by Clay Farrow
"JJ, you know what I want," Liz said.
"And my answer remains the same," he croaked.
"In that case, I'd like you to meet my associates on loan from the Guatemalan military. They are guards at a prison farm near Santa Elena." She focused on the lieutenant and snapped her fingers. "Get him ready."
The soldiers tore open JJ's shirt and stripped it from his body. They continued until he stood before Liz wearing only a pair of gray wool socks and his ankle-high hiking boots. The rest of his clothing lay in a small heap at his feet.
JJ looked down. His sun-baked limbs bore a stark contrast to his bleached torso. He smiled to himself. The contrast always came as a shock, but it shouldn't. He'd spent almost fifty percent of his career in the field. The other half had been equally divided between the classroom and scrounging research funding.
Raising his head, he felt his cheeks begin to burn as Liz scrutinized his naked body from head to foot without the slightest hint of embarrassment. A glimmer of a smile crossed her lips when he covered himself. She pried his hands apart and two of the privates pinned his arms to his sides.
She stared into his eyes and smiled. "Not bad for sixty something," she purred.
JJ decided not to be baited. He puffed out his chest. "Seventy-one."
Liz dropped her gaze lower. "Impressive. In fact, I'm going to enjoy our little talk." Her tone turned commanding. "Get him up on the altar."
The soldiers grabbed JJ, each taking an arm or leg, and swung him up over the altar as if he were a feather, then deposited him face up on the convex stone tabletop and knelt.
The picture of Liz standing over him was deceiving. If it wasn't for her fair skin, he could believe she was Maya royalty. Her raven hair, now a glistening mass of curls from the humidity, her black pearl eyes, and her glossy ruby pout were perfect. He saw Lady Twelve Macaw standing over him, or how he envisioned the Queen of Tikal might have looked.
Liz waved the young man over to the altar. "I'd like you to meet Richie Calvin."
"Please," he griped, "it's Rick."
She smiled and gave him a tweak on the cheek and continued. "Richie's a veterinary technician in charge of the animals at the Byers research lab in Seattle. He volunteered to act as our medical advisor, so the interrogation will be as enjoyable as possible for everyone concerned."
"Thank you so much, Liz," JJ replied sarcastically. "If other visitors from big pharma come calling, I hope they too will show the same consideration."
"Unlikely. Besides Richie and myself, only two other people know what you've unearthed."
"Why so secretive?"
"If word got out about your Mayan potion, Byers Pharmaceuticals would be the target of organized protests around the globe."
"Why?"
"Let's just say there's a side effect in your potion that's going to cause a lot of controversy if it can't be eliminated in some manner. Ken Byers intends to move ahead with certification regardless, but the outrage would be silenced with a solution. If one can't be found, it will become a rallying point for far right groups everywhere to block approval of the vaccine."
"What side effect?"
"If you don't give me the formula, you'll find out shortly. Your drug is going to save tens of millions of lives and make medical history. Ken swears he's guaranteed the Nobel prize for medicine. You and your Mayan goblet will probably do a guest spot on every talk show around. Ellen will make you famous," Liz chuckled. "You really don't have a clue what sort of firestorm your concoction will set off around the world, do you? "
"I don't know why you think this find is any different from countless others. It's just another ceramic drinking vessel crafted between 775 and 825 A.D."
"This one has hieroglyphics on it."
"Not unusual. The pottery of Mayan nobility was frequently painted with elaborate scenes. Ceremonial mugs, bowls, and cups often had their hieroglyphic recipes painted on them. The only remarkable feature about this artifact is the incredible complexity of the recipe and the high degree of artistry in the intricate hieroglyphs."
"And you just happened to decipher the hieroglyphs and cook up the result?"
"We have always ... ."
"We?"
JJ silently cursed his lapse - he had to keep Monica safe. "The royal We," he replied. "We, meaning archaeologists, always attempt to decode any hieroglyphics we come across and test the accuracy of our translations. There is still so much to learn about Mayan writing."
Richie stepped closer to the altar. "Where's the mug?"
Liz Dennison shunted the young man to one side with her hip. "Ken Byers couldn't care less about a clay pot. All he wants is the formula."
"It's important," Richie insisted. "It must be found."
"The goblet is safe and sound and will remain where it is," JJ said as he squirmed to find a more comfortable position on the sharp apex of the altar. He looked at the guards grasping his arms, but they only had eyes for Liz and this Richie twerp. He wondered what sort of side-effect would cause these goons to drool in anticipation.
JJ watched Liz reach out and lift up Richie's arm. In the young man's hand was a glass vial containing a chalky brown liquid.
She cracked a half smile. "I have a hard time believing the good doctor never sampled his own wares. For me the temptation would have been impossible to resist. You sure you didn't try even a little?"
JJ shook his head. "I'm sure. I sent two full beakers to the University of Washington for analysis."
"Well, I can tell you, it may be slow acting but your brew packs a hellva' wallop."
JJ pressed his lips firmly together and stared at the temple ceiling. He could only hope this foolish old man hadn't made an incredible blunder with his big mouth. He'd said enough.
Liz stepped away from the altar and Richie moved to JJ's side.
"Open wide, Dr. Jeffers," Richie said, holding the test-tube over his mouth.
JJ looked on as Liz tapped Richie on the shoulder and extended her index finger toward him.
"Give me a taste."
"This is all we have."
"Trust me, there's plenty"
"No, Liz. It won't be strong enough. It will take longer to work on him."
"Give," she commanded.
"Then it's your funeral," he replied and poured a small bead of the syrupy solution onto her outstretched finger.
"A little more."
"No, I need the rest," he said, turning his back to her. "Please open your mouth, Dr. Jeffers. You're going to drink this one way or the other."
JJ kept his mouth clamped shut, but continued to eye Liz, who seemed mesmerized by the tiny blob on the tip of her finger.
"This stuff looks darker than I remember," she said
"Probably the lousy lighting in here," Richie answered. "Now move out of my way."
She gave the tip of her finger a tantalizing lick and gazed at Richie with a seemingly quizzical look, "Back talk and ordering me around. Did you take an assertive pill this morning?"
"Liz, you know we'll lose our jobs if we don't get this done," he exclaimed as he pinched JJ's nostrils closed using his thumb and forefinger. "Could you please help me pry open his mouth?"
JJ cocked his head to one side as Liz Dennison brushed past Richie, moving to the other side of the altar. With one hand on JJ's forehead, she placed the other on his jaw and pressed down. JJ gritted his teeth, but her strength overwhelmed him. As his lips parted, Richie poured the brownish liquid into his mouth, emptying the vial.
He held the liquid in his mouth for thirty seconds. His chest felt like a vise was crushing his ribcage. His lungs were collapsing - imploding.
2:
Turneffe Islands, Belize – Sunday
Hilton Hastings was on his feet, clutching his fiancée's arm the instant a splash off the starboard bow lured her dangerously close to the side of the boat.
"What was that?" Dr. Monica Fremont demanded as she tightened a clasp of her life preserver.
"Nothing. Just a rog
ue wave," Hilton replied, noticing her trembling hands. He understood Monica would have preferred to be anywhere but aboard one of his resort's dive boats.
As soon as she slumped back onto the bench that ran down the center of the outboard, he knelt and went back to adjusting her swim fins. He looked up at her and smiled. "C'mon, cheer up. It's a beautiful day."
The smile she returned seemed more like a frown to him.
"Hey, I don't get on my knees for just anybody."
She nodded, but her face still wore a dour look. "You've been my faithful servant since the day we met in university."
He laughed. "And it's been a long, tough twenty-three years."
Her furtive glances overboard told him Monica remained unconvinced that any body of water she was about to enter was benign. Anticipating her reaction, Hilton was already moving when she jumped up and darted for the stern. The tip of one of her fins caught on the deck and folded under itself. She pitched forward, her body arching toward the Caribbean Sea.
"Hilton," she shrieked, making a desperate grab for the closest gunwale.
He swooped in and scooped her up, cradling Monica as if he were carrying her across the threshold. Then he planted a kiss on her lips and said, "Practicing for the big day."
Monica tried to wriggle out of his arms, but he held her firmly to his chest. When she stopped struggling, he relaxed his grip.
"Do we have to?"
"You've changed your mind? You don't want to marry me on Saturday? Maybe you'd prefer someone more mature, like your colleague, JJ?"
"Stop that," she giggled and playfully slapped him on the head. "You know JJ is an old family friend. I've known him since I was a kid and we've worked together for years." She paused a moment, then continued in almost a whisper, "You know what I'm talking about. Can't we just go home?"
"We've trained in the pool for a month; now it's time to try the open ocean."
Hilton had chosen this dive site for three reasons. First, the water was only fifteen feet deep and crystal clear. Next, the abundance of marine life. He'd mentioned both to Monica. The third he saved as a surprise for the archaeologist.
He knew Monica was one unhappy camper and she had only herself to blame. She had approached him for help overcoming her aquaphobia, the result of a near drowning at the age of seven. He sensed she was staring at him in the hope he would offer her a way out. Having manipulated, cajoled, and goaded her over the past month, he was leaving the choice to her.
A full minute passed. Then she pulled off her floppy, broad-brimmed sun hat, shook out her long blonde hair, and barked, "Let's get this over with."
Hilton chuckled with satisfaction. She'd been skittish since leaving the dock this morning and on the way out to the dive site had been seasick. He'd offered to return to his Caribbean Breezes resort, their home on Cay Caulker. Given Monica's state of mind her refusal came as a bit of a surprise.
Taking two steps aft, Hilton deposited his fiancée on one of the three-by-three diving platforms on either side of the 250 horsepower outboard engine. "I can't convince you to take off the preserver while snorkeling?"
She tugged at the buckles of the life jacket. "No. It's staying on."
He shrugged and handed her a diving mask with a snorkel attached. "You'll end up bobbing in the water like a cork."
Gazing into the water she broke into a broad smile and pointed. "Is that what I think it is?"
He peered over the side of the boat and nodded. "It’s a cannon from a Spanish caravel that sank in the 1600s."
"The same type of ship as Columbus' Nina and Pinta," she exclaimed.
Her eyes seemed to sparkle. Hilton suspected her insatiable curiosity was overcoming her fear. He gave a silent cheer when she unbuckled the life jacket, revealing her yellow bikini and a washboard midriff that always caused his pulse to race. Thirty-nine, he thought, and still as beautiful as the day they'd met.
She tossed him her vest, which he caught and threw forward.
"Visibility underwater is between 80 and 100 feet."
"I'm surprised at how dull the colors are. From all the marine photography I've seen, I would have expected them to be dazzling."
"Wait until you're underwater," he said, slipping over the side and causing barely a ripple.
Hilton looked up beaming as Monica stooped to sit on the platform. He extended a hand to help her, but she stopped short of dipping her foot into the water.
"Come on, Monica," he urged, "you're almost there."
"Just a minute," she said, stepping back into the boat and disappearing, only to reappear seconds later.
"Ready," she said, stepping onto the diving platform, a spear gun in her hand.
"Please, Monica, leave it in the boat. You've never fired one before."
"It isn't like any rifle? Aim and squeeze?"
"You don't need it," Hilton sighed, "there's nothing to be afraid of."
"Don't try to tell me that every carnivore in the ocean isn't lurking just below the surface, waiting to devour me."
Hilton raised his hand to protest, but decided to remain silent. Three years ago Monica's world had been ripped apart. In that earlier life she had been the epitome of self-confidence. Now, if she felt more secure with the gun, who was he to argue? Besides, in a test of wills, Monica and their soon-to-be adopted daughter, Amanda Alderman, would always win.
He placed his hands on her hips and guided her into the water. Still clinging to the dive platform with one hand, she reached back to retrieve the spear gun.
"Go on, have a look," he coaxed. "The wreck's wooden hull decayed centuries ago. But there are still a few cannons, ballast stones, and a pair of anchors to study. Once in awhile someone finds a clay pipe, an iron ring or a piece of pottery."
He treaded water while Monica slowly titled her head forward, her mask disappearing into the water. Moments passed. Lifting her head up, he saw her face explode in a Cheshire cat grin.
"It's awesome," she stammered as if in a dream, "you lead the way."
Hilton slipped beneath the surface. As he reached the sandy bottom, he glanced back and saw Monica had stopped. She'd become captivated by a Queen Angelfish. The fish had a vibrant blue body, brilliant yellow tail, and red, orange, and indigo highlights. The shy creature must have sensed Monica's presence, because with a flick of its tail fin the marine queen vanished into the network of coral, its striking colors blending flawlessly with the reef's exotic hues.
When she looked at him, Hilton gave her a thumbs up, then patted his chest and pointed to the surface. The last thing he wanted was for her to run short of air and panic. He launched himself off the ocean floor, shooting past Monica, anxious to see the reaction to her first ocean dive.
He was treading water when Monica's head popped above the surface. Before he could utter a word, she spit out her mouthpiece and threw her arms around his neck.
"Thank you for this," she exclaimed, "I love you. I love it. To think of all the wasted years."
Hilton threw back his head laughing. "Ready for more?"
Although they'd been snorkeling for only a short time, he felt Monica's confidence increased with each succeeding dive. He watched her kick toward an anchor partially covered by coral. As she reached out to touch the rusted artifact, the tip of her spear gun brushed the ocean floor. A cloud of sand rose and the sun's rays ricocheted off a golden object. Hilton tensed. He didn't want to appear overly protective, but this environment was completely alien to her. He swam to her side as Monica picked up a Spanish doubloon and held it up to the light.
He began to relax when a gliding shadow caught his attention. A dark shape, at least 100 feet to his right, was lazily trolling for food.
Swimming around to face Monica, he pointed to his watch and then to the surface. She held up her index finger. He shook his head and pointed to the surface, the forcefulness of the gesture brooking no argument. This wasn't his first time dealing with a stubborn novice. She hesitated for a moment, and then pressed the doubloon back
into the sand. Hilton nodded as he realized she remembered his ecotourism motto - take only pictures, leave only footprints. He let Monica begin her ascent, then followed, constantly monitoring the shadowy intruder.
Hilton's head shot out of the water in time to see Monica tear off her mask.
"The boat has broken loose," she bawled.
As Hilton took a breath, Monica's flailing arms dunked his snorkel's air hole beneath the surface. The mouthful of saltwater he inhaled burned as it sloshed down his windpipe, choking him. Coughing and spluttering, he disentangled her arms as they slithered around his head and neck like an octopus' tentacles. Holding her at arm's length, he now understood that her newly gained confidence was simply a charade, shattered by the least bit of stress. Rather than conquering an irrational fear, she temporarily suppressed her terror through sheer willpower.
"The boat's free," she wailed.
"Monica, relax! The boat is still anchored. We've moved, not the boat."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Start swimming for the boat. I'll go ahead and pull it toward you."
"Please don't leave me."
Hilton looked over her shoulder. Like a submarine periscope, the dorsal fin slid out of the water seventy feet away, its leisurely pace not yet a cause for alarm.
"You'll be out of the water that much sooner," he said and swam to the boat. Grasping the anchor line he began towing the boat toward her.
"Hilton, a shark is going to attack us," she screamed.
He followed her gaze and saw the dorsal fin heading directly for him, and gathering speed. He twisted back and saw the resolve in Monica’s eyes, a look he'd seen many times before - a steely concentration that excluded all but the immediate crisis. Monica began to rotate the spear gun out of the water and he knew he'd made a huge mistake not remaining at her side.
"No," Hilton yelled, letting go of the anchor line and striking out towards her.
* * * *
Monica Fremont fought to breathe. Her lungs felt like they had shriveled into a deformed fist. The Jurassic killing machine was slashing a path straight for her fiancé. And he wanted her to do nothing?
