Deity

by Theresa Danley

  Lori stealthily took a step back. Neither captor noticed as they searched the brush for a way through. This was her chance.

  Another step to Laffy’s side and she was back at a heavy bank of brush. Laffy watched her curiously. In the jungle they wouldn’t have to run far—just far enough to disappear. Laffy seemed to be waiting for the signal. With a deep breath, Lori flung herself into the brush.

  And immediately lost her footing.

  She fell face first into a blur of leaves and limbs and without her own arms to break her fall, she could only twist her body and land painfully on her shoulder. But she didn’t stop there.

  Her momentum accelerated. Lori found herself rolling out of the brush, and she kept rolling. In fact, with her eyes pinched shut she felt herself rolling faster, accelerating over coarse grass and through slashing twigs. Her ears filled with dirt and the noise of her body crashing through the brush.

  It happened so fast that she hardly had the chance to realize what she’d done when it all came to a sudden bone jarring halt. For a moment she lay there, dull and gasping for the wind that had been knocked out of her. Thankfully, she quickly regained it, bringing her attention to the wet gag that now hung limp and gritty around her neck. Pain pierced her side. No doubt she’d cracked a rib against the tree that had stopped her, and now she lay concealed behind a green netting of trembling leaves where the lowest branches wove into the mossy limbs of the underbrush.

  And that’s where she stayed.

  She heard them before she saw them. Tarah was barking orders at Rafi. And then, Lori spotted them through the vegetation. They stood atop the embankment she’d just rolled down, looking down on her position.

  But they didn’t see her.

  “They’ve got to be down there,” Tarah barked. “Get down there and find them!”

  Them?

  And then it occurred to her—Laffy must have followed her lead and escaped down the embankment too! But where was he?

  There was no time to worry about Laffy for movement atop the embankment caught Lori’s eye. Rafi was lowering his rifle, preparing to sweep it across the bottom of the draw. “I know how to root them out.”

  Her heart stopped. The brush may do well to conceal her but it wouldn’t stand a chance against an onslaught of bullets. And she wouldn’t either.

  Fortunately, Tarah dropped a hand on Rafi’s barrel. “You’ll reveal our position to the Zapatistas. They aren’t worth it.”

  Rafi put away his weapon and Lori sighed with relief. But it wasn’t over yet. Together, Tarah and Rafi marched down the embankment. All Lori had to do was lie low.

  And wait them out.

  Divine Intervention

  Father Ruiz stayed close behind Matt as he slashed laboriously through parasitic tree-vines and Jurassic-sized ferns. Peet took up the rear, maintaining a steady read on John’s compass. John, himself, had chosen to stay behind, not only to rest his injured leg but to observe the villagers as the day progressed. It was his opportunity to better understand the Mayan culture, he’d told them. KC had offered to stay too. According to her, she’d hiked through enough jungle to last her a lifetime.

  It didn’t bother Father Ruiz to leave them behind. That left less distraction as he focused on Matt. He wasn’t about to let the Mormon leave his sight, not after Matt surreptitiously took the Talking Cross back while he was sleeping. Losing the cross again had been foolishness on Father Ruiz’s part. He was a heavy sleeper, and being aware of this, he thought slipping the cross beneath his pillow was a safe bet; that he’d awaken should one of the villagers try taking it. Clearly he’d misjudged Matt. Either he slept harder than he thought or Matt was far stealthier than he’d given him credit for. Father Ruiz banked on the later. After all, he’d completely disregarded the fact that the professor not only succeeded in eluding museum security but also found access to an inaccessible chapel with bafflingly simple tactics.

  Regardless, as long as the cross was in relative sight, Father Ruiz was content to wait. The cross was in Matt’s pack, the same pack that had bounced around at his feet in the back of the Jeep as they’d made their getaway from the Zapatistas. All that time Father Ruiz had been that close to his quarry and he hadn’t even realized it! But now he knew exactly where the cross was and he was ready to take it back just as soon as he got the chance.

  Fortunately, the opportunity came about mid-morning when they paused for a water break.

  “According to the guide, we should be in a shallow ravine by mid-afternoon,” Peet said, tucking the compass away into a vest pocket.

  The guide, as it turned out, had been nothing but a pre-teen village boy who claimed to have come across a pillar in a shallow ravine high up the mountain. The pillar looked old, he’d said, prompting Matt to set his course along the Tacana slope. But that was all the boy could offer and he certainly wasn’t willing to lead the way, not on December 21, 2012.

  Despite Father Ruiz’s doubts about the validity of the boy’s story, he chose to follow Peet and Matt anyway. He knew where his prize was and if he had his way, the Talking Cross wasn’t going to reach some pillar waiting in the bottom of a volcanic ravine. So, when Matt finally let down his bag to rest, Father Ruiz purposefully took a seat beside it. He caught a glimpse of the cross just inside as Matt retrieved his water bottle. Again, Father Ruiz waited. Matt finally sat down nearby and took a long, refreshing swig from his bottle.

  Father Ruiz pounced.

  He grabbed the cross which slipped out of the pack even easier than he’d expected. Matt was quick to notice.

  “What the hell?” he gargled as his last mouthful of water promptly spilled from his lips.

  Matt instinctively reached for his rifle, but Father Ruiz was already moving toward it. He grabbed the gun and stole it from beneath Matt’s fingertips. The weapon was heavier than he expected and he found himself fumbling between its weight and the cross as he lifted the muzzle directly at his surprised companions.

  “Forgive me, brothers,” he said, backing away. “But I must return this cross to the cardinal.”

  Peet’s dumbfounded eyes widened. “You mean that’s the Talking Cross of the Cruzob?”

  “The same,” Father Ruiz said as he inched away from the archaeologists. He felt a bit indignant toward Peet’s disbelief. Why wouldn’t this be the Talking Cross? Granted, it was a simple wooden cross, but a lot of importance had been placed on lesser novelties.

  Peet’s brow furrowed. “Matt,” he gasped. “Didn’t you learn anything from the results of your religious exchange experiment?”

  “What I learned,” Matt argued, “was that there is truth hidden in every religion. But one has to look beyond their own biases to see it. The Mormons are just as unwilling to accept the validity of other faiths as every other religion out there.”

  Father Ruiz didn’t know whether he should run or argue the point. The shift in conversational focus seemed to lessen the seriousness of his actions. It left him feeling indignant but his instincts urged him to use this opportunity to run straight back to Cardinal Balbás and lock the Talking Cross away for good. He would have done just that were it not for two hindering thoughts—the jungle was thick and wild and the weight of Matt’s rifle felt cumbersome and unnatural.

  If Peet noticed his dilemma, he didn’t let on. In fact, he was shaking his head. “Matt,” he said, “what could you possibly want with that cross way out here?”

  “In an area patrolled by the Zapatistas, a little divine intervention couldn’t hurt,” Matt said. His eyes shifted to Father Ruiz. “You saw how responsive those villagers were once they saw it.”

  “Didn’t the Mormons provide you with a cross of their own?” Peet pressed, recapping his own bottle of water.

  “I’m not very popular with the Mormons right now,” Matt said. “Besides, I thought a Catholic cross would be helpful in a country predominantly Catholic.”

  “Why that cross?” Peet asked. “I’m sure you could buy one from any of the street vendors
in Mexico City.”

  “Trinkets,” Matt spat, slowly rising to his feet. “This cross caught my eye. It’s unique. Beautiful. Reminds me of a Taco John’s churro.”

  Father Ruiz thumbed the cross. Even he couldn’t dispute its uniqueness. The shaft and cross arms had been intricately carved with perfectly spaced ridges that ran down their lengths. It was a splendid piece of woodwork, to say the least.

  “We’ll need all the protection we can get as we climb Tacana,” Matt said, stepping toward Father Ruiz.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to find your protection elsewhere,” Father Ruiz interrupted, raising Matt’s rifle more menacingly toward him. “I’m taking this cross back to the cathedral.”

  “You can’t,” Matt said, his eyes suddenly imploring. “I mean, not yet. Father, I beg for your help on this. Lord only knows who we’ll run into out here.”

  Peet had also risen to his feet. “Wait a minute. Something isn’t adding up,” he said. “Who steals two artifacts from a museum and then makes a quick stop at a cathedral for divine intervention?”

  Matt scowled. His momentary plea for cooperation vanished in a breath as he stepped even closer. Father Ruiz stepped back, suddenly fearful. He was going to pay dearly if Matt got his hands on him.

  “You won’t make it a day in this jungle alone,” Matt snarled low so that Peet couldn’t hear.

  “With the Lord as my guide I’m willing to take my chances.”

  Matt lunged, catching Father Ruiz by surprise. In his haste to retreat, Father Ruiz pulled the trigger and a single shot riddled the air. The bullet whizzed harmlessly through the jungle but the blast had catapulted the rifle loose from his grip. Matt didn’t miss a beat. He leaped for the weapon and belly flopped onto the ground as the rifle fell a mere meter from his fingertips. Shocked, Father Ruiz tucked the cross against his chest. He spun around to flee…

  …and ran right into the chest of a weapon-wielding Zapatista.

  In one swift movement, the masked Zapatista captured Father Ruiz’s arm and fired off a pistol shot at Matt who was scrambling to regain his rifle, stopping him in his slithering tracks. With a harsh tug, the Zapatista jerked Father Ruiz back around and, gripping him in a choke hold, dragged him back to Matt’s rifle which he kicked out of the way.

  Matt and Peet were frozen in place.

  Then, with all threats disarmed, the Zapatista snatched the Talking Cross from Father Ruiz’s grasp and tucked it inside his shirt.

  “Perdóneme, el padre,” he said. “You have sinned.”

  * * * *

  Matt Webb couldn’t believe his bad luck. How could he have been so stupid as to let his guard down. He’d nearly had his ass handed to him by a priest no less. He should have known what the priest was up to. The signs had been there. Why didn’t he recognize them?

  Even as he asked himself the question, Matt already knew the answer. The small priest looked harmless.

  Now, just as he feared, the Zapatistas had arrived from out of nowhere, no doubt alerted by Father Ruiz’s careless gunshot. Matt had expected to run into such a predicament, but not so soon. Not before reaching The Calendar. Without his gun they were doomed for sure, except—

  No other Zapatistas came out of the forest.

  If there were others, they remained hidden out there, leaving this single gunman to face the three of them alone. That took a lot of balls, unless the Zapatista had already determined there was only one weapon between them.

  The lone Zapatista whipped out a length of cord from his pocket and instructed Father Ruiz to use it. Matt listened closely to the muffled voice behind the mask.

  “Tie the tall one first,” the Zapatista ordered, nudging Matt to his feet with the toe of his boot. Father Ruiz promptly obeyed his command, tying Matt’s hands behind his back.

  “Make sure it’s tight,” the Zapatista ordered.

  To Matt’s dismay the priest followed orders to the letter. He didn’t even have the foresight to secure him with a slip knot or something he could escape. Was the priest really so stupid?

  Peet was just as useless standing with his arms in the air, waiting for Father Ruiz to tie him too. The Zapatista checked their ties and grunted with approval. Matt was disgusted. Their only hope now was that the priest would miraculously find a way to turn the tables, and Matt saw little hope in that.

  Satisfied, the Zapatista withdrew one last cord for the priest when gunfire suddenly split the air. A volley of bullets riddled the trees and brush around them, showering them with shredded leaves as they all dived for cover. The Zapatista returned fire which only spurred a deafening thunder from a dozen or more rifles hidden somewhere in the jungle. The lone Zapatista appeared undeterred as he fired off more rounds, alternately ducking beside the priest who lay tight against a felled tree.

  Matt smiled. His luck wasn’t so bad after all. As the Zapatista defended his position from this latest round of attacks, Matt realized just who they were up against here.

  The bravest Zapatista of them all.

  Tribulations

  Tarah and Rafi didn’t give up searching for Lori as quickly as she’d hoped. They searched slowly, methodically, turning over every single leaf. It was all Lori could do to lay there scraped and bruised with a cracked rib and a splitting headache, covered in sweat, dirt and monkey feces, and who knew what else she’d rolled through.

  And now she faced a new problem.

  She hadn’t realized it until she felt a tickle travel up her leg. Another followed on her ankle. Two more crawled along her calf. She could feel them all now, dozens of tiny little feet skittering over her flesh. She dared to look down the length of her body to find dozens more, ants climbing the woven fabric of her huipil. They ducked beneath the folds and into the airy sleeves while others climbed along her back and now explored the contours of her neck.

  Lori closed her eyes, desperately trying to block out the sensation of insects crawling over her. She willed herself to hold still, to avoid any sudden movements that might anger the ants.

  But it didn’t work.

  Points of fire began to shoot across her flesh. Lori gritted her teeth. Tarah had drawn close, separating the foliage with the pistol in her hand. Her face was taught with intensity and determination. It was only a matter of moving the right limb and Tarah would find her, recapture her or maybe even shoot her. Lori held her breath, waiting with ever-increasing dread that she was about to be discovered—or eaten alive by the ants.

  Lori’s nerves threatened to jump from the attack on her flesh but in a desperate game of mind over matter she held fast to her cover. Despite Tarah’s meticulous search, she slowly passed her position. Every muscle in Lori’s body tensed to flee the fire of ants but her pursuers were still too close to attempt it. The ants were getting to be too much. Her legs squirmed for relief. Her hands vainly strained against the cuffs binding them behind her back. Every nerve screamed for escape.

  Just a little longer! Just a little longer!

  The pain became intolerable. The breaking point came when one of the insects discovered her ear and promptly crawled inside.

  Lori surged out of the brush in a mad dance to rid herself of the ants. “Get them off!” she pleaded, shaking her head violently. She’d never heard or felt anything so maddening as those legs clawing for her brain.

  Through the static of those legs probing her eardrum Lori could hear Tarah laughing nearby. She simply stood where she was, apparently amused by Lori’s misery.

  “They’re eating me alive!” Lori implored, dancing and stamping in place, her hands aching for freedom.

  “You’ll be lucky if that’s the worst that’ll happen by the time Abe gets through with you,” Tarah said, finally slipping her pistol back into its holster.

  Lori threw herself down and desperately rolled and flailed her body over the ground, an act which sent Tarah into another fit of laughter. Despite the comedic style of her stunt, it served its purpose, crushing the ants and relieving some of the sting that now
wracked her flesh. She even managed to rid herself of the ant in her ear which in itself alleviated the madness that had driven her from cover.

  By the time she breathlessly regrouped on her knees, Lori was coated from head to toe with damp earth and jungle decay. Her hands were numb and her tormented skin was already puckering with painful welts. That brief taste of freedom had been replaced with the bitterness of surrender.

  Tarah couldn’t stop laughing. Her fingers snagged Lori’s hair and pulled her to her feet. “That’ll teach you!” she said and laughed. In the next breath she called for her partner.

  Rafi wasn’t far. His voice echoed back to them. “What about the pilot?”

  “Let him go,” Tarah yelled back through her wicked smile. “He’s no use to us now.” Her eyes never left Lori, even after Rafi had rejoined them. “We got the one we really need, even if she is a little chewed up.” Her laughter cracked through the trees again.

  Rafi wasn’t laughing. He was listening. He slapped Tarah on the arm.

  “Shut up and listen,” he snapped.

  Tarah immediately reined herself in and turned an ear to the jungle now popping with distant gunfire.

  “Let’s go,” Rafi ordered. He snagged the gag around Lori’s neck and shoved it, mud, monkey dung and all, back into her mouth. “The Zapatistas are close.”

  * * * *

  Peet huddled tight behind a rotting log, a defenseless spectator in the middle of a showdown between the lone Zapatista and his foes hidden somewhere in the jungle beyond. Matt squatted on his haunches behind a bush that provided no more protection than a duck blind, anxiously surveying but no more beneficial to the situation with his own hands tied and his FN Scar lying harmlessly beside the Zapatista. The only person with the freedom to move was Father Ruiz who was now backed tightly against the downed tree from which the Zapatista made his stand. The priest’s eyes were closed tight in prayer, his Rosary in hand.

  Bullets whizzed overhead, cutting through the flora and sinking into trunks and earth. They appeared to be hopelessly surrounded when the Zapatista did something astounding. In a brief suspension of gunfire, he slipped from his cover, skittered directly toward Peet and immediately slit the rope he’d just ordered Father Ruiz to tie him with. Shocked, Peet pumped his fingers for circulation but the Zapatista was already shoving his reloaded Browning 9mm into them. “Shoot!” the Zapatista demanded.