Revenge of the Maya

by Clay Farrow

  In springtime, when most young men's thoughts turned to love, his had been filled with visions of murder and suicide. He would have acted on his homicidal impulses but for the realization that one day Alderman would graduate and move on for good. He'd dump his dusky little novelty for some lily-white socialite and Francesca would have no one but him. That was until a fateful evening in August of their third year together.

  Alberto had silently approached Francesca’s darkened beach house. He nipped at a bottle of rum to bolster his courage. Francesca would be furious if she caught him. She had forbidden him from coming around when Alderman and Hastings were in residence, but they were leaving. He had not seen her in at least a month. They hadn't talked since late May, when the punks had arrived.

  The three of them were on the dimly lit dock beside the Greener Grass, quietly talking and laughing. Francesca had gained more than a little weight around the middle since they were last together. Alberto watched as Alderman slipped his arm around Francesca and kissed her. His hand clenched the butt of the holstered pistol on his belt, trying to crush the wooden handgrip in an effort to keep himself from charging the trio. Inhaling, he walked around the side of the house and down to the beach, careful to remain in the shadows. A pickup truck was backed up to the rickety dock. He upended the bottle of rum, downing another mouthful. The gentle offshore breeze carried their voices inland, allowing him to hear every word.

  "Dylan, what do you think the load is worth?" Francesca asked.

  "If we can get twenty-five an ounce," Alderman replied, "about $2.4 million."

  Francesca laughed and clapped her hands like a giddy schoolgirl. "We're rich."

  "A lot richer than you think," Hastings said. "Dylan and I have invested most of the previous years' take. When we finish grad school, there should be close to $25 million in seed money to start the firm."

  "Once we unload this haul we're strictly legit," Alderman said, patting her swollen belly. "I don't want our child growing up with a convict for a father – or a mother for that matter."

  "We can't stay here?" Francesca asked. "I don't know if I'll be able to take the cold in Pittsburgh."

  Alderman threw his arms around the stunning Latina and hugged her. "An excuse to spend days cuddling in bed, among other things," he said with a lecherous grin.

  "Do you want to cast off now or wait for the morning?" Hastings asked.

  "Let's go now, Hilton," Francesca exclaimed. "There's nothing here I need or want."

  Alberto couldn't believe his ears. She was pregnant with Alderman's bastard? She was dumping him? After all he had sacrificed for her – his integrity, his dignity. The rum coursed through his brain. He felt dizzy. Tears of humiliation welled up in his eyes. His legs felt wobbly. He reached out for support. His hand hit the hood of the pickup with a metallic thud.

  The three figures on the dock wheeled around as he staggered out of the shadows.

  "How long have you been there?" Francesca cried.

  "Long enough," he shouted, weaving up the dock towards the trio. He jerked the pistol from his holster.

  "Guerra, put the gun away," Hastings snarled.

  Alberto held the gun at arm's length as he stumbled closer. "Francesca, you're mine," he bawled, aiming at Alderman. Once he eliminated the bastard, she'd only have him.

  "Alberto," she yelled. "You don't own me."

  Alberto pulled the trigger. At the same instant Francesca jumped in front of Alderman. The bullet tore into her abdomen. She uttered a shrill cry and slumped to the dock. Her face went blank. She reached out for Alderman, her fiery dark eyes quickly losing their radiant luster. Alberto was paralyzed with shock as she fell into Alderman's arms.

  "God no," Alderman moaned as he sank to his knees, tears streaming down his cheeks. He tenderly hugged her to his chest, resting her head on his shoulder. "I'll give you anything. Take me."

  "Dylan, it's too late," Hastings whispered.

  Alberto watched Alderman rock Francesca. He shifted his aim and began to methodically squeeze the trigger.

  This time, he thought, there'd be no mistakes. One more dead dope dealer, he chanted to himself. In his mind the pistol fired an instant before his arm was slammed. So why was Alderman was still kneeling, cradling Francesca in his arms? The booze had his eyes playing tricks on him. The slug couldn't have missed at this close range. The bastard had to be dead.

  At the last moment he saw Hastings' fist come loping out of nowhere. The cartilage in his nose erupted, twisted to an impossible angle. Pain exploded through his brain. Blood spewed from each nostril like a water cannon.

  "Welcome to the Kingdom of Heaven, you son-of-a-bitch," Hastings grunted as he lashed out once more.

  Another fist crashed into Alberto`s jaw, then nothing.

  He had regained consciousness sometime the next morning. As well as his splintered nose, the punks had also broken his jaw, five ribs, right leg, and fractured his left. Covered with bruises from head to foot, he lay on the dock for a day before being found.

  Those bastards had left him for dead. Francesca had disappeared without a trace. The boat load of grass was gone along with Alderman and Hastings. A month confined to a hospital bed was followed by many more months of therapy. But within a week of returning to the U.S., he'd revoked Alderman's and Hastings' immunity and had gotten the word out to the Pittsburgh police.

  "Senator," Ken said, "Senator, are you still there?"

  Alberto lurched forward. "Sorry, Ken. I was thinking." He paused for a moment, calculating. Then a cunning smile spread across his lips. "Ken, I may be able to help you after all."

  "How much more?"

  "A million should persuade my cousin."

  Ken muttered under his breath, "More like you'll be the first pig to the trough."

  Alberto smirked. He'd heard every word and there was no denying the statement was true, but he was going to make the little prick pay. "What did you say?"

  "Nothing, forget it."

  "Ken, I don't really feel like flying commercial. Send your jet to pick me up in Washington tomorrow. We're both going to Guatemala and if we have to, Belize."

  "I'm stuck here in Seattle. But I'll send the plane for you, tomorrow morning at six, and join you when I can."

  "Sounds good. Remember, Ken, my cousin prefers cash."

  “It’ll be on the plane," Ken spat.

  Alberto hung up very pleased with himself. He sat back, his finger tracing the crooked bridge of his shattered nose. The doctors had wanted to repair it, but he had refused. He'd decided to keep the nose the way Hastings had left it – as a daily reminder of what he'd lost.

  Licking his lips, he savored the taste of revenge. He hoped his vengeance would be so much sweeter the second time around.

  10:

  Caribbean Breezes Resort, Cay Caulker – Tuesday

  Hilton Hastings’ eyelids fluttered, then opened. Raising his head, he looked out the bedroom window that faced due East, welcoming the first rays of daybreak. He propped himself up on his elbow and gazed at Monica Fremont. He loved everything about her, even her soft purring.

  The emotion he experienced was more than happiness, it was deeper – for the first time in his life, he had a sense of peace and contentment. Monica was not only his lover and in a few days, his wife; she was also his best friend.

  He smiled and slipped out of the bed without a sound. Wearing only baggy sweat pants he tiptoed out to the balcony. A carafe and two mugs sat on the patio table, dropped off by the resort's night cook on her way home. He poured himself a cup of coffee and walked to the railing at the edge of the balcony.

  This was his favorite time of the day. The sun was just creeping over the horizon, casting a shimmering gold carpet across the blue-green waters of the Caribbean Sea. The only sounds were the twittering of jungle birds and the rhythmic roiling of the surf washing up on the beach.

  The four-bedroom apartment he shared with Monica and Amanda Alderman was above the resort's main building, which sat a
t the edge of the beach. The main floor functioned as guest reception and contained the bar, restaurant, and library. On the left side of the balcony was a set of stairs to the ground.

  Beyond the stairs was a broad sandy courtyard open to the sea, where the beach volleyball court and the junior olympic pool were located. The pool had a thatched roof swim-up bar. The back and far side of the courtyard were partially enclosed by a pair of two-story white stucco structures, housing the resort's eighty suites. Between the two buildings, he could see the tennis courts. To the right of the main building, hidden behind a grove of palm trees, were maintenance sheds and the resort's laundry. Two more recent additions were a vaulted, thatched roof pavilion and prefabricated building. The first housed Amanda's gymnastic equipment that included uneven bars, a balance beam and vaulting gear as well as a large open area for floor exercises. The prefab building served as Monica's workshop, artifact warehouse, and makeshift museum.

  Hilton watched Ruth Mooredavid, manager and part owner of the Caribbean Breezes, stride up from the beach.

  The resort hadn't always been a financial success. Before he hired Ruth, the hotel had been a bottomless pit in which he had sunk more than $7 million. He was at one with computers, but he could be exceedingly abrupt with both employees and visitors. His fondness for solitude made a hermit look like a social butterfly. Over the years, Ruth had become indispensable to the enterprise. Single-handedly, she had built an excellent team and cultivated a loyal following of repeat guests that transformed the resort's bank account from red to black. To show his gratitude, he had given her a percentage of the resort. He also hired her husband, Robert, as a groundskeeper and once told Ruth he didn't mind if the couple had children, but Robert had better be the one who got pregnant. Fortunately, she paid no attention to him.

  Toddling behind her was fourteen-month-old, diaper-clad Ester, spoiled by everyone but her mother. Hilton raised his coffee mug to greet Ruth. She waved back then lifted the infant into her arms. Climbing the two steps to the veranda, she disappeared into the reception office.

  Hilton's gaze wandered beyond the beach to the dock, which extended fifty feet into the water. Tied up on one side were five dive boats rocking to a gentle ocean beat. Moored on the opposite side of the wharf was a forty-five-foot sloop named the Greener Grass, which had been purchased during his second year at university. Although he was well aware most saw the sailboat as an ugly scow, he continued to pamper the boat for sentimental reasons. The vessel was, in large measure, responsible for much that came after – good and bad.

  He swung his head around at the sound of a creaking screen door behind him. Monica stepped out of the bedroom, running her hands through her sleep-tousled hair. Barefoot, she wore shorts and a T-shirt. A leather pouch was suspended around her neck by a rawhide lace.

  "Good morning, sleepy. Joining the world with the day half over," he teased.

  Monica picked up the carafe and poured coffee into the remaining mug, then walked around the table to join him. He slid an arm around her waist. She snuggled in with a barely suppressed yawn. At five-foot eleven, she easily rested her head on his shoulder. He tilted his head and pressed his lips to hers in a lingering good morning kiss.

  When he straightened, she angled her head to look up at him. "Was I bad last night?"

  "No," he said, grinning, "your purring was as quiet as a freight train."

  "Lies, all lies," she retorted, thumping his shoulder with the back of her head. "What's on your agenda for the rest of the week?"

  "Today, a dive out to the Great Blue Hole in the early afternoon. Wednesday, it's inner tube caving near San Ignacio. And on Thursday, I want to program a new module for the online reservation system in the morning; and if I'm needed, I'll help ferry guests back to the mainland so we can close the resort in plenty of time for the wedding."

  "I assume that thirty something quartet of blonde bimbos has signed up for the dive?"

  "They're certified divers. They've signed up for both the Blue Hole and tubing." He reached out to stroke her blonde locks and asked, "Is it true blonde bimbos have more fun?"

  "Behave yourself," she laughed. "If you're not careful, more than your wings will be snipped."

  Operating the resort had done wonders for his physique, after years of sitting behind a desk, designing and programming computer systems. Now at forty-one, he occasionally found himself fending off the advances of twentysomething females looking for a no-strings fling.

  "If you want me to behave, forget about going to Altun Ha. Come along on the two excursions."

  Monica's finger tenderly traced the scar that ran from the middle of his forehead through his eyebrow to his temple. "Appealing, but there's a lot to wrap up at the dig if we want to leave on Monday for our honeymoon. Amanda and I will be coming back here tomorrow night, then running over to Tikal on Thursday to return the goblet that JJ asked me to work on."

  "Did you ever send him the translations?"

  "I couriered them to him months ago, along with a liter of what I brewed from the translations."

  "Are you bringing him back for the wedding?"

  "Definitely. He's so absent minded, if I left it up to him, he'd forget."

  "You're going to be back by Friday to welcome our friends?"

  "Of course."

  "What arrangements have you made for hiring armed escorts at the border?"

  "None as yet. Why? I was going to hire a couple of men once we got to the border."

  "What if none are available?"

  "Hilton, it's only a little over sixty miles from the border to Tikal. We'll be in and out in less than three hours."

  He frowned. "Monica, you know Guatemala is a dangerous place. The thirty-six year civil war ended more than a decade ago and the country is still Dodge City."

  "The only problem I've run into are petty police roadblocks where money is demanded for fictional driving infractions."

  Hilton lightly drummed the balcony's railing with the palm of his hand, trying to calm down. "I'd feel better if you had already lined up a couple of escorts. You know armed bandits have blockade the highways. I don't have to tell you that armed bodyguards are necessary, certainly for two females traveling alone."

  Monica bowed her head. "Alright, I'll get Ruth to book us some men."

  "I would prefer you not go at all."

  "I have to return the goblet and pickup JJ," she said, resting a hand on his shoulder.

  What Hilton left unsaid was that armed escorts may be a defense against civilian criminals, but not the Guatemalan officer corps. Many military officers were intimately involved in organized crime and drug trafficking, and would eliminate anyone who stood in their way. He recalled his brush with the lethal side of Guatemala’s rule of law that had occurred several years earlier. He had been in Guatemala City on business. During the height of rush hour, he watched two men approach a vehicle stopped at a light. Each was armed with an AK-47. They casually executed the driver, bodyguard, and passenger, before disappearing into the back of a white van.

  Later he learned the passenger had been the country's chief justice. Two days prior to the assassination, the judge had signed an order to extradite an army general to Florida for drug smuggling. A week after the killings, the general was freed after the new chief justice destroyed all evidence that an extradition order had ever existed.

  "Here's an idea. I'll stay at Chaa Creek after tubing," Hilton said. "I'll arrange for the bodyguards and you pick me up on your way to the border. We'll stay in Belize City Thursday night and I'll make dinner reservations at the Smokey Mermaid. It will be the last time the three of us will have any quality time together for a while. Once the wedding guests start arriving, we'll have our hands full."

  Monica was about to respond when a girlish voice from inside the apartment, shouted out. "Aunt Monica, where's my towel?"

  "Wherever you ... ."

  "It's alright, I found it."

  Hilton and Monica rested their backs against the r
ailing, waiting.

  He sensed from the sparkle in the youthful voice, today would be a good day.

  The gangly bundle of energy that was Amanda Alderman threw open the screen door leading to the apartment's main hallway. She careened onto the balcony, making a beeline for the stairs.

  "Whoa, young lady," Monica said.

  Amanda skidded to a stop. She turned and raced back to her aunt. The teenager stood on tiptoes and kissed Monica on the cheek. Hilton bent forward to receive his morning greeting.

  Fifteen and already five-eight, thought Hilton. She had the tawny skin color and long luminous black hair of her mother, which, with the deep blue eyes of her father, gave her an exotic beauty.

  "Have you finished packing?" Monica asked.

  "Yes," Amanda replied, "and I've set aside a nice dress for the Smokey Mermaid."

  Hilton smiled to himself. She knew what he was going to do before he did, just like her dad.

  "We'll leave for the dig at nine-thirty. The kitchen staff is packing us a lunch. Now, off you go."

  Hilton looked on as Amanda scampered across the balcony and down the stairs, then sprinted across the sandy courtyard to the pool. Watching her he felt a sense of pride mixed with sadness. When Monica and Amanda had fled Pittsburgh for his resort three years ago, he had done a considerable amount of soul-searching. How would the two females adjust from their busy lives in the city to the relative solitude of the resort? A needless worry. They had survived, even thrived.

  There had also been the matter of Amanda's education. He'd been in a quandary as to how he should approach Monica, who was catatonic with grief at the time of her arrival. Decisions had to be made. There were no schools on the island. The only alternative seemed to be a private school on the mainland. He didn't even consider sending her to boarding school back in the States. Finally he decided she would be home-schooled with the help of a tutor. He must have done something right, because she had recently taken her SAT exam and scored 2200.