Jungle of Deceit

by Maureen A. Miller

  “Seriously?” The first glean of hope sparked behind Joseph Pastorelli’s lenses.

  “Yes,” Alex chewed. “But tell me−tell me what are we doing here? What is this place?”

  Gwen sat back down opposite Alex and stared, her eyes embracing the ponytail, the clothes−but Alex was not put out by the appraisal. She recognized it for what it was−the overwhelming need of a woman trapped for a year−wanting to connect with something from the outside, something that had benefitted from natural light. Alex looked around and saw only four white walls, walls with no paintings and no windows−blank testimonies that life ceased to exist down here. Even now she could feel the weight of the earth above as if it were barely contained and could collapse at any moment, turning her into a fossil that would someday be unearthed and exhibited.

  “As best we know,” Joseph explained, “this temple holds a museum crammed full of stolen artifacts. I mean, it is conjecture on our part−we don’t know enough about the pieces themselves to say that for sure, but the clandestine location, the armed guards, the rich clientele−it doesn’t take a brain surgeon to fill in the gaps. Not to mention soliciting curators by yanking them out of the jungle if they A., venture too close to the compound and B., have the right credentials.”

  Reading Alex’s puzzled look, Joseph continued. “We know there have been others who have been caught, others traveling in the company of those that made it down here to Xibalba. In each case these companions were not in the industry so to speak. It’s like Solis will pluck the bad apples from the crowd, and the fate of those apples is unknown.” Joseph rubbed at the apex of his nose. “I try to sleep at night imagining that they were released.”

  The bread went down Alex’s esophagus like an acid-laced sponge. “Credentials? You’re saying that if you just happened to be working in this jungle−be it as a venturesome tourist or a novice archeologist on a grant,” she held up her palm, “that you don’t have adequate credentials? How would they know? How would they know the names and qualifications of every person that trekked the Petén and stumbled across their compound?”

  “Don’t give Solis too much credit.” Gwen inserted with a glare. “They don’t know until after they have you. Joe and I went through a rigorous debriefing, which apparently gave us the proper testimonial to go straight to hell.” She raised her hands in mock triumph. “Yay us.”

  Alex felt that wasn’t the case for her. She was selected. She was targeted. Her group was coerced by the path of the fire into reaching the front gate. But why?

  “I still don’t get it. What do they want with archeologists? You mentioned the word curator before. You said they solicit curators.”

  Joseph pushed his glasses further up the ridge of his nose. It drew her attention to the pale skin on his high forehead, where tiny blue veins weaved erratic patterns in a chaotic search for nourishment.

  “Maybe, what−” he looked towards his wife for affirmation, “−once a month a group comes down here?”

  “More like bi-monthly,” she corrected.

  “Yeah, I lose track. Well, when this group comes down, it’s a big affair. These people are high-rollers. It’s like a social gathering for the most influential and affluent crew you can think of.” He pushed his plate aside and grabbed his knife, drawing invisible lines in the cloth placemat with the tip of it. “You know when you came in on that limestone sidewalk after getting off the elevator? They set up tables in those gardens.” He drew the tables with indentations in the mat. “The tables are loaded with gourmet cuisine and there are two full-service bars set up. There’s even a goddamn band performing. You feel like you’re on the Titanic. They’re here for a night generally. Sometimes two.”

  Joseph sat back and set the knife down, eyeing his coffee mug, and adding, “You know, Gwen, I’m thinking a drink is in order right now.”

  Gwen looked at the clock on the barren white wall and Alex followed her glance. The clock was simple, a black circular frame with a white face and black arms and roman numerals. The red second arm ticked with an audible click as Alex noted the time was 11:55am.

  “It’s not even noon.” Gwen sounded aggravated.

  “Does it really matter, Gwendolyn?”

  With the exchange of glares, Alex could only conclude that this was a common debate.

  Joseph stood up and pulled out a brown bottle of Zacapa rum from a cabinet above the sink. He filled a third of an iced tea glass with the liquid and returned to the table, taking a hearty gulp before resuming his tale.

  “So anyway, our job is to act as curators−no−subject specialists for a day. We are to answer questions about exhibits and offer intellectual and stimulating conversation about each object, enough so to entice this drug lord, military leader, entrepreneur, and eccentric millionaire into buying the item at some god-knows-what price.”

  Joseph lifted the tall glass to his lips and Alex could see it was a healthy swallow. Gwen averted her eyes.

  “Well, that’s just absurd.” No longer hungry, Alex shoved her plate away, but not before giving Gwen a grateful and apologetic smile. The woman feasted on that small gesture as if it were the most benevolent act in the world.

  “Why would you do it? Why not just tell these people you are being held hostage?”

  A snort was her only answer. One more sip and Joseph felt like responding. “Did you just hear me tell you who the clientele was at these little soirees? They don’t care if you are a hostage. They presume we’re hostages. It gives them a thrill. As a matter of fact, I honestly believe that the greater the repute of the archeologist, the bigger the coupe it is for Solis to exhibit them…just like the artifacts. Who the hell knows? Maybe we’re on sale too and just haven’t been bought yet.”

  The alcohol was loosening Joseph Pastorelli’s tongue. The more he said, the more Alex began to buy into the whole absurd account. That was why she was brought here. She was an exhibit as well. Solis was a puppeteer that was going to make the pretty little archeologist dance and do tricks and sell his artifacts by telling dazzling accounts about its history and worth.

  Screw him.

  She was no one’s exhibit.

  “Solis looked anxious,” she observed. “Is another gathering imminent?”

  Gwen nodded. “We were given the word to start preparing. We’re supposed to dust off all the exhibits and get our clothes together.” Her lips pursed and her eyes rolled. “We have uniforms.”

  Alex eyed the rum bottle and Joseph caught her doing so. He held it up. “Want some?”

  She could understand the temptation, but she needed a clear head. She declined with a slight head shake.

  “I have so many questions.” Alex now addressed Gwen exclusively. Joseph was quickly withdrawing, lost in a liquid escape.

  Both women jumped at the sound of a key in the front door. Alex stepped up in front of Gwen as Joseph just lolled his head around in the chair.

  Solis stepped through the doorway, but it was the man behind him that seized Alex’s focus.

  Mitch.

  He met her eyes and she savored that contact, feeling her heart thump an unnatural cadence of relief. But without the sunglasses she detected the grave shadows in his gaze. Shadows of foreboding. Behind him, a disfigured soldier with a hideous scar at the corner of his mouth aimed a rifle at the base of Mitch’s spine.

  “Look who I found drifting around upstairs.” Solis waved, his jaw clenching. “He should have taken advantage of my goodwill when I let your men go, but this is much better. Phillip Nicolson can learn that he was a complete failure. He failed to protect his archeologist−and his feeble effort to send this bloodhound backfired.”

  Alex jerked when she heard Phillip’s name. It took a few seconds to regroup and absorb the rest of his statement. Bloodhound?

  “Why didn’t you just let him go?” Anger at her captor bubbled up, making her quake. “He is just a photographer. He is no benefit to you.”

  “Just a photographer?” Solis shook his head. “He i
s Phillip’s mole, and I am sending a message back to that arrogant man. Hopefully the message will be passed on to other museum directors or authorities if they try and locate or undermine us. They will disappear as well.”

  Alex was confused and slightly dizzy. She looked to Mitch for something−anything. Validation. Hope. But he averted his eyes.

  “I have too much preparation to tackle rather than worry about this man. We’ll find some use for him. If we don’t−”

  Solis glanced at his cell phone. “I have to go.” He motioned towards the scar-faced man who gave Mitch a shove into the room with the rifle.

  “Next time I will kill you,” The soldier hissed in a northern Mam dialect that only Alex seemed to understand. He pivoted and walked out, with Solis on his tail.

  Solis paused in the doorway, “The guests will start arriving tomorrow. They may wish to visit the museum in the evening, so be dressed and prepared.” He looked at Alex. “You have this afternoon and tomorrow morning to familiarize yourself with the merchandise and plan your sales pitch.”

  Alex snorted.

  A dark expression crossed Solis’s face, evil enough to chip away at her resolve. “I suggest you take this seriously.” His tone was subdued. “Your life depends on how well you advertise. And if that isn’t enough of an incentive−if you do not make sufficient sales tomorrow, everyone in this room will be killed and I will find a new−more eager staff.”

  Vertigo attacked all out now. She sensed Mitch closing in on her and she heard Solis’s departure with the distinct click of the lock. Gwen Pastorelli’s hand clasped about her elbow, but all these senses merged into obscurity as she felt her legs give way and her body pour onto the couch. Seeking shelter, she ducked her head down, tucking it in tight against her thighs to create a cocoon. To the outside world she might appear to be having a meltdown, but this was a haven in which to think. Recognizing the blood loss to her head, she accommodated it with the pose, but at the same time, she was in a sanctuary where Mitch’s concerned words could not be heard. His touch on her back could not be felt.

  “Alex,” he whispered, “just breathe.”

  “I’ll get her some water.” Gwen hovered.

  Joseph Pastorelli could be heard in the background saying, “give her the rum.”

  When she sensed it was just Mitch before her, Alex looked up and met his eyes. They weakened her with their soul, but she did not know this man.

  “A mole?” she asked in a husky voice. “A bloodhound?”

  Mitch sat back on his heels and looked pained. He swiped a hand over his face, wincing at old bruises, bruises that now suddenly commanded her attention. A blend of purple and yellow skin formed an arc across his stark cheekbone and though he bore a day’s worth of stubble which made him look dark and incredibly attractive, she could now perceive traces of another bruise along his jaw line.

  “Alex, we need to talk.”

  “No.” She looked away.

  Gwen returned with a glass of water and doted on Alex, making tisking noises. “You need rest. Later I will take you out and show you around. We have to get ready, I guess.”

  Mitch rose and extended his hand to the woman. “We haven’t been introduced. I’m Mitch Hasslet.” Noting her hesitancy, he added, “Despite the introduction, I’m one of the good guys.”

  Gwen glanced at Alex, seeking corroboration, but Alex shifted her eyes to scope out her jail cell. Though the walls were bare except for the television and clock, Mayan ceramics atop the coffee and end tables added décor. She bet that if she examined them close enough, they were probably authentic. The lighting was soothing, emanating from bulbs embedded in the white ceiling, and brass floor lamps on either side of the love seat. Nothing could detract from the fact that there were no windows, though. This studio apartment was no more than an elaborate interment tomb.

  “I am Gwen Pastorelli.” Alex heard Gwen offer. “And that is my husband, Joseph.”

  Joseph raised his glass and stood up, using the table for stability before he hoisted towards the living room.

  “Whoever the hell you are,” he slurred a tad, “we’re glad to see you. I love my wife, but I think we’ll both admit that we get tired of looking at each other’s faces.”

  Mitch crossed the floor to head off the man’s awkward gait and shook his hand. Gwen took the opportunity to sit beside Alex and whisper, “are you okay?”

  “I’ll be okay.” She looked at the woman whose long, faded red hair fell forward in soft waves. Violet eyes and a pale oval face revealed traces of a lady who was once beautiful and was now growing old gracefully, with only minimal wrinkles forming at the corners of her eyes and lips. There must be something to be said about the effects of sunlight on skin.

  “One year?” Alex asked. “You’ve been down here one year?”

  Gwen nodded, evading her glance.

  Alex reached for her hand and squeezed, drawing her attention back. “We’re going to get out. I need to clean up. I need a little rest, and then I want you to teach me everything that you know about this place.” She squeezed again and said with conviction, “We’re going to get out of here, Gwen.”

  Gwen’s eyes welled up, but she bobbed her head and then stood and extended her hand. “Let me show you the ‘guest wing’. We have plenty of bedrooms that are no longer being used. This area you’re sitting in is considered the communal spot, but each bedroom serves as an independent studio−so you’ll have all you need in there. You even have a washer and dryer at your disposal or you can borrow some of my clothes.”

  Alex looked down at her outfit. “If it’s salvageable after a good washing, I’ll stick with this, but I might take you up on a blouse in case it’s chilly out there.”

  Gwen smiled. “Great. Come on.”

  Mitch’s head shifted at their motion.

  “Let me show you to your room,” Gwen offered, interrupting Joseph’s commentary.

  Mitch shook Joseph’s hand again and fell in behind Alex, but she avoided making eye contact.

  The hallway leading away from the dining area was shadowed, with no overhead lighting. Gwen pointed towards the first door on the left. “This is mine and Joe’s. Alex, you can have the apartment on the end. It’s the quietest.” They rounded the corner. “Mitch you can use the one next to it. These are actually much quieter, I think.”

  “Quieter?” Alex questioned.

  “At night, if you’re lying in bed, you will be very conscious of the generators. It’s not even so much the sound as much as the feel of it. You can feel this vibration that sometimes makes you insane.”

  Alex strained to listen, but heard nothing. She found the silence to be more maddening.

  “Here.” Gwen opened a door to reveal a queen-sized bed adorned in a plush white chenille bedspread with a white wicker bed frame. Beside it was a small sitting area with two wicker loveseats, a coffee table and a flat screen television hanging from the wall.

  “Through there is the bath, and a small kitchen and laundry area. Mitch, yours is the next door around the corner.”

  “Thank you, Gwen,” he said, but his eyes were on Alex. She tried not to notice.

  Alex took up a stance in her doorway, and felt the blood pumping in her temples as if at any moment a volcano would erupt and spew lava out of her ears. She wanted solitude for now. She wanted a shower and that bed. She wanted escape.

  “Thank you, Gwen.” She repeated and avoided the inquisitive glances as she slipped inside and shut the door, leaning her back against it.

  Straining to hear their movement, satisfied that they had backed off, Alex could discern nothing−not even the generators Gwen spoke of. Maybe the insulation in this room truly was superior.

  Moving like an automaton, Alex took off her boots, followed by her clothes, and then she stepped up to the stacked washer/dryer unit tucked inside a closet in the kitchen. Studying the buttons, she quickly got the cycle underway and slipped into the marble-tiled shower stall with its lavish silver head that emitte
d a pulsating stream. There was just too much going on in her mind. Too much. She needed to shut down−to flip the proverbial switch. The one thought that soothed her tattered nerves was that her men had made it out of that wretched compound. They had escaped. No matter her fate, she could go to her grave knowing that no one had been lost from her group. Well, Mitch was still here, but evidently he was not a member of her group. He was a mole.

  Exhausted, Alex crawled naked under the plush bedspread and her head came to rest on the silky pillowcase. Her last coherent thought before falling asleep was to hear the subtle resuscitation of the external generators. It was a motorized sound, but it felt alive as if the heart of Xibalba thumped with the blood of its latest victims.

  Chapter Nine

  Alex woke to a noise at her door. Chaotic dreams merged with reality as it sounded like scratching−the methodical scrape of a leopard’s claws marking a message on a tree trunk. What message did it write? Alex began the arduous climb towards consciousness and acknowledged that this was no leopard. It was the soft tap of a man’s knuckle against wood.

  Swathing the silky sheet around her chest so that it flowed like a goddess’s exotic white tunic, Alex stepped towards her door and managed a hushed, “Yes?”

  “Let me in.”

  It was definitely not a leopard, but it was a cunning creature also known for its stalking and ambushing traits.

  “I am sleeping,” she whispered hoping he would just go away.

  “Alex,” he paused, “we need to talk.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “There is plenty to talk about. Open the door. I happen to know that it doesn’t lock, but I’d rather you invite me in.”

  Son of a− What the hell was he, a vampire? Fine. She wanted this. She wanted answers. The nap healed her mind and she was ready to be sharp again.

  Alex hauled open the door and the let the tall shadow stalk in.