Kyle grimaced. “You are so gross.”
“Yeah? What would you have me do?” Zack muttered. “Stand here with snot running down my face?”
A group of six Guatemalan soldiers stood only a few feet away. One of them, a guy with a pockmarked face, glanced over at Zack and then nudged the big-nosed soldier beside him. Big Nose looked Zack up and down. He made a comment to the rest of the soldiers in Spanish and the whole group turned around and stared. Big Nose made another remark and the soldiers laughed. Zack could feel his face turn red.
“Come on Uncle Clifton,” he prayed, “get me out of here.”
“What’d you say?” Kyle asked.
“Nothing,” Zack answered.
Kyle gestured to a kiosk across the corridor. “I’m going to get a cup of coffee. You want anything?”
“A Coke.”
Kyle nodded and walked off.
“You buy?” a high-pitched voice asked. A small scruffy boy with pleading brown eyes stood at Zack’s elbow. In his arms he held a black velvet board lined with silver earrings.
“You buy?” he begged, first pointing to the earring Zack wore and then to the earrings on his board. “I have very nice selection. My papa sick. Papa no work. Please? You buy?”
Zack turned his back on the soldiers. “Sure, let me see what you have.”
The boy pointed to a pair made of mother-of-pearl and lined with silver. “These nice,” he said. “Only ten quetzals. Please? My papa no work.”
“Okay.” Zack pulled out his billfold. The boy staggered back, his face covered in fear. Snatching the money out of Zack’s hand, he threw him the earrings and took off running.
“What the. . . ,” Zack said. “Hey, it’s okay. These are for my mother. Not me.”
He pushed the earrings into the front pocket of his jeans and turned to look for Kyle. Instead he found himself face to face with the group of Guatemala soldiers who had laughed at him earlier.
They weren’t laughing now.
The soldier with the pockmarked face spoke in Spanish, gesturing with his machine gun for Zack to start walking towards the exit. Big Nose positioned himself behind him and poked something round and hard in his ribs.
“What do you guys think you’re doing?” Zack protested, standing his ground. Big Nose put his hand against the back of Zack’s shoulder and shoved him forward.
Zack looked around for Kyle and saw him at the edge of the crowd of curious spectators. His brother’s eyes were wide in disbelief.
“Kyle!” Zack yelled. “Get Uncle Clifton!” He planted his feet firmly and pivoted to face the big nosed soldier. “Look,” he began. Big Nose interrupted him with a backhand across the mouth. He rocked back from the force of the blow, losing his hat. He felt himself falling and then from out of nowhere, his uncle was there, catching him and helping him regain his balance.
Clifton fired off rapid Spanish to the big nosed soldier and Big Nose replied in Spanish just as fast. They exchanged more dialogue, and then Clifton looked at Zack in disgust.
“Empty your pockets,” he ordered. “Quickly. Take everything out and give it to the soldier.”
Zack obeyed, handing Crater Face his billfold, passport, loose change, and the earrings he’d just purchased.
Big Nose stepped forward and patted down Zack’s chest and legs. When he was certain everything had been given up he stepped back and nodded to Crater Face.
Clifton again addressed the soldiers in Spanish. He grabbed the Coca Cola can out of the Kyle’s hand and waved the package of tissues in the air. Then he pointed at the earrings. Big Nose grunted something to Crater Face, and Crater Face handed Zack his belongings. Uncle Clifton continued to speak to the soldiers, more calmly now, and ended the conversation by cuffing Zack roughly on the side of the head. The soldiers grinned and wandered off looking for other tourists to terrorize.
“What’d you do that for?” Zack squeaked. “Why’d you hit me?”
His uncle’s face was flushed in anger. “When you are in a Central American country that has strict drug laws,” he said, “you watch yourself. Those soldiers thought you were buying cocaine, not earrings.”
“But . . . why?” Zack mumbled. Bewildered, he looked to Kyle for an explanation, but his brother was still in a state of shock.
Zack opened the package of tissues and blew his nose. Kyle handed him his hat and gestured that he should wipe his mouth as well. He dabbed at his sore mouth and the soft tissues came away with traces of red, the same color as the ribbons hanging from the dead doll’s neck.
Chapter Six
The flight to Flores was an uneventful thirty-minute ride. Kyle sat in the middle seat as if to keep his brother and uncle separated. That was fine with Zack. He liked looking out the window. Besides, he was still angry at being smacked on the head by his uncle. It wasn’t that it hurt, because it hadn’t, but he’d been embarrassed. Clifton owed him a big time apology and it didn’t look as if he was going to get one.
Clifton leaned into Kyle and looked out the window. “Lake Petén-Itza,” he said. “Flores is in the middle of that lake.”
Like Zack cared. He made a point of deliberately glancing the other way, then remembered the drawing and looked out the small window at the deep blue of the lake. Could the oval on his wad of paper be Lake Petén-Itza? And, could the word `flores’ represent the city of Flores? But, the paper was in his backpack at the bottom of his suitcase. He pushed those thoughts from his mind as images of the dead Canadian began to surface.
The plane flew lower, coming in for a landing and there was a slight bump as it touched down on the tarmac.
The high temperature coupled with the humidity of the lowlands was oppressive. It was only a little after eight o’clock in the morning and yet waves of heat rose visibly from the asphalt. Beads of perspiration formed on the back of his neck and forehead as he followed Clifton and Kyle across the asphalt tarmac and into the tiny terminal. At least it was air-conditioned.
“I’ll get a driver,” Clifton said. “Meet me out front after you get your suitcases.”
“Okay,” Kyle nodded.
For a brief second Zack thought he spied the murderer, but before he could be positive the man was gone. As they waited in the baggage area Zack searched the faces of the crowd, but the murderer wasn’t among the passengers waiting for their luggage.
Their suitcases were among the last to be unloaded. They grabbed their bags, hurried through the airport, and found their uncle waiting patiently by a white van.
The day was clear and sunny. The moist air blowing in the windows seemed cooler now that they were on the road. This driver wasn’t a maniac and no doll’s head was stuck on the gearshift. Also, the road was smooth and the traffic light. At one point they stopped by the side of the lake, and without getting out, viewed Serro Kahui, a huge peninsula shaped like a sleeping alligator. It didn’t take much imagination to visualize this enormous earthen creature waking up and coming to life. They looked at it for a few minutes then the driver pulled back onto the road and drove on.
Zack kept waiting for the jungle to appear, but the only vegetation was scraggly brush. Maya houses, framed with cane and covered with palm fronds, dotted the landscape. Acrid smoke from the cooking fires in the small courtyards flowed into the windows of the van. There were no electric cables going to the little villages, and no cars parked in the yards.
Maya men dressed in white shirts, khaki pants, and woven cowboy hats like the ones Clifton had given them, walked along the road, hoes resting over their shoulders. The women wore colorful blouses, dark skirts, and balanced heavy loads on their heads or carried stacks of wood on their backs. They might not be tall in stature, Zack thought, but their strength was impressive, and they were all fit and trim. And, it seemed they really cared about their animals. Several times he saw Maya men and women standing beside the road, taking the time to pet a horse or dog.
The ride from Flores to Tikal took almost an hour and it wasn’t until they neared t
he park that the scenery began to change from scraggly brush to jungle so thick it would take a machete to hack through it. Trees grew taller and closer together, brush and undergrowth filling the spaces in between. The moist air became saturated with the fragrance of flowers.
“Ceibal trees,” Clifton said, pointing to an ugly tree that looked like it had some kind of spiky fuzz growing around the skinny branches. He then identified Spanish cedars, mahoganies, and the zapote from which chewing gum was made. Clifton said it was also called chicle.
When they reached the gates of the Parque Nacional Tikal, the taxi stopped. Clifton got out of the van and went into a guardhouse. A few minutes later he came back with receipts and two guidebooks. “The guidebook contains a map of the ruins,” he said, passing them over the back seat. “Keep it handy, it is very easy to get lost.”
Zack took the map out of the book and unfolded it. It showed the layout of the ruins as well as the location of the hotel and restaurant area. Temples were denoted by roman numerals and dashed lines showed the pathways. Above each section of ruins was a name such as The Great Plaza, Bat Palace, or The Lost World Complex.
The driver restarted the engine and drove through the park gates. After a few miles they left the smooth asphalt road and turned onto a narrow lane bordered by thick jungle scrub. Long vines scraped the sides of the van, reaching into open windows and scratching their hands as they pushed away the plants and protected their faces.
The road became more pitted and broken the further they went, the gravel replaced by dirt and dust so thick it was hard to breathe. They rolled up their windows and the driver turned on the air-conditioner. Even so, the gritty air permeated the cracks in the vehicle.
Just when Zack thought that the road couldn’t get any worse, they turned onto a driveway mutilated with ruts and furrows. The van pitched and rocked, bounced and swayed, until finally they entered a clearing with a large rectangular house. The lower half of the building was wood, painted army green, while the top half was made of finely meshed screens that began a foot below the roofline. Dried palm fronds, like the ones he’d seen on the Mayan houses, covered a corrugated tin roof and shielded a verandah littered with discolored white plastic chairs. Along the edge of the verandah bloomed bromeliads, African violets, and bird of paradise.
Parked by the side of the house were two Jeep SUVs and next to them was a battered and dusty old army jeep that looked like it had seen plenty of action in World War II. This was it? Zack’s mood darkened at the thought that this rectangular box of a house was to be his home for the next four weeks.
The driver brought the van to a stop in front of the verandah. Zack slid back the door, grabbed his suitcase and got out. Turkeys with iridescent feathers, like peacocks, wandered over the sparse lawn pecking at the dirt and gobbling like their American cousins.
“Petén turkeys,” Clifton said. “They’re endangered.”
Loud squawking drew Zack’s attention to the sky as a pair of blue and yellow macaws flew across the clearing and disappeared into the jungle canopy. He’d never seen parrots flying free before and the sight overwhelmed him. He felt his uncle’s eyes on him and turned to meet Clifton’s gaze.
“Son,” Clifton said, “this is only the beginning. You haven’t seen anything, yet.”
The screen door squeaked open and a short, stocky man in khaki trousers and a wrinkled white shirt stepped out on the veranda. “Hey Cliff,” he said, “Glad you’re back.”
“Peter,” Clifton said, “meet my nephews, Kyle and Zack. Boys, Dr. Collins is the archaeologist in charge of the dig.”
Zack immediately liked Dr. Collins. The man’s friendly, round face, deep tan and thick, wavy white hair made him look more like someone’s grandfather, than father.
“Nice to meet you boys,” Dr. Collins said, shaking each of their hands. The warmth of his smile was overshadowed by the worry in his eyes. He held the door open and they went inside.
The inside of the structure wasn’t much to look at. The square living room possessed a rattan sofa, a matching chair, a scuffed up table and three ladder backed wooden chairs. The floor was green painted concrete – covered with a thin rug so faded that the colors were no longer discernable. Overhead, a ceiling fan quietly circulated the air. Olive green canvass shades, rolled and tied with cords, were fastened to the tops of the screened windows. The interior walls, separating the living area from the bedrooms, ended two feet below the ceiling. There would be no privacy in this place. Down a narrow hallway to the left was the kitchen and dining area.
As soon as he looked out the back windows Zack lost all interest in the cabin’s interior. Centered in the back yard and surrounded by a concrete patio was a rectangular swimming pool. Not as wide or as long as the pool he had at home, it was still a welcome sight along with the patio tables, cushioned chairs and chaise lounges. Flanking each side of the patio were concrete lean-tos. At the end of the grassy area, surrounded by jungle was a row of three white bungalows.
“Neat, huh?” asked the dark-haired boy sitting at a desk littered with books and papers.
Before Zack could tell him what he really thought, Dr. Collins said, “Josh, help Kyle and Zack get settled at the bungalows, will you? Cliff and I need to talk.”
Josh pushed back his chair and stood up. “Sure,” he said. “No, problemo.” He turned to Zack and Kyle. “Follow me.”
Zack breathed a sigh of relief as they passed the hammocks hanging in the lean-tos that bordered the pool and went to the end bungalow on the right.
What Dr. Collins had called a bungalow was a building constructed of cinder blocks. It had a thatched roof and two doors off a shared porch. Each door led to a separate room.
Kyle chose the room on the left, so Zack took the other one.
The room was small. If Zack had thought the hotel room sparse, this was a monk’s cell. There were three items in the room; a cot and a small lamp set on a scarred wooden table. Like the main house the bungalow’s floor was concrete painted green. Unlike the main house there was no ceiling fan, just a large screened-in window at the front and side to let in the breeze. Thin faded curtains framed the windows. Still, it had more privacy than the bedrooms in the main house, and it was a lot better than the lean-tos.
“All of the kids in the group are in the bungalows,” Josh said, pushing back a lock of oily black hair from his forehead. “Linda and Samantha, Linda is Dr. Collins’ daughter, have the bungalow at the other end. Bruce and I share the one in the middle.”
“Who sleeps in the hammocks?” Zack asked.
“Anyone who wants to,” Josh answered. “Sometimes the hammocks are cooler at night.”
A sinister looking shiny black beetle with a horned head and elongated proboscis lay on the concrete floor underneath the edge of the bed. It rested on its back with its legs curled up over its body, obviously dead. Zack picked it up by one of its legs and pitched it out the door.
“We get all kinds of creepy, crawling things,” Josh said. “At night be sure to keep your door shut. No telling what might crawl in.”
“I’ll remember that,” Zack said.
“Oh, in case you didn’t notice,” Josh continued, “the kitchen is back through the living room and down the hall by the front door.”
“Yeah,” Zack said. “I saw it.”
“Mrs. Sanchez and her daughter do all the cleaning and cook the meals, but the kitchen is pretty well stocked with drinks and snacks. Meet me there when you get finished unpacking and I’ll fill you in about everything else.”
“Thanks.” Zack gazed at the wobbly table and wondered what Josh meant by unpacking. Josh left to talk with Kyle and Zack lifted his suitcase on the little table, not bothering to open it.
From the front window he could see the pool and into the living area of the main house. His side window looked right into the jungle, so close that branches from some of the trees touched the screen.
He pushed back the louvered wooden door and went to check out the ba
throom. It, too, was sparse, consisting only of a toilet, a shower without a shower curtain, and a sink. Above the sink hung a small grimy mirror. A bare light bulb with a pull-chain hung from the middle of the ceiling and a high narrow window ran the length of the outside wall. He turned to leave and stopped dead in his tracks.
A black, hairy tarantula, the size of a saucer, clung to the wall behind the louvered door. Zack stared at it trying to determine if it was alive or not. He couldn’t tell. It wasn’t moving, but if it were dead wouldn’t it have fallen off the wall? And, if it were alive, wouldn’t it do something if it sensed movement? He didn’t know what kind of tarantula it might be or whether it was capable of jumping. At home he’d seen spiders jump. God, if this one jumped on him he’d die.
He opened his mouth to yell for help, then visualized Kyle and Josh running to his aid only to find that he’d been scared by a dead spider.
But, was it dead?
Never taking his eyes off the thing, he inched closer to the door, pausing every few seconds, looking for any signs of life. He couldn’t see any. It still didn’t move. He held his breath, creeping past the monster until the louvered door separated them. He closed the door and breathed a sigh of relief. Through the slats he could see the black shape still stuck to the wall.
It had to be dead.
He settled on the bed. A warm breeze filled the room with the scent of tropical flowers and beyond the muted voices of Josh and Kyle he could hear birds twittering as well as other jungle noises.
After a few minutes, Kyle closed his door. Zack watched as Kyle and Josh walked back to the main house, deep in conversation. It seemed that Kyle had already made a friend and for reasons Zack couldn’t explain, that hurt. Less than a week ago, Zack had been looking forward to surfing in Malibu with his friends. Now here he was in Tikal with a monster spider in his bathroom and unable to share anything with his brother, except a wall.
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Ninth Lord of the Night Page 4
