Revenge of the Maya

by Clay Farrow

  Boggs and Knowlton walked into the room and pulled up two metal chairs. Bob dropped a file on the table.

  The lawyer smiled. "Gentlemen, if you have any evidence, charge my clients. Otherwise I want them released."

  Knowlton leaned back, balancing his large frame on the rear legs of the chair and the balls of his feet. Then he folded his arms across his chest.

  "As of now, we haven't come up with any credit card transactions," Boggs said as he flipped open the file in front of him. "But we do have this." He picked up the top sheet from the file and pushed the page down the table.

  Barry examined the paper, all the while making notes.

  "What your lawyer is reading," Boggs said, staring at Gilles, "is a report that a member of the Oregon Department of Corrections' work crew, picking up litter along I-5 north of Salem, found Mr. Ferry's cell phone in a ditch. Guess whose fingerprints were on it, in addition to the owner's?" He paused. "Why, Mr. Wren's."

  The agent passed the lawyer another report.

  Knowlton sat forward. "We also have a set of Washington state license plates that were retrieved from a dumpster by a senior citizen, who observed a young man switching them. He notified the state police, who ran a check. They discovered the stolen plates belonged to a Jeep Cherokee. Those plates were on a 1992 Grand Marquis parked in front of the Byers Pharmaceuticals research building a few hours before the lab was destroyed. And again, Mr. Wren, guess what? We found your fingerprints."

  "And that's not all," Boggs said, rubbing his hands together. "We found animal fur on one of the stolen plates. Rabbit to be precise. We sent the fur to Washington for DNA testing. And here's the good part. We also found rabbit fur on the grill of your Marquis, and we sent that to Washington. What are the odds we come up with a match, Mr. Wren?" Boggs fell silent for moment. "Not willing to hazard a guess? I'm betting it's a hundred percent."

  "So counselor," Knowlton concluded, "we can put one of your clients at the scene of the bombing and within the week, probably at the exact time of the explosion. We have the same individual in possession of a phone belonging to a person presumed killed in the blast. I don't know if you're aware, but Washington state has lethal injection, so now might be a good time for your client to start talking."

  Boggs' gaze drilled into Gilles, his tone was ice. "Make no mistake, Mr. Wren, we will find forensic evidence of Mr. Ferry's remains in the lab's debris."

  Before Barry could respond, Gilles lifted his head. "I did it."

  The silence that hung in the air was deafening.

  "My advice," Barry said in a hoarse whisper, "is not to say another word."

  Gilles slumped in his chair, interlaced his fingers as if he were praying. He stared straight ahead into the one-way glass. "I set the bomb and blew up the building. I murdered the geek. I was by myself. I did it on my own, Julie and Jeremiah had nothing to do with it."

  "I'm sorry Mr. Wren, but the facts don't bear out your claim," Boggs said, removing a photograph from the file. He placed it in front of Gilles.

  Barry rose, walked behind Gilles and looked over his shoulder at the security camera photograph. It was a shot of gas pumps at a service center. Gilles was clearly seen filling the gas tank, while Julie squeegeed the Marquis' pitted windshield.

  Boggs continued, "We canvassed every major rest stop and service center with security cameras along I-5 and came up with the picture in front of you. There are another four shots featuring you and Miss McDonald."

  * * * *

  Jeremiah Gantry stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the FBI's Los Angeles headquarters on Wilshire Boulevard. Barry Muller emerged from the building right behind him. They walked to the curb and stood under a streetlight. Barry reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a rectangular envelope, which he handed to Jeremiah.

  "What is it?"

  "A ticket to Flores via Guatemala City. The flight leaves from LAX first thing tomorrow."

  "I can't leave right away. I have to see to Gilles and Julie."

  "Suit yourself, but Senator Guerra wants you on that flight. Ask yourself this. Who does Gilles care about more? You or the girl."

  "Gilles would never betray me."

  "He'll make a deal. The only question is who gets shafted," Barry said, flagging down a cab. He jerked open the rear door and jumped in. Leaning through the open window, he said, "Go home, pack a bag, and grab the flight. The senator has everything arranged."

  "I can't abandon them. They need me."

  "If Gilles is a standup guy, you're simply going on a vacation. If he rolls, at least out of the country you'll have options. I'll handle the extradition hearings to the state of Washington for them here in Los Angeles, and arrange for legal council once they're transferred to Seattle."

  “What about bail?”

  “Not going to happen.”

  "Spare no expense for their Seattle legal council. I want the best."

  "Absolutely," Barry replied, closing the window.

  The cab edged into traffic, leaving Jeremiah standing alone at the curb in the glow of the streetlight.

  20:

  Flores International Airport – Wednesday

  There was a sharp squeal as the tires touched down on the tarmac a few minutes past midnight. The Byers eleven-passenger jet, a Challenger 650, settled onto the runway then taxied to the end of the asphalt. The flight from Seattle to Flores had taken just under seven hours.

  The jet glided off the runway onto the taxiway, where a pickup with flashing lights was waiting. The vehicle led the aircraft to an isolated area away from the main terminal. A member of the ground crew guided the plane to its berth with a flashlight.

  Inside the jet's luxury cabin, Ken Byers concentrated on his laptop's screen, typing a reply to an email from Laura’s doctor. The physician had confirmed what they both suspected, that his daughter had contracted pneumonia and was quickly slipping away. If he had a treatment plan in the works, he’d better hurry because the prescribed antibiotics were producing little, if any, positive results. The email ended with a warning that Laura could fall into a coma at any time.

  If he could lay his hands on even a small amount of the vaccine, he'd authorize the doctor to administer it to Laura. Whatever the known or unknown side effects might be, they were of little consequence in the present circumstances.

  Ken also had a growing sense that his dream of the Nobel prize might be slipping away as well. If he didn't nail down the formula, his cherished prize was a pipe dream. He'd be a failure after years of struggle.

  The cockpit door opened and the flight captain stepped into the cabin.

  "Dr. Byers."

  "What is it, Sam?" Ken grunted as he tapped away at the keyboard.

  "We've landed, doctor. You can disembark anytime."

  Ken nodded and fired off the email, then shutdown the computer. "What hotel are you and Tyler staying at?"

  "The Esplendido in Santa Elena. I've written down the phone number for you," she said, handing her boss a slip of paper.

  "Thanks." Ken pocketed the phone number and snapped the laptop closed.

  "The tower informed us a Colonel Rodriguez is waiting for you on the runway."

  Ken glanced out of the window. A uniformed officer was behind the wheel of a military jeep. It was the first time Ken had laid eyes on the senator's cousin. Until now, all contact with the colonel had been through the senator. Beside him was an immigration official stifling a yawn. Ken zipped his briefcase shut and gathered up his laptop. He didn't want to waste any time.

  Sam lowered the steps to the runway. The colonel drove the jeep up to the jet and climbed out as Ken stepped down from the aircraft. The immigration official scurried around the vehicle, taking up his post behind the colonel.

  "Colonel Rodriguez," Ken said extending his hand.

  The two smiling men shook hands.

  "Dr. Byers, a pleasure."

  "Call me Ken. And you're Miguel?"

  "Yes," he said, lifting Ken's suitcase from th
e doorway of the jet. He effortlessly deposited the bag in the rear of his jeep. "If you have your customs declaration form filled out, all the agent needs is your passport for an entry stamp."

  Ken handed the official the two documents. The immigration agent ignored the identification page in the passport as he nervously skipped from page to page, trying to find a blank square inch for the entry visa. He finally gave up and stamped the last page of the passport, on top of a Swiss entry stamp.

  "Gracias, Señor," the official said as he pushed the passport at Ken and almost ran for the terminal.

  Ken climbed into the passenger seat, while Miguel slipped behind the wheel of the jeep.

  As they drove across the paved tarmac, Miguel said, "I've booked you a suite overlooking our beautiful Lake Petén Itzá. It's the same hotel where Señorita Dennison is staying. Midmorning, you'll all move to my ranch, about forty minutes south of Santa Elena. It is very private. Much more suited to your needs."

  "Thank you. That's very considerate of you. I trust the gift I sent via the senator was acceptable?"

  21:

  Altun Ha – Wednesday

  Hilton Hastings had not let up on the accelerator since leaving Belize City, even after turning off the paved Northern Highway. The glow of the headlights bounced up and down on the potholed access road to Altun Ha. At times all four wheels had been airborne and if he hadn't been wearing a seatbelt, he would have been thrown from the Jeep Wrangler.

  He headed directly for the site's stucco and wood administration building where Peter, the custodian, lived. The vehicle sped across the parking lot past an SUV and a minibus, skidding to a stop in a cloud of dust close to the cabin. Hilton leapt from the Jeep with a Walther PPK pistol in his hand, and ran to the building. The upper half of the Dutch door was partially open, but no lights were on inside.

  "Peter," he called out, pushing the upper door completely open. He reached in and switched the light on. The forty-watt bulb, hanging from a bare wire in the center of the room, illuminated the space enough for Hilton to see that the only thing seemingly out of place was Peter. It was after midnight and the elderly caretaker wasn't in his bed.

  Hilton jogged back to his idling vehicle. He slid behind the wheel and peered into the darkness, hoping to see the beam of a flashlight that would pinpoint Peter's location. Nothing. He turned the jeep in the direction of Monica's camp. The high beams swept across the plaza, past an unexpected object. He slammed the jeep to a stop. Fifty feet in front of him was Monica's navy blue pickup lying on its side. He stomped on the gas and the Wrangler catapulted toward the overturned truck.

  Something about the plaza was odd - different. Between him and the truck was a series of what looked like speed bumps. He hadn't been to the site in months and his recollection was that the plaza was flat. But straight ahead was the shortest distance between two points, and he drove directly for the mounds. Suddenly, one of the silent policemen raised an arm into the air. Hilton violently twisted the steering wheel, throwing the jeep into a four-wheel drift. Once the vehicle stopped sliding, he stood on the brakes until the SUV shimmied to a stop. Grabbing the PPK from the passenger seat and a flashlight from the glove compartment, he jumped out of the vehicle and ran to the body. The arm fell back to the ground when Hilton dropped to his knees beside him.

  "Peter, what happened?"

  The old man gazed up at Hilton, his breathing labored. When he tried to speak blood seeped out of the corner of his mouth. He tried to sit up, grasping at Hilton.

  "It's okay. Don't talk, lie still," Hilton urged, his hand lightly pressing against Peter to keep him still. The palm of his hand felt wet. He looked. It was covered with blood. He shone the beam over Peter's body. The old man was wounded in three places. Looking at Monica's overturned vehicle and then back to Peter, a chill ran through him.

  "I'll get you to a hospital, but first I have to see to Monica and Amanda. I'll be right back."

  Hilton was on his feet and running toward the pickup, dashing past seven more bodies lying on the ground. He bounded up onto the truck's door and aimed the flashlight into the cab. They weren't there. He saw a drop of something on the passenger door upholstery and slithered through the driver's window head first. He examined the dried liquid closely. Blood. But whose?

  He wriggled back out of the driver's window. The striped canvas shelter lay next to the truck bed. He jumped off the truck and took a closer look. Lying on top of the canopy was Amanda's wallet, which must have fallen out of her pocket when the vehicle flipped. His blood ran cold when the flashlight beam came to rest on the bullet riddled tailgate.

  Racing back to where the other bodies lay, he shone the flashlight on each face to assure himself neither Monica nor Amanda were among the dead. Desperate, he stumbled the last few yards to Peter and sank to his side.

  "Where are Monica and Amanda? I have to find them, where are they?"

  Pete shook his head, an effort that caused him to grimace. "Woman. Helicopter," he gasped.

  The image of Guerra flashed before him. "Was there a man with close cropped white hair? A disfigured nose?"

  The custodian confirmed his worst fears with a painful nod.

  "Blink once for 'yes', twice for 'no.' The man, he took Monica and Amanda? They were alive?"

  Peter blinked.

  Had Guerra snatched the pair to lure him into Guatemala? Peter had said something about a woman. There wasn't one with Guerra in the chopper. Then he stopped. In all the chaos, he had forgotten about someone. "Did the woman have long curly black hair? Good looking?"

  Again Peter returned a single blink.

  What was Liz Dennison's connection to this? How had she and Guerra hooked up? Was Monica their target all along? He hadn't a clue, but knew who might have the answers to his questions.

  First though, Peter desperately needed medical attention. He considered waiting at the site after calling an ambulance. But any emergency vehicle would be coming from Belize City and could take over an hour to reach Altun Ha. He didn't think Peter had that much time. He slipped his arms under the frail man's shoulders and thighs, then lifted him as gently as possible.

  Peter let out an agonized groan as Hilton moved as fast as he dared back to the Jeep. Once there, he laid the caretaker on the rear seat, then retrieved a blanket from the floor and covered him.

  "Peter, after I call the police I'm going to have an ambulance meet us on the Northern Highway. When I see their emergency lights, I'll keep flipping my high beams until they stop. Then we can transfer you. Do you understand?"

  The old man gave him a single blink, then drifted off.

  Hilton had intercepted the ambulance on the highway and Peter's transfer was accomplished with speedy efficiency. He had last seen the emergency vehicle roaring south, its lights flashing, the siren wailing. A few miles further, he had turned off the Northern Highway and sped west toward the Guatemalan border.

  Close to the border, he left the highway to follow a jungle trail used by smugglers. He slipped into Guatemala unnoticed and stuck to seasonal tracks for the next five miles, before returning to the main highway. He arrived at the two hundred and twenty-two square mile Tikal National Park shortly before six in the morning. Hilton bypassed the empty parking lot and headed straight for JJ's dig, which was in an isolated area eight miles beyond the entrance to the park. The archaeologist had carved a square out of the jungle the length of a football field to expose the temple he was working on.

  Hilton hid the Jeep in a thicket a mile from the dig and covered the rest of the distance on foot. He encountered nothing unusual on his trek to the site, but once he arrived at the clearing, alarms went off in his head. The lack of activity, even at this early hour, was strange. JJ was an early riser and should have had a fire blazing with coffee brewing. There was no movement whatsoever.

  Hilton clung to the jungle shadows, biding his time. He glanced at his watch, almost two hours had lapsed since his arrival and still no signs of life. During the wait, he had time
to reflect on a question that had been gnawing at him. He and Dylan had falsely believed Guerra had died at Francesca's beach house all those years ago. Now, Guerra's miraculous reincarnation seemed to explain the events that took place shortly after they left Belize for the last time and returned to Pittsburgh.

  They had been barely a month into grad+ school when their townhouse front door had been battered open. A squad of Pittsburgh cops had poured in, armed with automatic rifles. In addition to the three roommates, Alan Fremont, then Monica's boyfriend, had been in the living room, picking her up for a date.

  "Down on the floor," the lead officer screamed, leveling his rifle at the four young people.

  The yelling officers kicked, prodded, and poked the three astonished occupants into a prone position. Alan was spared the indignity of arrest when he was recognized as a former attorney with the prosecutor's office. Once the initial takedown had been accomplished, an officer cuffed their hands behind their backs, while the rest of the squad spread out through the house, ransacking each room in search of drugs.

  He and Dylan used the Greener Grass as their base of operations, and only had three kilos of marijuana in the townhouse. No one, not even Monica, knew two more tons were stashed on the sloop moored at a marina on the other side of the city.

  Before the ride downtown, Hilton managed to pull Alan aside for a harried few seconds. He pleaded with him to make a deal. Monica was innocent, ignorant of any grass in the house. As for Dylan, he was still tormented by Francesca's death and would never survive prison - his pretty-boy looks would make him some bubba's boy toy within five minutes of lights out. The former prosecutor agreed and was able to cut a deal, calling in who knew how many IOUs in the Pittsburgh District Attorney's office.

  It was now apparent that the raid on the townhouse had been orchestrated by Guerra, but at the time there was never a hint of his or any DEA involvement. What had triggered his sudden reappearance after all these years? Dennison had to figure into the equation in some manner, but he still couldn't grasp why, how or where.