by Rachel Lee
He dropped his hand back on his desk and looked around his elaborate home office, a library in the English style, filled with books in leather bindings. Books he’d mostly read, unlike some of his friends. Alas, not one of those books had the information he needed right now.
Where was Tom Lawton? And how much did he know?
Guatemalan Highlands
As evening settled over the highlands, Father Steve Lorenzo made his way to the shaman’s hut at the edge of the village. He didn’t know about his predecessors, much less his successors, but he had always made a point of treating this woman with great respect, for that was what she received from everyone in the village. She attended their births and deaths and illnesses in much the same way he did, and she was believed to hold a power over such matters that he could not and did not claim.
If someone became seriously ill, Steve would give them the anointing for the sick. Then the curandera would give them the blessings of her faith. Steve did not object. He believed that God operated through faith, and who was he to tell God whom to work through?
Some hard-liners might disagree, but Steve and many other priests over the centuries, and even the Church herself, had concluded that God worked in mysterious ways and could take other spiritual paths. The modern catechism taught that if any man sincerely sought God, by whatever path, God would find him.
Paloma had a Mayan name that Steve could pronounce only with great difficulty, so she had told him to call her by the Spanish version of her name, Dove. The past fifteen years had aged her considerably, but her smile was still warm, and her greeting was genuine.
“We missed you, Padre,” she said. “Those who came after you were not as friendly.”
“Their loss.”
Paloma laughed and offered him a fermented brew that was known in some places as pulque. Only the very old or the very young were allowed to drink it, because the supposedly uncivilized Maya had long since learned that they were prone to alcoholism. Except at the time of a great feast, no one else drank it, except the curandera or her select guests.
Steve politely took a sip and noted that she had remembered his distaste for alcohol. Only the tiniest bit had been poured into the earthenware cup. He smiled and nodded at her. For her part, Paloma drank nothing.
“I am surprised,” she said, “that they sent you back to us.”
“I’m delighted to be here.”
“But they sent you for a reason.”
Paloma always knew. She knew every single thing that went on in her village, and even things she couldn’t know by normal means.
“Yes.”
“You seek the book of Kulkulcan.”
He nodded and put his cup down.
Paloma sighed, and twisted to stir the coals under the pot of beans and chili peppers that always simmered on the fires around here. When she looked at him again, her face was grim.
“You will not find it. Nor will any of the others who search for it.”
“Others?” His heart slammed. What had Monsignor Veltroni failed to tell him?
“You do not know?” Paloma sighed again. “You may need more pulque than I have given you, Padre.”
“I would rather hear the bad news with a clear mind.”
She nodded. “You were always a good man. Someone has sent you on a very dangerous mission, and I can tell you now that you will not complete it. The book of Kulkulcan is not meant for eyes that are not Mayan.”
“Why is that?”
“Because others would destroy it, or themselves, and probably both.”
Steve was hardly the one to argue with that. He was all too aware of the sacred and historical texts that had been destroyed in the past. And knowing the suspected contents of this book, he was very certain his church would either burn it or bury it so deep in the Vatican archives that it would never again see the light of day.
“Then I shall not find it.”
Paloma laughed, a surprisingly youthful sound from such a creased face. “But you must look, for so you have been ordered. So I will tell you the difficulties.”
“Please.”
Again her face grew grim. “There are many who seek the book, for they think it will give them power over others. Or because they fear it will give others power over them. Truth is a dangerous weapon, my friend. It can be used for both good and ill.”
Given Veltroni’s concerns, Steve could only nod.
“There are many seeking the book,” Paloma repeated. “I do not know who sends them. What I know is that they are using our young men, stirring up trouble and war to cover their actions. Who will notice if some village shaman is tortured during a war? Who will notice the deaths?”
Steve began to feel like a very low life-form. “I’m sorry.”
Paloma’s eyes burned like hot coals as she looked at him. “Do not search too hard, Padre. I do not know where the book is. Only a small number have been entrusted with that secret, and they are guarded by the jaguar. You and your people may not believe in our spirits, but they are powerful indeed.”
Her eyes grew glazed then, and he had the feeling she was seeing the future. “Take care, Padre. Trust the jaguar, or it will eat you, too. Blood will run thick, but the jaguar can protect you.”
Then, with a solemnity that touched him nearly as much as a sacrament, she passed him a small leather bag attached to a long looped leather thong.
“Wear this beneath your clothes, beneath your cross, so the jaguar will recognize you.”
Steve hesitated only a moment before putting the pouch over his head and tucking it inside his cassock.
Paloma nodded. “Good. The One God who is known by many names watches over us all, but the spirits are strong, also. In these mountains, the jaguar is very powerful.”
Later, strolling through the dusty village toward his own hut as night darkened the world, Steve found himself touching the pouch around his neck. From far, far away, he heard the cry of a jaguar.
There were times when Jesus seemed very far away.
Boise, Idaho
Nor did Tom Lawton feel divine companionship that evening. He and Renate had hiked back as they had come, then carried their luggage to their new motel, outside of town up in the foothills. While their new lodgings were not as posh as the Grove, their compensation was anonymity. Tom had checked into the Grove under his own name, using his own credit card. Renate had insisted that they check out that morning, and she’d checked them into this place using a false name and driver’s license.
The room rate was reflected in the furnishings. The bed had a slight hump in it, the bathroom tap dripped and the plush chair had a fanny-shaped hollow that was nearly threadbare. On the other hand, no one was likely to bother him here.
Except for Renate.
She stood in the doorway between the adjoining rooms, having unpacked in less time than it had taken him to use the bathroom and make a futile attempt to shut off the tap. Now she wore crisp jeans and a cotton T-shirt with the logo of a popular brand of sunglasses. Despite what he knew of her personality, it was impossible not to notice that she was both beautiful and shapely, with firm hips and thighs, a slim but not tiny waist, and delicate but comely—
He jerked himself away from the thought. There was no room for it—in their working relationship or in his life.
“Unpacked already?” he asked, already knowing the answer but seeking distraction.
“I’m used to it,” she replied.
He nodded toward the bathroom. “Well, I had other priorities.”
“That’s fine,” Renate said. “We need to eat.”
Pure business. There was no question that she expected him to attend to such details. She was used to having her way.
“You’re the boss. Is takeout okay?”
“Yes,” she said. “Chinese, please.”
He found a telephone directory in a drawer beside the bed and thumbed through the well-worn restaurant pages. If he was going to eat Chinese—and her statement left no room for negotiation—he w
anted Cantonese rather than the ubiquitous Szechuan brown sauce. He found a restaurant that advertised “authentic Cantonese cuisine” and called in an order from the limited menu given in the phone book.
“Thank you,” Renate said when he had finished. She went to her room and returned with a twenty-dollar bill. “Pay in cash. No credit cards.”
Obviously she intended him to pick it up, as well. At least she had deigned to pay for it. Tom tamped down his urge to rebel. She wasn’t malicious or arrogant in her air of authority. She simply took it for granted that she was in charge. Which, he realized, she was.
“Aren’t you coming?” he asked. “I don’t know this town, or how to find this place.”
She shook her head. “I have some work to do on my computer. Where is the restaurant?”
He read her the address from the phone book, and she gave him directions. Every cell within him screamed to tell her off, but he could find no justification beyond his own lingering anger at the world in general and bosses in particular. Venting that anger was what had landed him on suspension, and while that particular risk didn’t exist here, neither could he afford to alienate the only ally he had at the moment.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll be back in a half hour.”
“That’s good,” she said. “I should be done with my work by then. We can talk over dinner.”
“I can’t wait,” Tom said, hoping his sarcasm didn’t drip as thickly in her ears as it did in his own.
Back in the Jeep and following her directions, he pondered the events in L.A. that had poisoned his emotions. He was as angry at himself as he was at anyone else. More so, in fact, because he knew he had made the lumpy bed in which he now lay. Yes, the case had gone sour. But he’d gotten too involved, and in the wrong ways. He’d tried to be a surrogate father for a girl whose real father was headed for prison or a grave.
Tom realized he’d been the wrong man in the wrong place at the wrong time. He wasn’t a social worker, by training or profession. And his own experiences had only served to color his assessment of her life and needs.
He was a cop. His job, sooner or later, had been to ruin that girl’s life by putting her father in prison. In the long run, that would be in her best interests. In the short run, she was sure to hold those responsible in contempt, especially if they had betrayed her trust in the process. It was not the kind of story that lent itself to a happy ending. One way or another, Tom would have ended up in the same situation: hated by a girl he’d come to care for very deeply.
It hadn’t been his SAC’s fault. It hadn’t been the Bureau’s fault. It had been Tom’s fault, plain and simple, and he was determined not to repeat that mistake.
José Martinez watched the man climb out of the Jeep and walk into the restaurant. The parking lot was not well lit, but he got a clear enough look at the man’s face to confirm that it matched the photograph he’d been given by Colonel Dixon.
Martinez had been called in from the field early in the afternoon and had spent much of the rest of the day sitting around while the colonel made and received one telephone call after another. Boise was a small town of a big city, the colonel had explained during a break in the calls. If Tom Lawton were staying at a hotel in town, even if under an assumed name, they would find him. Apparently the search had been complicated by the fact that Lawton was traveling with a girlfriend, who had rented the room in her name. In the end, though, persistence had paid off, and the colonel had given Martinez an address and his orders: Make it look like an accident.
José was out of his van and beneath Lawton’s Jeep almost by the time his target entered the restaurant. The primary hydraulic brake line was easy to locate, even in the dark, and equally easy to penetrate with the awl from José’s pocket knife. That afternoon, he had scraped the awl over a metal file, then over a slab of granite, until its edges were rough and irregular. There would be no clean cut, only a ragged tear of the sort that might have resulted from gravel or glass kicked up from the road bed. José would dump the pocket knife in a storm drain on the way back to the colonel’s ranch.
José was back in the van when Lawton emerged from the restaurant with a brown paper bag stapled shut at the top. Apparently the FBI agent was hungry, for he paused after starting the engine and broke open a fortune cookie.
“Si lo dice que su vida será prolongada,” José said quietly, “es incorrecto.”
If it says you’re going to have a long life, it’s wrong.
15
Guatemala City, Guatemala
Miriam had almost fallen asleep when the pounding at her door began. She rose and shrugged on a terry-cloth robe, then opened the door to find Pablo wearing an expression that could only mean one thing.
“We’ve found one of them,” Pablo said. “We must go now. Dress quickly, please.”
His admonition for haste was superfluous. She was already pushing the door closed and scrambling for the pair of jeans she’d left at the end of the bed. Three minutes later, she emerged wearing an FBI tactical T-shirt, with her credentials clipped to her belt.
“Where are we going?” she asked as he pushed the elevator button for the roof rather than the lobby.
“A helicopter is waiting on the roof,” Pablo said. “My commander wants you to be there to observe the capture, so you can see that we are handling it well. He is a very proud man.”
The rotors were already turning when they emerged, and Miriam held a hand over her face in a futile attempt to ward off the swirling dust as she and Pablo ducked under the blades and boarded the helicopter. They had hardly taken their seats when the pilot increased the throttle and pulled pitch, smoothly taking them up into the night sky.
“Where is this place?” Miriam shouted above the roar.
“Dos Ojos. It is not far,” Pablo said. “About twenty kilometers outside of town.”
Twenty kilometers, Miriam thought, doing the math in her head. About twelve miles. Less than ten minutes’ flight time. So much for a briefing.
“We have already surrounded the village,” Pablo said. “The tactical force went in by truck a half hour ago. My commander is there, waiting for you.”
A Bureau tactical team would already have established a perimeter, put the target house under observation and be moving into position for the final assault. Miriam had no idea whether the Guatemalan police were as well trained, though she steeled herself to hope for the best and prepare for the worst. She was there as an observer only, and was resolved to watch and listen, rather than criticize. Still, she felt her adrenaline flowing, and began to go through the mental checklist imprinted by years of training and experience.
She had barely begun when it seemed as if the bottom had fallen out of the world. Her stomach rose in her throat, and the trees below suddenly seemed close enough to touch. The pilot was on final approach, flying NOE—nap of the earth—to buffer the sound and avoid peering eyes. He was doubtless a skilled flyer, but the constant lurch and roll as he navigated over or around obstacles left her stomach churning.
Ahead, she saw a jagged ridge looming larger by the minute. Just beneath the ridgeline, she could make out the outline of a Jeep and two men beside it. The road seemed too narrow for the helicopter to land, but the pilot slid it in regardless, the tips of the rotors clipping off twigs in the process.
Pablo bounded out of the helicopter, then turned to offer his hand, but Miriam was already on the ground. They had no sooner stepped off the road and into the trees than the pilot once again lifted the aircraft into the sky and, with a deft turn, headed back for the city. Pablo motioned for Miriam to follow him, and they climbed the last hundred yards to the commander’s Jeep, overlooking the village in the valley beyond.
The commander gestured then into the back seat of the Jeep. “One of the men in this village was on a secondary team. He bragged to his girlfriend, and she told her parents. They never liked him, anyway.”
“That’s how it usually happens,” Miriam said. “What’s our status?”
“I have two entry teams in place,” the commander said from the front seat, pointing to dark forms almost invisible in the shadows. “One at the front door, one at the back. He’s staying with his sister and her children. Once we have him, our trucks will come in and pick up my men and the prisoner. We will be back in the city before the locals have time to respond.”
“If everything goes according to plan,” Miriam said.
“Yes,” he said. “If everything goes according to plan.” He rapped the dash with his hand. “Vámonos.”
“Where are we going?” Miriam asked, as the driver started the engine.
The commander turned in his seat to face her. “In my country, Special Agent, we do not lead from the rear. Now that you are here, I’m going to move in to be with my men. You’re welcome to come along for the ride or stay back here. But decide now.”
“Let’s go,” Miriam said without hesitation.
The commander smiled and turned to his driver. “Se oido. Vámonos.” He lifted his radio to his face. “Vaya ahora.”
Go now.
Miriam heard the flash-bang grenade explode as they reached the edge of the village, but the words replayed over and over in her head: If everything goes according to plan.
Boise, Idaho
Tom had traveled only three blocks when he saw the van close up behind him, its high beams glaring in his eyes.
“Dammit,” he muttered aloud. “It’s not like there aren’t enough streetlights.”
Probably a drunk driver, he thought. Or kids. But the van was glued to his tail as he made a left turn, and the hope that this was a routinely idiotic driver vanished almost as soon as it had arisen.
The traffic was thin at this time of night. He knew the correct way to react when being followed. Don’t drive home, because that is likely to be more isolated, and it lets the attacker know where to find you again. Drive to the nearest police station or firehouse or, failing that, to a gas station, bank or other business that is likely to have outdoor surveillance cameras. In short, make sure the attacker knows that, whatever happens, he will be seen or photographed—and caught.
