Deity (23 page)

“Why not?
He sounds like a major catch—a big
heart with a lot of money to share.”

Tarah
laughed again. “It’s simple. I like my freedom and he likes his. It’s a mutual
thing.”

“I
see,” Lori lied.

She
didn’t understand much of anything about her companions. A wealthy man spending
so much time helping others didn’t conform to any of her perceptions of the
rich. And such wealth alone was sure to draw the attention of the opposite sex,
so how was Tarah able to resist? Even more baffling was their insistence to
search for Dr. Webb. Did the archaeologist mean that much to them, or
were they just needing
a reason to escape Tunkuruchu for a
while? Everything about Abe and Tarah felt contradictory to Lori’s
pre-conceived notions about the motivations of people.

“But
enough about Abe,” Tarah went on. “Tell me a little about your study. I’m
intrigued by this project you’re working on.”

Lori
shrugged. “It’s nothing really. I’m just trying to complete my dissertation.”

“That
sounds like something to me,” Tarah pressed. “What’s it about?”

Lori
squirmed uncomfortably. Death, dirt and all earthly things related to
archaeology didn’t feel like appropriate conversation pieces amid high-flying
luxury. The current stock ticker, the
Wall
Street Journal
or even bets on a favorite Thoroughbred seemed more
suitable. This certainly wasn’t a place to entertain notions about the fate of
an ancient Toltec priest.

Then
again, she was in the company of people absorbed with the tragedies of third
world countries.

“I
started in Anasazi ceramics,” Lori began. “I wanted to learn what they might
tell us about that culture’s migratory patterns. My work has since evolved into
a broader study of the Anasazi trade relations with the Toltecs of central Mexico.”

Tarah
took a sip and then swirled her drink about the rim of her glass, the ice
clinking melodiously. “That’s an interesting detour.”

“I
doubt I’d have considered it had I not found the Effigy. That has a lot of
archaeologists reconsidering trade relationships between the southwest and Mesoamerica.”

Tarah’s
eyes brightened. “Wait a minute. Are you talking about the Effigy of
Quetzalcoatl?”

“You
heard of it?”

Tarah’s
smile broadened.
“Kid, who hasn’t!
Are you telling me
that
you
 
found
the Effigy of Quetzalcoatl?”

Lori
shrugged. “Well, me and Dr. Peet.”

Tarah
laughed excitedly. “Just wait until Abe hears about this! He didn’t just rescue
any old archaeologist. He saved a famous one!”

Lori
blushed beneath the wave of celebrity suddenly washing over her. “I don’t know
about famous,” she said. “The Effigy receives far more attention than I do.”

“Don’t
sell yourself so short,” Tarah advised.

“Well…”

Lori
felt just as uncomfortable lingering on a conversation about herself as she did
sitting in Abe’s Gulfstream. Her thoughts quickly switched back to her story,
and the medication slowly absorbing her headache.

“It’s
the Effigy that has me suddenly interested in Topiltzin Quetzalcoatl,” she
continued. “There was a body buried with the Effigy and identifying the bones
may provide clues about how the artifact reached Utah in the first place.”

“You
don’t believe it was traded?”

L
ori shrugged. “If the skeleton proves to be of
Anasazi descent, I’ll reconsider. But for now I’m leaning on a controversial
theory that the skeleton is none other than the remains of Topiltzin
Quetzalcoatl, the Toltec priest who was empowered by the Effigy. So when Dr.
Webb claimed to have found documented evidence of Topiltzin Quetzalcoatl’s
landing in Yucatan,
I had to check it out for myself.”

“Wait.
I thought Matt was looking for Jesus.”

“According
to him, they are one and the same,” Lori said.

“So
you and your Dr. Peet came down to Mexico only to find a picture of
the Talking Cross?” Tarah prompted.

“Something
like
that.”

“And
yet, here you sit. Where is this Dr. Peet?”

Lori
felt her own expression sink. “I’m afraid he may still be down in that well.”

“But
Abe said there were no other bodies down there.”

“A
lot of earth fell during the collapse. It’s possible he was buried…” she
swallowed hard, “…alive.”

The
very thought made Lori shudder. Dr. Peet’s tragedy wouldn’t be her first
experience with death. In fact, it was the memory of her first experience that
made her skin tingle with
a
eerie sense of déjà vu.

Tarah
cleared her throat and set her drink aside. Her face grew suddenly serious.

“Lori,”
she said. “How well do you know this Dr. Peet?”

Lori
was taken back by the question. “Why do you ask?”

“Is
he the type to chase after big treasure?”

“Treasure?”

“You
mentioned he was with you when you found the Effigy of Quetzalcoatl. And he was
with you when you saw the drawing of the Talking Cross. Might he have left you
to drown while he escaped to find the Talking Cross himself?”

Lori
shook her head incredulously. “That’s impossible. He would never do that.”

“Are
you sure? He wouldn’t have traded one partner for another, would he?”

Lori
balked as she considered Dr. Peet’s strange behavior over the past semester. “What
are you talking about?”

Tarah
hesitated as if weighing the consequences of sharing something she’d been
holding back. “After Abe rescued you from the water, I went back to satisfy my
own curiosity about this newly formed cenote. When I got there I found
footprints around the rim of the well.”

“Footprints?”

“There
were two sets. Two men from what I could tell. Was there someone else with you
and Dr. Peet when you saw the Talking Cross in that hieroglyph?”

“Yes,”
Lori said slowly, hesitantly. She didn’t want to believe the implications of
what she was about to say. “There was one other.
A Mayan
archaeologist.”

“A Mayan archaeologist?”

“Yes.
His name was Chac Bacab.”

Yucatan
To
Soconusco

By
now Chac knew just about every back road and secluded village in the Yucatan jungle. He knew
the main routes that would skirt him around impassible country and he knew the
lesser routes that penetrated the places he needed to be. He also knew which
routes to avoid in the rainy season. The jungle was his own backyard, but it
still wasn’t his home.

He
hadn’t been
back
home in over twelve years. He didn’t
allow himself to think about it much. There was too much on his mind.
Too much to do.
But now, as he turned his focus toward Chiapas, he couldn’t
deny the seeping ache of homesickness that only intensified when he entered the
first allied village.

Thirteen of the nearly thirty Mayan religious cargos had
joined the alliance and Chac had always been welcome in each and every
scattered village. This one was no exception. He was immediately recognized by
the residents who rushed out to greet him like a returning prodigal son. The
reception was as warm as always, but this day, he felt overly sensitive to
their embrace.

Everything
about the village magnified the memories of home. The women hovered over their
bowls and baskets, shucking dry kernels from the last harvest’s cobs, or they
hunkered in their skirts as they scrubbed their laundry with nothing more than
a bucket of water and a flat slab of stone. There was a toddler sucking the
tattered sleeve of his soccer shirt, and the chapel whose airy plank walls
offered glimpses of the schoolchildren learning their Spanish alphabet inside. Even
the tarps pulled back from random piles of firewood brought flashes of his
childhood to mind.

All
of that came flooding in, but just as quickly washed back when Chac spotted
don
Alonso through the crowd gathering just outside his bug
spattered windshield. He cut the Land Rover’s engine and stepped out, his mind
reeling over the information don Alonso would be searching for. The
snaggle-toothed grin on the old man’s face belied his expectations.

“
Usted es mi otro yo
,” he greeted.

Chac
nodded. “And you are my other self,” he returned.

They
exchanged a few more pleasantries before don Alonso inquired about his visit,
to which Chac asked if there had been any strangers moving through the area. Chac
knew better than to ask such a blunt question so early, and he immediately
regretted his lack of discretion for it immediately put the old man on edge. As
a result, Chac spent the next fifteen minutes assuring him there was nothing to
worry about.

It
wasn’t until Chac climbed back into his vehicle that he realized just how
unconvincing he was. No, there’d been no strangers,
don
Alonso informed him, but then he leaned into Chac’s window and asked a question
that had never come up before.

Libros de
Chilam Balam?

The
old man’s suspicions had not been swayed.

Yes,
the Chilam Balam was safe, Chac assured and reassured him over and over until don
Alonso finally accepted the answer without asking for it again. But even as his
word seemed to finally satisfy the old man, Chac couldn’t be so certain himself.
In light of Matt Webb’s disappearance, he wasn’t sure what remained secure
anymore.

He
hoped Matt was safe. He hoped the Chilam Balam was too. If, God willing, Sabino
and his men had done their job, it was.

* * * *

“So
what, does everybody get a rifle when they cross into Mexico?”

Peet
turned the FN Scar short barrel in his hands. He’d never held something so
fantastically dangerous before. The assault rifle was intimidating,
militaristic, and he couldn’t figure out how Matt Webb, a simple archaeologist
from Brigham Young University,
would have gotten his hands on one.

Matt
smiled from the driver’s seat.

“Not
everyone.”

Matt
hadn’t changed much. He still had that boyish grin and a glint of secrecy in
his eyes. He was pale beneath the sun but then again, he never did have a dark
complexion. He was as lanky as he’d ever been, but surprisingly sturdy for a
man his height. And he certainly knew how to handle the battered Willys Jeep as
they bumbled their way out of the jungle and onto a two lane highway headed for
the Guatemalan border.

“I
never expected to find you in this part of the world, Peet,” Matt said with a
hearty grin. “Aren’t you supposed to be looking for roads in Chaco?”

“It’s
a long story, but in a nutshell I’ve been looking for you,” Peet said. “How is
it that
you
 
managed
to find
us
?”

“I
saw the smoke from your plane crash. Thought I’d check it out. You know, a
good
Samaritan and all that. You can imagine my surprise
when I saw the Zapatistas capture you.”

“That’s
an experience I hope to never repeat,” Peet admitted.
But
enough about himself.
There were too many questions Peet needed answered,
starting from the top.

“What
are you doing in Chiapas?”
he asked.

Matt
laughed. “You mean, why am I not in Chichen
Itza?”

To
Peet, the questions sounded the same. “We ran into Chac Bacab. He said you took
off without a word.”

“Good
ol’ Chac. I suppose I owe him an apology, but there’s been an exciting
development.”

Matt
dug into his pocket and withdrew a flat, two inch thick, palm-sized stone
shaped like a gear. He handed it to Peet who immediately noticed the Kin glyph
painted on the gear’s surface.

Matt
had the Kin piece all this time?

Peet
was surprised by the heftiness of the artifact. That’s when he realized the
stone had not been carved out of the limestone walls of the cenote chamber. Instead,
the rock appeared volcanic, a piece of andesite perhaps, perfectly cut to fit
into the hole in the limestone. But there was another surprise. As he thumbed
the coarse backside of the artifact, he found that it wasn’t flat like the
glyph side. Instead, there were two ridges spanning across the piece, their inner
ends slightly offset near the center.

“I
couldn’t believe my eyes when Chac handed this over to me,” Matt continued.

“
Chac
 
gave
this to you?”

“Oh yeah.
He noticed it inserted into the wall as
he was cleaning the algae from around that glyph.”