She didn’t understand much of anything about her companions. A wealthy man spending so much time helping others didn’t conform to any of her perceptions of the rich. And such wealth alone was sure to draw the attention of the opposite sex, so how was Tarah able to resist? Even more baffling was their insistence to search for Dr. Webb. Did the archaeologist mean that much to them, or were they just needing a reason to escape Tunkuruchu for a while? Everything about Abe and Tarah felt contradictory to Lori’s pre-conceived notions about the motivations of people.
“But enough about Abe,” Tarah went on. “Tell me a little about your study. I’m intrigued by this project you’re working on.”
Lori shrugged. “It’s nothing really. I’m just trying to complete my dissertation.”
“That sounds like something to me,” Tarah pressed. “What’s it about?”
Lori squirmed uncomfortably. Death, dirt and all earthly things related to archaeology didn’t feel like appropriate conversation pieces amid high-flying luxury. The current stock ticker, the Wall Street Journal or even bets on a favorite Thoroughbred seemed more suitable. This certainly wasn’t a place to entertain notions about the fate of an ancient Toltec priest.
Then again, she was in the company of people absorbed with the tragedies of third world countries.
“I started in Anasazi ceramics,” Lori began. “I wanted to learn what they might tell us about that culture’s migratory patterns. My work has since evolved into a broader study of the Anasazi trade relations with the Toltecs of central Mexico.”
Tarah took a sip and then swirled her drink about the rim of her glass, the ice clinking melodiously. “That’s an interesting detour.”
“I doubt I’d have considered it had I not found the Effigy. That has a lot of archaeologists reconsidering trade relationships between the southwest and Mesoamerica.”
Tarah’s eyes brightened. “Wait a minute. Are you talking about the Effigy of Quetzalcoatl?”
“You heard of it?”
Tarah’s smile broadened. “Kid, who hasn’t! Are you telling me that you found the Effigy of Quetzalcoatl?”
Lori shrugged. “Well, me and Dr. Peet.”
Tarah laughed excitedly. “Just wait until Abe hears about this! He didn’t just rescue any old archaeologist. He saved a famous one!”
Lori blushed beneath the wave of celebrity suddenly washing over her. “I don’t know about famous,” she said. “The Effigy receives far more attention than I do.”
“Don’t sell yourself so short,” Tarah advised.
“Well…”
Lori felt just as uncomfortable lingering on a conversation about herself as she did sitting in Abe’s Gulfstream. Her thoughts quickly switched back to her story, and the medication slowly absorbing her headache.
“It’s the Effigy that has me suddenly interested in Topiltzin Quetzalcoatl,” she continued. “There was a body buried with the Effigy and identifying the bones may provide clues about how the artifact reached Utah in the first place.”
“You don’t believe it was traded?”
Lori shrugged. “If the skeleton proves to be of Anasazi descent, I’ll reconsider. But for now I’m leaning on a controversial theory that the skeleton is none other than the remains of Topiltzin Quetzalcoatl, the Toltec priest who was empowered by the Effigy. So when Dr. Webb claimed to have found documented evidence of Topiltzin Quetzalcoatl’s landing in Yucatan, I had to check it out for myself.”
“Wait. I thought Matt was looking for Jesus.”
“According to him, they are one and the same,” Lori said.
“So you and your Dr. Peet came down to Mexico only to find a picture of the Talking Cross?” Tarah prompted.
“Something like that.”
“And yet, here you sit. Where is this Dr. Peet?”
Lori felt her own expression sink. “I’m afraid he may still be down in that well.”
“But Abe said there were no other bodies down there.”
“A lot of earth fell during the collapse. It’s possible he was buried…” she swallowed hard, “…alive.”
The very thought made Lori shudder. Dr. Peet’s tragedy wouldn’t be her first experience with death. In fact, it was the memory of her first experience that made her skin tingle with a eerie sense of déjà vu.
Tarah cleared her throat and set her drink aside. Her face grew suddenly serious.
“Lori,” she said. “How well do you know this Dr. Peet?”
Lori was taken back by the question. “Why do you ask?”
“Is he the type to chase after big treasure?”
“Treasure?”
“You mentioned he was with you when you found the Effigy of Quetzalcoatl. And he was with you when you saw the drawing of the Talking Cross. Might he have left you to drown while he escaped to find the Talking Cross himself?”
Lori shook her head incredulously. “That’s impossible. He would never do that.”
“Are you sure? He wouldn’t have traded one partner for another, would he?”
Lori balked as she considered Dr. Peet’s strange behavior over the past semester. “What are you talking about?”
Tarah hesitated as if weighing the consequences of sharing something she’d been holding back. “After Abe rescued you from the water, I went back to satisfy my own curiosity about this newly formed cenote. When I got there I found footprints around the rim of the well.”
“Footprints?”
“There were two sets. Two men from what I could tell. Was there someone else with you and Dr. Peet when you saw the Talking Cross in that hieroglyph?”
“Yes,” Lori said slowly, hesitantly. She didn’t want to believe the implications of what she was about to say. “There was one other. A Mayan archaeologist.”
“A Mayan archaeologist?”
“Yes. His name was Chac Bacab.”
YucatanTo Soconusco
By now Chac knew just about every back road and secluded village in the Yucatan jungle. He knew the main routes that would skirt him around impassible country and he knew the lesser routes that penetrated the places he needed to be. He also knew which routes to avoid in the rainy season. The jungle was his own backyard, but it still wasn’t his home.
He hadn’t been back home in over twelve years. He didn’t allow himself to think about it much. There was too much on his mind. Too much to do. But now, as he turned his focus toward Chiapas, he couldn’t deny the seeping ache of homesickness that only intensified when he entered the first allied village.
Thirteen of the nearly thirty Mayan religious cargos had joined the alliance and Chac had always been welcome in each and every scattered village. This one was no exception. He was immediately recognized by the residents who rushed out to greet him like a returning prodigal son. The reception was as warm as always, but this day, he felt overly sensitive to their embrace.
Everything about the village magnified the memories of home. The women hovered over their bowls and baskets, shucking dry kernels from the last harvest’s cobs, or they hunkered in their skirts as they scrubbed their laundry with nothing more than a bucket of water and a flat slab of stone. There was a toddler sucking the tattered sleeve of his soccer shirt, and the chapel whose airy plank walls offered glimpses of the schoolchildren learning their Spanish alphabet inside. Even the tarps pulled back from random piles of firewood brought flashes of his childhood to mind.
All of that came flooding in, but just as quickly washed back when Chac spotted don Alonso through the crowd gathering just outside his bug spattered windshield. He cut the Land Rover’s engine and stepped out, his mind reeling over the information don Alonso would be searching for. The snaggle-toothed grin on the old man’s face belied his expectations.
“Usted es mi otro yo,” he greeted.
Chac nodded. “And you are my other self,” he returned.
They exchanged a few more pleasantries before don Alonso inquired about his visit, to which Chac asked if there had been any strangers moving thr
ough the area. Chac knew better than to ask such a blunt question so early, and he immediately regretted his lack of discretion for it immediately put the old man on edge. As a result, Chac spent the next fifteen minutes assuring him there was nothing to worry about.
It wasn’t until Chac climbed back into his vehicle that he realized just how unconvincing he was. No, there’d been no strangers, don Alonso informed him, but then he leaned into Chac’s window and asked a question that had never come up before.
Libros de Chilam Balam?
The old man’s suspicions had not been swayed.
Yes, the Chilam Balam was safe, Chac assured and reassured him over and over until don Alonso finally accepted the answer without asking for it again. But even as his word seemed to finally satisfy the old man, Chac couldn’t be so certain himself. In light of Matt Webb’s disappearance, he wasn’t sure what remained secure anymore.
He hoped Matt was safe. He hoped the Chilam Balam was too. If, God willing, Sabino and his men had done their job, it was.
* * * *
“So what, does everybody get a rifle when they cross into Mexico?”
Peet turned the FN Scar short barrel in his hands. He’d never held something so fantastically dangerous before. The assault rifle was intimidating, militaristic, and he couldn’t figure out how Matt Webb, a simple archaeologist from Brigham Young University, would have gotten his hands on one.
Matt smiled from the driver’s seat.
“Not everyone.”
Matt hadn’t changed much. He still had that boyish grin and a glint of secrecy in his eyes. He was pale beneath the sun but then again, he never did have a dark complexion. He was as lanky as he’d ever been, but surprisingly sturdy for a man his height. And he certainly knew how to handle the battered Willys Jeep as they bumbled their way out of the jungle and onto a two lane highway headed for the Guatemalan border.
“I never expected to find you in this part of the world, Peet,” Matt said with a hearty grin. “Aren’t you supposed to be looking for roads in Chaco?”
“It’s a long story, but in a nutshell I’ve been looking for you,” Peet said. “How is it that you managed to find us?”
“I saw the smoke from your plane crash. Thought I’d check it out. You know, a good Samaritan and all that. You can imagine my surprise when I saw the Zapatistas capture you.”
“That’s an experience I hope to never repeat,” Peet admitted. But enough about himself. There were too many questions Peet needed answered, starting from the top.
“What are you doing in Chiapas?” he asked.
Matt laughed. “You mean, why am I not in Chichen Itza?”
To Peet, the questions sounded the same. “We ran into Chac Bacab. He said you took off without a word.”
“Good ol’ Chac. I suppose I owe him an apology, but there’s been an exciting development.”
Matt dug into his pocket and withdrew a flat, two inch thick, palm-sized stone shaped like a gear. He handed it to Peet who immediately noticed the Kin glyph painted on the gear’s surface.
Matt had the Kin piece all this time?
Peet was surprised by the heftiness of the artifact. That’s when he realized the stone had not been carved out of the limestone walls of the cenote chamber. Instead, the rock appeared volcanic, a piece of andesite perhaps, perfectly cut to fit into the hole in the limestone. But there was another surprise. As he thumbed the coarse backside of the artifact, he found that it wasn’t flat like the glyph side. Instead, there were two ridges spanning across the piece, their inner ends slightly offset near the center.
“I couldn’t believe my eyes when Chac handed this over to me,” Matt continued.
“Chac gave this to you?”
“Oh yeah. He noticed it inserted into the wall as he was cleaning the algae from around that glyph.”
“Wait a second. Chac was working on the Calendar Deity?”
“We both were. Chac did the cleaning while I did the documenting. You know, photographing, measuring, drawing. Chac can’t draw a stick figure, so I handled that end of the operation. That’s how we worked on all of our fresco projects.”
Peet felt betrayed. Chac had made it sound like he knew nothing about the gear-shaped Kin artifact when he led him and Lori to the cavern. Chac had lied, but why? What was he trying to hide?
There was something else that bothered Peet. He’d assumed that whoever took the Kin piece had planted the bomb to keep anyone else from knowing about it. But now that reasoning didn’t make sense. After all, if Chac discovered the Kin piece, he wouldn’t have set the bomb on himself, unless...
The bomb wasn’t meant to go off.
Chac hadn’t been the one to set off the bomb. It was Lori who inadvertently triggered it. In fact, if memory served him correctly, Chac had tried to stop Lori at the last second. But why would he so willingly show the Calendar Deity to Peet and Lori if he’d set a bomb to prevent anyone else from finding it? And Chac wouldn’t set the trap for his own partner, would he?
Peet studied Matt a moment, wondering if he should mention the bomb to him. There was the temptation to know what Matt thought about the whole thing. Then again, how would he react to the knowledge that his Jesus hieroglyph, the discovery of Matt’s lifetime, was now destroyed in the bottom of a cenote?
Peet chose to remain silent about the whole thing. There were too many confused and unknown variables as it were. Besides, the very idea that Chac had set the bomb that took Lori’s life was enough to set his blood boiling.
He turned back to the Kin piece, that strange artifact central to it all which he now held in the palm of his hand. “What got you so excited about this artifact?” he asked.
“In truth,” Matt began, “I didn’t get real excited until I took the Kin piece home to finish my analysis of it. Up until that point I thought it a very interesting piece. Nothing like it had ever been found in a Mayan site, or any Mesoamerican site for that matter. But as I was measuring it I realized that I had come across those exact measurements before. It took me a few hours, but I found my notes on another artifact that was discovered during my stint in Izapa some years back.”
“Which is what brings you here.”
“Exactly. I thought it’d only take a day or two to confirm my findings, so I didn’t worry about anyone missing me back in Chichen Itza. But as it turned out, my trip has been extended.”
“Your artifacts didn’t match?”
“They matched all right. Perfectly, in fact.”
“Then what’s the hold up?”
“I couldn’t piece together the significance. In fact, realizing they belong together has only presented more questions than I could solve on my own, so I called in some expert advice.”
“You’re working with someone else now?”
“Only temporarily, and just to confirm that my findings are correct.”
“So who did you bring in?”
“John Friedman.”
Peet nearly choked. “John’s here too?”
“He’s working on the second artifact as we speak.”
Popol Vuh
John Friedman sat at the edge of the throne he’d uncovered from the jungle, composing his final remarks near the data he’d scribbled across his sheet of graph paper. The data were raw numbers, measurements actually, of the throne itself. Its thickness, height, width, distance from the pillar, and anything else John felt pertinent to its existence. He’d completed the work himself, and now his sore body was paying the price.
John was unconditioned for field work. His skills were rusty though his knowledge of practice and technique were still there. But one of the things John was rudely reminded of regarding working in the field was the issue of addressing nature’s call. That’s when he realized just how unprepared he was.
With the nearest restroom a little over a kilometer away in the Izapa Archaeological Zone, and having neglected to equip himself for such needs, John had to improvise. It had been too long since he’d had to improvise,
but he prevailed nonetheless. It was in that moment, squatting amid the thickest growth of underbrush he could find and pondering how an educated man could be reduced to the most uncivilized of conditions, that he noticed a slab of stone lying where no natural stone would be. Upon closer inspection, or as close as he could get considering the brush, he found his suspicions to be correct. Not only had the flat slab of stone been hewn, but it was propped up on four short pedestals—a throne.
That presented a problem.
To get a full appreciation of the throne, he needed to clear the growth that had all but smothered it from sight. The first day John found a local who loaned him a machete and an ax. That cleared the first layer of growth, and the embarrassment he’d deposited in front of the throne. But John needed something stronger to tackle the hardwood. It took him a full day to track down a gas-powered chain saw, and a strapping, young farmer boy to run it for him.
With the brush finally cleared, John could finally settle into the real work of excavating the throne’s legs from layers of dirt and forest decay, which was no easy task considering he had to reach beneath the broad, stone slab of the seat. By the time he’d uncovered the throne in its entirety, John’s joints were aching so badly that he was cursing himself for agreeing to come along on this venture. And after all that work, he decided the least the throne could do was offer him a seat while he completed his write up.
It was about that time he thought he heard Matt’s Jeep returning along the farmer’s road about fifty meters from the site. He wasn’t mistaken. Minutes later he heard footsteps approaching from behind. But when he turned around, he was surprised to discover that Matt wasn’t alone. He’d brought some friends along with him, and one of them, donning his old outback hat, multi-pocketed vest and field boots, was his own son-in-law.
“Anthony?” he greeted as the group drew closer. “What the devil are you doing in Chiapas?”
* * * *
To anyone else, a walk through the dense stand of jungle wouldn’t have brought expectations of finding a man of retirement age sitting alone scribbling over a notepad. To Peet, not only was it now expected, but the added element of the stone slab John was using as a seat came as no surprise either. John just seemed to have a knack for sniffing out archaeological structures, especially in the dense jungles of Mexico.
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