The Antiquities Hunter

by Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

  I felt Cruz’s arm go around me, jerking me upright. “Caray! Gina, sit down before you fall down.”

  I hadn’t realized I was falling down. I let him lower me to the top step of the pig tail so that my back was propped against the wall.

  He put his forehead against mine again and murmured, “Two tunnels converge on either side of this landing. Either will offer you places to hide.”

  I saw where this was going and didn’t like it one damn bit.

  “No,” I whispered.

  “You can’t continue. Not like this.” He pushed something into my hands. “I’ll leave you the flashlight.”

  “No.”

  “Gina, you’re no good to either of us in this condition.”

  “No.”

  “If he finds us, you would not be quick enough to get out of his way.” I felt his head tip from side to side. “I would have to rescue you again. Very tedious.”

  “Get over yourself,” I said, then, “You take the flashlight.”

  This was the worst kind of fear—the slow, agonizing, impotent kind. It was the fear that visited me in my dreams. The fear of walking inexorably into the ocean, of watching my best friend’s car flip like a hooked fish, of watching her be wheeled into an operating room with no guarantees she’d ever come out again, of losing this man to the darkness of the Underworld.

  I realized I had not let go of the flashlight; I was clinging to it and had captured his fingers as well. He carefully extricated them from mine.

  “I’ll be back for you,” he whispered.

  I felt his breath against my lips in the moment before he kissed them. Softly. Quickly. A strange, quivering warmth spread through me.

  Listening to the sound of Cruz’s footfalls moving away from me down that wretched stair is one of the hardest things I’d ever done. I am not a person who takes well to being deposited on the sidelines, but here I was, alone with myself, exhausted, hurting, hungry, dizzy, and scared.

  “Oh, snap out of it,” I murmured.

  When you are sitting alone in the dark, frightened—no, terrified—that the next sound you hear is going to be the dying scream of a friend or the hammer of a Ruger GP100 being cocked, you find things to do with yourself.

  I prayed. I held imaginary conversation with Saint Boris. I checked my watch. It was 2:08 A.M. How time flies.

  I checked my pockets. I had a little pack of Kleenex (might have been useful during triage), my compass, my camera, and a hair clip. That was on the practical side. On the arcane side, in addition to Saint Boris, I had Rosie’s tinu, an obereg, and—lo and behold!—my old Caddie wire, which I thought I’d ditched. And then, firmly in a class of its own—Things That Were Once Practical But Are Now Junk—was the cell phone that was no longer a cell phone.

  I turned it on and was immediately mesmerized by the pale luminescence of the little screen. I hoped there was enough kick left in its battery to light my tiny world for a while. The screen was shot, so I couldn’t turn on the little flashlight, so I used the wan light to check my bandages. They were fairly dry.

  Mercy.

  I shut off the cell phone-cum-flashlight and checked the rest of my personal inventory. I was wearing a pair of sterling silver hoop earrings studded with tiny topazes (not real). The ersatz engagement ring was still on my finger. My watch still ran. Saint Boris still hung around my neck. I still had a secret Russian Orthodox Buddha tattooed on my right hip. Or at least I had before tonight. For all I knew, Greg Sheffield’s bullet had put a bypass through that neighborhood.

  I prayed not. I was a bit superstitious about that tattoo. I wondered, sleepily, if Cruz had seen it. Probably not, I reasoned, given that it was covered with gore at the time.

  A jolt of raw terror shot from one end of my body to the other.

  I was falling asleep.

  I couldn’t fall asleep.

  I thought of the Wicked Witch of the West with her infernal poppy fields. I thought of snow. I pulled myself up off the stairs and stretched. I’d’ve done calisthenics if I could. Instead I took deep breaths and held them for three seconds, then let them out . . . quietly.

  I was in my fifth rep when I heard something that woke me utterly: a gunshot.

  A gunshot.

  I plastered myself to the wall and moved down the stairs one shallow tread at a time. At the first switchback, I paused and listened again. Other sounds found my ears—movement, shoes on stone. I descended to the next level.

  Quiet again.

  Trying not to make a sound, I reached the bottom of the pig tail and moved to the Questionable Intersection. The notches still said, Go straight, young woman, the PDA would have sent Greg Sheffield (and now Cruz?) down the passage to my left.

  I moved to the verge of the false trail, put my head against the cool stone, and listened. Sounds came back to me from below, sounds that might have been taken for the scurrying of mice. But there were no mice down here.

  I peered down the passage, my eyes hungry for light, yet dreading to see it. Was there a slight paling of the darkness ahead?

  I heard a shout. Inarticulate by the time it reached my ears. Then another gunshot.

  I pulled the cell phone from my pocket and turned it on. Waxy bluish light created a soft glow around my hand. I held it out to one side and could dimly make out the corridor ahead. I shot a prayer toward heaven and stepped into it.

  There were no notches here, but there were still corners and intersections, all terrifying in their prospects. At each one, I turned on my phone and shone the meager light down the various paths. Sometimes there was a wall of mute stone or a pile of debris; sometimes there was only more darkness and I would hesitate for a moment, weighing ridiculous options, then turn off the phone and move on.

  I had fallen into a sort of stupor, shuffling through the shadow lands, listening and watching. So when my eyes saw light, the significance of it didn’t immediately register with my brain. I was standing in a straightaway when I found myself being drawn toward a strange, faded spot on the left-hand wall of the corridor ahead. I was nearly upon it when I realized that it was the reflected light issuing from a cross-passage to my right.

  I flattened myself to the near wall and peered around the corner. Ambient light washed out of everywhere and nowhere to light the narrow way. I could see clear through to its nether end, where there was a wall as solid and opaque as the one behind me.

  Where was the light coming from? Curiouser and curiouser.

  I stepped cautiously out into the junction. And was turned to stone by the sight of Greg Sheffield seemingly emerging from the very wall of the maze not four yards distant, a flashlight in one hand, his revolver in the other.

  He hadn’t seen me; he seemed intent on the path ahead. I took in the nature of the trompe l’oeil in a chaotic glance: it was a Russian Orthodox Cross—one vertical, three crosspieces. I was standing in the foot bar, Greg was in the main cross piece, and as I stood transfixed, Cruz stepped across the top bar and out of sight.

  Greg’s head came up and turned in that direction, as if he’d caught the movement from the corner of his eye.

  I gasped.

  Greg swung slowly toward me, bringing the muzzle of his gun to bear. I stood and clutched my useless cell phone and waited for him to shoot me. He didn’t.

  “Hello, Gina,” he said, sounding like Eeyore—relieved to have found me, but depressed as hell. “You don’t look so good. I guess I’m a better shot than I thought. Come closer.”

  “I’m sure you can hit me even at this range,” I told him.

  “Come here,” he repeated. “You’re going to lead me out of here first.”

  “Why would I do that? You’re going to kill us anyway.”

  “Oh, but there’s many a slip between the cup and the lip. The longer you’re alive the more chances you have of escaping, right? Now come closer.”

  I stumbled toward him, deliberately making myself look more unsteady than I was. In the light from his flashlight I noticed that t
he floor behind him looked funny. It didn’t reflect light the way the rest of the stonework did. As I drew near, I realized that was because it wasn’t stonework. It was dirt.

  “Stop right there, please,” Greg said politely when I was still over two yards away. “Now, tell me: Where’s Cruz?”

  “I don’t know. He left me behind.”

  “I don’t believe that. He’d never abandon you down here.”

  “He wanted to go after you. He didn’t want me to get hurt. He left me at the top of the stairs.” I gestured with my head.

  “And you came down here because?”

  “I heard you shooting at him. You don’t want to kill Cruz, Greg. He’s the one that really knows how to get out of here. I don’t.”

  “Why’d you tell me that? That makes you pretty useless, doesn’t it?” He raised the muzzle of the gun again.

  “I guess it does.”

  He cocked the Ruger. “I’ll ask you one more time: Where’s Cruz?”

  “Here.”

  He stepped out into the far cross-corridor behind Greg. If he’d been armed this would’ve been all but over. But he wasn’t.

  Greg spun away from me and took two steps toward Cruz, before stopping to look down at the footing. He apparently didn’t like what he saw, because he stepped back from the edge of the funny patch of floor.

  “You know, Veras,” he said, “if you hadn’t gotten involved in this, none of us would be here right now. Gina would be safe and sound in San Francisco; you’d be writing articles on pre-Columbian art; I’d be running Revez; and Rose might never have gotten shot.”

  “Always someone else’s fault, isn’t it?” Cruz said.

  Greg swung the gun back toward me. “If you don’t get your ass over here right now, Gina dies. It’s that simple.”

  As I saw it, I had one option. It was a stupid option, but I took it. I threw the cell phone at Greg’s head.

  He was only half-watching me, and reacted late. The phone clipped his ear and bounced aside, his shot went wild, and he dropped the flashlight. It fell onto the suspicious patch of earth and kept right on going.

  Darkness was swift and complete. None of us moved for a moment. Then I heard the hammer of Greg’s gun click.

  “These corridors are awfully narrow. My chances of missing whoever I’m aiming at are pretty slim. Gina, come here.”

  I took a shuffling step forward. Cruz’s camera flash exploded into the gloom, backlighting Greg. He was standing in profile to me, the Ruger aimed at Cruz.

  In the psychedelic darkness after the flash I screamed and dove for Greg’s legs. I hit him just below the knees. Caught off balance, he toppled. The muzzle of his gun flashed, the report echoing off the walls, mingled with our screams and shouts.

  My scream cut off when I hit the floor. The breath was forced from my lungs and my left arm flailed empty air. Greg’s scream continued for several long moments before coming to a sudden stop somewhere far below. I pulled myself back from the edge of the pit and rolled up against the wall.

  The beam of Cruz’s flashlight swept over me.

  “Gina!”

  I suddenly lacked the ability to answer. I’d swear that every drop of adrenaline in my body had been utterly spent. I could only lie curled up on the cold stone next to the pit and fight off the equally strong urges to sleep or retch.

  I heard the sound of running feet and looked up in time to see Cruz sail over the booby trap and touch down on my side of it. He skidded to a stop and came back to join me on the floor, his arms going around me.

  “He didn’t get you, did he?”

  I shook my head.

  Cruz leaned over the edge of the false floor and shone his flashlight down.

  “Some kind of woven matting. They put dirt and gravel on top of it and it looks like an earthen floor.”

  “Can you see him?” I asked. “Do you think he’s dead?”

  “I don’t see him,” Cruz told me. “I don’t hear him either. I think the best thing we can do is get out of here and try to find the helicopter.” He checked his watch. “The sun should be coming up in a couple of hours. Until then, I think we should go back to the Humvee. There’s water there. Food. Some proper bandages.”

  He helped me into a sitting position, propped against the wall. “Do you want to rest for a while down here?” he asked.

  “No, thank you. I think I’d really like to take a walk. Stretch my legs. Do a little sight-seeing.” At that point, I ran clean out of sass. “I really want out of here, Cruz. Please.”

  There were no shortcuts out of the King’s Treasure Pyramid. With my lumbering gait it took us a good twenty minutes to navigate our way to the surface. I was shivering so hard my teeth were chattering. The warm, humid jungle air helped, but even with that, Cruz had to break a blanket out of the back of the Hummer to wrap around me. He found the first aid kit and some water and alcohol, cleaned me up, rebandaged me, and helped me into the mandatory spare set of clothing one packs for these little day trips.

  Afterward, I lay on the back seat of the Hummer beneath my blanket, waiting for the sun to rise and reflecting on pulling the trigger.

  Cruz woke me at dawn. I had slept for over two hours; he had slept not at all. Instead, he’d taken his flashlight, gone back down to the Treasure Room, and retrieved our gear. His PDA and cell phone had gone down with Greg.

  And he’d found the helicopter. It was set down in a clearing just west of Pyramid Three.

  “I’m honestly surprised we didn’t see it when we were descending the pyramid,” he told me.

  “Great,” I said. “That means you can fly us out of here, right?”

  “Sorry, no. But I did radio for help. The team may already be leaving Bonampak. I found food.”

  He held out a Snickers bar and a bag of Corn Nuts. I took the Snickers. Stress always makes me crave chocolate and peanuts.

  “You can’t fly a helicopter?”

  “Alas, that is not among my copious talents.”

  He sat down on the seat next to me, intent on opening the bag of Corn Nuts.

  “No, really. You’re kidding me, right? I mean, journalist, archaeologist, paramedic, bodyguard, Boy Scout—no helicopter pilot?”

  “You’re feeling much better.”

  I smiled. “Yeah, I guess I am.” I munched on the chocolaty treat for a moment. “Greg . . . he’s . . .”

  “Dead, I’m afraid. I could see his body with the flashlight. I saw no way to reach it. When help comes . . .”

  I nodded. “So . . . Cross Sacred True, did you ever get any cute nicknames in school?”

  He crunched a handful of kernels. “In Mexico, no nicknames. In the U.S. during my postgrad work, ‘Cruiser,’ ‘Sacra-tomato,’ ‘Sacre Bleu,’ ‘Right-Cross.’ Stuff like that. Nothing as musical as ‘Tinkerbell’ or as whimsical as ‘Tink.’”

  “Whimsical? Is that what you call it?”

  “People give and use nicknames because they either like you very much, or dislike you very much. I doubt the boy who gave you that name disliked you. And I’m damn sure the friends who use it now like you very much.”

  He didn’t give me any time to get all bashful on him, but reached into his pocket and took out my much-abused cell phone. It didn’t look good. He pulled off the back panels and peered at the innards. “You know if I had the right tools, I might be able to fix this. Hell, if I even had a stout piece of wire . . .”

  “Like this one?” I fished my once-lucky Caddie wire out of my shirt pocket. (Yes, I know the fact that I continually move it from one set of clothes to another is telling.)

  “Exactly like that one. You never cease to amaze me. Is there anything you don’t have in your pockets?”

  “A ring of power? A three-course meal? A big, tall frosty glass of milk to go with my candy bar?”

  “It was a rhetorical question.”

  I shut up and watched him put the Caddie wire to good use. Perhaps there was still some luck in it after all.

  Chapter 25<
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  A God’s-Eye View

  They caught up with Revez in Palenque as he was prepping his helicopter for a trip to parts unknown. He gave up quickly and easily, his attitude—or so I was told—was one of obvious relief. I didn’t doubt it. He was probably imagining what would happen to him if he chose the wrong place to hide out and his old buddy Mario decided to look him up for old times’ sake.

  Nor was it difficult to get him to roll over on his “associates”—collectors and warlords alike, although I didn’t expect anything earthshaking would happen to Mario Torres—other than him having to find another way of financing his little war. If the Mexican government had the wherewithal or maybe the desire to deal with him, they would have already done it. On the other hand, the collectors Felipe had been supplying with pretty baubles were forced to cough them up. The INAH was ecstatic.

  Revez also pointed the NPS at his two remaining operatives—both American citizens—and confirmed Greg’s connection to Ted Bridges, if obliquely. Bridges, he said, had bragged of having a “pet” NPS agent.

  Greg’s worldly goods and financial records were a bit less revealing. There was an unusual and steady influx of money to a bank account he held under an assumed name in a separate institution from his normal transactions. As he’d said, the deposits from his netherworldly connections outweighed his paychecks about two-to-one.

  But he had been careful, as had his contacts at Sommers.

  Take phone numbers for example: his phone records revealed calls to several disposable cell phones (virtually untraceable), and to an extension in a supply warehouse that was only loosely associated with Sommers (and with a host of other customers) and which had not been assigned to an employee since a round of layoffs the previous year.

  His computer files were equally tidy. The only corroboration for what he’d told us in the King’s Treasure Room came in the form of a single email from a now-defunct address that indicated he had fallen out of favor with his client (who had dealt with him in “good faith” according to the message), and would find it in his best interests to do everything necessary to redeem himself.