Path of the Jaguar

by Vickie Britton

  The worst of the rain was passing. The broad-leafed trees surrounding them now dripped moisture and dampness hung thick in the air. Her clothes and hair were soaked but the feeling was not unpleasant. They walked side by side in silence until the silence, too, became companionable.

  "You are still missing something in your approach to the Mayas," he spoke at last.

  "Another warning?" Joseph's remark, though not flattering, this time did not offend her. Curiosity made her ask, "Just what is it that you think I'm missing?"

  Lennea watched his steps slow, keeping perfect pace with her own. He spoke only one word, "Appreciation."

  "You're right," she admitted readily. "The ruins are unique, fascinating. But I find them sinister—almost repelling."

  "That's because you have no feeling for the Maya culture."

  "So how do I acquire an appreciation I don't really feel?"

  "Maybe I can help you. He stood for a moment, deep in thought. "Can you visualize your favorite work of art?" She nodded.

  "What did you see?"

  "A painting, a beautiful painting," Lennea replied.

  "An object of beauty. True art worships beauty—do you agree?" The idea crossed her mind that he would have made a wonderful teacher. It seemed so important to him that she understand. "In fact, one could almost say that art is a form of worship in itself."

  "Worship of order, of beauty, yes. But what does that have to do with the Mayas?"

  "The Mayas were really great artists."

  "They were," she admitted reluctantly. "All without tools to speak of or theories on art."

  "Theories," Joseph echoed. "I think that's exactly where you go wrong. A culture's art is a window to their soul, a mirror to the things that they value. We see the essence of a people through their art, their literature, through the things they love."

  His deep involvement and enthusiasm made him all the more handsome. Black strands of hair, wet from the rain, clung to his broad forehead and the moisture caused his dark skin to glow. "Here at Chichen Itza we find a unique attempt of a people to glorify, even personify their deities, to make sense of the universe, to reach out for something higher than themselves."

  "I guess I don't like the idea of human sacrifices." Lennea shuddered. "How can you admire people capable of such things?"

  "The sacrifice reflected their limitations, their darkness and ignorance. But that is not what is important here," Joseph said. " Those acts were terrible, but the Mayas were not."

  "How can you separate a people from what they do? Cruelty must certainly enter into your final account of the Mayas."

  "They performed their rituals for a belief, right or wrong. When there was no rain, they made sacrifice to show their faith that the rain would come."

  Lennea suddenly envisioned Joseph as a Maya priest in plumed headdress, lording over some ancient ritual. The image made her laugh. She was glad she was not at his mercy! He was such a believer! If he thought her death would bring rain, she would most certainly end up at the bottom of that Sacred Well. She had missed some of his words. She listened now. "...they lived much closer to nature, believed much more certainly than we do. They tried much harder than we—with all of our technology and accumulated facts."

  "Do you have something against facts?"

  "Without appreciation," Joseph smiled, "facts are worthless."

  The path ahead opened to the clearing of pyramids. The mist-like rain, the surrounding jungle, their talk had left Lennea feeling spirited and alive.

  "Let's walk on over to the Observatory," Joseph suggested, catching her hand.

  Lennea hesitated, genuinely sorry that their time together had come to an end. "I must meet Frank at the entrance now. He's driving me into Merida, remember?"

  Joseph still held her hand tightly as if he dreaded the thought of letting her go. "I wish I could tag along."

  Lennea thought wistfully about how nice it would be to have someone accompany her to the police, to help tell the story of Delores' disappearance. Then, firmly, she reminded herself that she must go alone. At this point, she dared not trust him, she dared not trust anyone. "No, I have some private business."

  They reached the gate and stood very still, neither willing to make the first move to separate. She felt a warmth around her heart and hoped that whatever motivated Joseph had been contagious. She wished she could possess the passion he had for his work, the deep love he had for the Indians, whose achievements for him so far outweighed their vices. The air around them steamed as the brilliant sun penetrated the moisture. Joseph was oblivious to it, to wet T shirt and jeans. Everything about him was so baffling—how such a handsome man could be so free of vanity: how such a masculine man could cherish such gentle and profound sentiments!

  "Lennea!" she heard Frank calling. "Over here!"

  She did not look away from Joseph. The rain was fine on his face. He voiced what she herself was for an instant thinking. "I don't want to let you go!"

  •

  In Frank LaTilla 's jeep Lennea came to her senses. Thoughts of Wesley blocked her concentration. She barely heard Frank's words, but was vaguely aware that he had said the same things to her before— parroting his praise for Wesley Hern, for Wesley's courage in battling the jungle to obtain on-the-spot evidence for all mankind, for all the world!

  It occurred to her that Frank may be wrong, that what Wesley was doing was for Wesley Hern only! She sagged tiredly against the door of the jeep, ashamed of the criticism, ashamed of having been influenced by Joseph to this slight betrayal of the man she loved.

  Wesley's face appeared to her, the very blue eyes that from time to time did actually see her, and her heart, beginning to turn against him, drew back to him so completely that he seemed even dearer than before.

  "Let's stop by for Goldie," Frank said as they reached the road leading to the villa.

  Goldie had no intention of joining them. "You've got your duties, I've got mine." Goldie's hair was a tangle. She had not yet brushed it and it frizzed and made her look much younger, like a school girl of the protest years.

  "Oh, come on, Marigold. I want you to go with me to the dock."

  "I can't go." She stuffed a sack into Lennea's hands and whispered, "For Sid."

  "What?" Frank turned to them. "What is that?" He came forward a little shyly to peek inside. "Ah, Marigold, they haven't sold my last carvings yet!"

  "These are better!" Goldie exclaimed eagerly, then justifying herself, added, "You take them to Sid for me, Lennea. Sid doesn't care whether they sell or not. He's just proud to display Paco's work."

  "Honey," Frank began, his face filled with pleased but humble doubting, "I don't know whether we..."

  "You just stay out of this!"

  Frank caught her to him in a crushing bear hug. "Oh, Goldie, I wish you'd come along."

  "I've got things to do. You'll be back from Merida early, won't you?"

  "Maybe." Frank's thick lips puckered, kissing her teasingly.

  "And maybe not. If you cared, you'd come along."

  "I've got work."

  As Frank LaTilla and Lennea started toward Merida, he said, "Goldie spoils me. She'll spend all afternoon cooking things I like. It's always so wonderful to get back home!"

  Lennea envied, for a moment, their relationship, the real devotion they had for one another. Goldie was so pleasingly innocent, Frank so devoted. Delores would have considered the setup "corny". It was difficult to see anything about Frank and Goldie that Delores would endorse, except, perhaps, for their lovely home so close to Chichen Itza, or the almost certain fact that they would adore her with the same kind of simplicity.

  "I've got to stop by the farm a minute," Frank said, as he made a turn off the main road.

  He pulled up close to a huge stone building much like the one behind his house where he did his carvings. As Lennea waited for him, she took a curious look into the sack beside her. These carvings were much smaller than the jaguar in her room. The smallness made them a
ppear much less amateurish, less grotesque. Or did it?

  She lifted one. Lennea recognized the "Wall of Skulls" at Chichen Itza. She smiled a little. The tiny heads spaced so carefully apart looked more like a row of happy faces. Thank heavens Sid was such a gracious gentleman! Anyone else would be tempted to tell Frank just where his art belonged!

  Lennea's attention was caught by the high pitch of voices. LaTilla and a thin, stooped man, old enough to be Frank's father, appeared at the doorway to the barn. The man's thinness contrasted with Frank's lack of it. A rough gray beard and dirty, torn clothing added a dimension of shadiness to the older man's worn, almost pitiful appearance.

  Frank had somewhere picked up the handle to a shovel and braced his leg against it like a cane. It caused him to look arrogant.

  They both seemed very angry. The Maya was standing up to him, but sadly losing ground.

  "You're starting more and more to do just what you want to do. What about what I want you to do? I'm the one who pays you."

  "I can't run to you with every little detail," the old man whined.

  Frank raised the handle from the ground. The slow and deliberate gesture made Lennea think of a slave-owner wielding some ugly power.

  "You are going to start doing what I tell you, or you're not going to be working for me!"

  The little man became sullen and ducked back inside the barn. Lennea couldn't see him, nor could she hear what he answered, but whatever it was, Frank grew more angry.

  "By God, you'd better consult me!"

  Lennea was amazed that Frank could assume such a total change of personality. How could he switch from mild and humble to overbearing and cruel with such rapidity? She felt a little afraid of him as he slammed the door, started the engine, and sped back to the main road.

  "Damned Indians!" he said. "You can't depend on them for anything!" Silently Lennea watched from the window. The rain had come and gone so quickly. The sun bore down mercilessly. Swiftly they swept on toward Merida.

  Frank's recklessness changed to caution as they approached Merida. She hadn't told him that she wanted to go to the police station and for some reason she did not tell him now. He was assuming that she wanted to see Sid. The police station, Wesley had told her, was only a few blocks down from the Hotel Guerrero. She could easily walk.

  As the jeep slowed, her eyes lingered on the grass and benches of a park where two elderly men enjoyed the shade. Many people strolled along the sidewalks. The great heat seemed to slow everything, even their footsteps.

  It was then that the woman first came into view. She was moving briskly through the lazy crowd, darting rapidly around the slow-moving tourists. Lennea caught the snap of very high heels, lifted her eyes to the glare of sunlight against the crimson blouse. And suddenly, her heart stood still.

  "Delores!" she gasped. "Stop! Stop the jeep!"

  Horns honked as Frank swerved over to the curb. He slammed on the brake. "What?" he asked, as if he had just awakened from some vague daydream. "Where?"

  "There. At the end of the street."

  Lennea was certain Delores had looked directly at them before she disappeared around the corner. Lennea jumped out of the jeep and raced after her. Around the building was another long sidewalk filled with people. Where could she have gone? Puffing, Frank caught up with her. "That wasn't Delores," he protested. "She was too tall to be Delores."

  "That's the same crimson blouse she was wearing when we left Dallas."

  "Are you sure?" Frank struggled to keep up with Lennea as she hurried along the street.

  "I think she saw us. She must be hiding in one of these stores."

  "Hiding? From us? Why?"

  "I don't know."

  Lennea entered one of the crowded shops, circled around, and came back out to where Frank, looking befuddled, waited.

  "You continue looking in these shops," she said to him. "I'll check the cathedral." She hurried toward the spires of the old building just across the street. It would be like her, Lennea thought, to take refuge in this ancient church.

  A change of temperature, a musty coolness greeted her as she entered. She scanned the dimness. Several lone people knelt in front of benches. A young woman stood gazing toward the magnificent, golden altar.

  Lennea stepped softly down the aisle. Near the transept a shadowy form huddled lighting a candle. Not to disturb the prayers of another, Lennea stopped. Just as she started to turn back, she recognized the long, dark hair, the lithe body, the blouse, which because of the darkness shone no longer a glaring crimson.

  Lennea reached out for Delores and caught her elbow. The silver charm bracelet Lennea had given her slid downward on her arm.

  Delores whirled. The frantic movement of light from the candle danced across her wild features and magnified the terror.

  Lennea's heart pounded. She had not seen such fear on anyone's face! This couldn't be Delores, who laughed at fate, who scorned calamity!

  "I want to help you!" Towering, thick walls hollowed her words. "Delores!"

  Delores jumped back and hurled the candle to the floor. The force of the throw extinguished the flame. Nevertheless Lennea automatically groped beneath the bench where she thought it had landed. With shaking fingers she placed it in a holder beside other candles, many that burned.

  An archway opened on either side of the altar. Delores had no doubt raced through the one nearest them. Lennea entered a long passageway, lighted by narrow, high windows far above. The ancient corridor led directly to one doorway, which now opened.

  She stopped, held her breath, expecting to come face to face once again with Delores. Instead a robed priest, very old, very bent, approached her and taking her for one of the tourists, said in perfect English, "You must leave through the front door or through the door on the right of the altar."

  "Yes. Thank you, Father."

  She hastened back through the church and out the side door Delores must have taken. With a sense of defeat, Lennea gazed up and down the busy street. Delores had once again vanished. Soon Frank came out of a store and hurried with short-legged stride toward her. "I've looked everywhere!" he said. Frank followed patiently as Lennea determinedly continued to search for Delores. From time to time he would offer some mild comment, but not once did he suggest they give up.

  It was Lennea who finally said, "It's useless."

  Frank checked his watch. "Well, I've got lots of business to see to. I'll meet you at the hotel around five."

  The danger Delores was in became magnified as Lennea headed for the police station. The best thing to do would be to tell everything she knew to the police and turn over to them the cash before Delores ended up somewhere beyond help.

  The pale gray building before her looked formidable. She found herself standing face-to-face with an armed guard. She thought of speaking to him, but he stood as motionless and unresponsive as a stone statue. He made no attempt to stop her as she entered a courtyard encircled by a great wall of faded stucco buildings.

  Lennea entered a long corridor. She passed several offices lettered with titles, but no names. She walked until she reached the end of the hallway and heavy, chained double doors.

  "Senorita," spoke a slow, drawling voice from behind her. A small, dark-skinned man in neat uniform addressed her. His eyes were hard and lazy, like the eyes of a jungle lizard.

  "I'm looking for Carlos Alfonso."

  "You found him." The man's smile was in some hidden way unpleasant. "My office is the first one you passed." His walk was unhurried, slow. He didn't speak again until they were seated across the desk from one another. A hint of a smile still remained on his lips making the thin mustache rise and showing yellowish teeth.

  There was something corrupt about his smile, about his manner. Tell him the whole story about Delores? Give over the money to him? It wasn't possible to confide in someone who was looking at her like that.

  A shudder ran through her as she imagined Delores or herself confined in this place, dependent upon a
man like Carlos Alfonso, who most likely could be bought and sold.

  "What did you want to see me about?"

  "About a friend of mine who is missing." From her purse she offered a snapshot.

  He glanced at it then swung it languidly back and forth like a fan. "For how long has she been missing?"

  "She disappeared at the airport in Mexico City on Friday."

  "Before we can take any action, five full days must have passed. Then make your report to the police in Mexico City."

  As if their business were already completed, he laid the photograph in front of her on the desk.

  Lennea gazed at the delicate, slightly sharp features of Delores' face, the graceful curve of mouth and black lashes, the stylish set of black hair.

  "Has she a record of doing things like this? Not showing up?" Of course she had. Many hours Lennea had waited for her in restaurants, at the student union, happy, in spite of the inconvenience, because Delores was her one solid link to Wesley. And Delores never, ever, kept Wesley waiting. That's why this time everything was different. "She's in serious trouble. Her name is Delores Camille. You've got to help me find her!" Reluctantly Carlos Alfonso drew a paper from his desk and said, "I've forgotten your name."

  "Lennea Andrews. I'm working with professor Hern near Chichen Itza."

  His pen poised in mid-air. He was interested now. "Does Delores work for Dr. Hern, too?"

  "His secretary."

  "Well, if by chance we hear anything about her, I'll give you a call. As I said before, it's way to early for us to become involved. If she hasn't been found..."

  "I'm sure she's in Merida."

  "Then no doubt she will show up for work soon." His unhurried voice followed her as she moved to the door. "Tell Dr. Hern I'll try to catch his lecture. When is it? Next week?"