by Clay Farrow
"I beg your pardon,” Liz stammered, “What did you say?"
"A friend asked me to decode the hieroglyphic recipe on a ceramic artifact he discovered. I did, then prepared a liter of the syrupy formula," Monica replied, retrieving a fine bristle brush for a final dusting of a stone image.
"The two of you created the sample together?"
"No. Unraveling hieroglyphics is my specialty, not his. He initially tried but gave up and asked me to do it. Some of the glyphs were very obscure. He loaned me the goblet. I translated the glyphs then FedExed him my notes and the sample I made from my translation. He sent it on to the University of Washington for analysis," she said, absently fingering the leather pouch suspended around her neck.
Liz's brain was buzzing at the possibilities that came with Monica's revelation. How far did she dare push? She'd learned from JJ's crew that this woman was the 'we' JJ referred to just before his death. And while she knew the two had collaborated closely from her interrogation of the Tikal workers, she never suspected the level of Monica's involvement. She only needed Monica to confirm her suspicions. "Who is your associate?"
"Dr. Jeffery Jeffers, but known to everybody as JJ. He was my father's protégé and went on to mentor me after my father retired."
Liz was stunned. The submission to the University of Washington had been under JJ's name, but in truth, the woman seated beside her had done the actual work. Monica had been responsible for the sample Brad swiped from the university lab. Now, with JJ's and Brad's research destroyed, the value of this woman, her translation, and the mug increased immeasurably. "Do you still have the cup?"
"It's in a safe place at home. In fact, I'm going to return it to JJ later this week."
"You didn't send it with your sample and notes?"
"The artifact in question is more than 1000 years old. There was too great a risk of it being damaged."
Liz hid her disappointment with an understanding nod. At least she had confirmed the relic's existence and its general whereabouts, a scrap of information she tucked away for future reference.
She gazed in wonder at the woman hunkered down across from her, naively scraping away centuries of grime off a stone carving. Monica, like JJ, was clueless to the forces that were about to be unleashed on the world if Ken Byers had his way. Forces that would likely suck her up in a vortex of controversy, forever changing her life. "Did you keep any of the sample?"
"I kept a small amount. Why the interest?"
Liz wrestled with how honest she should be. If she could enlist Monica's help, an easy half-million was in her pocket. She and Ken had argued over the kidnapping of Monica. She had fought against his demands, claiming heavy handed tactics had a way of spinning out of control. And there was always the ugly fact of unintended consequences. She thought of JJ's demise.
His death, while accidental, had been unnecessary and a setback. Ken had countered that he distrusted academics and their ivory tower dithering. Holding their feet to the fire was the best way of getting answers. She sympathized with Ken's desperation; his daughter, Laura, was going downhill rapidly, although he'd made no mention of her in their discussion. He had talked only of the scientific need. They argued back and forth until Ken finally relented. If Monica gave her the formula, there'd be no kidnapping.
"I work for Byers Pharmaceuticals. We're funding a great deal of research into medicines derived from jungle plants by indigenous peoples. What were the results of the U of W analysis?"
"I don't know. I haven't talked to JJ for quite awhile, but I would guess he hasn't heard anything or he would have contacted me."
"Would you consider allowing Byers to analyze your sample?"
"I'll talk it over with JJ when I see him on Thursday. But even then, we would have to think long and hard. Neither JJ nor I want to be responsible for any archaeological sites being plundered, or descendants of the Maya being exploited by big pharma's rush to patent their ancient remedies."
"I understand your concern, but Princeton University Press published a five hundred page book of Mayan health remedies in 1996. And I understand they have enough material for another ten volumes the same size. You might have stumbled across a cure for cancer."
"I'm well aware the Maya had a broad range of cures and treatments, but a cancer cure is a bit of a stretch."
"What about quinine for malaria?"
Monica laughed. "I know the legend of the Andean Indian suffering from a malarial attack, who drank bitter-tasting water from a pool and his fever miraculously disappeared. It turned out the sap from the bark of nearby cinchona trees was leeching into the pond. And you must be aware that it only relieves the symptoms. It's not a cure."
"You're sure you won't reconsider Byers' offer?"
"No, not until JJ and I discuss it. Even if it's a cure for cancer, the formula has been around for 1000 years. Another two or three days won't make a great deal of difference."
"I'll drop the matter for now, but it's in your best interests to seriously consider allowing Byers to analyze the sample." Liz shivered. The cave had a damp chill to it which was beginning to seep into her bones. "How far are we underground? It seemed we were descending forever."
"Eighty or so feet from the top of the temple, but the surface is less than four feet in places." Monica pointed out a tangle of brown tentacles dangling from the ceiling, thirty feet above them. "Those are the roots of plants and trees."
"What were these caves used for?"
"A question with no single answer. They served both a mystical and utilitarian function. They provided a source of fresh water during the dry season and the cool air allowed grain to be stored for long periods in ceramic pots. On the mystical front, they symbolized an entrance to the Underworld ..."
"The Underworld?"
"It's the part of the Mayan cosmos inhabited by spirits. A place where the dead set out on their journey to the next world. Caves also acted as burial chambers and served as places of orgiastic worship."
"A prayer meeting with a gang bang?" she chuckled.
Liz noted Monica's expression of distaste - as if she'd just bitten into a lemon. It wasn’t the first time she’d offended other women with her raw sense of humor. The Bureau’s buttoned-down public face was a veneer hiding a macho boys' club. To get ahead she'd had to be the toughest dick in the room. She made no apology for her raunchy language, but she needed this woman. "I didn't mean to offend you. I'm sorry."
Monica accepted the apology with a brisk nod. "Their carnal ceremonies were normally fueled by large quantities of alcohol and drugs."
Liz glanced at her watch once more.
"I noticed you frequently checking the time. Do you have to be somewhere?"
"I should be getting back, but I'm afraid I'll get lost. I didn't leave myself a trail of bread crumbs on the way in."
"I'm sorry," Monica said, scrambling to her feet. She clicked on an eighteen volt flashlight then doused the floodlight. "I'll walk you out."
Liz Dennison hung her head. Here this woman was going out of her way to help. She felt horrible for being a party to this crazy idea. Since becoming involved with this project, she found herself doing and saying things she would have never imagined – first with JJ, and now with Monica.
* * * *
Amanda Alderman glanced at Rick out of the corner of her eye as they walked toward the shade of the gazebo. The soccer ball was tucked securely under her arm. Tramp tagged along behind them, its eyes glued to the ball. They were still panting, their shirts clung to their backs and their bare arms glistened with a film of sweat.
The teenager sensed Rick liked her from the way he kept brushing against her. She, in turn, was drawn to this shy, solitary boy, although she was somewhat ticked-off at the way he acted around that pushy Liz person – flustered and tongue-tied, always staring at her big boobs.
She didn't think of him as handsome, he was plump and awkward, but there was something. He was genuine, sincere, and most important, he was good with Tramp. Ani
mals had a finely tuned intuition about people. If an animal liked you, you had to be a good person.
She reached up, removed the clip from her bun and shook out her hair.
"With your hair down you look like an Indian, except for your blue eyes."
"I am half Indian."
"What tribe?"
"No tribe, silly. India Indian, East Indian. My mother came from Mumbai."
"Do your parents live there?"
“No, I’m from Pittsburgh.”
“When did your mom come to the States?”
“In the late eighties. My Uncle Hilton went to India to recruit software engineers and hired her.” She giggled and continued, “My dad told me that Uncle Hilton said mom was so good the company had to do whatever it took to keep her with the firm. The moment my dad met her, he agreed and proposed.” Amanda lapsed into a melancholy silence.
“Do they still live in Pittsburgh or have they moved here?”
The teenager paused, then blurted, "They died three years ago."
"I'm so sorry," he said. "Do you have any brothers or sisters?"
She shook her head and Rick reached out to her. "Having no family must be awful. How did ..."
"I have a family," she protested, "I have Aunt Monica and Uncle Hilton. They're adopting me. What about your parents?"
"I never knew them, but I pray for them everyday. I was raised by my mother's parents. How did ..."
"Do you have a girlfriend?" she asked, wanting to steer the conversation away from herself.
"No. Our church is located in Los Angeles, and I live with my grandparents in Seattle where the members of our prayer group are all older. They would be hurt if I dated someone who wasn't a member of our church."
"That's ridiculous. My mom and dad were from different races, came from different cultures."
"Do you pray for your parents?"
Amanda bit her lower lip.
"Don't you believe in God?"
Amanda blinked back her tears. "God allowed my mom and dad to be murdered."
He stopped in his tracks and faced the distraught girl, then threw his arms around her.
She fell into his embrace quietly sobbing, her arms circling his broad waist. For some reason that was beyond her, she trusted this stranger.
"Who murdered them?"
"The police said my dad murdered my mom then shot himself."
"Suicide is a sin."
Amanda tried to pull away but Rick held her fast.
"It wasn't suicide! That's only what the police said. Uncle Hilton and Aunt Monica proved my dad's half-brother, Mark Alderman, murdered them both."
"Did the police arrest him?"
"Not for those murders, but he also killed Aunt Monica's husband, Alan, to stop him from going to the police. After we moved to Belize, he was convicted of vehicular homicide."
"How can you be so sure your parents were murdered by him?"
"When Uncle Hilton confronted Mark, he bragged about killing them."
The vision still haunted her, always lurking in the dark corners of her mind. A scene that played out as if it were yesterday - Mark Alderman standing in his living room aiming a loaded rifle at Hilton, Monica, and herself.
"It was easy," Mark boasted. "A two-minute boat ride across the inlet and I was standing on big brother's backyard doorstep. He didn't have a clue what was going on until I got there. It took another two minutes to get back home. That was it. Simple and easy. The following morning I discovered there was a limo driver at the front door calling 911 as I was whacking Dylan and Rajanee inside. Talk about close calls."
Twelve-year-old Amanda was horrified at Mark’s callous retelling of the double murder.
"I knew you were a sick son-of-a-bitch," Hilton hissed, "but I had no idea you were capable of murdering your own brother."
Those words spurred Amanda into action. She rushed at Mark pummeling him with her fists. "You killed my mom and dad. You killed them and I hate you."
She looked up at Mark. His face was flushed and contorted with hate. He took his finger off the trigger and grabbed her by the throat, choking her. She gasped for breath, but out of the corner of her eye she saw Hilton react. She'd given him the diversion he needed. Hilton lunged for the rifle. Grasping the weapon, he wrenched the Winchester from Mark's hands. The vise around her throat relaxed. She shook loose and tumbled to the floor.
Hilton drove his fist into Mark's chin. A crunching sound rippled across the room and Mark dropped to the floor clutching his jaw in agony.
"Please don't. I'm sorry," Mark begged. " Dylan was always the golden boy. Always better. Please forgive me, I had no choice."
Hilton pressed the tip of the rifle barrel against Mark's forehead. He began to squeeze the trigger. "You'll have better luck begging Dylan, Rajanee and Alan for your forgiveness. They were always suckers for a sob story, I'm not. I'm going to pop you and tonight I'll sleep like a baby."
Amanda watched Mark shrink back, sobbing in terror, a dark stain forming on the front of his pants.
"Hilton! No," Monica shrieked. "There's got to be a another way."
Both she and Hilton gazed at Monica's anguished face.
"There's absolutely no evidence he murdered them," Hilton said. "You heard the cops. They still believe Dylan murdered Rajanee and committed suicide. Anything Mark has said to us is hearsay, not admissible in court."
"Despite everything, I won't condone murder."
"Either it's vigilante justice or no justice. Make up your mind now. Which do you want?"
"If those are the only alternatives, make it no justice. The violence has to stop here and now."
Amanda looked directly into Hilton's eyes when he turned to her.
"I agree with Aunt Monica," she said without hesitation. "No more killing."
She sensed Uncle Hilton desperately wanted to pull the trigger and shivered at the look he gave Monica, his ferocious blue eyes unwavering.
Her aunt met his icy glare and said, "Hilton, nothing you do to Mark will ever bring back Alan, Dylan or Rajanee. How many times have we said the same thing to Amanda? It's time to start believing it ourselves. We have to let go of the past. We've proved to Amanda her father was not a murderer and didn't commit suicide. We accomplished what we set out to do. The three of us have to start rebuilding our lives as best we can."
As Hilton turned away from Dylan's half-brother his shoulders sagged in defeat. She darted forward. This monster wasn't going to get off scot-free. Months of anger, frustration, confusion, and loneliness had built-up inside her. She now knew the truth and nothing could ever change that reality. With an vicious swing of her leg, she kicked Mark squarely in the groin.
"That was for my dad," she exploded.
Mark doubled over in pain, the color draining from his face. He attempted to straighten up. Again, Amanda launched her foot in a second attack.
"That one was for my mom."
Hilton and Monica stood in silence as they watched Mark double over once more, then crash to the floor, writhing.
"It hurts, doesn't it? Now you get an idea of how my mom and dad hurt when you shot them. Now you know how much I hurt inside. Your pain will go away, but mine never will."
Mark's hands flew to his crotch to fend off another onslaught. He gasped, attempting to breathe.
Amanda was readying herself for a third assault. Hilton reached out and effortlessly hoisted her into the air. He set her on the floor well away from Mark and propelled her toward the front door.
As the threesome walked out of Mark's home, Amanda heard Hilton whisper, "Remind me never to get on the wrong side of that girl."
* * * *
Rick Calvin gazed down at the sobbing girl in his arms. He felt his throat constrict. His glistening hazel eyes welled up. He so wished he could simply kiss away her pain. He had to help her, had to bring a measure of peace to her soul. She'd been honest with him, whereas he ... . "I wasn't exactly truthful about what I said about my parents earlier."
; "How so?" Amanda asked, using the back of her hand to wipe the tears from her cheek.
"My father never married my mother. My grandparents said 'he didn't know her long enough to learn her last name.' "
"What about your mom?"
"She didn't want me. She went out on a date when I was four and never came home."
"I'm so sorry. I always knew my mom and dad loved me," she said, shyly reaching up and touching his cheek.
"My grandparents and I pray every day that she's safe and happy. It helps. If we pray for your parents, it will lessen your sorrow."
Smiling through her tears, Amanda stood on her tiptoes and her lips brushed his.
"Maybe later."
17:
Off the coast of Belize – Tuesday
"No," Alberto Guerra screamed as he shoved a soldier aside and stormed towards the helicopter's doorway, in an effort to grab Hastings before he toppled backwards through the open hatch.
Alberto knew he was too late. Hastings was still clinging to the rifle with both hands. Although he was positive the fall would kill that thorn-in-his-side son-of-a-bitch, he still felt cheated. "Hastings, I haven't finished with you yet."
Livid, he drew his .45 semi-automatic pistol and blindly fired at Hastings. Eight deafening explosions in the cramped cabin were followed by a succession of hollow clicks.
Alberto whirled to face Romero. "Get this piece of junk down there," he thundered.
The pilot dropped the tiller to the left. The nose heeled over and the aircraft jackknifed toward the sea, hurling the senator and soldiers against the bulkhead, and then pitching them toward the gaping doorway. The taller soldier latched onto a safety strap by the entrance, saving himself. He grabbed Alberto by his shirt collar as the senator was about to spill out of the chopper. The other soldier was thrown to the cabin floor. He tumbled to the lip of the doorway, inches away from free fall, when Romero righted the helicopter.
