Effigy (16 page)

Lori had the audacity to look appalled. “Why?” she demanded. “Because he’s trying to help me with my dissertation?”

“No. Because I couldn’t nail the real culprit that’s been keeping us apart.”

“And who would that be?”

“Your work, Lori. With you there’s nobody else but your work.”

“I thought you liked that about me. You said I should never apologize for hard work.”

“That was before I realized I had to compete against it. But I figured out last night that you’re already married to it.”

Derek stood there, staring down that beautifully simplistic face of hers. Those earnest green eyes implored him like translucent gemstones. He expected her to turn around and leave in the way girls always did when they couldn’t find the upper hand. Or maybe she’d burst into tears, but to her credit, Lori held her ground and damn it all to hell, that made him want her more.

For years, it seemed, he’d hoped to develop more out of their relationship, whatever that might actually be. He’d tried subtle tactics. He’d tried abrupt tactics. None of them seemed to hit their mark. Derek was facing defeat, and somehow, when it came from Lori it hurt unlike any other disappointment that had come before.

“Maybe when things slow down—” she offered with a steady tone.

“Lori. It’s summer break. If things aren’t slowing for you now, they never will.”

She looked frustrated. “You don’t understand,” she said.

“I do understand. I understand that someday you’re going to wake up and realize just how lonely you are.”

Lori bowed her head, but not out of guilt or shame. She was thinking. Her mind was always thinking.

“Well, Derek,” she said stiffly. “I just wanted to come by to apologize and I guess I’ve done that.”

“That’s fine,” he said.

With a weary nod she turned around and began to walk away. Derek watched her go before he turned back to his apartment. A pang of desperation surged through his veins and he both loved and hated her for that.

Mexico City

The Agave Azul wasn’t much of a hotel. It was more of a tile-roofed, family-operated boarding house whose rooms happened to occupy the entire length of a refurbished hacienda stable conveniently nestled against a quaint suburb of adobe and stucco. It held a rich atmosphere that came with people lacking money, complete with a family-owned and operated cantina and taqueria brimming with the welcoming aroma of fresh sopapillas and advertising its specialty Mezcal and Pulque.

He knew it was the perfect place to find Shaman Gaspar.

The hotel lobby, if you could call it that, was little more than a warm wood counter situated in the greeting room of the family home. The Virgin of Guadalupe hung high near the red brick ceiling and a small rack of
Mexico City
’s highlight brochures had been placed nearby for added hotel affect.

He’d just stepped up to the counter when a young girl bounded in from another room. She was only thirteen, perhaps fourteen, but already quite handsome and firm. She smiled at him with a restrained level of caution.

“
Bienvenido a la Agave Azul
,” she said in rehearsed fashion.

She had a strong voice. He liked that in a girl. He smiled, wondering if there were other services she provided within her family’s establishment.

“That’s a beautiful smile you have,” he said in his best Spanish. “I just returned from the states and I can tell you the flight attendants couldn’t compare.”

The girl blushed, apparently unaccustomed to flattery. She would be easy to manipulate.

“You speak well for an American,” she said.

“I spend a lot of time down here,” he said, leaning against the counter. “The people are much more friendly.” He could smell the masa on her hands. No doubt she’d been helping in the taqueria when he pulled in. She smelled good enough to eat.

“I’m supposed to meet a good friend here.” He flashed her a wink. “Can you tell me if he’s arrived yet?

The girl didn’t hesitate. “His name?” she asked, turning to a register log lying open on the counter.

“Juan Joaquin Gaspar.”

The girl shot a look back at him, even more obliging than before. “I know
Se
ñ
or
Gaspar,” she said. “He stays here often. He gives my brothers peppermints whenever he comes.”

“Will he be here tonight?”

The girl turned back to the register and flipped the page. He held a curious appreciation for antiquated business practices.

“No,
Se
ñ
or
Gaspar is not listed for tonight. But he was here earlier today.”

“He’s already been here?”

“
Sí
. He arrived this morning. He wanted a bed for the day. It was strange for him. We barely had time to clean the room.”

“Is he still here?”

The girl shook her head without even consulting the logbook. “He left about an hour ago. My sister is cleaning the room now if you need a bed for the night.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“No. I assume he’ll be out of town though, since he didn’t reserve his room for tonight.”

He mulled over her response while her big doe eyes watched him inquisitively. For a brief moment, he thought he might take her up on the room offer. But there was still something that needed clarification.

“Just out of curiosity, was he carrying anything with him?”

“
Sí
. A box. It looked heavy. My brothers have been trying to guess what’s inside all day.”

He debated his next move. Gaspar was proving to be slippery, but he was also predictable. It wasn’t too difficult to guess where to search next.

He pulled a carnation from a bouquet sitting on a stand nearby and handed it across the counter. The girl looked surprised. She was blushing again.

“Thank you for your help,” he said, leaning in close to smell her fragrance as she took the stem.

As he turned to walk away, the girl called him back. “
Se
ñ
or
? What’s inside the box?”

He smiled at her childish curiosity. “Just a package my good friend is delivering to me.”

“Oh,” she said. She didn’t look satisfied, but she was smart enough to recognize confidential matters. Before he turned away, she slipped the flower behind her ear, the pale yellow petals brightening against her glistening raven hair. “If you ever need a room...”

He smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said smoothly. “I’ll keep you in mind.”

Acatzalan

The ring of his cell phone jolted him awake. A rush of adrenaline sent his heart pounding. He’d been sleeping soundly, and dreaming too, but the jolt back to reality successfully eliminated any memory of whatever dream he’d had. Given the hardness in his groin it must have been good.

The phone rang again and he irritably jumped out of bed and began fumbling through dark piles of laundry strung across the floor. He really needed to change that annoying ring tone. The only person who would bother calling him this late at night was Shaman Gaspar. As his hands fumbled through the darkness he cursed himself for not shutting the phone off before he went to bed. What he actually needed to do was seriously consider changing his number.

He found the phone in the pocket of his jeans but to his surprise, the number on the caller ID wasn’t Gaspar’s.

“Yeah?” he croaked.

A woman’s voice came over the line. “Are you the one they call Acatzalan?”

He looked at the clock as he paced in front of his night stand. One thirty-four a.m. Great. Just what he neededan impatient New Ager looking for guidance he couldn’t give.

“Who is this?”

“You probably don’t remember me. I’m Eva Gaspar. I’m calling about my father.”

Acatzalan’s senses snapped to full attention. He remembered her all right. She was at Gaspar’s house last month when he stopped by for a visit. An image of her was still vivid in his mind. Middle-aged, dark hair, dark complexion, unfriendly as hell. Gaspar fondly called her Evita. She wasn’t very pleased with Acatzalan’s visit. Come to think of it, she didn’t seem too pleased with Gaspar at the time either.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“I don’t know. When was the last time you spoke with my father?”

“Last night. Why?”

Eva’s voice took on an urgent tone. “Where was he?”

“Home.”

“Are you sure?”

Acatzalan was growing impatient, and he was still pacing in his underwear. “Yeah I’m sure. I was there with him. Why?”

“He called me about ten minutes ago. He sounded scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“I don’t know. I’d never heard him sound like that before. I’m at his house now, but he isn’t home.”

Acatzalan sat down on the edge of his bed and wearily ran his fingers through his matted hair. It had an oily feel to it, reminding him of the shower he’d intended to take first thing in the morning.

“That doesn’t make sense. Do you know where he might’ve gone?”

“No. But he told me that no matter what happens, I should...”

Acatzalan waited, leaning forward with his elbows digging into the muscles above his knees. He hardly noticed the discomfort as her words left him hanging in the silence of his room. “You should what?” he pressed.

There was a pause, as though she didn’t quite believe what she was about to say. When her voice came back over the line, she sounded annoyed and confused.

“He said I should go to
Mexico
.”

Teotihuacán

Shaman Juan Joaquin Gaspar couldn’t remember the last time he’d driven a manual transmission. That had been his primary concern when he first pulled himself into the spare interior of the pickup. It obviously concerned the Mexican who had hesitantly turned over the keys, but a wad of cash convinced him otherwise.