Deity (7 page)

Maybe
this time she would listen to her instincts and use those hours to get to know
him better. After all, who could offer a more grounded relationship than a man
who spent his days digging in the earth? But when Peet returned to her in the
company of another man, a priest no less, KC couldn’t help but lash out against
yet another disappointment.

“Nobody’s
asking you to convert to anything,” Peet argued as he chased her beneath the
wings of The Ladybug. “All we need is a ride Chichen Itza.”

“You
make it sound so simple.” KC sighed irritably. “That’s all everybody wants when
they ask for a ride to Chichen Itza.
Then along the way they try to sell me on their New Age crap. Or worse yet,
they try to scare me with all this talk about the end of the world. Now I
suppose this priest wants to convince me that Jesus is returning.”

“He’s
not an evangelistic missionary,” Peet said
,
as if that
was all the reason she should need to change her mind.

KC
marched under the tail of the plane and circled around for the second wing tie.
“I don’t give a damn what he is. All I know is that anyone going to Chichen Itza right now has
some convoluted idea about what’s going to happen on December 21st. I’m going
to have a good hard laugh when everyone wakes up only to realize they still
have to go to work in the morning.”

“You
had no problems flying me to Mexico
City, KC. What’s the difference?”

KC
released the tie and spun around so sharply that Peet’s chest nearly crashed
into her face. Unfortunately, the man caught himself and backed up a step,
giving her space.

“The
difference is you said you were looking for your father-in-law in Mexico City, not Chichen
Itza.”

“Plans
have changed. It could be that John has some sort of connection with Matt
Webb’s archaeological work in Chichen
Itza.”

A
gust of wind threatened to push her back into him. She suddenly hated him for
the anticipation stirred by that very idea.

“So
remind me again why this priest needs to tag along,” she blurted.

“It
could be that Matt took something from the cathedral.”

“Took?
As in, stole? Are you saying your father-in-law is associated with a criminal?”

Peet
sighed in frustration as his hand chased the wind out of his hair. KC could
tell she was further confusing the issue which gave her some sense of
retribution. Why couldn’t he be a little less easy on the eyes?

“I
don’t know exactly what’s going on,” he admitted. “I just know we have to get
to Chichen Itza
as soon as possible.”

* * * *

Compliments
of the Metropolitan Cathedral, it took the pre-payment of a doubled fare for
both Peet and Father Ruiz to finally convince KC to take them to Chichen Itza. That expense
alone implied the cardinal meant business. It also suggested the importance
placed upon the reliquary cross, though Peet could not fathom what that was.

The
search for the reliquary cross was an interesting but secondary quest, but with
Father Ruiz in tow, Peet worried it might distract from his search for John. With
any luck, the two were together under some reasonable explanation, but even he
knew the odds were against him. He felt like he was groping in the dark. Nothing
about John’s disappearance was adding up, and the only thing he knew about the
stolen reliquary cross was that by judging from the chapel reliquary it had
been contained in, it couldn’t be much more than a foot tall.

Peet
exhaled deeply, finally lifting his head from between his knees. The questions
in his head had temporarily distracted from the queasiness in his stomach,
which now subsided with the leveling of The Ladybug. The takeoff had been
particularly rough against a crosswind but now, ten thousand feet in the air,
the ride was tolerably smooth again.

“You
dislike flying, senor?” Father Ruiz asked from the window seat—the only other
seat outside the cockpit.

Peet
tugged on his constricting seat belt. “It’s not that I dislike flying,” Peet
said. “I just prefer my feet on the ground.”

Father
Ruiz smiled and cast a quick glance out the window. “I enjoy flying,” he said. “It
provides me the rare opportunity to see the world from God’s point of view.”

Peet
smiled at the childlike response from the small priest. “Don’t let KC hear you
talk like that,” he warned. “She might throw you out and give you a fallen
angel’s experience.”

They
shared a chuckle as Peet checked his phone.
Still no message
from Martha.

“Once
we are back on the ground, where do you expect to find this Dr. Webb?” Father
Ruiz asked.

“Last
I heard
,
Matt was working in Chichen Itza. If he’s still experimenting
with religious tolerance, he might be targeting all the activity there. The end
of the Mayan Long Count Calendar has drawn a lot of attention so I expect there
will be native rituals or ceremonies performed to commemorate the event. If
Matt left the Effigy in the cathedral, he’s probably looking to deposit your
reliquary cross with the Mayans.”

“Unless we can stop him and get the cross
back.”

“Right.
The only problem is, the cardinal
didn’t describe this cross and you haven’t offered me any clues.”

Father
Ruiz folded his hands in his lap. “Please forgive our hesitancy. The church
regards our relics very sacred.”

Peet
nodded. As an anthropologist he’d long learned to respect the sacred, even if
he couldn’t relate to the significance himself. Artifacts often provided
insight into a people’s behavior or illustrated how religion shaped their
civilization. Nevertheless—

“How
can I help you find something if I don’t know what I’m looking for?” he
pressed.

Father
Ruiz relented with a sigh. “All I can tell you is that the cross is old, but no
less important. It is with urgency that we find it and return it to the
cathedral.”

Peet
couldn’t possibly predict the value of a reliquary cross, not one that comes
from a cathedral riddled with crucifixes of all shapes and sizes and in
practically every form imaginable. There had to be something special about this
cross in particular. Perhaps it was made of gold or some other precious metal. If
not, then Peet guessed there was some spectacular history behind it, something
that the oldest cathedral in the Americas would take stock in.

Even
as he considered the reliquary cross, he couldn’t help but ponder on the goal
of all religions, perhaps even the goal of Matt Webb’s experiment—to gain more
believers.

“What
harm would there be if the cross ultimately converted a Mayan New Ager or some
doomsday seeker?” Peet quipped. “Just think. If whatever everyone expects to happen
on December
21st,
doesn’t happen, there are going to
be a lot of disenchanted people looking for a new religion.”

Father
Ruiz shook his head adamantly. “Removing this cross from the cathedral is not
going to produce converts.
More likely the very opposite will
result.”

Peet
frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Father
Ruiz suddenly darkened, his light features instantly falling into a somber
tone. “It is not for you to understand.”

Peet
was taken aback by the sudden shift. “Can’t you at least explain how the cross
will have a negative affect?”

Father
Ruiz turned back to the window. “All I can tell you is this—”

He
paused, as if debating over his words. His eyes held to the great expanse of
blue sky just outside his window. When he spoke again, it was with a measured
breath.

“The
cross is too dangerous if it falls into Mayan hands.”

Chichen Itza

Mike
and Gabriella waved goodbye as Lori avoided the line of tour busses snaking
around the filling parking lot. A large wall overshadowed by the lanky palms
behind it caught her attention. In large, eye-popping letters the wall read CHICHEN ITZA.

Finally!
She’d arrived.

She
fell in behind a tour group, contracting their eager energy as they followed a
bricked walking path complete with shallow, concrete steps that landscaped the
journey toward the hidden ruins beyond. Embraced by the welcoming span of the
contemporary visitor center, it occurred to Lori that she was perhaps the only
visitor who wasn’t coming for the ruins. Ironic, considering it was archaeology
that brought her there in the first place.

As
the tour group continued through, passing up the bookstore and the tantalizing
aromas of the restaurant for the ruins awaiting out back of the building, Lori
took a detour toward the information counter. Just above the heads of the
attendees hung a banner that read in both Spanish and English:
CHICHEN ITZA
: A NEW SEVENTH WONDER OF THE WORLD!

Lori
spotted a young woman who had just finished assisting another visitor. She
smiled at Lori, the morning too fresh yet to allow the day’s influx of visitors
to dull the sparkle in her large brown eyes. According to the name tag on her
shirt, her name was Rosa.

Lori
stepped right up to the counter and cut to the chase. “I’m looking for an
archaeologist that’s been working here,” she explained. “His name is Dr. Matt
Webb.”

Rosa
smiled with a nod and jabbered
something in Spanish.

A
blush warmed Lori’s cheeks as she shook her head. “I’m sorry. My Spanish is
terrible.”

Rosa
glanced at her English-speaking
co-worker, but he was too busy helping another visitor to notice. “Senor Webb,”
Rosa said, thrusting a finger over Lori’s
shoulder. “Webb. Senor Webb.”

Lori
turned to spy a handsomely dark-complected man standing near a stand of
t-shirts. He was a tad short, but stocky like a military bulldog. Thick raven
hair framed his flint-chiseled face. His posture had a bit of an archaeologist’s
stoop - eyes down, studying something on the tile floor.

It
wasn’t until Lori stepped around a rack of postcards that she realized what he
was looking at.

The little blonde girl crying at his feet.

* * * *

Chac
Bacab should have seen the trap coming. He should have known to avoid the
visitor center all together, but he was running late after a long, restless
night. He needed something to pick him up and the restaurant within the visitor’s
center always had a pot of coffee brewing. The last thing he needed was an
inquisitive child tagging at his heels, but the little girl who’d stalked him
from the postcard rack to the t-shirt stand looked sweet enough in her blonde
pig-tails to give him a moment’s pause.

He
supposed she didn’t speak Spanish so he asked, “May I help you, little girl?”

He’d
guessed right. Without pause, and in the sweetest voice he’d ever heard, the
little girl asked, “Are you a Maya?”

How
observant, he thought, impressed. “I am,” he said.

Without
missing a beat the little girl spouted, “My brother says the Mayas are going to
end the world.”

“Well,
that’s not entirely—”

It
was too late. The jaws of the trap had already proceeded to close around him for
in that moment the little girl snapped. Without warning, tears stormed the rims
of her eyes and Chac was suddenly bombarded with a chorus of “No! No! NO!”

Embarrassingly,
the little girl threw herself on the floor, bawling. “I don’t wanna die!”

Chac
felt the attention of the visitor’s center turn toward them. A slender woman
with hair as blanched as her daughter’s pushed through the gathering crowd and
swooped
the little girl in her arms, all the while scolding
him with her own biting words. “What are you doing to my child? Get away!”

With
a shove from the furious mother, Chac stepped back and watched her escape with
the little girl howling in her arms.

Chac’s
stomach soured. This hadn’t been the first time he’d been the brunt of 2012
hysteria. It was a cursed inheritance having descended from a people who’d
given his generation nothing but the shirt-tails of an epic calendar. No, it
wasn’t the calendar’s fault. He preferred to view it as a testament to his
ancestors’ brilliance. 2012 only marked the completion of something that should
be cherished, admired and celebrated. Instead, the calendar was declared as a remarkable
discovery, another secret revealed and a great achievement in archaeology. It
didn’t seem to matter that there were shamans who’d kept the calendar tradition
alive to this day.

The
truth, he knew, wasn’t nearly as tantalizing as a good mystery. Truth removed
elements of the unknown, and so truth was easily drowned by debating scientific
theories that fed into the dreams of doomsayers, New Age enlightenments and a
whole host of miscellaneous suggestive interpretations that left the Maya
people accountable to a world begging for reasons to speculate and worry.