“I told you not to come,” Rodrigo said in a soft, slurred voice.
“And I told you I was coming anyway.”
Hunter palmed two hundred-dollar bills and gave them to Rodrigo under the table.
“If your info is useful, there’s more,” Hunter said.
“That’s why I’m here, for now. I’m flying out tonight. Adios, Yucatan. I’ll come back when the crazies go away.”
“What’s with the shrine in the back corner?” Hunter asked.
Rodrigo stared at the dark blue tequila bottle lying on its side. “Ask the crazies.”
“You’re the one I’m talking to.” And you’re the one I just laid two bills on.
Rodrigo looked up from the bottle. Even in the gloom, his eyes were red. “All the old demons are coming out of the jungle. All those old stories people don’t believe until they see the blood and then they believe or die.”
“Narcos?” Hunter asked.
The other man slowly shook his head. Gloomy light slid like oil over his ragged beard, which looked more accidental than a deliberate statement of manhood.
“You really going to Tulum like you said yesterday?” Rodrigo asked.
“Why?”
“Bad shit going down there. Worse than here.”
“Who’s behind it?” Hunter asked.
“Dead men don’t talk. I’m playing dead.”
“For two bills, get a little life.”
Hunter watched Lina from the corner of his eye. She was chatting with the waitress. Both women were animated, smiling. Lina lit up the room like a fire, but the people who had watched her when she walked in were back to shoving food in their mouths.
Rodrigo stirred uneasily and stared back at the tequila bottle, a kind of pretense. If he didn’t meet Hunter’s eyes, he wasn’t really talking to him.
“There are fires at night,” the Mexican said. “Big fires in the jungles. People going missing. Parts of people showing up later.”
“Q Roo cartel? Narcos?”
Sighing, Rodrigo shook his head like he was mourning the empty tequila bottle. “Those temple sites outside of Tulum that I told you about? The ones that were gonna make me and my compadres rich?”
Hunter shrugged. Rodrigo and his buddies always had a get-rich plan. And he always ended up looking at the bottom of a tequila bottle in some dive.
“Yeah. So?” Hunter asked.
“They are all dead. Hearts cut out, blue palm prints on their bodies. They were cut up, man. Cut. Up.”
For the first time, Hunter realized that Rodrigo’s numb stare came from more than tequila. He had the shell-shocked look of a man fresh from a bloody battle.
“You sure they didn’t just cross the wrong narcos?” Hunter asked very softly.
He didn’t need to glance around to discover if anyone was listening. He’d been checking since the instant he sat down. So far, all the patrons were more interested in chow than nearby chat.
“When the cartels kill,” Rodrigo said, head down, in a voice too low to for anyone but Hunter to hear, “they either hang the body from a bridge or shove it into a mine shaft or a mass grave.”
Hunter nodded.
“But not these bodies,” Rodrigo said, a sheen of terror coating his eyes and throat. “My compadres were prepared with great care, in the old way.”
“Sacrificed?” Hunter asked very softly, remembering a filthy Houston basement.
Rodrigo looked up. “If you go to Tulum, you keep away from the temples. You stay in the town. You don’t stand near nobody you don’t know like your own cock. Then you watch the skies and the jungle and your back. Death is out there. A hard death.”
Hunter palmed another Ben, put his hand on the table so that only Rodrigo could see the money. “You hear of anyone called El Maya?”
Rodrigo wanted the money enough to sweat, but he shook his head. “I don’t hear nothing.”
For a moment Hunter thought of pushing hard. But he’d known Rodrigo long enough to know when he would talk and when he wouldn’t. Apparently the subject of El Maya was taboo here as well as in Padre.
Yet it wasn’t a name in his uncles’ files. Since most narco types thrived on notoriety, the usual sources of information were coming up dry.
“What else can you tell me about Tulum?” Hunter asked finally.
Rodrigo took the bill and sagged back in his chair, looking haunted. “You ought to talk to that pretty lady so lonesome a few tables over. The one you came in just behind. She has that Tulum look about her. The eyes. See the regal shape? And the cheekbones. She’s a queen among peasants.”
“You’re drunk.”
Abruptly Rodrigo’s eyes sharpened, making Hunter wonder if he’d really worked his way through a bottle of tequila after all.
“You believe what you want to,” Rodrigo said clearly yet very softly. “Maybe I see you again sometime. Maybe you die on the twenty-first. Bet you wish you believed me then.”
“Did your buddies get anything out of the temple sites?”
“A hard way to die.”
“No artifacts?”
“Not a peso,” Rodrigo said bitterly. “That’s why I waited for you. Need money to fly. Another three, and you can have my pistol. Clip is full.”
“Two. If I like what I see, and you throw in your boot knife, I’ll give you another hundred.”
Rodrigo started to protest, then decided he wanted money more than an argument. He reached beneath his loose shirt and pulled out a flat black pistol, square and chunky. He passed it under the table to Hunter.
A casual look, plus the feel of the gun itself, was all it took for Hunter to know what was for sale.
H and K Mark 23, SOCOM variant. Nice piece.
“Is it hot?” he asked quietly.
Rodrigo gave a liquid shrug. “Isn’t it always? But I never fired it. I never had a chance to. They were dead when I got there.”
Under the table, the pistol and another hundred changed hands. Hunter concealed the weapon the same way Rodrigo had, under his shirt at the small of his back. The gun felt hard, heavy with potential death. Slowly Hunter’s body adjusted to the presence of the weapon. It wasn’t the first time he’d worn gunmetal under his shirt, but he’d never learned to like it.
“Knife,” Hunter said softly.
Rodrigo bent, pulled the knife out of its boot sheath, and gave it to Hunter. A flick of his thumb tested the edge. Clean, hard, sharp. Hunter passed over another hundred.
“Two hundred more if you talk about El Maya,” Hunter said very softly.
“If you get out now,” Rodrigo said, “I’ll see you again.”
“Three hundred.”
“Vaya con Dios.”
With that, Rodrigo stood and walked out the back door, staggering just enough to make any watchers believe he’d been drinking hard.
No one looked up as he passed. No one seemed to care.
After a few more minutes of watching, Hunter went to Lina’s table.
“Your ‘friend’ is a drunk,” Lina said.
“That’s what he wants you to think,” Hunter said softly as he sat near her. “You try to roll him, you get a nasty surprise. Being tricky is how he survives.”
The waitress came over and put down a huge bowl of pibil. Steam that smelled of lime and orange and pork rose up. Bowls of corn tortillas and various condiments followed. She put plates and silverware along one edge of the table, smiled, and left.
Lina took a big bite of pibil and looked around as she chewed.
“See anyone you know?” he asked. “Tulum isn’t that far away.”
“No. I just can tell by the faces that I’m in the Yucatan. Undoubtedly, our workers have relatives here, but I don’t know them by name.”
“But they could know you.”
“Recognize me, yes,” Lina said. “Knowing me is a lot different.”
“How does your neck feel?”
“Calm,” she said, licking up a stray bit of spicy sauce.
�
�Let me know when that changes.” He looked at the piles of food. “You mind sharing?”
“I was thinking of you when I ordered. The sauce in the green bowl will eat through steel. You should love it.”
Hunter smiled and went to work. He ate with excellent manners, and quickly enough so that if something interrupted the meal, he wouldn’t leave the table hungry. After a few minutes, he looked up. Lina was watching him, smiling in a way that said she liked seeing him enjoy the Yucatec food she loved.
“You really do feel at home in Mexico,” she murmured.
“As long as I don’t have to eat the worms at the bottom of the mescal bottle.”
She laughed and relaxed.
Hunter ate and kept an eye on the patrons.
He didn’t want any nasty surprises. But so far, so good. The café was filled mostly with chattering people, laughter, and the occasional off-color toast from a table of five young men. Their clothes labeled them as workers, not narcos.
“Rodrigo called you a queen among peasants,” Hunter said.
“Now I know he was drunk.”
Hunter looked at Lina’s strong, high cheekbones and large, almost almond eyes. She had an extraordinary face. Haunting. Timeless.
“Rodrigo has seen more than his share of Maya ruins,” Hunter said. “He lives well over the line between angels and devils. If I hadn’t saved his life a few years back, he wouldn’t even talk to me now. He’s a hard man to frighten. Yet he’s running scared, heading for the airport and the hell away from Tulum.”
Lina paused just before she took a bite. “Why?”
“Some tomb robbers he knows got themselves killed.” He took a big bite and watched her.
She chewed, swallowed, prepared another bite. “If I don’t think of their families, I can say they had it coming.”
But her dark eyes said she was thinking of wives and children, parents and siblings and cousins who would have holes torn out of their lives.
“They died the old-fashioned way,” Hunter said, swallowing the pibil, which was as savory as it was nuclear. “As a sacrifice. Body paint, no hearts, sacred glyphs on the skin. You know of anyone local who might take ancient history a little too seriously?”
“There are many full-blooded Maya here,” Lina said. She really wanted to eat more, but wasn’t sure her stomach had room. “And out in the small villages…well, you saw the cross of corn and the like. Catholic sure, but only on Sundays. The rest of the time, they live with the gods of their ancestors.”
“All the Maya are pagans underneath?”
“No. They’re like every other people. When it comes to any religion, they have fanatics and unbelievers and everything in between. But as a rule, the closer the jungle, the closer the old gods.”
Hunter nodded. He’d noticed the same thing himself.
“What’s next?” Lina asked, giving up on the savory food.
“De la Poole. You sure you don’t want to call him?”
“I’d rather surprise him.”
“What if he isn’t there?” Hunter asked.
“Someone at the museum will know where he is.”
Without appearing to, Hunter took another look around the café. Nothing had changed. The locals might admire Lina’s royal looks, but they weren’t groupies.
“You finished?” he asked.
“Stuffed.”
He threw some money on the table. “Let’s go.”
They left the café and went to their rented Bronco. Hunter didn’t see anyone who cared. Lina’s neck didn’t itch.
“I’ll drive,” she said. “You check on Jase.”
Hunter didn’t argue. She knew the way better than he did.
The Cancun-Chetumal highway was two lanes of divided road in either direction. There was jungle crowding on both sides, giving only rare glimpses of the ocean that was close enough to taste as an underlying tang in the air pouring through the open windows.
Hunter changed chips in his phone and called Jase at the hospital. As he waited for the call to connect, he noticed a flash of color on the right. Another shrine overflowing with flowers and offerings of food and liquor. By the time he was put through to Jase’s room, a second shrine flashed by on the left.
To Hunter’s shock, Jase answered his own call.
“’Lo?”
“Jase, it’s me, Hunter. What are you doing answering the phone?”
“Enjoying being alive.” Jase’s words were a bit slow and slightly breathless, but otherwise strong. “’Sup?”
“I took Lina and ran south.”
“Good. Bullets hurt like a bitch.”
“Brubaker off your ass?” Hunter asked. He damn well better be.
“Off it? Hell, he’s kissing it. Dude’s rolling in artifacts.”
“What?”
“Got ’em all back and then some,” Jase said.
“Wait, are you telling me that the missing artifacts have been returned, obsidian mask and all?”
Lina shot Hunter a startled look, then went back to driving. But she kept listening real hard.
“Close enough for government work,” Jase said.
“Amigo, you’re not making sense. I’ll call later.”
Jase kept talking. “Snake’s lawyer delivered the box, from what I heard. Said he had a client with a dirty conscience. Now it’s clean.”
“Snakeman’s lawyer coughed up the artifacts?” Hunter asked in disbelief. “Did the lawyer say where the artifacts came from?”
“Janitor stole them to pay Snakeman a gambling bet.”
“Bullshit.”
“Yeah,” Jase said, “but it grows mighty fine roses. Even if they aren’t what you planted.”
Ali’s voice came in the background, talking to the nurse. It was time for Jase’s pain shot.
“Give it to me while I’m on the phone,” Jase said.
Hunter knew he’d have to talk fast. Pain meds tended to hit Jase like a landslide.
“So you have artifacts,” Hunter said, “even if they aren’t exactly what went missing?”
“Yeah. They’re in real good shape, too. Like new.”
“And Brubaker’s buying it?”
“Ouch! You using a twelve-gauge needle?” Then, “Brubaker ain’t looking in no gift pony’s mouth. ICE will be front and center at the re-pa-tri-a-tion ceremony. Gold star in my file. Maybe a raise, new title.”
“Are you high?”
“Getting there. Damn, the drugs in here are prime. Hey, darling, c’mon over and give your big stud a kiss.”
Ali’s giggle came through the connection, then the sound of a kiss. Over Jase’s muttered protests, she took the phone.
“Hunter?”
“Hi, Ali. Sounds like our boy is feeling good.”
“The stuff they give him hits him hard and fast. Otherwise he wants to get up and go home.”
“He said something about Brubaker.”
“Whatever the boss was so upset about is over,” Ali said. “I don’t know the details, but Brubaker got his hands on a box of old stuff and he’s doing the happy dance around Jase’s bed. I don’t understand any of it, but Brubaker can’t say enough nice things about Jase.”
“Huh.” Hunter saw a riot of color whip by on the left side of the road. Another shrine. Rodrigo’s words echoed in his mind.
Death is out there. A hard death.
And the locals were praying like hell that death didn’t find them.
“…out of danger,” Ali said. “He’s recovering so fast the doctors are amazed. He’s in a regular hospital room now.”
Hunter snapped back into focus. He smiled as a weight he hadn’t realized was there shifted off his chest. “He always did heal fast. Give your big stud a kiss for me.”
Ali snickered. “I’ll be sure to tell him it’s from you.”
The instant Hunter turned off the phone, Lina said, “What’s going on?”
“Someone returned the stolen artifacts, or something close enough that Brubaker doesn’t care.”
“That’s…” Her voice died.
Hunter laughed without humor. “Yeah. But Jase is off the hook and recovering so fast the docs are smiling.”
“So if we assume that the artifacts and the kidnap attempt on me are connected…” she began.
Hunter waited.
“Because the coincidences are pretty overwhelming otherwise,” she added. “So I should be safe now.”
He didn’t answer.
“Well, hell,” she said.
“Pretty much. None of this makes sense. Until it does, I’m all over you like fur on a bunny.”
A spark of color up on the right resolved into another roadside shrine.
“Pull over,” Hunter said. “I want a closer look at that.”
“And you want to make sure we’re not being followed.”
“Two birds, one stone.”
Lina slowed and carefully pulled off the paved highway. They bumped to a stop ten feet from the shrine. Unlike other parts of the highway, no trash was scattered near the shrine. The only bottles there were full, offerings left by believers. The only paper or plastic was in the flowers, though many were fresh. The arms of the cross were longer than was usual for a Christian symbol.
The flowers were brilliant yellow and scarlet and purple against the white limestone crumbles of the roadside. The cascade of petals was interrupted by candles of various sizes and shapes. The cross was covered in snakeskin that the reptile hadn’t shed willingly. Bright feathers were glued to the cross. They moved in the lightest breeze, like they were somehow alive, breathing.
“That’s the fifth one of these that we’ve seen out in the open since Playa del Carmen,” Hunter said.
“Normally you see a roadside shrine and they’re for someone who died in a crash along the highway or something,” Lina said. “They aren’t really legal, but it’s an old custom. They just appear overnight and gradually fade into the jungle.”
“Whoever put this shrine out was pretty brazen. Or else drivers on the highway don’t really care what happens on the side of the road. Must have a lot of accidents here.”
“I don’t remember this many shrines. And there aren’t any pictures or names of loved ones.” Lina rubbed her fingers together, as though trying to clean them. “Flowers don’t smell like this. Like death.”
Beautiful Sacrifice: A Novel Page 18
