Temple of the Jaguar Page 2

  She studied me carefully, and seemed to reappraise, looking me over like a used car. Maybe if I were lucky she’d kick my tires.

  “Your father owned a museum in California,” I said, prodding.

  “You know of my father?”

  I grinned. “I’m just full of surprises.”

  “Well, the museum was burned to the ground,” she said. “Everything was lost. My father’s entire legacy, destroyed.”

  “I assume Uncle Leo had a hand in that as well.”

  “Yes.”

  She seemed about to tell me more but her drink came. She opened the bottle with a deft twist and took a long pull and wiped the corners of her mouth with her thumb and forefinger. Her hand was shaking. She twisted the cap back on and set the bottle on the wooden table. Next, she removed a small notepad from her purse, flipped to a page and looked at me steadily. Her blue eyes were flecked with gold. My favorite color.

  She looked down at the pad. “You, of course, are a looter.”

  “I prefer the term creative archaeologist,” I said and reached over and tilted down her notepad with my forefinger. There was much scribbling on the page, with my name written on top, underlined twice. Hmmmm. “Where did you get this?,” I asked. “I’m not exactly listed in the yellow pages under Looting.”

  She grinned. “I’m full of surprises as well, Mr. Caine. As it turns out, you are fairly well-known in the museum industry. A looter who’s not entirely untrustworthy.”

  “Mom would be proud.”

  She went back to the notepad. “You have a Ph.D in Classical Mayan socio-economics from UCLA.”

  “Sounded good at the time. But just try getting a job at Microsoft.”

  “You worked briefly as an acquisitions specialist for the Bowers Museum of Cultural History in Santa Ana, California. Your last official job.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you quit.”

  I shrugged. “As it turns out, I had quite a knack for acquiring artifacts, and an even stronger desire to keep them for myself.”

  She closed the notebook, put it back in her purse. I knew there was still more information in there about me. Curiosity killed the looter.

  “So,” I said, “did I pass the test?”

  She looked at me with those big round eyes. The circles seemed to be getting darker. She needed sleep. Probably a couple days’ worth. “Yes, I suppose you did,” she said.

  “Oh, swell. Now it’s your turn. What’s this all about?”

  Chapter Four

  She sat back and crossed her legs. Her ankles were tan. Tan ankles did something to me. Her foot bounced as she spoke. “You are, of course, familiar with the legends surrounding Ciudad Blanca.”

  I sat back. “It’s a fairy tale.”

  “It’s not a fairy tale, Mr. Caine.”

  “Oh? You’ve been there? What’s it like?”

  She smiled and reached out and touched the back of my hand. I once heard that a good salesperson would always touch their mark. I felt like a mark. As if I were being manipulated through a sales pitch. Except that I liked her pitch—and her touch.

  Oh, brother.

  The waiter came by and looked at me. I shook my head and he went away. Meanwhile, she watched me carefully, perhaps trying to gauge my reaction. The flecks in her eyes glittered like fool’s gold. Except, I was beginning to feel like the fool. She slipped something into my hand.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Look at it.”

  I did. It was a Polaroid of a limestone disc and a rotund older man standing next to it, smiling as if he were with a lover. The disc was taller than his hip, larger than the ones I had come across. I squinted, and was able to pick out one or two familiar glyphs, which seemed to speak of rivers and valleys. The majority of the text, however, was unknown to me. The glyphs spiraled out from the center for three rows in what could only be a very complex story. Or a complex set of directions. The text encircled an image of a stylized jaguar, a popular image in Mayan lore. I was intrigued by the size of the jaguar, easily twice as big as a man. “It’s a photograph of a Mayan disc glyph.”

  “Ancient directions to Ciudad Blanca,” she said. “It’s why my father was killed.”

  I noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding band, and knew immediately that I shouldn’t care if she was wearing one or not. But I did, and the warning bells continued to sound in my head.

  “My father found the disc on an excavation in the Copan valley thirty years ago. He returned it to the museum, where he has been deciphering it ever since. Had been deciphering it.” She looked away, pained.

  “Has the entire text been deciphered?”

  She nodded. “Finished on the night he was murdered.”

  “Coincidence?”

  “No,” she said. “My uncle, you see, had a sort of spy working in the museum. Apparently, this bastard had been reporting on my father’s progress. My uncle waited thirty years for the glyph to be deciphered.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “He told me.”

  “When?”

  “Right after the funeral. He and I had a sort of family reunion.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a clear CD ROM case. “He was looking for this.”

  I reached for it, but she held it back.

  “What’s on it?” I asked.

  “The deciphered disc glyph in its entirety. A road map that goes through the jungles of Honduras. And, it goes on to Ciudad Blanca.” She paused. “Uncle Leo managed to steal everything but the final clue to Ciudad Blanca, a clue contained on this disk. The final clue my father deciphered on the night he was murdered.”

  “And how did you manage to get the disk?”

  “Father emailed me the results as a precaution. He correctly suspected he was being watched. I had the information burned to a disk.”

  “So, Uncle Leo has everything but the final location of Ciudad Blanca.”

  She nodded. “He can start, but he can’t finish.”

  I smiled and sat back. “I hate when that happens.”

  Chapter Five

  We were in my looting command center, on the fifth floor of the Hotel del Rio.

  The suite was cluttered with enough relics to fill a small museum, or two, all piled on dozens upon dozens of bookshelves. Most artifacts were of Mayan and Olmec origin: flint knives, beads, pottery, carved figurines, statuettes, carved reliefs and jewelry. I even had two life-sized obsidian skulls. Virtually priceless. I had boxes filled with spear points and tools and utensils, all labeled accordingly, and all piled around the entire suite.

  “You are a busy little looter,” she said, stepping inside behind me. She went straight to the flint knives, as most do. Ornate jade carvings with razor edges. She touched the fine edge tentatively.

  “The artifacts are there for the taking. I catalogue all my finds as well or better than most archaeologists, and I only sell to respectable museums. All on the hush-hush, of course, as most museums have an official policy to not negotiate with known looters. But, privately, I’ve had scores of representatives from many famous museums peruse these very shelves.”

  She put her hands over her ears. “I don’t want to know any more.”

  I grinned. “True, it’s a dirty little secret. In fact, I’ve sold to your father’s museum countless times, although I did not deal with him directly.”

  She dropped her hands and sighed. “Father was obsessed only with his disk glyph—and left the day to day running of the museum to myself and others.”

  She set the flint knife down and removed a manila file folder from her over-sized purse. She flipped it open and handed me two copies of a computer printout.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “It’s the partially printed text from the disc glyph.”

  “Partially?”

  She smiled sweetly. “It’s for my protection, Mr. Caine.”

  “Ah,” I said. “You still don’t trust me.”

  “If you were in my positi
on, would you?”

  “Point taken,” I said, scanning the pages. “What do you want from me, Miss Da Vinci?”

  “I need someone who knows the land. Someone who can follow these ancient directions.” As she spoke she circled around me. She put a hand on my shoulder. The final sales pitch. “My father had in his notes that you were that man. And from what I’ve seen and heard, you will more than do.”

  I shrugged my shoulders and stepped away from her. I did not like the way my heart skipped a beat at her touch. I was serious about not getting involved with another woman—especially after what happened last time.

  I said, “At some point you will have to furnish the rest of the document, Miss Da Vinci. At some point you will have to trust me.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest; her soft lips grew much harder. “Once we agree to be partners I will furnish the remaining documents. But trust is another matter, Mr. Caine. Trust must be earned.”

  “Does your lack of trust have something to do with my occupation?”

  “You are a looter and a thief. It has everything to do with your occupation, Mr. Caine.”

  Chapter Six

  Looters get a bad wrap. Just because we steal and plunder and operate outside of the law doesn’t mean we’re all bad guys.

  We spent the remaining night going over the first two pages of the translation. The trail began at a river whose Mayan name never changed, which was lucky for us. From there things got a little tricky, but I was relatively certain I knew of the route, although the names for some rivers had changed. One thing was clear: the route led into the heart of La Mosquita. The Mosquita Coast. Little Amazon. Some of the last unexplored terrain on earth.

  The rivers were accurate, their lengths and widths described were accurate enough, too. Whether or not this map led to Ciudad Blanca remained to be seen.

  One thing was for certain...the path seemed to lead into the mountains. Not through...into.

  “We’ll be traveling through tunnels,” I said.

  Marie clapped her hands. “I just love a good adventure story.”

  “Oh. You have many?”

  Still grinning, she looked at me. “No, this will be my first.”

  I rolled my eyes. Had Ishi been here, he would have rolled his eyes, too. Looters didn’t have much use for amateurs. Amateurs tended to get in the way...and to get killed.

  Anyway, Marie seemed quite pleased with my grasp of the map’s instructions. She had feared, she said, that the directions would make little sense, even to an experienced guide like myself, and that her father’s life work had been for not.

  “So, Mr. Caine, will you guide me into the jungle?”

  “One condition?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Quit calling me Mr. Caine.”

  Actually, there was a second condition. We looters always have a second condition. Next, we discussed my guiding fees, and when we were both satisfied, we agreed to meet tomorrow to coordinate the expedition. She gathered her stuff and made a beeline to my door. I was beelining right behind her.

  “What do you plan on doing once you get there?” I asked.

  She spoke over her shoulder. “Where?”

  “Ciudad Blanca?”

  “Conduct a full excavation,” she said. “With much of the artifacts going to a bigger and better museum, built in my father’s honor.”

  “And what of the supposed treasure?” I asked.

  She turned and faced me. Her eyes touched upon different features of my face. “Why there will be no treasure...Nicholas.”

  “Nick,” I said. “Oh, really?”

  “Not after we split it.”

  I grinned. “You would make a hell of a looter.”

  “I suspect most of us would, when it comes right down to it.”

  “And what if your uncle happens upon the city?”

  She set her jaw. “I have plans for my uncle. Now, good night, Nick. I will see you tomorrow.”

  She left. I watched her go and when she disappeared down a stairwell, I shut my door and leaned against it, wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into.

  Chapter Seven

  It was late.

  The city had long ago shut down, and the hotel I lived in had long ago settled in for the night. Fuego wasn’t known for its nightlife, which was fine by me. I was sitting in a lawn chair on my balcony overlooking the city. There was no lawn, but I often thought of myself as a maverick. In the distance, Lake Huron glimmered under the moonlight. The rest of the city didn’t glimmer much, although a few lights twinkled here and there. More mavericks.

  Smoke from my hand-rolled cigarette curled up before my eyes. The smoke stung but I didn’t show it. Partly because I was growing more and more numb with each inhalation, each lungful of smoke. Partly because this wasn’t exactly a cigarette.

  I inhaled deeply. The tip of the cheroot flared briefly, the paper casing crackling and sizzling. At least, I think it crackled and sizzled. This was my second smoke, and anything was possible at this point.

  Case in point, the image of a man in my peripheral vision. When I turned my head, he was gone. Or, rather, just managed to slip out of my field of vision. There he was now, apparently lounging against the iron railing, watching me get wasted again. I turned my head quickly, hoping to catch him, but he was gone, baby, gone.

  My eyes settled on the near distance. The city lights were blurring. I momentarily puzzled over the two moons. Until I realized one of the moons was a reflection in the water. This took me about two minutes to figure out. The little man appeared again, watching me from the railing. I think he was smiling. It was hard to tell. I turned my head. He was gone, gliding just out of my field of vision.

  I had to urinate. So I did. Off my balcony. At least I think I did. When I sat back down, I wasn’t sure why the hell I had gone over the balcony in the first place.

  I sucked some more on the cheroot and images of my parents flooded my mind. I saw them smiling and happy. Working together in the field. A true team. My father jotting down notes as my mother carefully analyzed a clay pot. She turned the pot carefully in her hand, her trained eye seeing everything. My father was nodding and writing quickly. This was how they often worked. Two minds working as one. My mother was beautiful. Hard but beautiful. Her arms were more defined than my father’s. In fact, I often suspected that my own muscle tone was inherited from my mother, rather than my father. Then again, I didn’t look anything like my father, so who knew. Maybe there was a UPS driver out there who had gotten lucky one afternoon.

  My eyes were watering from the smoke. At least, I think they were watering. I wiped the tears away and moved the burning tip away from my face.

  They were nearly cut in two by the machine gun fire. I had been sleeping. We lived in a small house at the edge of town. This was their home base. They worked long hours from this house, in-between fieldwork and lectures. I had my own room in the back, which was where I had been when I heard the truck pull up, followed by some shouting. And as I lay there in the dark, I heard the machine gun fire. And the screams. And the laughter. And more tires squealing. And then silence.

  I had waited perhaps ten minutes for my mother to come in and tell me everything was all right. She never did. And what I found outside was so horrible. So damned horrible.

  I took another hit, and held the smoke in my lungs and noticed that everything around me was wavering and blurry. The man in my peripheral was gone. He was replaced by a red balloon. But when I turned my head, much slower this time, the balloon was blown off course, just out of my field of vision.

  My parents were reduced to slaughtered meat, barely recognizable. No child should have to endure this.

  A cool breeze came off the lake. I was sweating. The breeze felt good.

  The red balloon drifted up and up, and I watched it go, or tried to watch it go, and then I fell over in my chair, and that’s where I found myself the next morning, covered in ashes, a burn mark on my cheek.

&nb
sp; My parents would have been proud.

  Chapter Eight

  “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

  It was a question delivered with more irritation than compassion. Ms. Da Vinci had arrived the next morning, just after sunrise. She stared worriedly at the red welt upon my right cheek. The devilish, dimpled smile I also inherited from my mom did little to minimize that fact, as well as the redness in my eyes. But, hell, at least I had showered and shaved.

  “I’m fine,” I told her, and then nodded approvingly at the vehicle she brought for our trip. A late model Jeep with the rental company proudly displayed on the back bumper. “Are you sure you can handle this thing? I hear they tip over pretty easily.”

  “It has a wider wheelbase than what you’re thinking of.... But, if it’s my driving that you’re worried about, I’ll let you drive.”

  She eyed me smugly, making her all the more alluring. Dressed in khakis with her sunglasses perched atop her head, she could pass for a typical tourist...except for those magical eyes of hers. I tried not to think long on any of it. Just give her a few hours and the humidity should melt away some of the charm.

  “No, that is my job!”

  “Well, I’ll be damned...you made it on time!” I said, as Ishi ran up to us. He was carrying a large backpack upon his shoulders. “I see that you remembered the hand picks and trench shovels. Good man.”

  “Who the hell is he?”

  “My right hand man,” I said, dishing out a little of my own smugness. “Ishi, I’d like you to meet the nice lady I told you about last night: Ms. Marie Da Vinci.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you...” Ishi’s wide smile died as she huffed and moved over to the Jeep.

  “This wasn’t part of the deal, but we haven’t got all day to discuss this,” she said, opening the back of the vehicle. “Throw your shit in here, and let’s get going.”

  She stomped toward the front of the Jeep and climbed in the driver’s seat, immediately starting up the engine.