Ruins

by Kevin J. Anderson

  At the edge of the ball court stood a glyph-adorned stela, a stone monolith used by the Maya to record their calendar, their conquests, their religion. A third shadow separated from the side of the stela, slithering toward him.

  Pepe slashed his father’s machete in the air, hoping the threat would frighten the creatures off. Instead, they came at him faster.

  The high, thin clouds drifted apart, and the moonlight returned, spilling details into the murk of the excavated plaza. Pepe’s heart pounded, and he gasped his amazement in the ancient language his mother and father had spoken. In the plaza before him, he saw monsters that emerged from the myths and legends he had heard since he was a boy.

  The feathered serpents moved with the speed of dancing lightning—larger than crocodiles but with a power and intelligence that surpassed any other predator. They came at him from three sides, stalking, confident.

  “Kukulkan!” he cried. “Kukulkan, protect me!”

  The three feathered serpents hissed with the sound of water spattered on fire. They reared up, flashing long fangs as sharp as any sacrificial knife.

  With bright clarity Pepe knew what he had to do.

  In awe even greater than his terror, Pepe used the edge of his machete to slash open his arm, feeling the warm gush of blood, yet experiencing no pain whatsoever. He extended his arm, offering them his blood as a sacrifice, hoping to appease the benevolent Kukulkan’s servants with what he knew of the ancient rituals, the old religion.

  But instead of satisfying them, the scent of the fresh warm wetness drove the creatures into a frenzy. The feathered serpents charged toward him with the sound of rushing water, crackling leaves. In the moonlight, feathered scales gleamed…bright teeth…long claws from vestigial limbs.

  Tonight, Pepe thought, the old gods would get their sacrifice. His machete dropped to the dirt. The feathered serpents fell upon him.

  8

  Cancún, Mexico

  Thursday, 4:21 P.M.

  With some amusement, Scully watched Mulder heave a sigh of relief as the crowd of partying senior citizens filed off the chartered airplane and ambled toward the baggage claim area and customs station in the Cancún airport. They waited by a row of stations where uniformed men took their tourist cards and stamped their passports, before turning them loose to retrieve their luggage.

  The man at the counter stamped Mulder’s passport and handed it back.

  “If I ever start wearing plaid pants, promise me you’ll stop me before I buy a ticket for the Love Boat,” Rubicon said, as if forcing a joke. “I’m never going to retire.”

  Dozens of people hawking tour packages swarmed among the tourists, stuffing brochures into every empty hand. After conquering their luggage, the senior citizens tour group descended upon the bus aisle outside and climbed aboard their specially chartered Luxury Coach like lost chickens being rounded up and ushered back to the coop. Young men—certainly not airport employees—bustled about to help with the baggage, hoping for a tip.

  Scully led the way through immigration to the baggage pickup area where they grabbed their luggage, passed through customs without incident, and went to find the courtesy van that would take them to their hotel. Though neither she nor Mulder spoke Spanish, nearly all signs and shops around them catered to English speakers. The moment any one of them looked confused, two or three Mexicans appeared, smiling warmly and offering their assistance. Rubicon made a show of employing his linguistic abilities to get directions and exchange their money. The old archaeologist seemed delighted to be useful as part of the expedition.

  On the way to the Caribbean Shores hotel, they rode in the small van with a newlywed couple who were entirely preoccupied with each other. The driver played brassy disco music on the car stereo; he hummed along, tapping his fingertips on the steering wheel, the dashboard, or his leg.

  Mulder sat next to Scully, flipping through a handful of colorful brochures the various tour representatives had forced upon him. “Listen to this, Scully,” he said. “Welcome to Cancún, ‘where the beautiful turquoise Caribbean Sea caresses the silky sand beaches.’ The waters are ‘filled with romantic coral reefs or mysterious and exciting sunken Spanish galleons.’ Somebody must have a good thesaurus to concoct those descriptions.”

  “Sounds charming,” she said, looking out the window at the bright sun, the vibrant colors. Thick trees lined both sides of the road. “At least this is better than an Arctic research station or an Arkansas chicken-processing plant.”

  He flipped through other pamphlets, including a map of the hotel zone, a narrow spit of land between the Caribbean Sea and Nichupte Lagoon. Bright letters proclaimed, “Nearly every room with an ocean view!”

  Rubicon sat with his duffel across his bony knees. He seemed either to be listening to the disco music or preoccupied with his own thoughts. His blue eyes blinked rapidly against a sheen of dampness. Scully’s heart went out to him.

  The van driver honked his horn and muttered curses in Spanish as he swerved to avoid an ersatz old-fashioned motorized buggy that took up more than its lane in the road down into the hotel zone. The laughing American driver of the buggy waved and then honked his horn in return, a loud cartoonish ahooogah. The driver of the van forced a smile at the tourists and waved back, then cursed again under his breath.

  In the back of the van, the newlywed couple giggled and continued kissing.

  Rubicon held on to the half-glasses hanging from a chain on his neck and turned to Mulder. “One of the hotels even brags about the golf course they designed so that the ninth hole is constructed around the ruins of a small Maya temple.” His astonished-looking eyes now carried a look of weariness and dismay.

  “It’s sad that they should be allowed to do that,” he said. “They’ve exploited their history and culture, cheapened it. You should see the Hollywood-style extravaganza at Chichén Itzá. They charge a lot of money for their ‘spectacular temple show’ with lights and sounds, multicolored spotlights blazing across the pyramids every night, cheesy folk dances by professional actors wearing plastic feathered capes and gaudy costumes. The drumbeats pound out through stereo systems.”

  The scorn in the old archaeologist’s voice surprised Scully. Rubicon gave a defeated sigh. “The Spanish Conquistadors were only the first devastating invasion of the Yucatán—next came the tourists.” He forced a smile. “At least some of the tourism income goes toward funding restoration of the archaeological sites…like Xitaclan.”

  Their stucco-faced hotel boasted modern construction with a pseudo-Aztec design, gleaming windows, sun decks with palm-thatched umbrellas, and direct beach access. The curling waves were as jewel-tone blue and the sand as powdery white as the brochures had promised. They sent their bags off with the bellman while Mulder and Scully waited in line to check in.

  Rubicon murmured to himself, taking out his handwritten notes, anxious to make phone calls and track down potential guides for their expedition deep into the jungles. He did not want to waste a moment in the search for his daughter. The old archaeologist wandered around the lobby, looking at cast-plaster jaguar sculptures, bogus bas-reliefs, and stylized Maya glyphs.

  “Welcome to the Caribbean Shores Resort!” The desk clerk handed them room keys and cheerily began his memorized spiel of the evening’s planned events. “Señorita, you cannot pass up your chance to go on a fun-filled party boat for an evening dinner cruise.” He waggled his eyebrows.

  Scully shook her head politely. “No, thank you. We’re here for business, not pleasure.”

  “Ah, but there is always time for pleasure,” he said. “We have a fine selection of lobster cruises or disco boats, even an adventure with the real pirates of the Caribbean.” He continued to sound hopeful.

  “Thank you, but I still have to say no.” Scully took the keys and turned away.

  The clerk called after them one last time. “Señor, surely you cannot pass up our famous limbo party tonight.”

  Mulder took Scully’s arm and leaned close
, whispering in her ear, “The limbo could qualify as calisthenics for the Bureau’s physical fitness requirement.”

  Scully glanced over at the old archaeologist. “Let’s hold off on the vacation until we find Cassandra Rubicon.”

  After showering and changing, they met in one of the hotel restaurants for dinner. The maitre d’ showed Mulder and Scully to a table with a centerpiece of tropical flowers that showered the air with heady perfume. While the waiter held the chair for Scully, Mulder sat down. He glanced at his watch, knowing that Rubicon would join them at any moment.

  Mulder had dressed down in a comfortable cotton shirt and slacks, leaving his usual suit and tie behind. Scully finally noticed his change of outfit and raised her eyebrows, hiding a small smile. “I see you’re already getting into the casual Mexican spirit,” she said.

  “It’s the Caribbean,” he answered. “We’re supposed to be undercover, so we ought to look like tourists, not FBI agents.”

  Unbidden, another server brought them each a lime-laden margarita, the glass rims crusted with salt. Scully settled down to study the menu, a mouthwatering list of local fare—fresh lobster, lemon-and-cilantro grouper, chicken with spicy chocolate molé sauce. Mulder sipped his margarita, smiled, then took another drink. “Love those ancient Mayan beverages,” he said.

  Scully set her menu down. “I called the consulate to check in. The Bureau has filed all the appropriate clearances and notified local law enforcement, but apparently they weren’t too helpful. So the next step is up to us.”

  “As soon as we figure out what the next step is,” Mulder said. “I think we can rent a car and drive toward the area where the team disappeared. Maybe we can find a guide to take us through the jungles.”

  Before Rubicon even arrived, the waiter came by to take their order. Mulder was famished after eating only snacks on the charter plane from Miami. He chose chicken cooked with bananas and a side dish of lime-and-chile-pepper soup, while Scully ordered fish marinated in annato-seed sauce and baked in banana leaves—supposedly a Yucatán specialty.

  Scully opened her briefcase and drew out a folder. “I’ve been going over the background information we have on the members of the archaeological expedition,” she said, “the other missing American citizens. You never know where we might find a lead.”

  She spread the folder and took out several dossiers on the UC–San Diego grad students, along with photographs. She held up the first one. “In addition to Cassandra Rubicon, another archaeologist was instrumental in getting this team put together: Kelly Rowan, twenty-six years old, six feet two inches, athletic, an honor student with a specialty in pre-Colombian art. According to his course advisors he had nearly finished writing a thesis that traced the connections in Central American mythologies between key stories of the Mayans, Olmecs, Toltecs, and Aztecs.” She passed the paper over to Mulder, and he picked it up to study it.

  “John Forbin, the youngest of the group, twenty-three, first-year graduate student. Apparently he planned to be an architect and structural engineer. According to this, he was chiefly interested in primitive methods of large-scale construction, such as the Central American pyramids. It seems likely that Cassandra Rubicon took him along to suggest methods for restoring the fallen buildings.” She passed the paper over.

  “Next, Christopher Porte, from all reports a well-respected…epigrapher. Are you familiar with that term?”

  “Just from what I’ve read recently,” Mulder answered. “It’s someone who specializes in translating codes and glyphs. Much of the Maya written language is still unknown and is very context sensitive.”

  “So they brought Christopher along to translate any hieroglyphics they found,” Scully said, then shuffled to the last piece of paper. “And finally, Caitlin Barron, their historian and photographer. Also an aspiring artist. It says here Ms. Barron has even held a few minor exhibitions of her watercolor work in one of San Diego’s student art galleries.”

  She handed Mulder the photographs, and he glanced at each one in turn. Then, checking his watch again, Mulder scanned the room just in time to see Rubicon at the entrance to the dining room, newly shaven and dressed in an evening jacket. Most of the other patrons of the restaurant wore shorts, sandals, and loud shirts. Mulder held up a hand to catch his attention, and the old archaeologist came over, walking as if already exhausted.

  The waiter hovered beside Rubicon as he took the empty seat at the table. He ignored the margarita the waiter placed at his right elbow.

  “No luck,” Rubicon said. “I’ve called all the contacts I still have. Of course, some of them in the outlying areas don’t have ready access to telephone service, but the ones in Cancún and Mérida were unavailable. One is retired. I tried to talk him into accompanying me for one last field expedition, uh, until I found out he’s confined to a wheelchair. Another of my old friends—a man who saved my life during an expedition in 1981—has been killed in some sort of drug-related shooting. I set his wife to weeping when I asked for him.” Rubicon cleared his throat. “I had no luck reaching the three others.”

  “Well,” Mulder said, “we may be forced to rely on our own ingenuity to find someone who can take us to the site. It’s a long drive just to get to the right geographical area.”

  Rubicon slouched back in his chair and pushed the menu aside. “There’s one other possibility,” he said. “In the last postcard I received from Cassandra, she mentioned a man who had helped her. A local named Fernando Victorio Aguilar. I have tracked down someone with that name and left a message, uh, that we are interested in being guided into the jungles. The man who answered the telephone seemed to think Señor Aguilar might be willing to help us. If so, I hope we can connect with him either tonight or tomorrow.”

  He threaded his fingers together and squeezed his hands as if trying to massage arthritis out of his knuckles. “Sitting around at some glitzy tourist resort makes me feel so helpless…so guilty, not knowing what my Cassandra could be going through at this very moment.”

  Mulder’s and Scully’s meals came, breaking the mood. Rubicon quickly chose a selection of his own from the menu and sent the waiter off.

  Looking at the forlorn expression on the old man’s face, Mulder remembered the days after Samantha had disappeared. Though he had teased her mercilessly—as any brother teases a sister—he had longed for her, desperately trying to think of what he could do to help, how he could find her. He took it as his personal responsibility, since he had been with her when she disappeared. If only he had done something different on that night. If only he had faced the bright light….

  As a twelve-year-old boy he had limited resources but endless drive, a drive that had stayed with him all his life. He remembered riding his bike around the hometown neighborhood of Chilmark, Massachusetts—population 650—ringing doorbells, asking everyone if they had seen Samantha. He knew deep in his heart, though, that no simple explanation could possibly account for what he had seen.

  He had worked for days, making “Missing” posters that described his sister, begging for information as if he were putting up notices for a lost dog. And that had been in the days before accessible photocopy machines, so he had handwritten each one individually with a black marker, the pungent fumes of the solvent drifting up into his nose and making him sniffle even more than he already had for his lost sister. He had taped up his paper notices on store windows, tacked them to utility poles and bus stop signs.

  But no one had ever called except to offer sympathy.

  His mother had been devastated by her grief, incoherent with tears, while his father remained stony and stoic through it all. Possibly, Mulder now knew, because his father had had some dark knowledge about what had really happened. His father had been given some warning, had known something regarding Samantha’s danger—and he had done nothing.

  For years now Mulder had seen an echo of Samantha in every little dark-haired girl. She had disappeared long before the days of the “Have You Seen Me?” pictures of mi
ssing children on milk cartons or bulk-mail flyers. All Mulder’s efforts to put up posters or knock on doors had ultimately been useless, helping not in the least. But he’d felt he had to do something. It had been his mission.

  Now he watched Vladimir Rubicon going through a similar process, coming to the Yucatán, calling his old contacts, insisting on accompanying the FBI agents on their investigation.

  “We’ll find her,” Mulder said, reaching across the table, forcing confidence into his voice. In the back of his mind he again saw an image of his sister being dragged off into the light.

  Mulder looked into Rubicon’s eyes. “We’ll find her.”

  But he wasn’t sure to whom exactly he was making his promise.

  9

  Caribbean Shores Resort, Cancún

  Thursday, 9:11 P.M.

  Scully had just settled in for the evening, satisfied from a delicious meal and finally comfortable after removing her shoes and panty hose. Knowing the lack of amenities and jungle hardships they were bound to encounter in the coming days en route to Xitaclan, she planned to get a good rest.

  Her hotel room displayed a colorful, if typical, painting of a sunrise over the Caribbean, complete with calm surf and silhouetted palm fronds. Her private balcony looked out over the powdery white beach and the ocean. She smelled the evening salty breeze, listened to the rumble of the waves, and watched couples stroll along the sand beneath bright electric torches posted above the tide line. The thought of swimming and relaxing sounded wonderful—but she reminded herself that they were here on a case.

  With a weary sigh, Scully flopped back onto the bed without turning down the sheets, hoping that the moment of peace would last for more than two minutes.

  The pounding on her door was sharp and strident, like cannon blasts from a warring Spanish galleon.