by J A Kellman
The Snake
By the time Ruston’s body returned, he’d been processed by the medical profession, positively identified through dental records, and discussed by two governments. Though I didn’t really know the guy except to say hello at university meetings, my early research in Guatemala made the story intriguing, and the situation was too odd to overlook. Friday morning, the day after the local stories aired, the national media picked up on the weirdness of Ruston’s death. Since there hadn’t been any real news for days, they dropped on the story like a hawk on a mouse. Every broadcast had something to say about Ruston, the early Mayan civilization, and ritual sacrifice. What it came down to was this: Robert Ruston had been killed in an ancient Mayan manner—tied to a scaffold, shot full of arrows, his heart ripped out. No one knew much more than that. Not why. Not who. Not even exactly when, given the state of his body. All anyone knew for certain was that the murder had happened in the heart of the Petén region in Guatemala in a pre-Columbian Mayan city unoccupied for more than a thousand years. Commentators played up the bizarre nature of his death, the links with early cultural practices, and Ruston’s reputation as a world-famous scholar of Mayan glyphs.
By Friday no new details surfaced, but the national excitement made me think. After all, it wasn’t as if Ruston had died of a heart attack in his office. There were bound to be local enquiries, and I wanted in.
What They Are Saying About The Snake
“A snake, a ritual sacrifice, and an ancient carved marker—what do they mean? J.A. Kellman’s debut mystery, set in Guatemala and central Illinois, is well-written and atmospheric. The author’s deep knowledge of Mayan culture makes her story sparkle with rich detail and authenticity.”
—Sarah Wisseman
Author of the Lisa Donahue Archaeological Mysteries
and the Flora Garibaldi Art History Mysteries
“Gripping suspense! The Snake takes readers on a tense, twisting trek from the American Midwest into the Mesoamerican jungles to solve a shocking crime. J.A. Kellman is a terrific new voice in mysteries.”
—Molly MacRae
Author of the Highland Bookshop Mysteries
and the Haunted Yarn Shop Mysteries
The Snake
J. A. Kellman
A Wings ePress, Inc.
Mystery Novel
Edited by: Jeanne Smith
Copy Edited by: Joan C. Powell
Executive Editor: Jeanne Smith
Cover Artist: Trisha FitzGerald-Jung
All rights reserved
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Wings ePress Books
www.wingsepress.com
Copyright © 2019 by J. A. Kellman
ISBN 978-1-61309-381-8
Published In the United States Of America
Wings ePress Inc.
3000 N. Rock Road
Newton, KS 67114
Dedication
To the Maya women of Guatemala
One
Tikal, Guatemala, August
Unnoticed by the humans, the only witness to the crime had been a snake, a large female fer-de-lance, who often sheltered under a limestone ledge in the thick jungle surrounding the center of the ancient city of Tikal. The shouting, straining, struggling men and the howling man on the rack had made her nervous, but they had gone after the man had stopped thrashing. It had been quiet for some time.
This new influx of men, for the second time that week, upset her, talking and stamping in the area near her usual ledge. As soon as they moved away from her hiding spot, the snake began to slither, heading north. It was time to find new territory.
Big Grove, September
It wasn’t until the Thursday evening news that first week in September that I learned of Robert Ruston’s demise—his disappearance, his return in a coffin to Big Grove from Guatemala, the unusual circumstances of his death.
I’m Ann Cunningham, retired professor, forensic archivist, and a lifetime snoop. I’ve always been interested in learning more than is good for me, even as a child. Once I deliberately plunged into a nettle patch just to see what it felt like. And, this is another thing about me that often makes snooping difficult: I’m a fixer—a caretaker of the hopeless, the lost, the broken. If it’s damaged, I mend it. If it’s hungry, I feed it. If it’s sad…Well, you get the picture. Instant involvement. Immediate commitment. It was a good quality to have when I was teaching, but otherwise it can make things complicated.
~ * ~
By the time Ruston’s body returned, he’d been processed by the medical profession, positively identified through dental records, and discussed by two governments. Though I didn’t really know the guy except to say hello at university meetings, my early research in Guatemala made the story intriguing, and the situation was too odd to overlook. Friday morning, the day after the local stories aired, the national media picked up on the weirdness of Ruston’s death. Since there hadn’t been any real news for days, they dropped on the story like a hawk on a mouse. Every broadcast had something to say about Ruston, the early Mayan civilization, and ritual sacrifice.
What it came down to was this: Robert Ruston had been killed in an ancient Mayan manner—tied to a scaffold, shot full of arrows, his heart ripped out. No one knew much more than that. Not why. Not who. Not even exactly when, given the state of his body. All anyone knew for certain was that the murder had happened in the heart of the Petén region in Guatemala in a pre-Columbian Mayan city unoccupied for more than a thousand years. Commentators played up the bizarre nature of his death, the links with early cultural practices, and Ruston’s reputation as a world-famous scholar of Mayan glyphs.
By Friday, no new details surfaced, but the national excitement made me think. After all, it wasn’t as if Ruston had died of a heart attack in his office. There were bound to be local enquiries, and I wanted in.
Guatemala City, Guatemala, the previous June
I managed to piece together the beginning of Ruston’s story from conversations with friends. My own experiences made it easy to fill in the details.
On the first Monday in June, the Aviateca flight was on time as it touched down in the old terminal of Guatemala’s crowded La Aurora International Airport. I could imagine Robert Ruston, a tall, heavy man with unruly gray hair, wrestling his battered bag from the overhead bin and joining the slowly shuffling queue of deplaning passengers filling the plane’s aisles, clutching their shopping bags bulging with gifts for family and friends.
Free of the plane and its chattering occupants, he’d head for the old arrival hall—an echoing, high- ceilinged open space—to pick up his second bag; then he’d wind his way into the oppressive unair-conditioned, hanger-like baggage claim area.
According to Enrique Otzoy, anthropologist, longtime mutual friend, and part-time host during Ruston’s yearly summers in Guatemala, Robert scanned the second-floor visitor’s observation balcony, spotted Otzoy, and pointed toward the doors that exited into the street on the far side of customs. Otzoy took off to get his Land Cruiser as Robert headed toward the slowly turning luggage carousels and the passport lines beyond.
Finished with the entry process, Ruston must have struggled with everyone else through the heavily guarded doors into the open air, then pushed through the chattering crowd into the sun and toward the churning taxi
rank, and scanned the endless stream of vehicles for Otzoy’s familiar Toyota.
By the time Otzoy pulled into the pickup area a few minutes later, however, Robert Ruston and his bags were gone.
Otzoy parked and plunged into the melee. Taxi drivers yelled and jostled, seized luggage from passengers’ hands, and shoved it in their cabs in an attempt to garner business. Newly arrived travelers shouted over the din to bargain with drivers, make their destinations heard, and converse with friends. No one had seen a big gringo with gray hair, or knew what happened to him.
Otzoy had returned to the nearby parking lot. He’d even braved the balcony over the arrival hall a second time, in case he might spot Ruston from that angle. Nothing.
Otzoy told me later it was like the Period of Violence during the 70s and early 80s when the government’s Special Forces carried out a war against the people. Citizens and foreigners were dragged without warning into black Jeep Cherokees with tinted windows in that time of terror, agony, and killing. Maybe there’d be a smear of blood on the pavement, but more likely the person just vanished. Months later, a badly tortured body might appear in the dump, in a ditch outside of town, in an unmarked grave, in a small morgue on the edge of the city. Or maybe they’d never turn up at all. Professors. Teachers. Doctors. Social and religious workers. People that helped the indigenous, the poor, the downtrodden, the needy. All gone. All disappeared. All certainly dead.
After his fruitless search of the airport, Otzoy, agitated and increasingly upset, returned to his condo in a high rise near the embassies and museums and started making calls. He contacted police, friends in the United States, friends in Guatemala, Ruston’s hotel in Tikal, the US Embassy in Guatemala City. A few hours later, he called them all again. No one had heard from Ruston. By the time he had exhausted his contacts and retraced his enquiries, forty-eight hours had elapsed. There was nothing. It was as if Ruston had never existed.
Two
Tikal National Park, Guatemala, the previous August
Weeks later, deep in the rain forests of the central Petén, park ranger, Tikal guide Officer Miguel Ochoa with a profile of an ancient Maya lord, rounded the base of Temple IV one morning in mid-August. He didn’t notice the body immediately. What he saw first was the cloud of flies. He moved closer to the source of the insects. “Madre de Dios,” he muttered crossing himself; then he radioed park headquarters.
The source of the insects, the corpse—tied to a wooden rack in the undergrowth behind Temple IV under a towering ceiba tree—had only been dead for a couple of days, especially if one considered the effects of heat, insects, and animals.
While he waited for the emergency personnel, Ochoa photographed what was left of the body. The situation became clearer as he worked his way around the scene. The man had been tied with leather thongs to a structure that held him spread from corner to corner like a rug on a loom. He had been shot with a dozen carefully crafted arrows. Three paper strips had been tied to each wrist and ankle. His chest had been cut open and his heart removed.
As an anthropologist as well as ranger, Ochoa was familiar with the white paper ties and the arrows. The man had been a Mayan ritual sacrifice; the incision in his chest to remove his heart clinched it.
When the officers from the Santa Elena police arrived an hour after Ochoa’s colleagues from the park office, the man on the rack became a police, as well as a park, matter. Once the body was tentatively identified a day later as Robert Ruston, he became a problem for the Guatemalan government and US State Department, too.
~ * ~
Officer Ochoa was late returning home on the day of his discovery. He had been consumed with his find, with no time to give tourists tours. The multilayered enquiry into the probable identity of the dead man, questions from officials of every sort, endless forms, and countless cups of coffee all blurred together. When he finally parked his battered Land Cruiser in front of his small house on a dark side street in Santa Elena, twenty-five miles south of Tikal, it was nearly midnight.
At the sound of the Toyota, Esperanza, Ochoa’s wife of thirty-five years, rose from the faded easy chair in which she had been reading and headed into the darkened hall to unfasten the padlock and chain securing the doors that opened into the street. Just as Esperanza pushed them open, he reached the front step, his courier bag dangling from one hand.
“What took you so long?” Esperanza asked as she fastened the doors behind him. “What did you mean when you said there’d been trouble? And why couldn’t you talk?” Without a break in her activity or her conversation, Esperanza, not one to put things off, headed for the kitchen with its warm brick hearth. “Are you hungry? There’s soup. I’ll make tortillas.”
Ochoa hung his jacket on a hook, paused, and considered whether he actually wanted to eat after a day with what he thought of as La Problema de Ruston.
“Let me think,” he said, trying to bring himself back to earth, to this time, to his house, to Esperanza. He sank into a chair at the kitchen table. “Maybe a bowl of soup would help. I haven’t had anything but coffee today. I feel as if I’d been poisoned.”
Esperanza stirred the fire, adding a piece of wood, moving the soup to the center of the grate to warm. She placed the comal, a ceramic griddle for baking tortillas, on the grate next to the soup to heat.
The patting of Esperanza’s slender hands shaping tortillas and the warmth of the fire soothed Ochoa. Slowly he began to relax enough to order his thoughts, to put words to what he had seen. He started with his arrival in the park, the familiar world of sounds and smells that had greeted him as he stepped from his truck. When he reached the part about Temple IV, the flies, and the man on the rack, Esperanza gasped at the details—the paper ties, the arrows, the missing heart.
“Dios mío! No! How can that be? Who would do such a thing? Bandits don’t go to such trouble. They’d just shoot him. Besides, they wouldn’t have a clue about classic practices, would they?” She paused, pushing a strand of still-black hair off her forehead with her wrist.
“I wouldn’t think so. It was a lot of work—keeping him alive after they kidnapped him, building a rack, making arrows, carting him to Tikal. What for? It doesn’t seem reasonable for an ordinary political group to do it, either,” Ochoa said. “In the first place, why would they kill Ruston, a gringo? In the second, why go to all this trouble?”
Esperanza placed a bowl of steaming soup and a basket of hot tortillas on the table. “Try not to think about it anymore. Just eat. Then, after that, sleep. Nothing’s going to happen tonight. You can worry tomorrow.”
Dutifully, Ochoa spooned up the soup full of greens, onions, and pieces of chicken. He discovered he was hungry after all, but sleeping later was going to be another matter.
That night in the tiny bedroom behind the kitchen, with Esperanza breathing softly beside him in their narrow bed, Ochoa stared into the darkness. What was it that had taken place? Why had the man died at Tikal? And why in God’s name had it been a gringo who had been killed in such an elaborate manner? As the roosters began to crow and the darkness faded, Ochoa slipped into uneasy slumber.
~ * ~
Two days after his discovery, after a multitude of questions asked by officials regarding his unpleasant experience, Ochoa returned to patrolling the park and leading tour groups. He hadn’t forgotten the death of Robert Ruston behind Temple IV, though, and neither had the other park rangers at Tikal. The events of that day became the topic of conversation every time they got together, if for no other reason than everyone was edgy about blundering into a similar tableau. Though the questions they asked were the same impossible ones that Ochoa had considered in his dark bedroom that first night, something interesting came from a discussion in their thatched-roof luncheon shelter as their tour groups ate nearby.
The oldest member of the guide group, Jaime, who threatened to retire at the end of every tourist season, said there had been talk in the office the summer before that the gringo Ruston had discovered a stele, a carved
marker of unknown provenance. This information hadn’t surprised Jaime. His uncle, a lifetime resident of nearby Flores and former guide, had always maintained such steles existed deep in the jungle behind Temple IV.
“This is the interesting part. The steles were said to mark the edges of an ancient community,” Jamie said, his mouth full of taco. “According to the stories, they outlined a small village that was here long before Tikal became a large city.”
As the men finished their lunches, or lit up cigarettes before beginning the afternoon tours, they added what they had heard about unusual artifacts and early communities. Some shared rumors that drifted like bird song through the sticky jungle air, stories of strange sightings, current experiences, shadowy figures spotted flitting behind the trees. None of the information was completely new, but Ruston’s discovery of an actual stele and his recent death shone another light on the tales. Suddenly they might be real—not myths, not imaginings, not just old men’s winter tales.
Lost in thought, Ochoa scuffed his worn hiking boot in the dust next to the shelter’s raised cement slab floor. Ruston’s demise had opened up new possibilities.
Familiar with Ochoa’s proclivities, it came as no surprise to the other guides when he began tramping through the tangle behind Temple IV during his free time. He had taken the Ruston business personally, and he wanted answers.
Three
Big Grove, Early September
As Ochoa struggled with La Problema de Ruston, late summer came down like a brass hammer on Big Grove. The grasshoppers, too miserable to fly, crept along the blades of tall grasses in Prairiebrook Park on the town’s southern edge. The little creek that ran through the cottonwoods at its boundary had dried to a shallow pond behind what had been a beaver dam. The neighborhood red tail hawk panted in the heat.
