the number, Carla was tugging on my arm, telling me we had to go. I dashed outside and piled into the back seat next to Sutter.
“Where’s Hosmer?” I asked.
“Taking a later flight to Boston.”
Ricardo let us out in the loading zone and drove off to find a parking spot. Sutter, Carla and I fought our way through the usual mob of beggars and baggage handlers.
As soon as we were inside, and Sutter at the ticket counter, Carla whispered, “They’re going to nab him in broad daylight.”
“When?”
“Soon. They made me promise not to tell you.”
She was still explaining, desperation in her voice, when Ricardo showed up with a newspaper. “Look at this,” he said, and pointed to a headline that read WHO STOLE THE GLYPHS?
I took the paper, said my goodbyes to Ricardo and Carla, paid my departure fee, and followed Sutter into the small lounge that served as the gate for international travelers. He was flying to London; I was going to Tampa to cry with my mom.
But not until I spoke to Niro. I stepped to the telephone bank and called the number Niro’s mother had given me. He answered on the second ring.
“That low life scum,” he said in his raspy voice. “We should have thrown him into the lake.”
“Do you still have photos of the cave?”
He paused as if to think about it. “Smithsonian wouldn’t let me keep copies. Sorry, Jen.”
“What about the Smithsonian? Did you give them copies?”
“I don’t think so, but you should call them.
I thanked him, hung up, and tried not to cry.
Sutter’s British Air flight was an hour before my scheduled departure. When the boarding call came, he hitched up his bag, handed his ticket to the attendant, and headed toward the glass doors that led to the tarmac. No hug. No kiss, only a few words.
“Promise me you’ll call when you get home?” he said.
“I promise.”
He lumbered away. I watched until he boarded, and then glanced at the phone booth.
Come on over, it seemed to say.
Chapter 93
Alan picked me up in his Land Rover, and we sped out of Managua on Carretera Sur, zigzagging up through a forest of lush vegetation, here and there catching a glimpse of Lake Managua and the city far below us. “Where are we going?” I asked.
“A quiet place to talk.” He reached over to take my hand.
I shoved it away. “Look, Alan, let’s get one thing straight. The only reason I stayed is to help you catch Gonzales. I’m not going to sleep with you.”
“You think that’s all I want?”
“How do I know what you want? You’d have Mother Teresa questioning her vows.”
The moonscape through which w
e were soon driving was the fallout zone for Volcán Masaya; the only living creatures were a few skinny cattle. The terrain got greener when we took a winding road out of the mountains. We passed through a quaint little village called San Rafael del Sur, drove another thirty minutes or so, and came to a security gate. Beyond it, sloping down to the Pacific, lay lush tropical gardens and tiled-roofed cottages, as pretty as a postcard.
“Montelimar,” Alan announced. “Used to be Somoza’s retreat.”
“Wait a minute, Alan. Gonzales just pulled off the heist of the century and you want to go on vacation? He could be loading those plates on a boat right now.”
“Stop worrying. I’ve got a round-the-clock watch on him.”
We passed muster with the guards and followed the signs to the registration building, passing beneath jacaranda trees in full bloom: a dance of purple and green against a cloudless sky.
Alan signed for a cabin that had two bedrooms.
I called my mom as soon as we settled in, assured her I was okay, gave her the phone number, and told her I’d be back in Tampa in two or three days.
Alan said he had business to attend to, so I sat outside in the ocean breeze and tried to absorb all the contradictory forces of the universe—Alan pulling me one way, Sutter the other. A doctoral dissertation gone bad. Sutter heartbroken. Dreams shattered.
Tears welled up. I cried, and was still crying when Alan came out and took me into his arms.
“It’ll be okay,” he whispered. “We’re going to work this out.”
I wasn’t so sure, but wanted to believe him, so later that evening, after the sun sank into the ocean, I showered again, changed, and followed him along a meandering path to an outdoor restaurant that was surrounded with oleanders and flaming bougainvillea. From the ocean came the sound of swells and seagulls. Around us sat Canadians and suntanned Europeans, eating and listening to salsa. Though I tried to push Sutter out of my mind, I kept seeing him back in the shadows.
“I’ll never be able to explain this,” I said.
“You won’t have to. What happens in Nicaragua stays in Nicaragua.”
The Girl in the Glyphs Page 29