Cycles. Revolutions. Balam-Acab’s father had told him that his name had a special history in the village. Centuries before, when the conquerers had first arrived, Balam-Acab’s namesake had led a band of warriors that attempted to repulse the Spanish from the Yucatán. The struggle had persisted for several years until Balam-Acab’s namesake was captured and hacked into pieces, then burned. But the glory of the rebel persisted beyond his death, indeed until the present generation, and Balam-Acab was proud to bear the name.
But burdened, as well. It wasn’t a coincidence that he’d been given this name instead of another. History moved in circles, just as periodically the Maya had again revolted against their oppressors. Stripped of their culture, yoked into slavery, the Maya had rebelled during the 1600s, again in the 1800s, and most recently in the early part of this century. Each time, they had been fiercely defeated. Many were forced to retreat to the remotest parts of the jungle in order to avoid retribution and the terrible sicknesses brought by the outsiders.
And now the outsiders had come again. Balam-Acab knew that if they weren’t stopped, his village would be destroyed. Circles, cycles, revolutions. He was here to make a sacrifice to the gods, to ask for their wisdom, to pray for their counsel. He needed to be guided. His namesake had no doubt conducted this same ritual during the 1500s. Uncontaminated, it would be repeated.
He raised his obsidian knife. Its black volcanic glass—“the fingernail of the lightning bolt”—was sharpened to a stilettolike point. He raised it to the underside of his outstretched tongue, struggling to ignore the pain as he thrust upward, piercing. The only way he could manage the task was by clamping his teeth against his tongue to hold it in place so that the exposed slippery flesh could not resist the blade. Blood gushed from his tongue, drenching his hand. He trembled from shock.
Nonetheless, he continued thrusting upward. Only when the obsidian point came completely through his tongue and scraped along his upper teeth did he remove it. Tears welled from his eyes. He stifled the urge to moan. Continuing to clamp his tongue with his teeth, he lowered the knife and raised the cord stitched with thorns. As his ancestors had done, he shoved the cord through the hole in his tongue and began to pull upward. Sweat burst from his face, no longer from humidity and exertion but from agony. The first thorn in the cord reached the hole in his tongue. Although it snagged, he pulled it through. Blood ran down the cord. He persisted in pulling, forcing another thorn through his tongue. And another. Blood cascaded down the cord and soaked the strips of paper where the bottom of the cord rested in the precious bowl.
Inside the temple behind him, there were images of Balam-Acab’s ancestors performing this ritual. In some cases, the king had impaled his penis, then thrust the cord of thorns through that organ instead of his tongue. But whatever part of the body was used, the objective was the same—through pain and blood, to achieve a vision state, to communicate with the Otherworld, to understand what the gods advised and indeed demanded.
Weakened, Balam-Acab sank to his knees, as if he worshiped the blood-soaked strips of paper in the bowl. As soon as the cord of thorns had been pulled completely through his tongue, he would place it in the bowl with the strips of paper. He would add more paper and a ball of copal incense. Then he would use matches—the only adulteration of the rite that he permitted—and set fire to his offering, adding more paper as necessary, the flames boiling and eventually burning his blood.
His mind swirled. He wavered, struggling to maintain a delirious balance between consciousness and collapse, for his ancestors would not have performed this rite without assistance, whereas he would have to rouse himself and proceed alone through the jungle back to the village.
He thought that the gods began to speak to him. He heard them, at the edge of hearing. He felt them, felt their presence, felt—
The tremor spread through him. But it wasn’t a tremor caused by shock or pain. The tremor came from outside him, through the stones upon which he knelt, through the pyramid upon which he conducted his ritual, through the earth beneath which lay the god of darkness, to whom he appealed.
The tremor was caused by the shock wave from dynamite as a crew continued their devastation despite the night. The rumble sounded like a moan from a restive god.
He raised a book of matches, struck one, and dropped it onto the strips of paper that lay above his blood in the sacred bowl.
Circles.
Again time had turned.
This holy place was being defiled.
The conquerers had to be conquered.
FOUR
1
When Buchanan wakened, he was soaked with sweat, his lips so parched that he knew he had a fever. He swallowed several aspirins from the first aid kit, almost gagging, forcing them down his dry throat. By then, it was after dawn. He and Wade were in Mérida, 322 kilometers west of Cancún, near the Gulf of Mexico side of the Yucatán Peninsula. Unlike Cancún, Mérida evoked an old-world feeling, its great mansions dating from the turn of the century. Indeed, the city had once been called the Paris of the Western World, for in former, richer times, millionaire merchants had deliberately tried to make Mérida like Paris, where they often went on vacation. The city still retained much of its European charm, but Buchanan was too delirious to care about the tree-lined avenues and the horse-drawn carriages. “What time is it?” he asked, too listless to peer at his watch.
“Eight o’clock.” Wade parked near a not-yet-open market. “Will you be okay if I leave you alone for a while?”
“Where are you going?”
Wade answered, but Buchanan didn’t hear what he said, his mind drifting, sinking.
When he wakened again, Wade was unlocking the Ford, getting in. “I’m sorry I took so long.”
So long? Buchanan thought. “What do you mean?” His vision was bleary. His tongue felt swollen. “What time is it now?”
“Almost nine. Most stores still aren’t open. But I managed to get you some bottled water.” Wade untwisted a cap from a bottle of Evian and tilted it toward Buchanan’s parched lips.
Buchanan’s mouth seemed like a dry sponge, absorbing most of the water. Some trickled down his chin. Frustrated, he tried again and this time managed to swallow. “Give me more of those aspirins.” His throat sounded as if it were wedged with stones.
“Still feverish?”
Buchanan nodded, grimacing. “And this bitch of a headache won’t stop.”
“Hold out your hand. I’ll give you the aspirins.”
Buchanan’s left hand felt weak, and his right hand suddenly became spastic again. “Better put them in my mouth.”
Wade frowned.
Buchanan swallowed the aspirins with more water.
“You have to keep your strength up. You can’t survive on just water,” Wade said. “I brought doughnuts, milk, and coffee.”
“I don’t think my stomach would tolerate the doughnuts.”
“You’re scaring me,” Wade said. “We should have gone to the doctor I know in Cancún.”
“We’ve been over this,” Buchanan murmured. “I have to get out of the country before the police sketch is circulated.”
“Well, what about orange juice? At least try the orange juice I brought.”
“Yes.” Buchanan murmured. “The orange juice.”
He managed three swallows.
“I found a woman unpacking boxes, getting ready for when the market opens,” Wade said. “She sold me this straw hat. It’ll hide the gash on your head. Also I bought this serape. You can drape it over the bandage on your arm when you pass through emigration.”
“Good,” Buchanan said weakly.
“Before that, I phoned several airlines. For a change, you’re in luck. Aeroméxico has a seat available on a flight to Miami.”
Buchanan inwardly brightened. Soon, he thought. Soon I’ll be out of the country. I can sleep when I’m on the plane. Wade can phone ahead and have a team waiting to take me to a clinic.
“There is a problem,
though,” Wade said.
“Problem?” Buchanan frowned.
“The flight doesn’t leave until twelve-fifty.”
“Until? But that’s . . . what? . . . four hours from now.”
“It was the first flight I could get. Another one left earlier for Houston. It had a seat, but it also made a stop en route.”
“What do I care about a stop? Why didn’t you book me on it?”
“Because the stop was back in Cozumel, and the man I spoke to said you had to get off the plane and then reboard.”
Shit, Buchanan thought. Cozumel, near Cancún, was one of the airports he needed to avoid. If he had to leave the plane and pass through a checkpoint, a guard might . . .
“All right, the twelve-fifty flight to Miami,” Buchanan said.
“At the airport, I can’t buy your ticket for you. It draws attention. Besides, the clerk will want to see Victor Grant’s passport. Very few people give somebody else their passport, and certainly not when they’re about to leave the country. If the police have told the attendants to be on the lookout for anybody who acts suspiciously, that might be enough for them to wait for you to arrive and question you.”
“Question both of us.” Buchanan fought to focus his vision. “You made your point. I’ll buy the ticket.” He peered out the window, seeing traffic increase, frowning at the pedestrians crowding past the Ford. “Right now, I think we’d better drive around town. I get nervous staying parked like this.”
“Right.”
As Wade steered into a break in traffic, Buchanan used his trembling right hand to reach behind him and pull a waterproof plastic pouch from his back pocket. “Here’s Ed Potter’s ID and passport. Whatever pseudonym I’m using, I always carry his documents. There’s no way of predicting when they might come in handy.”
Wade took the plastic pouch. “I can’t give you an official receipt. I don’t have any with me.”
“Screw the receipt. Just give me Victor Grant’s documents.”
Wade handed him a brown leather passport folder.
As Buchanan took it, he felt Ed Potter drain from him and Victor Grant seep into his consciousness. Weak and far from alert, he nonetheless responded to habit and began to imagine traits (Italian food, Dixieland jazz) for his new character. At the same time, he opened the folder and examined its contents.
“Don’t worry. Everything’s there,” Wade said. “Including the tourist card.”
“But I do worry.” Buchanan searched through the documents. “That’s how I’ve stayed alive this long. I never take anyone’s word for . . . Yes. Okay, the tourist card and everything else is here. Where’s that aspirin bottle?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve still got a headache.” Wade looked troubled.
“And it’s getting worse.” Buchanan didn’t trust his trembling right hand. Raising his left hand, which felt wooden, he put more aspirins in his mouth and swallowed more orange juice.
“You’re sure you want to do this?”
“Want to? No. Have to? Definitely. Okay,” Buchanan said, “let’s go through the drill. I left plenty of loose ends in Cancún.” Breathing was an effort. He fought for energy. “Here are my keys. When you get back to Cancún, close up my time-share condominium office. You know who I rented it from. Call him. Tell him I’ve gone out of business. Tell him he can keep the remainder of the rent, that you’ll send him the keys as soon as you pick up my belongings.”
“Right.”
“Do the same thing about my apartment. Erase me. You know the places I used in Acapulco, Puerto Vallarta, and the other resorts. Erase me from all of them.” Buchanan’s head throbbed. “What else? Can you think of—?”
“Yes.” As Wade drove along the Paseo de Mayo, Mérida’s main thoroughfare, Buchanan ignored the grass-covered island that separated the several lanes of traffic on each side, anxious for Wade to continue.
“The contacts you recruited in each area,” Wade said. “They’ll wonder what happened to you. They’ll start asking questions. You have to be erased from their lives, too.”
Of course, Buchanan thought. Why didn’t I think of that? I’m more light-headed than I guessed. I have to concentrate harder. “Do you remember the dead-drop locations I was using to pass each of them messages?”
Wade nodded. “I’ll leave each contact a note, some excuse about problems with the police, along with a final payoff that’s generous enough to encourage them to keep their mouths shut.”
Buchanan brooded. “Is that it, then? Is that everything? There’s always something else, a final detail.”
“If there is, I don’t know what—”
“Luggage. When I buy my ticket, if I don’t have a bag, I’ll attract attention.”
Wade steered off the Paseo de Mayo, stopping on a side street. The stores were now open.
“I don’t have the strength to carry anything heavy. Make sure the suitcase has rollers.” Buchanan told Wade his sizes. “I’ll need underwear, socks, T-shirts . . .”
“Yes, the usual.” Wade got out of the Ford. “I can handle it, Buchanan. I’ve done this before.”
“You son of a bitch.”
“What?”
“I told you, don’t call me Buchanan. I’m Victor Grant.”
“Right, Victor,” Wade said dryly. “I wouldn’t want you to forget who you were.” He started to close the door, then paused. “Hey, while you’re practicing your lines—that is, when you’re not calling me names—why don’t you try eating some of those doughnuts, so you’re not so weak that you fall on your face when you get to the airport.”
Buchanan watched the slightly bald, slightly overweight man in the lemon-colored Polo shirt disappear into the crowd. Then he locked the doors, tilted his head back, and felt his right hand tremble. At once his whole body shivered. The fever, he thought. It’s really getting to me. I’m losing control. Wade’s my lifeline. What am I doing? Don’t make him mad.
Buchanan’s shoes nudged the bag of doughnuts on the floor. The thought of eating made him nauseous. As did the pain in his shoulder. And in his skull. He shuddered. Just a few more hours, he told himself. Hang on. All you have to do is get through the airport. He forced himself to drink more orange juice. The acidic sweetness made his stomach queasy. Victor Grant, he told himself, concentrating, struggling to chew on a doughnut. Victor Grant. Divorced. Fort Lauderdale. Customizes pleasure boats. Installs electronics. Victor . . .
He jerked as Wade unlocked the driver’s door and put a suitcase in the back.
“You look terrible,” Wade said. “I brought a toilet kit: a razor and shaving soap, toothpaste . . .”
2
They drove to a wooded park that had a public washroom. Wade bolted the door and stood behind Buchanan, holding him steady while Buchanan hunched over the sink, trembling, doing his best to shave. He tried to comb his blood-matted hair but didn’t have much success, deciding that he’d definitely have to use the straw hat that Wade had bought for him. He used bottled water to brush his teeth, feeling marginally better now that he was partially cleaned up. His shirt and pants, which the sea had cleaned sufficiently of blood to stop people from staring at him last night, were unacceptably soiled and wrinkled in the daylight. He changed into a fresh shirt and pair of pants that Wade had bought, and after they left the washroom, Buchanan crammed the dirty clothes into the suitcase in the Ford’s backseat. Associating his Seiko watch with the now-defunct character of Ed Potter, he traded it for Wade’s Timex, anything to get the feel of a new identity.
By then, it was eleven o’clock.
“Traveling time,” Wade said.
In contrast with the large picturesque city, the airport was surprisingly small and drab. Wade managed to find a parking space in the lot in front of the low terminal. “I’ll carry your suitcase to the entrance. After that . . .”
“I understand.”
As they walked toward the entrance, Buchanan glanced casually around, studying the area. No one seemed to be paying attention
to him. He concentrated on walking in a straight line, not wavering, not betraying his weakness. At the sidewalk in front of the doors, he shook hands with Wade. “Thanks. I know I was a little grumpy a couple of times. I . . .”
“Forget it. This isn’t a popularity contest.” Wade continued to grip Buchanan’s right hand. “Something’s wrong with your fingers. They’re jerking.”
“It’s not a problem.”
Wade frowned. “Sure. I’ll be seeing you, Victor.” He emphasized the pseudonym. “Have a good flight.”
“I’m counting on it.”
Buchanan made sure that the serape was hitched firmly to his right shoulder, hiding his wound. He gripped the pull strap on the suitcase and entered the terminal.
3
Several impressions struck him simultaneously. The terminal was stark, hot, tiny, and crowded. Everyone, except for the few Anglos, seemed in slow motion. As one of those few Anglos, Buchanan attracted attention, Mexican travelers studying him as he inched through the claustrophobia-producing crowd. He sweated as much as they did, feeling faint, wishing the terminal was air-conditioned. At least I’ll have a reason for looking sick, he thought, trying to muster confidence. He stood in a frustrating line at the Aeroméxico ticket counter. It took him thirty minutes before he faced an attractive female attendant. Using Spanish, he told her what he needed. For a moment, his heart lurched when she appeared not to know anything about a reservation for Victor Grant, but then she found the name on her computer screen and with painstaking care made an impression of his credit card, asked him to sign the voucher, and peeled off his receipt.
Assumed Identity Page 12
