Effigy (14 page)

Lori looked surprised by the brief interaction between them, her curiosity ineffectively veiled with false indifference. John admitted he hadn’t exactly extended a warm welcome, but perhaps his reception would have been more accommodating had Peet forewarned him of this unexpected visit. Then again, what could he expect from an impulsive, if not careless man?

Anthony Peet shifted uneasily. “Well, are you going to invite us in or are we going to talk out here in the rain?”

John sighed impatiently, but stepped back to allow them entrance. Peet escorted Lori in first as though he intended to hide behind her.

“Good morning, Miss Dewson,” John greeted, though he was well aware the time for feigned good cheer had passed. “It’s good to see you again.”

Lori smiled, perhaps relieved by the break in tension. “Hello,” she nearly whispered.

“May I take your coats?”

Lori slipped out of her jacket and John accepted it, hiding his disapproval. He knew the jacket, though he didn’t say anything. But when he took Peet’s coat he made certain the man saw the cold reprimand in his eyes. John quickly deposited them and the ratty hat into the closet behind the front door.

Peet cleared his throat. “Where’s—”

“Out shopping. She won’t be back for a couple of hours.” A cold day in hell wouldn’t stop Martha from her errands, let alone a little drizzle in the weather.

When John turned back to the living room he found Lori studying an enlarged photograph of a Mayan pyramid prominently displayed on the wall beside the fireplace. He grinned, pleased with her interest for it was his favorite picture, taken during the spring equinox several years ago.

“They call that the Castillo down in the
Yucatan
,” John said. “Perhaps better know as the Pyramid of Kukulkan.”

“It’s impressive,” Lori said.

“Ah, but look closer and I think you’ll agree that the most impressive part isn’t the pyramid, but its shadow.”

Lori leaned in closer. “The shadow?”

John smiled, waiting patiently for her to see it—the play of light along the profile of the pyramid. Step by step the anemic shadow appeared to slither down the entire pyramid, only to connect with the head of a large stone serpent at the foot of the balustrade.

“The shadow forms a snake,” Lori observed.

“Precisely. That image appears every spring equinox when the sun aligns perfectly with the pyramid. It’s an amazing architectural feat of shadowplay.”

He turned back to Peet who’d seated himself on the arm of the recliner near the heavily draped picture window. To John’s dismay, he’d rested an arm across the large telescope standing to the side.

“But I’m guessing the two of you didn’t come here to discuss shadows.”

What did they come for? John was still trying to wrap his brain around the instigator of this strange visit. Anthony Peet hadn’t stepped foot in his house in nearly ten years. John hadn’t spoken as many words to him in all that time. On the outside they were colleagues who’d had a falling out, but on the inside the grievance was far more caustic. So what could possibly be so important to prompt Anthony to leap the chasm of smoldering bridges?

Peet stood, his hands plunging submissively into the pockets of his trousers. But when he took a step forward, all humbled appearances dissolved with the scrap piece of paper he’d retrieved. He held it out to John.

“We’re hoping you can tell us what this is.”

John eyed him suspiciously as he took the note. He unfolded it and found the word “ACATZALAN” boldly printed across its length. Whatever had been printed or written below had been torn away.

“Where did you get this?”

“We found it.”

John studied him carefully. Was this a joke? The least Peet could have done was bring him something of archaeological value. Or perhaps even something astronomical. Surely he understood that it would take something significant to acquire John’s cooperation. After all, until Peet agreed to step away from the effigy project, John had refused to assist with the research—even if it was one of the greatest finds in southwestern archaeology.

“Does this have anything to do with the effigy?” he asked.

“No”

“Yes”

John turned back to Lori who was blushing at the sound of her voice contradicting Peet.

“It’s for my dissertation,” she quickly explained.

John wasn’t convinced. “And your research led you to a torn piece of paper?”

“Do you know what it means?” Peet pressed.

Inside, John wanted to throw this nonsense back out the door. He wanted to forever wash his hands of Anthony Peet, but something was stopping him. If someone had asked him right then and there what that something was, he’d admit it was Lori. Even in retirement he found himself unable to turn away a student. So that brake on his impulse had to be Lori. At least that was easier than admitting to his own inner curiosity.

John set the note aside and started for his library. “Just wait right there,” he growled as he left the room.

The library slumbered in darkness at the end of the hallway. John had always appreciated the solitude afforded by the windowless room. Time was becalmed in reclusive spaces and he’d taken great care to add to the effect with warm wood paneling, composed leather chairs and deep mahogany bookcases embedded into the walls. On the rare occasion when he required more life in the room he could part the long, flowing satin draping the French doors and the library would awaken in soft, frosted-glass light. Occasionally, after a refreshing study with his books, he’d find the inclination to stroll through those doors and comfort himself upon the cushioned wicker retreats strategically placed around Martha’s shaded garden.

Today wasn’t going to be one of those days.

John clicked on the nearby reading lamp and adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. The short wall contained his most cherished astronomy collection, while the adjoining wall displayed a satisfactory blend of Mesoamerican study. His finger trailed across the spines of
Hamlet’s Mill
and
The Mayan Factor.
Somewhere around that area he knew he’d shelved the booklet he was looking for.

There it was. A stack of papers pressed between two cardboard covers, all bound by three brass brads. He retrieved the booklet and was thumbing through it when he rejoined Peet and Lori in the den.

“I believe the word, ‘Acatzalan,’ comes from… Ah, yes. Here it is.”

He sat down on Martha’s microsuede sectional sofa and laid his reference upon the glass coffee table. Peet and Lori gathered around as he marked the word with his finger. “Acatzalan—meaning ‘among the reeds.’”

Peet leaned in close. “Among the reeds?”

“What is this?” Lori asked. “A dictionary of code words?”

“A glossary,” John said. “From the Florentine Codex.”

“The what?”

“The Florentine Codex. It’s a series of twelve volumes written by the Franciscan friar, Bernardino de Sahagún, during the sixteenth century. He documented Aztec life as he encountered it shortly after the conquest. What we are looking at here is the English version of the Nahuatl language originally compiled through Spanish and Latin translations.”

John waited for a reaction from them but he found only confusion garnered within their expressions. He was confused himself. “Would you mind telling me how this relates to your dissertation?”

Lori picked up the beige scrap of paper from the table where John had left it. “I was actually curious about the hieroglyphs,” she admitted. “They look like snakes.”

“That they are,” John agreed.

“Are they Mayan date symbols?”

John looked at her curiously. “What brings you to such a conclusion?”

“The two parallel bars to the left of each hieroglyph.”

John straightened. Something was amiss and asking questions only made the topic even more confusing. He needed to know exactly what was going on.

“Anthony. A word.”

With Peet obediently at his heels, John led the way back into the library. The reading lamp was still casting a warm glow over his favorite leather chair, easing across a wall of books. With a flick of his finger he motioned Peet to close the door.

“What’s going on here?” he hissed.

“What?”

“Since when does a student specializing in Anasazi ceramics suddenly recognize a hieroglyph from a Mesoamerican calendar?”

Peet’s face was blank. “Is that so hard to believe? Anthropology students are exposed to a variety of world cultures before they specialize in their own fields.”

John wasn’t convinced as he gave him a long, assessing glare. “But a calendar glyph?”

“So it
is
a date symbol?”

“You’re giving her instruction, aren’t you?”

Peet shrugged. “She’s my student and she’s struggling with her dissertation. I thought she could use some help.”

“Over summer break? It looks to me like you’re taking a personal interest in your student.”

“It’s not like that.”

John crossed his arms. “Then how do you explain your jacket? And that sweater she’s wearing. Martha bought that sweater for you years ago.”

Peet noticeably shriveled like a dry leaf. John wasn’t about to let it go. “You’re her professor, for Heaven’s sake!”

Peet avoided John’s glare. His hand dug into his back pocket and withdrew a red Zip disk. He held it out to John. “You’re right. I do have a personal interest.”

John’s heart skipped as he eyed the disk. “Is that Cathy’s?”

“There’s a Mayan calendar—”

“How dare you bring this into my house?”

“There’s another calendar on this disk but it’s not finished. It isn’t even labeled.”

John snatched the disk and waved it in Peet’s face. “Do you know how long we worked on this? Do you know how long it took us to compile all the ancient calendars of the world?”

“Please. We need your help on this.”

“
We?
” John felt his anger rising uncontrollably. The heat was building around his collar. “You’ve never shown an interest in Cathy’s work before.”

“That’s not true—”

“Now it takes another woman to draw an interest in her work?”

“Please—”

John threw the disk at him. His aim was poor and it clattered harmlessly across the teakwood floor. “You make me sick!”

Peet turned and picked up the disk. “You don’t understand. I really need your help on this one.”

“Get the hell out!”

Peet looked bewildered, frozen where he stood.

“Get out and take that girl with you!”

AFI Headquarters

Diego left the regional director’s office with one thing on his mind—he had work to do and Escaban’s tantrum over tardiness and inefficiency had just been an inconvenient delay. He had a new name to query and there was no time like the present to get it over with. If he was lucky, he might come away with something that would make up for missing the siesta he desperately needed.