by David Wood
Miranda’s retort died on her lips. Angel, the third member of the party, was a strikingly beautiful Native American woman, tall and lean. She wore a white halter top that laid bare the chiseled shoulders and taut biceps of an athlete.
Miranda shook her head, trying to regain her composure. “That’s great, Mr. Maddock—”
“Just ‘Maddock’ is fine.”
“Mr. Maddock,” she said again, emphatically. “Thanks for coming out, but as it happens, we don’t need your help after all, so you might as well turn around and head back to the resort or whatever.”
“Miranda!”
She flinched. Even though she was a grown woman in her early-thirties, her father’s stern voice was as powerful now as it had been when she was just a little girl.
Bell stepped forward. “You’ll have to forgive my daughter, Mr. Maddock. She’s very independent. Maybe a little too independent for her own good.”
Miranda turned to her father. “Dad, we really don’t need them. I’ve got this.”
“I’m sure you do,” Bell said. “But I asked these men to come here. It’s not your decision.”
She frowned and leaned in close, whispering. “Dad, I found something down there. Something...” She flicked her eyes meaningfully. “That we probably shouldn’t talk about in front of strangers.”
“They’re not strangers,” Bell replied with a paternal smile. “And they aren’t just a couple guys I hired off the boat. They’re Navy SEALs.”
Miranda raised an eyebrow, then turned and cast a dubious eye at the two men. “Navy SEALs, huh? Sure you are.”
CHAPTER 4
“We used to be SEALs,” Maddock said quickly. Like most special operations veterans, he didn’t talk much about his military service. It was a rule of thumb that if someone bragged about being a SEAL or Green Beret or something like that, they were probably lying. He was a little surprised that Charles Bell had been made aware of that detail about Bones and himself. It hadn’t come up during their earlier conversation, which could only mean that Tam Broderick had told him.
“That was a long time ago,” he continued. “We don’t work for Uncle Sam anymore.”
“They did teach us how to swim. Sometimes clothed,” Bones said with a wink.
“You know I get funding from the U.S. government,” Bell said, addressing the blonde woman whom Maddock assumed had to be his daughter, Miranda. “Well, they asked me to let Mr. Maddock and his team check in on us.”
Bell looked to be in his late fifties, silver-gray hair trimmed in a crew cut. Miranda lean and athletic, had long blond hair, pulled back in a tight bun which was mostly hidden by the diving mask perched atop her head. The family resemblance was there in their faces, and both had the same startlingly blue eyes. Tam Broderick, who had put him in touch with Bell, had given Maddock their names, but not a whole lot more.
Miranda faced Maddock, one dubious eyebrow raised. “First you’re a SEAL. Now you’re some kind of government agent?”
Maddock shook his head. “It’s not like that. I’m just repaying a favor.”
“You just drop everything and run off to Mexico because you owed someone a favor?” Miranda persisted.
“More than one,” Bones added.
“And whose fault is that?”
“Screw you, Maddock.”
“We were in the neighborhood,” Maddock went on, flashing a guilty look in Angel’s direction. He was “in the neighborhood” on what was supposed to be a romantic vacation. Diving and treasure hunting wasn’t just his job. It was something he loved doing, but all the same, the whole point of the trip to Cozumel had been to spend some time with the woman he was going to marry. Angel had, only half-jokingly, suggested that on their way back to the resort, they could stop at the Union, a sports club in Playa del Carmen, so she could do a little sparring.
“I wasn’t,” Bones grumbled. “I was on my way to Vegas. Sin City, baby. Right now, I should be hip deep in cheap booze and cheaper...” He glanced at Miranda. “Umm, buffets.”
“Anyway,” Maddock said, “we can help you out. As I told Dr. Bell, we’re experienced divers and marine archaeologists. We know what we’re doing, and we’re happy to help.” He paused a beat then added, “In whatever way we can.”
“What was that we just walked in on?” Bones asked. “A little trouble with the locals?”
Miranda evidently wasn’t satisfied with the explanation. “Why is the government so interested in what my father is doing?”
Maddock glanced over at Bell then shrugged. “You’ll have to ask your father about that. I wasn’t told much more than that. The person that sent us has her fingers in a lot pies, and seldom feels the need to explain herself.”
“Typical,” Miranda said.
It was an odd comment, but Maddock didn’t press the issue.
“Tam's a tough nut,” Bones put in. “But she's on the right side.”
“Right side of what?” Miranda countered.
Bones just shrugged.
Miranda frowned, then turned to Angel. “And are you just an archaeologist, too?”
“Not even,” Angel said, rolling her eyes. “I leave that to these two geniuses.”
“She’s a cage fighter,” Bones said with what might have been mistaken for brotherly pride. Maddock knew his big friend was just trying to impress the other woman.
Miranda however was anything but impressed. Her face darkened in anger or maybe embarrassment. “If you don't want to tell me, fine, but you don’t have to be an ass about it.”
“Actually, he's not,” Angel said. “I mean, he is, but in this case, he’s telling the truth.” She took a step forward, then reached out to cover Miranda’s hand with her own. “Though I prefer ‘mixed martial artist.’ ‘Cage fighter’ sounds kind of trashy.”
Miranda seemed a little startled by the gesture, but softened. “Seriously? You’re an MMA fighter? You any good?”
Angel grinned. “I hold my own.”
“I guess you don’t get punched in the face very often.”
“I try not to,” Angel said. “Don’t want to end up looking like this ogre.” She playfully punched Bones in the shoulder.
Sensing that Miranda was finally going to let down her guard a little, Maddock attempt to steer the conversation back to a more immediate topic. “Seriously though, who was the guy we just ran into? You having some trouble?”
Miranda turned to her father again with a questioning look.
Bell looked uncertain. “Just some hoodlums who thought we had found something important.”
“Did you?” Maddock pressed.
“We haven’t really had a chance to talk about that yet,” Miranda said. “Dad, there are bodies down there.”
Bell nodded. “The Maya would sometimes throw sacrificial victims into cenotes.”
“I thought they were called Mayans,” Angel said.
“That’s a common misconception,” Bell said. “The people, their architecture, and so forth are called Maya. Mayan is the language they spoke.”
Maddock nodded.
“Some of these bodies are a lot more recent,” Miranda said. “Maybe just a year or two old.”
“Maybe the local drug cartel is using it to dump bodies,” Bones suggested. “Could be that’s why someone wants to scare you off.”
Bell appeared crestfallen. “A pity. But I suppose that would explain why this cenote isn’t on the maps.” He paused a beat. “Gentleman, I thank you for coming out here, and interrupting your vacations, but it would appear that I was a bit premature with my expectations. We’ll have to turn this over to the authorities.”
Maddock caught the look of hesitation from Miranda. She bit her lip then spoke again. “Dad, I found something else down there. A gold plate about this big.” She held up her hands to indicate the diameter of the artifact she had left behind. “It was on a stone table...maybe it was an altar. I had to leave it behind, but I know exactly where it is.”
The cloud over Bell li
fted. “Were there glyphs on it? Describe it.”
“I got video of it. But that’s not my point. We can’t tell the police about this place.”
“My God, you’re right.”
Maddock looked from father to daughter, then glanced over at Bones, who just nodded. Clearly, his friend was thinking the same thing he was. “Dr. Bell, before you do anything potentially illegal, you really need to tell us what exactly it is you’re looking for here.”
Bell pursed his lips together, then answered in a low voice that was almost a whisper. “Ciudad de Sombra.”
“What does that mean?” Angel asked.
Bones answered first, his tone almost giddy with anticipation. “It means ‘City of Shadow.’”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know, but it sounds awesome.”
Maddock shook his head and looked back at the archaeologist. “Doesn’t ring a... um, I’m not familiar with it.”
Bell managed a smile. “Ciudad de Sombra guards the entrance to Xibalba.”
Bones’ grin broadened. “Told you.”
CHAPTER 5
Isabella Beltran looked up from the computer screen as the door to her office opened. She felt an immediate surge of anger. Her orders were explicit and not open to interpretation; when she was working, she was not to be disturbed for any reason. When she saw the face of the man who had dared to breach the sanctity of her workspace, her anger quieted to something more like irritation.
“What do you want, tio?”
Hector Canul strode forward until he was standing right in front of her desk, and stared down at her with his customary supercilious contempt. “We have a problem, Isabella.”
“I told you before. Your problems are not my problems.”
“This time, they are. An American archaeologist has found Cenote el Guia.”
“So?”
She immediately regretted her dismissive tone. Canul was the brother of her deceased father though the two men could not have been more unalike. Hector had the dark skin and broad flat features common to Mexico’s indigenous population, while Raul—and Isabella, herself—favored the Spanish blood in their mixed ancestry. Hector had immersed himself in his ethnic Maya heritage, while Isabella’s father had opted to carve out a place for himself in one of Mexico’s new dominant empires, the Gulf Cartel.
It was rare for the descendant of indigenous people to achieve any sort of stature within the drug cartels. The narcos typically saw the rural natives as a labor force to be enslaved but never respected, but Raul, perhaps because of his ambiguous physical appearance, had defied those expectations, rising through the ranks of the organization and even marrying the daughter of a senior cartel lieutenant. Yet, despite their differences, Raul had always been deferential to his brother’s religious and cultural beliefs, even permitting Hector to train Isabella in the traditions of their people.
After Raul’s death, Isabella mother had married Jesus Beltran, the number two man in the Gulf Cartel, but while Isabella had been obliged to take her step-father’s name, she felt compelled to honor the choices her real father had made. And even though she had achieved a stature in the organization that her father never dared aspire to, not only supplanting her step-father, but taking control of the cartel’s operations on the eastern Yucatan Peninsula, Uncle Hector was always welcome in her house.
“This isn’t the first time someone has stumbled upon it,” Isabella went on. “Why don’t you just do what you usually do?”
“I sent two men,” Canul said. “They failed.”
“Send two more. Send five.”
“It is not enough. There are more of them now. They have already dived on the cenote. It is only a matter of time before they find the bodies. They will contact the authorities, and that will be a problem for both of us.”
Isabella frowned. Hector was not wrong. Unlike her late step-father and his predecessors, she favored good business practices over cruelty and violence, but sometimes it was necessary to deal harshly with enemies and turncoats in her own ranks. Disappearing them—not simply killing them, but making them vanish off the face of the earth—was one of the most effective ways to assert dominance and keep the wolves at bay. The uncharted cenote, known only to her uncle and a few others who followed the old ways, was the perfect place to make that happen, but if those bodies were found, everything she had built, everything she had fought for, would be undone. “What do you want me to do?”
“I can deal will the archaeologists, but the federales will investigate their disappearance. The search must not lead them to Cenote el Guia.”
“I will take care of the federales.”
Hector bowed his head. “Thank you.”
Isabella expected her uncle to leave, but he remained where he was. “Is there something else?”
The man was silent for a long time as if weighing the importance of the matter. “It is probably just a coincidence.”
“Say what you have to say, tio.”
“There are reports...rumors, really. Of a strange affliction. A fever that causes delirium and hemorrhaging.”
“I have not heard these rumors.”
“Not here. It is happening in northern Honduras, not far from the ruins of Copán.” Hector paused a moment, then added. “It may be that el Giua has been found.”
Isabella drew in a sharp breath. She had never really believed her uncle’s stories, but the location was right, as were the symptoms he had described.
“The fever is spreading,” Hector went on. “The villagers have begun calling it El Cadejo Negro. The Devil’s black dog.” He shrugged. “That may be just another coincidence.”
“You don’t believe that,” Isabella said. She narrowed her eyes at him. “If someone has found el Guia, we must act quickly.”
Hector, inexplicably, smiled.
“What?” Isabella asked. “You disagree?”
“Not at all. It pleases me that you said, ‘We.’”
Maria drove only as far as the main highway, where she could get a signal on her mobile phone, and placed a call to the Ministry of Health.
Her boss at the ministry had responded exactly as she expected him to—moving from disbelief to denial to helplessness. Yes, he would declare a medical emergency, and have army troops enforce the quarantine, but there was little he could do for the afflicted. The government could barely afford to pay doctors like Maria the pittance they currently received; there certainly wasn’t the money, resources or manpower available to combat an infectious disease outbreak. He would have to enlist resources from outside the poor Central American nation, and to do that, he would have to make his case directly to the president.
He spoke rapidly, repeating himself several times. Maria could tell he was trying to avoid the subject of her own health, and the likelihood that she had also been exposed to the pathogen. Truth be told, she was too, but there was cause for hope. She had not had direct contact with any of the infected—well, except for the old woman, and that had only been in passing.
Was skin to skin contact a vector? She had no idea.
Honduras had its share of tropical diseases—most mosquito-borne, like malaria and Zika—but this was something else. The first step toward battling it would be to get more information about how it was spreading, and the only way to do that was to return to the hot zone.
She cut short the call and turned the Land Cruiser around, heading back up the mountain road. As she neared the village, she encountered a man walking down the road toward her.
First, they wander.
She stopped in the middle of the road, fifty feet from the man. As he shambled closer, she donned a pair of gloves and a mask, and got out to meet him.
“Curandera!” the man called out, as if greeting an old friend.
“Buenos tardes, señor. What are you doing out here?”
The man’s forehead creased in an uncertain frown. “I...” He shook his head as if unable to think of a reason. “I was
looking for you. There is a sickness in the village.”
Maria could tell he was grasping for an excuse to explain his behavior, and made a mental note of the symptom. A high fever could explain erratic behavior, but the man did not appear to be in the grip of delirium. His eyes were red as if irritated by some allergen, but otherwise he appeared to be in decent health. It was as if his body had decided to take him for a walk, and now his brain was trying to come up with a rationale for the compulsion.
But what kind of disease made people want to go for a walk?
“Yes,” she said. “I know. That’s why I am here. Will you take me to the village and show me where the sick people are?”
The man looked hesitant. “I really should...” He frowned again.
“Please. I just want to help.”
He took another step as if the urge to keep moving was irresistible.
Maria decided to change tactics. “Tell me about El Cadejo.”
The man stopped again. “The dog?”
“Did you see it? Did Diego show you?”
“No. He hid it somewhere. Only a few men saw it. All dead now. I helped bury them.”
She had held out hope that all of the infected might have received exposure from some toxin on the artifact Diego had discovered, but if the dog-shaped bowl was gone, it meant the affliction was being transmitted from person to person.
She needed to know more about how the disease progressed. “How long ago did they die? When did you bury them?”
“Diego died three days ago.” He took another step. “I should go. I need to—” He broke off with a strangled sound and then was gripped by a coughing fit. The paroxysm lasted only a few seconds, but when the man straightened again, there was blood on his lips.
Three days, Maria thought. Was that how long it took for an exposed person to begin exhibiting the first symptom—compulsive movement—with bloody phlegm following almost immediately thereafter? She needed to know more.
The man immediately resumed walking and Maria made no further effort to dissuade him. It would take him hours to reach the highway, if he did not collapse along the way. By that time, the army would have the road blocked to enforce the quarantine. She got back in the Land Cruiser and continued to the village. She found the house with the four patients who were showing advanced-stage symptoms, and began gathering as much data about them and the progression of the disease as she could. She took blood samples, even though there was no way to test them, and started IV fluid infusions for all but the sickest man—the one who was swollen like a bloated corpse and closest to death. More fluids weren’t going to help him. When she palpated his organs, they felt mushy, as if partially liquefied. His breathing was erratic with long breathless episodes of apnea, followed by rapid, labored inhalations.
