The Maya Bust

by E. Chris Ambrose

  Denise popped out her hearing aid, which emitted a whistling sound as she clearly signed, “I can’t hear you.”

  Before they got too off track, Grant said, “Hey, can I ask you something? Denise, right?”

  A tap from Kaitlyn brought Denise’s eyes back around to him, and she replaced her hearing aid, then signaled that she was ready. He swallowed, and said, “I know this is a big ask, but it could really make a difference for me.” He paused for her slight nod. “Can you tell me Lexi’s name sign?”

  Denise pulled back a little, and Shari said, “That should be up to Lexi.”

  Drawing back as well, he shrugged one shoulder, his gaze lingering on Denise. “That’s okay. I knew it might not be appropriate. Sorry I asked.”

  Those dark eyes still locked to his. “Why?” she asked aloud.

  Nothing sells a lie like a flash of the truth. He allowed the truth to shine, making his words perfectly clear, his voice low and convincing. “So that she knows I’m on her side.”

  After a moment, Denise smiled a little, and brought up her fist, fingers out, thumb up, to tap her chest, then formed a loop with most of her fingers, pointer raised. Two letters, he guessed. “Now you.” She watched him form the signs a couple of times, then she grinned and nodded, apparently satisfied.

  “Thanks for the that, and the bag — don’t worry, I won’t let on about Malcolm.” He winked. “Trust me.”

  Her hands moving gracefully, Denise started speaking, but Kaitlyn yelled and chased her back into the house, giving him a glimpse of the words on the back of the T-shirt. Still had fold marks, had to be new. The Grove Cacao Co-op.

  Shari, alone at the door, cleared her throat. “Lexi’s not in trouble, is she?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  From the car door, Pam called out, “Are you coming, Mr. Casey?”

  “Thanks — tell your friends thanks from me, okay?” He flicked Shari a salute and trotted back to the car, pulling the door shut behind them, and settling into the seat opposite as the car started up again. He pulled Lexi’s bag toward him and unzipped it, probing carefully, and coming out with a hard bundle wrapped in socks. Glancing up, he found Pam’s gaze on him.

  “How come you didn’t turn on the charm for me?”

  The moment he closed the door, he had already turned it off. “You need a cool, calm professional who can be trusted with your daughter’s life — not an exotic stranger with badass tattoos who wants to share your secrets.”

  Pamela pulled one knee up onto the seat, leaning toward him. “What if I changed my mind? Can’t I get a little of both?”

  Flashing back to the Warden, the aging eugenicist he casually flirted with as he was undermining her plans, Grant dropped his gaze to the item he held. “Ma’am, I have a job to do.”

  “What do you suppose they think that job is, Mr. Casey?” She lingered over his name.

  Unwrapping the socks, Grant revealed a tall cup, heavily embellished with Maya glyphs and images. He pulled out his phone and started snapping pictures of it, rolling it carefully to get all sides. An interesting piece of work. Not unlike Gooney’s ex-wife.

  Huffing her exasperation, she finally sat up straight. “What’s your game? Who are you really, Mr. Casey?” She was regarding him sidelong, with new appraisal.

  “Whoever I need to be to get the job done.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  * * *

  As the jungle awoke around the hunting camp with the hooting of monkeys and screeching of birds, Raxha presided over a dead-silent breakfast. Seated across from each other, the two Americans ate dully. Malcolm couldn’t take his eyes off of the girl. Neither could Dante, but for completely different reasons. The girl’s dress, ruined by her sojourn in the jungle the day before, had been replaced by a set of Raxha’s own clothes, the pants and sleeves rolled up a little, the shirt straining over Lexi’s larger bosom. But that wasn’t why Dante stared.

  “Why not, Raxha?” he wheedled last night after they locked Lexi back in her room. “An extra million? Easy. Maybe two. Her mom’s dripping with money, and we’ve already got her in hand.”

  “It’s not about the money. None of this is about the money.”

  Likely, he only pushed the plan to make up for the fact the girl wasn’t supposed to be here at all. That and the bruise she’d given him.

  In her pocket, the girl’s phone buzzed, and Raxha pulled it out.

  >Landing 6:30 G. City. I have what you want. When do we meet?

  Later than she’d like, but what could she do? Raxha tapped out her reply.

  >Send photo. Z

  A moment later: >send proof of life.

  She blinked at the phone. Seemed like the tv star was getting some advice. >No police? No CIA?

  >I googled what to do.

  Of course. Raxha tapped on the table, and Lexi glanced at her as the camera clicked. A long moment after sending her image, she received one in return — a tilted image of the cup, held in a woman’s manicured hand that obscured most of the painting.

  No way this American could navigate mountain streets at night, as eager as they both were to get this over with. Okay then. Raxha traced the carving of her father’s name, and finally replied >Tomorrow 10:00 Cimiterio General Lanquin Alta Verapaz

  The cemetery where her father was buried, along with his men. That should give the woman reason to worry.

  Dante hung his chin over her shoulder, reading the messages, and squeezed her waist. “Perfecto! Now what? We give the tour? Why does everything take so long?” He moaned.

  Lexi and Malcolm carried on a mostly silent conversation across the table, furtive and shaky. Watching Lexi’s hands, Raxha said, “Yes, the tour. There is someone they should meet.”

  Brightening, Dante said, “Chica? She can keep them busy.”

  Letting out a gale of laughter, Raxha pushed back from the table. “Let’s go.” Her crew rose immediately, gathering their weapons. The Americans took a little longer, twitchy creatures that they were.

  “Where are we going?” Malcolm asked. “Is it time?” Then he glanced at Dante and his brief excitement dulled. “So long,” he muttered under his breath, first in Spanish, then English as he echoed Dante’s complaint and worked out that they had a long wait ahead of them. The man wasn’t stupid, though he didn’t seem to have gotten much sleep.

  Malcolm squared off. “Lexi’s not part of this,” he said. “She was never meant to be here. Whatever you’re planning to do, she doesn’t deserve it.”

  “You have no idea of my plans,” Raxha told him. “And if she weren’t here, you’d have to get her to bring it back, wouldn’t you? Don’t pretend you’re a hero — you gave it to her.”

  His face rumpled with pain.

  Down behind the storage shed full of trucks in various states of repair stood a little cabin Dante sometimes called home. A chain-link fence surrounded it, reaching eight feet high, with a top that bent inward and rings of razor wire. Trees towered around the compound, none of them overhanging this particular corner.

  “Look what I have for you!” Dante waved their visitors forward, as he brought out a key for the padlock on the gate.

  A face appeared at the window of the cabin inside, then the woman pressed her hands to the glass, mouth gaping. Was she trying to talk? To warn them?

  “Eleiua!” Malcolm grabbed the gate and yanked it open the moment Dante had the lock off. “What’s going on? What is it you want?” he shot back over his shoulder. The girl started forward as well, but Juan stepped in front of her, rifle held low.

  Inside the cabin the woman shook her head violently. “Go back! Go away!” She banged on the wood of the door, but Malcolm had already covered most of the ground between them, eager to free his collaborator.

  Stepping through after Malcolm, Dante shut the gate again with a clang, and whistled softly. He hunkered down a little and leaning one way, then the other, looking around. Malcolm’s hand reached for the doorknob, and stopped abruptly in mid-air, his
glance traveling to Dante, then up. The metal roof of the cottage flexed and reverberated, echoing a heavy tread. Inside the cottage, Eleiua cried out, her arms over her head. Saving herself? Or preparing to block the sight of what could happen next.

  A throaty, huffing breath drew the men’s eyes upward.

  Lexi’s hand rose to her cheek, drawing her fingers in lines. She gave a wordless cry and ran toward the fence, but Raxha grabbed her wrist. “If she’s good, if she does what I tell her, it’s all fine. Tell her that.”

  On the wrong side of the fence, Malcolm turned back, and Lexi made a gesture near her face, drawing whiskers. Arrested by the sounds he heard, his entire body tensed, Malcolm started to sign to her. His hands shook.

  “All fine,” Raxha said. “No fears.”

  The girl strained against her grip, as a shadow moved across the roof.

  Chica rushed down the slope and leapt. The girl screamed. Malcolm spun around, staggered and fell, then he was screaming as well as the jaguar pounced, jaws wide.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  * * *

  During the layover in Miami, Grant stepped away from Pam and got to work. She waved him off cheerfully, pasting on a smile as she effusively convinced some agent or another to let their star come on her show. First call was to the Massachusetts chocolatier whose name emblazoned Kaitlyn’s t-shirt, the Grove.

  “Yes, hello, I’m calling with the Institute for Active Agriculture — you probably won’t have heard of us.” He added a chuckle.

  The man on the other end of the line said, “We’re all for agriculture! Everything we do here is small-batch. What can I do ya for?”

  “This is a little awkward. I’m actually trying to reach Malcolm, but the number I have for him isn’t going through. It’s about a grant application.”

  “Malcolm Chouinard? You might not get hold of him on his cell for a while. He’s actually down at our cacao co-op, working with our supplier for his winter term.”

  “In Guatemala? Darn. I need some more information for his application.” Grant added a sigh, and rifled some papers around. “Well, okay. I really appreciate that. I’ll look forward to trying your —”

  “Uh, uh, uh! Not so fast. Lemme give you the number of our manager down there. She’s got a landline, so it’s not subject to the vagaries of cell coverage. Her name’s Eleiua, and I am sure she’d be happy to help you get ahold of Malcolm.”

  Grant memorized the number. “Thank you so much. That’s fantastic. Thanks.” He rang off. Local contact, and confirmation of Malcolm’s identity and purpose. Next up: photo kiosk emblazoned with cheerful shots of buddies at the beach, and tropical drinks. He made printouts of the cup photos, studying the images as they slid from the machine. His phone buzzed a notification, and he opened up his email. Professor Martinez, a subject expert they’d worked with on a museum project last year. Martinez started with a lengthy apology, laced with curiosity, about how they didn’t have time for a lot of research, given Grant’s deadline, but the glyphs referred to someone called Lady Smoke Rabbit One, and her successor, Smoke Jaguar. The first had apparently gone on to Xibalba, the underworld, accompanied by great wealth, and Smoke Jaguar gave the appropriate ritual offerings. Standard stuff, apparently, except that the people named were not of any known dynasty. The glyphs suggested the way of the snake, and the way of the bat, along with some vague admonitions. For a person who didn’t know much about glyphs, Martinez came through.

  The bit about wealth sounded promising, a possible explanation for why the mysterious Z wanted it back.

  An announcement came over the loudspeaker for his flight to Guatemala City. Rolling the photos into his fist, Grant moved back toward the gate. Pamela stood there, clutching her Louis Vuitton carry-on, and pretending to ignore the murmurs of passengers who slowed down as they went by, craning their necks to keep an eye on her.

  “There you are. I was beginning to think you’d run off to the beaches.”

  “You need to be less conspicuous when we get to Guatemala,” he told her quietly. “We can’t afford to gather a crowd.”

  Behind her sunglasses, her brows pinched. “No, I suppose not.”

  “Thing number two. When we get there, we split up. If they’ve got someone watching the gate, I don’t want anyone thinking you brought in the law.”

  “You’re not —” she cut herself off, pulling her bag a little closer to her chest. “You won’t leave me alone.”

  He tucked a hand under her elbow, guiding her toward the first-class boarding. “Ms. Dionne, we’re in this together, but we do it my way, okay? No wrong moves, nothing to jeopardize the target.”

  Pressing her lips together, she nodded.

  “I’ve booked a car and driver to meet you at the airport, and get you to the hotel. He’ll take you wherever you need to go. I’ll be staying up the hill, less than five minutes away. Even when you don’t see me, I’m never far, do you understand? It’s you they expect to see and to hear from. You’re drawing the eye, and I’m working the scene.” If this were an op, she’d be the “looker,” the obvious presence, distracting and discovering, while he stayed in the shadows, making sure they got in smooth, and got out safe.

  “I’m beginning to wonder what I hired you for,” she said dryly.

  At the desk, they showed their passports and boarding passes, receiving the warm greeting reserved for wealth and privilege. Grant wore a dark blazer, aviator shades. For now, he was a bodyguard. Who knew what he’d have to be tomorrow?

  “You ever go to the circus? Cirque du Soleil, like that? You’re in the spotlight, and I’ve got the safety line. It’s like insurance. You pay me because you hope you don’t need me.” With a turn of his hand, he invited her to precede him down the jetway to their cushy seats.

  “Are you at least going to stay awake for this flight?” She handed him her bag, and he obligingly put it in the overhead bin.

  “And waste a fully reclining seat? It’s probably more comfortable than my apartment.”

  She stared at him. “I don’t know what to make of you.”

  “Let me put it this way —” he sank into his seat — “between your call at o’dark early, and the limo pick-up, I spent doing research and prep. Today’s for travel, and I don’t know what tomorrow brings. I sleep when I can, because it might not come again soon.”

  Removing her sunglasses, Pam bestowed her smile on the flight steward as he came by for pre-flight checks. “I don’t recall my ex ever being so … deliberate.”

  Presumably, Gooney had been relaxed, at home — not on duty, methodically working to push the chaos further away. Work hard enough, you stopped the chaos before it broke. Let up for a moment, and the chaos broke all over you. Got the feeling Pam had no idea who she’d married. Aloud, he said, “Gooney and I never had much in common.”

  “For which I am emphatically grateful, Mr. Casey.” She flicked a finger to catch the steward’s attention. “I’ll take a glass of white, if you please.” She sank into the comfortable chair. “Might as well enjoy something about this. Besides, wine makes everything better.”

  “Sure.” Everything but living and dying.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  * * *

  In spite of the heat, in spite of the jungle humidity, Lexi still shook hours later. The rippling black coat of the jaguar haunted every shadow, the powerful bound, the jaws spreading wide with fangs as long as her fingers. Sometimes, laughter was something she wished she could hear as well as see and feel: the tones of her friends’ good cheer, and she still — in spite of everything — treasured the vibration of her father’s laughter against her forehead as he held her close until she couldn’t sign for the laughter that shook them both.

  That moment in the jungle transformed laughter in her mind and heart. She saw the wide, splitting grins of Dante and Raxha, the devil and darkness. When the jaguar’s feet dug in alongside Malcolm’s trembling form, when it dropped to its haunches and pushed its giant head into Dante’s side. The devil stro
ked its black head, murmuring encouragement while Malcolm pulled his legs toward him and crept slowly from the shadow of the beasts. He locked his fingers into the chain-link, his breath shuddering, then he pulled himself to standing.

  Raxha tugged on Lexi’s arm, not even letting her sign farewell. Two of the other men came along, once more bracketing her in the back seat of a truck. The woman spoke, something polite and threatening, as if her words even mattered. She wanted something from Lexi, please let this not be another whacko plea for friendship! Lexi stuck her hands under her arms, shrinking even more, then she slid her hand into the pocket of the pants she’d been given. The only possession remaining to her, the coin: Always a choice her father had said. He’d always been full of shit, even then. What the hell choice did she have now? She mashed her face against her shoulder to wipe away the start of tears. If she didn’t do whatever it was, they’d let Chica the Jaguar tear Malcolm to shreds — that was pretty clear.

  The truck bolted and rocked along the road, thankfully more smooth than the last one. Buildings showed through the gaps in the foliage, and Lexi tried to focus. No choice where they took her, but she could still choose her attitude. She couldn’t hear, didn’t mean she couldn’t be aware. At first, she thought the buildings were Mayan, pale stone pyramids or walls, but no, these were too smooth, albeit cracked. She caught glimpses of structure among the trunks. Plastered walls, overhung roofs, the remnant of columned porticos. Spanish colonial. Then a curving sweep upward that looked like a Mission church, compete with an empty frame where the bell used to be. Looked like an old monastery. In an instant, the truck rocked out to a street, still rough, but open and free of the trees. They had to pause for a farm truck, complete with trailer.

  Lexi gave a strangled cry, covering her mouth with both hands. She continued to wriggle, almost whimpering. Raxha looked back at her in the rearview mirror, then said something sharp, with a jerk of her head.