A shout was heard from the near distance. The two-man search party returned. They were straining as they lugged the large, heavy trunk with them. They plopped it down on the ground in front of the leader's horse.
“You withheld this?” the leader asked, as he stared at Walt in anger and disbelief. “Are you stupid, or insane? Did you not believe me when I cautioned you not to hold anything back?”
“I didn't hide that,” Walt protested. “It wasn't in either of the vans. I emptied them out.”
The leader turned to the men who had found the trunk. “Where was it?”
“A few meters off the road, jefe,” one of them replied. “Hidden in the jungle.”
Walt threw up his hands. “I don't know anything about that,” he vowed. “I brought up everything that was there. Everything I saw that was there,” he amended.
The leader pointed his rifle at Walt. “I warned you what would happen if you held out on us.” His voice was shaking, he was so enraged.
Gasps rose from the students. Jocelyn put a quivering hand on Walt's arm.
Walt stood his ground. “If you want to shoot me, that's up to you,” he told the leader, trying to keep the fear tremor from his voice. “But I'm not that dumb, for Godsakes. I certainly wouldn't try to hide something that big.” He hoped the lies wouldn't sound as bad to his captor's ears as they did to him.
“You were trying to cheat me,” the leader spat at him, his voice thick with anger. “But you are lucky—I do not have time to kill you now, or I would.” He looked up at the threatening sky. “Give me the key to this,” he ordered Walt.
“I don't have it. You took it. It's in one of your bags.”
The leader cursed. He signaled to one of his men who was standing on the ground. “Shoot the lock off,” he ordered.
The young bandit aimed his rifle at the lock and fired. The explosion rocked the jungle, echoing up past the black trees that stood like sentries. Cries of birds and animals erupted, and flocks of birds took flight into the dark foreboding sky.
“Open it,” the leader said.
The young bandido swung the top open. Handing his rifle and reins to the rider next to him, the leader climbed down off his horse and started pulling things out. Walt watched with a building sense of dread as the bandido chieftain took out his computer and other research instruments and carelessly flung them aside.
He's going to find the artifacts I'm taking out of the country, Walt thought as he watched his personal things being tossed about, and he's going to think they were stolen, just as Jocelyn had predicted. He glanced over at her. She was looking at the ground and shaking her head back and forth with a look of absolute despair on her face. He reached into his pocket for the papers that certified the legality for him to have the artifacts. Let's hope this sonofabitch can read, he prayed. And that he doesn't shoot first and ask questions afterward.
The bandit leader pulled out a package that had been securely bound up in bubble wrap and tape. Pulling the tape off, he unwound the bubble wrap and looked at the object in his hands. It was a fragment of stela on which was enscribed a drawing depicting a battle, which would assist Walt in deciphering the dynamics of the ruling situation at the height of La Chimenea's power in the Maya pantheon. He turned the piece over in his hands, staring at it intently. Then he looked at Walt.
“Why do you have this?” he asked. “Is this not from the site you are working on?”
“Yes, it is,” Walt answered quickly.
“You are stealing from the site?” the leader continued, his voice rising like a volcano about to erupt. “You are stealing our culture?”
Walt shook his head vehemently. “No, no, no, I'm not. Absolutely not.” He reached into his vest pocket. “I have documents explaining that it is legal for me to remove them, for scientific study. They are signed by the Minister of Archaeology and Culture.” He pulled the papers out of his pocket. “Here. Look at them, please.” His hand was shaking as he held the papers out. “You will see I have nothing to hide.”
The leader stared at him, then at the papers in his hand. “Papers mean nothing,” he said. “Anyone can forge papers. It is done all the time.”
“These aren't forgeries,” Walt answered. This was what Jocelyn had so presciently been frightened about.
“They have the government seal. Here, please.” He extended his hand again. “Look at them.”
The leader hesitated—then he walked over to the turncoat who had worked at La Chimenea with Walt, and showed him the fragment. The other looked at it quickly, then shook his head. He handed it back to the leader, and spoke to him in a low, urgent voice.
Walt strained to hear the conversation between the two. The leader listened intently.
“These papers. Let me see them,” he commanded Walt.
“Absolutely.” Walt took the documents out of the envelope he had placed them in. The papers shook in his hands. Holding one up, he told the leader, “Here is the document for that object you have in your hands.” He turned it around so the leader could look at it in the dim light. “You see the seal of the government?” Walt asked. “And look here—see, there's a picture of it. I have documents for all the artifacts I'm taking.”
The leader squinted as he looked at the document in the low light. A flash of lightning momentarily lit up the area, and he turned his look skyward in alarm. The thunder came almost on top of the flash. Any moment now, Walt knew, the rains are going to come, and they're going to come hard.
The leader looked at the papers in Walt's hand again and frowned, as if confused. Carrying the papers, he walked over to the turncoat archaeologist again. They looked at them together. The turncoat shook his head, and pointed at the trunk.
The leader crossed back to the trunk, reached in, and withdrew a second carefully wrapped package. He peeled the bubble wrap from it, and held it up.
The object in his hands was a jade statue, over a foot high. It was trimmed in gold and other precious metals, and was exquisitely carved. He turned it over and over, staring at it.
Walt was paralyzed as he looked at the statue. Oh shit!, was all he could think.
“And this,” the leader asked him, fracturing his thoughts. “Do you have papers for this?”
He carefully placed the statue back in the trunk, yanked out another wrapped object, pulled the plastic off. It was another jade figurine, this one of a ruler or a warrior of the elite class. Like the first one, it, too, was beautifully carved.
“And this,” the leader asked. He took some menacing steps toward Walt. “Where are your papers for this?” he demanded.
Walt's mouth had turned to cotton. He swallowed some spit so he could speak. “I … don't have them,” he managed to say.
“Because they are stolen,” the leader said. He stared at Walt with a look of absolute rage.
“No,” Walt protested. “I swear to God. I don't know …”
Before he could get any more words out, the leader turned his back on him. Carefully, he placed the jade figures back into the trunk. Slamming the lid shut, he climbed back onto his horse and took his rifle. “Lash this onto the pack animal,” he commanded his men.
The bandidos on the ground struggled to get the heavy trunk onto one of the pack horses. They tied it to the animal's packsaddle with lengths of rope. It balanced precariously on the horse's back.
The leader looked down at Walt from his perch atop his own horse. “You are lucky that today is not your day in die, because you have given me ample reason to kill you. But I will not, because I am not an animal or a thief, like you.” He looked at Walt's trunk on his packhorse. “What is in here is more important to me than your miserable life.”
Placing two fingers in his mouth, he whistled loudly. The others mounted up. He started to wheel his horse around, to lead his men and their bounty back into the darkness.
A flash of lightning lit up the sky, directly over their heads. It struck a huge mahogany tree, setting it ablaze in a huge fireball, lighting up t
he area like spotlights ringing a football field. A deafening crack of thunder as loud as a volley of cannon fire exploded on top of it.
The horses reared and bucked, whinnying in fright. Their riders fought to stay on, jerking at the reins and grabbing the pommels of their saddles.
Only two people didn't flinch from the light and sound. Walt's antagonist's eyes didn't leave Walt's face, nor did Walt's leave his.
You did this, Walt thought. You set it all up. My God.
The turncoat raised his rifle.
Another bolt of lightning came down, right on top of them. A booming clap of thunder, louder than any they had yet heard, was instantly behind it. The turncoat's horse reared up as the man fired, the bullet discharging over their heads into the dark sky.
“Get off the road!” Walt screamed. “Run!”
It was as if he had thrown a grenade into their midst. Everyone bolted, scattering into the jungle. Walt could feel Jocelyn, pressed up next to him. He pushed her away, toward the safety of the trees.
Another blast of rifle shot exploded over the roar of the rolling thunder above their heads. Before the echo had stopped reverberating, the bandits had galloped away, vanishing into the jungle.
PART TWO
MADISON, WISCONSIN
Only Walt, his three sons—Clancy, the oldest, Tom, the middle brother, Will, the youngest, and Clancy's fiancée, Callie Jorgensen—were at the cremation. As Jocelyn had been an only child, and her parents, Steve and Mary Murphy, had long since passed away, no one from her side of the family was present to witness her body being returned to ash.
Getting Jocelyn's body back to the States had been a lengthy and excruciating ordeal. The government had insisted on conducting an official inquiry. Walt had spent several days in the capital answering questions from the state attorney for the National Police about the events of the night she was killed as well as those occurring on the days before they left La Chimenea.
The line of questioning was insulting and aggravating in the extreme. It was implied that he was somehow complicit in her death, a veiled allegation that he found outrageous, and which he protested in strong, angry language. He had debated over whether to tell them that the local archaeologist he had tried to fire had not only been one of the bandidos, but the very man who killed Jocelyn; but he knew that if he did, it would be like setting a match to a pool of oil. The stolen artifacts (which the police knew nothing about, thankfully), had been in his trunk, he couldn't refute that. He would have to explain where they had come from and what he had known about them, which would have put him under even more suspicion. He also knew the Minister of Archaeology and Culture would be outraged by the accusation that a man he supported had been involved in the killing, because that would have implicated him by association, which would have buried Walt's further association with La Chimenea. So he kept quiet about it.
He was there for more than a week before they let him leave with Jocelyn's remains. He departed with a sour taste in his mouth and an anguished heart.
The commemorative service was held the day after the cremation at the university chapel, which looked like an arboretum, so many wreaths had been sent. It was a lovely late-summer's morning, sunny and not too hot, but the splendor went unnoticed—everyone was in too much pain to appreciate beauty. Twice as many mourners were in attendance as the chapel could hold; the throng overflowed into the vestibule and the steps outside. Jocelyn and Walt were beloved in the university community. Jocelyn, in particular, had been adored by the younger members of the faculty, for whom she had been their den mother, their grown-up shoulder to cry on. Her killing had been a shock to their tightly knit community; even now, a week after they'd all heard the horrible news, people were walking around like zombies, expressions of stunned disbelief on their faces.
Grace Esposito, a university chaplain and one of Jocelyn's close friends, conducted the service.
“That this wonderful, exceptional woman was cut down in the prime of her life is an unspeakable tragedy,” Pastor Esposito began, standing at the altar. “But we're not going to dwell on that today, because that's not what Jocelyn Murphy Gaines was about. Jocelyn was about life, about living every single day to its fullest. She was about being a wonderful wife to Walt, a wonderful mother to her sons, a wonderful teacher to hundreds of her students. She was a wonderful woman, and a wonderful friend. That's why all of you are here today: to honor her, and to honor your friendship and love with her, and for her. To support Walt and Clancy and Tom and Will. And to remember all the good times, and all of Jocelyn's good works. And most of all, to remember all the love she brought into the world. Physical love, moral love, sensual love, emotional love. She had all of those elements of love in abundance, and she spread her love everywhere, to everyone.”
Seated in the first row between his sons Walt sagged, his head dropping almost to his lap. He was drained. He looked like he had aged five years in one week.
Clancy put an arm on his father's shoulder, hugged him tight. “You gonna get through this okay, dad?”
Walt nodded. He forced himself to breathe in and out. Callie, next to Clancy, squeezed Clancy's thigh. He put his hand on hers.
The minister opened her Bible.
“Jocelyn and Walt weren't members of my church,” she said. “They weren't observers in any traditional sense.” She smiled. “I think the reason Jocelyn came to service once in a while was because of her friendship with me, and her support of me. But that's okay, because her reason for being here came from the heart, not from any sense of duty, or obligation.”
She turned to a page she'd earmarked.
“I'm not going to read any references to death this morning. Jocelyn would have hated that. I've chosen two short passages from the writings of Solomon, the most earthy and sensual of all the biblical authors. I think these two brief excerpts say much about Jocelyn.”
She adjusted her reading glasses. “The first is from Proverbs, entitled ‘The True Wealth.’ ‘Happy are those who find wisdom, and those who get understanding, for her income is better than silver, and her revenue better than gold. She is more precious than jewels, and nothing you desire can compare with her. Long life is her right hand; in her left hand are riches and honor. Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace. She is a tree of life to those who lay hold of her; those who hold her fast are called happy.’”
She looked up. “Long life, of course, is a relative term. When these words were written, fifty years, which was how long Jocelyn lived, was a ripe age. Today, that's not so. But if you measure longevity by how much you put into life and how much you get out of it, then Jocelyn lived a very long life indeed. For the rest of it, it's as if Solomon had Jocelyn in his mind when he wrote those beautiful words.”
She thumbed through a few pages. “The second offering is from ‘The Song of Songs.’ It speaks so well, so perfectly, I think, about how Jocelyn and Walt felt for each other.” She looked down at Walt. “I know these are such terrible times, Walt. That anything I can say right now, or that any of us can say, cannot assuage the grief you and your sons are feeling. Just know that we are there for you as much as we can be, and that you all are truly loved.”
Walt looked back at her, and nodded. “Thank you,” he mouthed silently.
On either side of him, his sons pressed in, holding him up.
The minister turned to her Bible again. “This section is called ‘Homecoming.’
“’Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm; love is strong as death, passion fierce as the grave. Its flashes are flashes of fire, a raging flame. Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it. If one offered for love all the wealth of one's house, it would be utterly scorned.’”
She looked out at the congregation again. “The love that Walt and Jocelyn had for each other is stronger than anything, even death. Death comes to us all, eventually. But love like theirs goes on forever, in this world, and beyond. It is an inspiration to us all, as
they always were and forever will be.”
People were jammed together in the house. They spilled out of the rooms into the garden out back. Jocelyn had taken great pride in her garden. It was riotous with flowers; not in neat, orderly rows, but with a wild discipline, the way she'd lived her life.
Walt stood in the middle of the living room, receiving the mourners. Each son had staked out his own area of the room, to enable the mourners to spread out and easily talk with each one.
Callie was keeping close tabs on her future father-in-law. He was holding up better than he'd done at the church; there was a calm about him, almost a transcendence. He was drinking vodka and orange juice in a tall glass filled with ice. Callie had fixed his drink—not so much alcohol that he would lose control, but enough that a bit of the edge of despondency would be taken off.
She moved about the room, acting the hostess as best she could. For a moment she turned away from Walt to get the dean of the college a glass of wine, and when she looked back again she saw that Walt was talking to a woman, someone she didn't know, a thin, dark-blonde in her early thirties with an elusive quality about her. She looked like she would be more at home on Fifth Avenue, in New York, than in a small city in Wisconsin, even one as cultured and progressive as Madison.
The woman turned. She saw Callie looking at her, and gave her the faintest of smiles. Turning away, she said something low to Walt, who also looked at Callie, then replied to the woman in an equally low voice. She placed a comforting hand on Walt's for a moment, then moved away.
Clancy was suddenly at Callie's side. “Everything okay?” he asked.
“Everything's fine,” she assured him. “Under the circumstances. Do you know that woman who was just talking to your dad?”
‘The one with her hair in a French twist?”
She nodded.
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