Rainy Nights: Three Mysteries

by J. R. Rain

  The waiter blinked, then looked at me. I shrugged at the waiter. The waiter waited. Marie looked at the waiter, then me and said, “What’s wrong?”

  “Ordering a glass of water is a bad idea,” I said.

  She nodded, blushed. “Of course. A bottle of water, please.”

  “Of course, senorita.”

  An old Miskito woman stood under an umbrella at the nearby street corner, encouraging all within earshot to try her amazing lemonade. I had tried it earlier. It was amazing.

  I said to Marie, “There’s a man out here named Da Vinci. Leonardo Da Vinci. And from what I understand he’s a shitty artist, which, I suppose, is kind of ironic.”

  At the mention of Leonardo Da Vinci she looked away. Her lower lip might have trembled, too. I continued, “He is, however, a murderous looting kingpin who would just as soon cut your throat open than lend you a dime. Rumor has it that he’s making a big move into the drug business.” I paused, studying her reaction. “No offense, but you wouldn’t happen to be related?”

  There was no hesitation. “He’s my uncle.”

  “Ah.”

  The old lady on the corner raised her voice even louder, shouting in English, Spanish, Miskito and a mixture of all three. Hell, I even detected some French. Finally, she stepped out from under her yellow umbrella and out into the heat of the sun. Like a lioness picking off the weak and sick from the herd, she picked out a young man from a milling crowd and guided him toward her lemonade stand. The young man looked confused and a little scared. I didn’t blame him. She thrust a waxy cup full of the good stuff and practically reached down into his trousers for his money. He thanked her but looked thoroughly shaken when he retreated to his pack.

  Marie continued, “He killed my father. His own goddamned flesh and blood.”

  She pulled out a tissue and dabbed her eyes carefully. Her eyes were round, like Japanese anime, and I noticed for the first time the faintish, darkish, puffy circles under them, like twin-blackened moons in their quarter phase. When done dabbing, she crumpled the tissue and held it in her fist, should there be later tears. Recycling in action, folks.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “You don’t seem surprised.”

  “Your uncle, Miss Da Vinci, is a cold-hearted killer. And not a very nice man,” I said. “However, killing his own brother seems to be a new low for Leo.”

  “You seem to know him.”

  “Let’s just say we’ve had reason to cross paths. Your uncle doesn’t like competition, and his competition has a habit of disappearing.”

  “But you’re still alive.”

  “No small feat. If it was up to your uncle, I’d be dead by now.”

  She studied me carefully, and seemed to reappraise, looking me over like a used car. Maybe if I were lucky she’d kick my tires.

  “Your father owned a museum in California,” I said, prodding.

  “You know of my father?”

  I grinned. “I’m just full of surprises.”

  “Well, the museum was burned to the ground,” she said. “Everything was lost. My father’s entire legacy, destroyed.”

  “I assume Uncle Leo had a hand in that as well.”

  “Yes.”

  She seemed about to tell me more but her drink came. She opened the bottle with a deft twist and took a long pull and wiped the corners of her mouth with her thumb and forefinger. Her hand was shaking. She twisted the cap back on and set the bottle on the wooden table. Next, she removed a small notepad from her purse, flipped to a page and looked at me steadily. Her blue eyes were flecked with gold. My favorite color.

  She looked down at the pad. “You, of course, are a looter.”

  “I prefer the term creative archaeologist,” I said and reached over and tilted down her notepad with my forefinger. There was much scribbling on the page, with my name written on top, underlined twice. Hmmmm. “Where did you get this?,” I asked. “I’m not exactly listed in the yellow pages under Looting.”

  She grinned. “I’m full of surprises as well, Mr. Caine. As it turns out, you are fairly well-known in the museum industry. A looter who’s not entirely untrustworthy.”

  “Mom would be proud.”

  She went back to the notepad. “You have a Ph.D in Classical Mayan socio-economics from UCLA.”

  “Sounded good at the time. But just try getting a job at Microsoft.”

  “You worked briefly as an acquisitions specialist for the Bowers Museum of Cultural History in Santa Ana, California. Your last official job.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you quit.”

  I shrugged. “As it turns out, I had quite a knack for acquiring artifacts, and an even stronger desire to keep them for myself.”

  She closed the notebook, put it back in her purse. I knew there was still more information in there about me. Curiosity killed the looter.

  “So,” I said, “did I pass the test?”

  She looked at me with those big round eyes. The circles seemed to be getting darker. She needed sleep. Probably a couple days’ worth. “Yes, I suppose you did,” she said.

  “Oh, swell. Now it’s your turn. What’s this all about?”

  Chapter Four

  She sat back and crossed her legs. Her ankles were tan. Tan ankles did something to me. Her foot bounced as she spoke. “You are, of course, familiar with the legends surrounding Ciudad Blanca.”

  I sat back. “It’s a fairy tale.”

  “It’s not a fairy tale, Mr. Caine.”

  “Oh? You’ve been there? What’s it like?”

  She smiled and reached out and touched the back of my hand. I once heard that a good salesperson would always touch their mark. I felt like a mark. As if I were being manipulated through a sales pitch. Except that I liked her pitch—and her touch.

  Oh, brother.

  The waiter came by and looked at me. I shook my head and he went away. Meanwhile, she watched me carefully, perhaps trying to gauge my reaction. The flecks in her eyes glittered like fool’s gold. Except, I was beginning to feel like the fool. She slipped something into my hand.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Look at it.”

  I did. It was a Polaroid of a limestone disc and a rotund older man standing next to it, smiling as if he were with a lover. The disc was taller than his hip, larger than the ones I had come across. I squinted, and was able to pick out one or two familiar glyphs, which seemed to speak of rivers and valleys. The majority of the text, however, was unknown to me. The glyphs spiraled out from the center for three rows in what could only be a very complex story. Or a complex set of directions. The text encircled an image of a stylized jaguar, a popular image in Mayan lore. I was intrigued by the size of the jaguar, easily twice as big as a man. “It’s a photograph of a Mayan disc glyph.”

  “Ancient directions to Ciudad Blanca,” she said. “It’s why my father was killed.”

  I noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding band, and knew immediately that I shouldn’t care if she was wearing one or not. But I did, and the warning bells continued to sound in my head.

  “My father found the disc on an excavation in the Copan valley thirty years ago. He returned it to the museum, where he has been deciphering it ever since. Had been deciphering it.” She looked away, pained.

  “Has the entire text been deciphered?”

  She nodded. “Finished on the night he was murdered.”

  “Coincidence?”

  “No,” she said. “My uncle, you see, had a sort of spy working in the museum. Apparently, this bastard had been reporting on my father’s progress. My uncle waited thirty years for the glyph to be deciphered.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “He told me.”

  “When?”

  “Right after the funeral. He and I had a sort of family reunion.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a clear CD ROM case. “He was looking for this.”

  I reached for it, but she held it back.

  “
What’s on it?” I asked.

  “The deciphered disc glyph in its entirety. A road map that goes through the jungles of Honduras. And, it goes on to Ciudad Blanca.” She paused. “Uncle Leo managed to steal everything but the final clue to Ciudad Blanca, a clue contained on this disk. The final clue my father deciphered on the night he was murdered.”

  “And how did you manage to get the disk?”

  “Father emailed me the results as a precaution. He correctly suspected he was being watched. I had the information burned to a disk.”

  “So, Uncle Leo has everything but the final location of Ciudad Blanca.”

  She nodded. “He can start, but he can’t finish.”

  I smiled and sat back. “I hate when that happens.”

  Chapter Five

  We were in my looting command center, on the fifth floor of the Hotel del Rio.

  The suite was cluttered with enough relics to fill a small museum, or two, all piled on dozens upon dozens of bookshelves. Most artifacts were of Mayan and Olmec origin: flint knives, beads, pottery, carved figurines, statuettes, carved reliefs and jewelry. I even had two life-sized obsidian skulls. Virtually priceless. I had boxes filled with spear points and tools and utensils, all labeled accordingly, and all piled around the entire suite.

  “You are a busy little looter,” she said, stepping inside behind me. She went straight to the flint knives, as most do. Ornate jade carvings with razor edges. She touched the fine edge tentatively.

  “The artifacts are there for the taking. I catalogue all my finds as well or better than most archaeologists, and I only sell to respectable museums. All on the hush-hush, of course, as most museums have an official policy to not negotiate with known looters. But, privately, I’ve had scores of representatives from many famous museums peruse these very shelves.”

  She put her hands over her ears. “I don’t want to know any more.”

  I grinned. “True, it’s a dirty little secret. In fact, I’ve sold to your father’s museum countless times, although I did not deal with him directly.”

  She dropped her hands and sighed. “Father was obsessed only with his disk glyph—and left the day to day running of the museum to myself and others.”

  She set the flint knife down and removed a manila file folder from her over-sized purse. She flipped it open and handed me two copies of a computer printout.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “It’s the partially printed text from the disc glyph.”

  “Partially?”

  She smiled sweetly. “It’s for my protection, Mr. Caine.”

  “Ah,” I said. “You still don’t trust me.”

  “If you were in my position, would you?”

  “Point taken,” I said, scanning the pages. “What do you want from me, Miss Da Vinci?”

  “I need someone who knows the land. Someone who can follow these ancient directions.” As she spoke she circled around me. She put a hand on my shoulder. The final sales pitch. “My father had in his notes that you were that man. And from what I’ve seen and heard, you will more than do.”

  I shrugged my shoulders and stepped away from her. I did not like the way my heart skipped a beat at her touch. I was serious about not getting involved with another woman—especially after what happened last time.

  I said, “At some point you will have to furnish the rest of the document, Miss Da Vinci. At some point you will have to trust me.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest; her soft lips grew much harder. “Once we agree to be partners I will furnish the remaining documents. But trust is another matter, Mr. Caine. Trust must be earned.”

  “Does your lack of trust have something to do with my occupation?”

  “You are a looter and a thief. It has everything to do with your occupation, Mr. Caine.”

  Chapter Six

  Looters get a bad wrap. Just because we steal and plunder and operate outside of the law doesn’t mean we’re all bad guys.

  We spent the remaining night going over the first two pages of the translation. The trail began at a river whose Mayan name never changed, which was lucky for us. From there things got a little tricky, but I was relatively certain I knew of the route, although the names for some rivers had changed. One thing was clear: the route led into the heart of La Mosquita. The Mosquita Coast. Little Amazon. Some of the last unexplored terrain on earth.

  The rivers were accurate, their lengths and widths described were accurate enough, too. Whether or not this map led to Ciudad Blanca remained to be seen.

  One thing was for certain...the path seemed to lead into the mountains. Not through...into.

  “We’ll be traveling through tunnels,” I said.

  Marie clapped her hands. “I just love a good adventure story.”

  “Oh. You have many?”

  Still grinning, she looked at me. “No, this will be my first.”

  I rolled my eyes. Had Ishi been here, he would have rolled his eyes, too. Looters didn’t have much use for amateurs. Amateurs tended to get in the way...and to get killed.

  Anyway, Marie seemed quite pleased with my grasp of the map’s instructions. She had feared, she said, that the directions would make little sense, even to an experienced guide like myself, and that her father’s life work had been for not.

  “So, Mr. Caine, will you guide me into the jungle?”

  “One condition?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Quit calling me Mr. Caine.”

  Actually, there was a second condition. We looters always have a second condition. Next, we discussed my guiding fees, and when we were both satisfied, we agreed to meet tomorrow to coordinate the expedition. She gathered her stuff and made a beeline to my door. I was beelining right behind her.

  “What do you plan on doing once you get there?” I asked.

  She spoke over her shoulder. “Where?”

  “Ciudad Blanca?”

  “Conduct a full excavation,” she said. “With much of the artifacts going to a bigger and better museum, built in my father’s honor.”

  “And what of the supposed treasure?” I asked.

  She turned and faced me. Her eyes touched upon different features of my face. “Why there will be no treasure...Nicholas.”

  “Nick,” I said. “Oh, really?”

  “Not after we split it.”

  I grinned. “You would make a hell of a looter.”

  “I suspect most of us would, when it comes right down to it.”

  “And what if your uncle happens upon the city?”

  She set her jaw. “I have plans for my uncle. Now, good night, Nick. I will see you tomorrow.”

  She left. I watched her go and when she disappeared down a stairwell, I shut my door and leaned against it, wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into.

  Temple of the Jaguar

  is available at:

  Amazon Kindle * Amazon UK * Paperback * Audio Book

  About the Author:

  J.R. Rain is an ex-private investigator who now writes full-time in the Pacific Northwest. He lives in a small house on a small island with his small dog, Sadie, who has more energy than Robin Williams.

  Please visit him at www.jrrain.com.

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