The Girl in the Glyphs

by David Edmonds

  Leocadia.

  Chapter 100

  Alan sprang on her, cuffed her hands in front, and pushed her back into the bedroom. I followed with pistol and flashlight. The room was a mess—towels, handbags, and clothing scattered about. On the stand were cigarettes, a tube of KY, and an open pack of condoms. The place reeked of gunfire, cigarettes and sex.

  “Who else was here?” Alan asked.

  “My husband.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Granada.”

  A flicker of recognition crossed her face. “You,” she said, looking at me.

  I held the gun on her while Alan searched the room. He found a plastic bag and dumped the contents on the bed. It was hundred-dollar bills, all done up in neat stacks and secured with rubber bands. “Where are the other things?” I asked her.

  “What other things?”

  “From the cave?”

  She glanced toward the boathouse door. Alan kicked it open and sent Leocadia ahead with the flashlight. “Stand over there where I can see you. Shine it around. That’s a good girl. Now shine it on the boat. Good. Now shine it to the right. Aha, what’s in those wood crates?”

  I raced into the boathouse, yanked the flashlight from her, and shined it on the crates. There were nine of them, the perfect size for the nine ceramic plates from the cave.

  With Leocadia whimpering in a corner, we lit a Coleman lamp, found a hammer and screwdriver, and pried off a lid. A thick layer of bubble wrap puffed up from the inside.

  I peeled away a layer and gazed upon Plate 5, still in perfect condition.

  “What’s in that footlocker?” Alan said, pointing into a corner beneath the shelves.

  Leocadia shrugged.

  Alan popped off the lock and opened it, and there was Father Antonio’s gold, an entire trunk of Spanish escudos in various denominations.

  “Christ,” he said, “this must be worth millions.”

  He squatted down next to Leocadia. “Who are the buyers?”

  She didn’t know.

  “When are they coming?”

  She didn’t know.

  Ricardo burst into the boathouse, waving a pistol. “Is everyone okay?”

  “We found it,” I told him. “Call Carla. Tell her we’re okay.”

  “Do it outside,” Alan said. “Stay alert. Also call Luz Maria and the comandante.”

  Ricardo holstered his pistol and was heading for the door when it swung open. In marched a scrawny little man whose only clothing was soggy drawers and a gold chain.

  Niro.

  He would have been laughable except for the AK-47 he waved at us.

  “Down!” he yelled in his raspy voice. “Everyone on the floor.”

  Leocadia struggled up and rushed over to him. “Look what they did to me,” she said, holding out cuffed hands. “You should kill them.”

  Niro shoved her aside and padded into a pool of light cast by the lanterns, waving his rifle, leaving a trail of wet footprints, his furry skin the color of sidewalk. He glared at me, this sleazy little dirt-bag with the artificially black hair.

  “Sorry, Jen. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, but I needed the money. I’ve got a sick mom.”

  He stepped closer and touched my bruises. “What happened to your face?”

  “Gonzales. He’s dead. They threw him into a volcano.”

  “Who threw him into a volcano?”

  “Our people. They’re on the way. They’ll do the same to you if they catch you.”

  “She’s right,” Alan said. “You should take your money and run. Far as I’m concerned the cabin was empty when we got here.”

  Leocadia tugged at his arm. “What are they saying? Make them speak Spanish.”

  Niro collected our weapons and cell phone, got the cuffs off Leocadia, and cuffed Alan and Ricardo together. In his dreadful Spanish, he told Leocadia to get his clothes.

  She dashed into the bedroom, changed into shorts, and came back with dry clothes for Niro.

  He handed her the rifle, peeled off his soggy drawers in front of us, then pulled on a pair of baggy khakis and a Washington Redskins sweatshirt.

  “Get the money,” he told her. “Put it in their boat.”

  “Why their boat?”

  “Because it’s faster. Now do what I say, woman. Hurry. We’re running out of time.”

  “But what about the gold?”

  He glanced at the footlocker of coins. “It’s too heavy.”

  “Make them carry it.”

  “Still too heavy. We’ll need to put it in buckets.”

  “Better hurry,” I said. “The helicopters will be here any minute.”

  She flung Niro’s wet drawers at me. “You shut up, bitch, just shut up.”

  Leocadia left off with the plastic bag of money, setting off that stupid little ding. Niro sat on a stool, lit a cigarette, and began pulling on his socks.

  “When are they coming for the crates?” I asked him.

  “Daybreak.”

  “Who are they?”

  “They didn’t tell me. All I know is they’re landing in a pontoon plane.”

  “How much did Gonzales pay you?”

  “Hundred-thousand now and another hundred later.”

  “Come on,” I said. “Do you really think he’d pay you? He’d have shot you and dumped you in the lake. Leocadia too. You’re lucky we got to him first.”

  He pulled on his boots, tied them, and was staring at footlocker of coins when the drone of an engine came over the lake. His eyes widened. At the same moment, the ding sounded and Leocadia rushed back inside with two galvanized buckets. “Somebody’s coming!”

  Niro swallowed hard. He was clearly struggling between greed and flight.

  “The gold,” Leocadia said, and hurried to the footlocker with her buckets.

  Chapter 101

  Niro pushed us down toward the landing with a new sense of urgency, his flashlight casting dizzying arcs across the branches of the mango tree. Alan and Ricardo, scuffed together, struggled with their buckets of gold. I followed behind them with a smaller bucket, and behind me, Leocadia was still arguing her case. “That bitch has it coming. Either you shoot her or I will.”

  “Shut up, woman. Right now we have to get to the boat.”

  We came to the mango tree and ducked around its limbs. In desperation, I grabbed the end of a stout branch and pushed it forward.

  The roar of the engine was getting louder, the argument behind us more vicious. Another minute, I figured, and Leocadia was going to put a bullet into my back.

  I pushed the limb as far as I could and turned it loose.

  “Son of a bitch!” Niro yelped. His light went out. Leocadia’s shrieks couldn’t have been louder if she’d been attacked by killer bees. I bolted into the darkness.

  Gunfire erupted behind me, tracers whizzing into the sky.

  The Glock was where we’d left it on the path, solid and heavy. I fired three rounds into the air to let them know I was armed and dangerous.

  “Alan!” I yelled. “Ricardo! Are you alright?”

  No answer. Far out in the lake I saw the lights of a passing boat.

  “There’s your airplane!” I yelled at Niro.

  Something moved to my front. I aimed the Glock.

  “Don’t shoot,” hissed Alan. “It’s us.”

  They came snaking down the trail on their stomachs, still cuffed together. They crawled past me, found the AK-47 and fired a blast into the trees.

  “Yo, Niro!” I yelled. “You ready to negotiate?”

  From beyond the trees came a fit of coughing. Then Leocadia’s voice. “What is she saying? Tell her to speak Christian.” They got into a muffled argument, with angry words and more coughing. Finally Niro yelled, “Okay, what’s your offer?”

  “Best offer is you and your sweetie hop in your boat and disappear.”

  “Fine by me. Just give me the money. It’s in your boat.”

  Alan burst into laughter. “Are you crazy? Why sho
uld we give you anything?”

  “Because I can still destroy your precious plates, blast them to pieces with my AK.”

  “If you so much as touch those plates,” I yelled back, “you’re never make it off this island alive! I’m counting to five! If you haven’t agreed to leave by then, the offer’s off!”

  Ricardo and Alan counted with me: “One…two…three…four.”

  “Okay, we’re leaving. But I need my wallet. It’s in your boat. Passport, too. We’ll need some cash to get out of the country. Ten thousand will do.”

  “What a stupid little shit,” Ricardo said. “Leaves his passport and wallet in our boat, and thinks he’s got bargaining power.”

  There followed a debate between us, Alan arguing to give him nothing, Ricardo saying we should give him a thousand. Finally, I yelled back up to Niro. “Okay, here’s the deal! One thousand dollars if you send Leocadia down with the cuff keys, boat keys and our cell!”

  “Make it a five thousand and you’ve got a deal.”

  “Forget it, Niro. Let’s wait for the helicopters.”

  “Okay, three thousand, but only if you promise not to report us.”

  “Two thousand, but it’s off if you take any of that gold.”

  “How the hell can I take the gold? It’s too heavy.”

  “We’ve still got the buckets,” Leocadia said. “We can take some of it.”

  “You touch that gold and I’ll shoot you!” I yelled. “I’ve got a clear shot of the cabin.”

  There was more arguing between them, Niro coughing. Then Leocadia yelled, “Don’t shoot, I’m coming down with the keys and phone!”

  She stepped out from behind the mango tree and followed me down to the boat where we made the exchange beneath a sky that was getting brighter every second. Even now, she had the bitchy, defiant look of a woman who’d won the battle.

  “Puta,” she said, and stuffed the money into her shorts.

  I drew back to punch her, but thought better of it. “Go,” I said. “Get out of my sight.”

  As she retreated back up the trail, muttering and cursing, Ricardo yelled after her. “Hey, dulce, get your man some skivvies that fit!”

  Leocadia spun around. “Go fuck your mother. Fuck all of you. Laugh if you want. Laugh at Niro, but he’s the only man who’s ever treated me with respect.”

  She disappeared behind the mango tree and a minute or so later their boat engine sputtered to life. I rushed back to the cabin in time to see them racing across the lake, passing in and out of wisps of fog, disappearing in the gray morning mist.

  We returned the gold to the footlocker, though I imagine Niro managed to stuff a few coins in his pockets. Ricardo took the boat over to Ana Maria and came back with Carla. Then we made phone calls to the US ambassador, Luz Maria and the comandante, Rosario and Daniel Boone, Frieda and Abby. I even called Elizabeth at Channel 4.

  “Get yourself out to the Isle of Thieves if you want a good story.”

  “Is this another one of your tricks?”

  “No tricks, Elizabeth; you worked hard enough for this story.”

  We agreed among ourselves to keep quiet about Niro and Leocadia, and were still standing guard when the first helicopter arrived.

  Out of it stepped the comandante and Luz Maria, looking as weary as I felt.

  The comandante marched straight over to Alan and pointed at Carla and me.

  “Those women shouldn’t be here,” he said. “There’ll be an inquiry.”

  “Fine,” Alan said. “They can wait on Ana Maria.”

  “I’ve got a better idea.” He turned to Luz Maria. “Get these two women to the airport. Now. In the helicopter. You know what to do.”

  Alan looked at me and shrugged. Ricardo kissed Carla goodbye, told her he’d see her in New York in a few days, and walked us to the helicopter. Alan also followed and helped me into the helicopter. “Please tell me it’s not over.”

  I turned back and kissed him, holding back tears. “It’ll never be over between us.”

  Chapter 102

  I flew to Tampa and spent some time with my mom. Alan didn’t call. Not the first day, not the second or third, and not a week later when I was back in the city with Carla, safe in my apartment.

  The old dread came back. I cried. I saw him in my dreams. Sometimes we’d be back in the tidal pool at Montelimar and I’d wake up breathless, clutching a pillow. Other times we were Glyph Man and Glyph Girl, doing it in the bushes.

  But still he didn’t call. Not a word. Nothing since I’d kissed him goodbye.

  Holbrook Easton called from Managua. “Looks like you did it again,” he said.

  “Did what?”

  “You know very well what I’m talking about, but that’s not why I called.”

  “Why did you call?”

  “I’m calling for the ambassador. He asked me to pass along his congratulations and best wishes. He also expects you and everyone else involved in that mess on a certain volcano to remain mum on all that happened. No books, no discussion with the press.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Good, let’s keep it that way.”

  I asked about Alan. He said he hadn’t spoken with him and had no idea where he was. And, no, he had no further information on the old couple on the volcano.

  I called Catherine Cohen’s mom and had a long cry with her.

  Elizabeth called with a request for a one-on-one interview.

  No, I told her. Not now. Politely.

  Lane Sutter accepted a position at Cambridge. Not that I blamed him. I’d hurt him deeply, and for that I’d forever be sorry.

  Ricardo returned to New York and presented Carla with an engagement ring. No, he said, he hadn’t seen Alan either. Which I figured was a lie.

  I tried to accept that it was over, that I wasn’t woman enough for him. Didn’t pack a .357 Magnum. Couldn’t take the sight of a murderer dangling from a cable over a burning volcano. His kind was Luz Maria. His world was full of danger and shadows.

  And I’d had enough of both.

  Not all was bad. Doña Eulalia wrote from Nicaragua to thank me for translating Father Antonio’s manuscript from Catalán to Spanish. My literary agent called to say the same manuscript had been accepted by a major publisher, and they were keeping the title, The Heretic of Granada. She also asked if I’d write up my experiences as a memoir.

  Not now, I told her. It was too fresh on my mind. Too painful.

  Diane hooked up with Al Lopez, thanks to my mom, and they were inseparable.

  Diane, mind you, who couldn’t keep a boyfriend.

  An even bigger surprise was that Niro, that little dirt bag who’d betrayed my trust, sent flowers and a long explanation cum apology that can be summed up as follows:

  Leocadia made me do it.

  Right, Niro, blame the woman.

  Frieda rescheduled my dissertation defense and, finally, on a Tuesday morning at the university, two weeks after my return from Nicaragua, I gathered my slides and notes and entered a small conference room to make my case.

  Everyone stood.

  The Senecas weren’t there. Neither was Hosmer, who was in rehab. There were no priests, rabbis or reporters either, only my three committee members—Frieda, Abby and a substitute—plus Martha, Ricardo, Carla, Daniel Boone and a few of my old students.

  Boone showed his photos of the recovered plates. Ricardo, acting on behalf of the Nicaraguan Cultural Institute, read a letter from Rosario that authenticated the find. Then I made my presentation, explaining methodology and my conclusions.

  When I finished, everyone stood and cheered.

  The vote was unanimous. At last, I was Dr. Jennifer McMullen-Cruz, the first female of Mayan descent to get a PhD in archaeology.

  I should have been delirious with joy, should have been singing, gloating, thanking Jesus, the spirits, and all the gods of my ancestors. I’d fulfilled my dream of finding Father Antonio’s cave and unraveling its secret. Even m
ade a name for myself in archaeology. Yet I felt no sense of accomplishment, no happiness, no glory.

  What good was glory without someone to share it with?

  Back in the apartment, I gloomily began packing for Florida. Carla, who had one of her I-have-a-secret grins on her face, tuned her radio to the Golden Oldies station and pumped up the volume. Out of it came the thunder of Gloria Gaynor and how she was going to survive.

  The downstairs intercom buzzed. Carla took it and turned back to me.

  “You’ve got a visitor,” she said, still grinning. “They’re sending him up.”

  “Who?”

  Her grin got bigger.

  I rushed to the door and opened it in time to see him climbing off the elevator—boots, jeans and belt with shiny buckle, looking as handsome as the day I’d first seen him in that wicker chair. “I’m so sorry,” he drawled. “Had to wrap up a few things. Now it’s over. Finished.”

  “What’s finished?”

  “Nicaragua. I quit, turned in my resignation. Can we talk?”

  Fact or Fiction

  The backdrop for The Girl in the Glyphs is authentic. The story is fiction. It was inspired in part by my fascination with indigenous myths that tell of a Jesus-like figure who visited South and Central America in antiquity with a spiritual message for the early inhabitants. The proof, one often hears, is in the glyphs that adorn cliffs, boulders, and cave walls.

  I had the good fortune to rediscover one of those caves in the early 1990s with a group of former Sandinista soldiers. They had hidden there during the war after being attacked from the air by American gunships (Lockheed AC-130). They described the cave as an ancient Mayan jade mine, the walls covered with rock art symbols—zoomorphic (animal-like) anthropomorphic (human-like), abstract and celestial. But their maps were long since lost, the place covered with jungle growth, and they had only a general idea of its location.

  Our Military Assistance Advisory Group (MAAG) at the US Embassy in Managua disputed the notion of air attacks on Sandinistas but, after much pestering on my part, a certain army captain was kind enough to point to a place on a map.