Castro Directive (10 page)

"You heard what Loften said. Andrews wanted that skull—and Paul felt he'd commit a crime to get it." Pierce shrugged. "You might as well say that I was involved, too. Loften said I was a friend of Ray's."

"At first, I thought you were. That's why I followed you to that seedy bar. I wanted to find out who you are."

"And what did you find out?"

Her answer was succinct. "That you are honest, but somewhat naive in dealing with powerful corporations, and people."

He laughed, not sure whether to be offended or flattered. "You think I'm naive because I lost those contracts?"

She crossed her arms and leaned against the mantel. "I think you're naive because you're willing to work for Andrews even after Loften was killed."

"How do you know that?"

"Why else would you be here?"

She was right. If Andrews hadn't hired him, he probably would've given her name to the police after discovering her identity. She was clever, but she was mistaken about one thing. He wasn't so guileless that he believed everything she was saying was true. It could be a ruse. She and Redington might have set up the whole thing.

"I'm here because—"

"Because you think Bill and I did it. I suppose if we knew the cop Paul was talking about, we could have engineered it." Her eyes narrowed and her voice was terse. "If that's the case, why would we have spared you and killed Loften? Think about it."

He didn't know.

"But Andrews had reason to keep you alive. What better cover-up than to hire you to look for the skull and the killer when he's the guilty party."

Andrews was shrewd, no doubt about that. But so was she. Simms fit the pieces together for him in one way, Andrews another.

"Why are you telling me all of this?"

"You can help us find the skull. You've got an inside. You know Andrews."

Wonderful. She wanted him to work both sides. He looked above her head at the circular piece of wood with the Mayan glyphs. "Why don't you work with the police? Let them hear the tape."

"Bill already gave them a copy. But I don't know if they're going to do anything. Andrews is slippery. And influential."

Carver hadn't even mentioned the tape to him, hadn't mentioned Andrews. "So I suppose you're going to ask me not to say anything to Andrews about you."

"I'm not that foolish. You needed to find a lead to keep him happy. I'm hoping that one murder is all he dares to commit."

Would she be so daring if she really thought Andrews was capable of commissioning a murder? And what would prompt her to take such a chance?

"Who owns the stolen skull?"

"A man named John Mahoney. He lives in Scotland. Raymond Andrews has tried to buy it from him several times. His last offer was three million dollars."

"Three million for a quartz crystal skull? Is it really worth that much?"

She shrugged. "As a piece of quartz, it might be worth a few hundred dollars. But as an ancient life-sized precision-carved skull with possible mystical attributes, well, it's worth whatever someone is willing to pay."

"And Mahoney passed up three million?"

"He apparently has his reasons."

One other thing bothered him. "What about this twin skull that Andrews told me about? He thinks Redington is looking for it."

"Why don't you ask Redington about it? I'm sure he'll be interested in talking to you."

T
he approach to Florida International University was a long, straight road surrounded by a barren landscape that had once been part of the Everglades. The place looked more like a private airport than a college campus and, in fact, years ago had been a landing strip for military planes.

He glanced in his rearview mirror. Earlier he'd had the feeling that someone was following, but he couldn't pinpoint the car. Now there was nowhere to hide; but neither was there anyone behind him. He pulled into a parking lot, locked his door, and walked over to a grassy mall with brick buildings on either side. A typical campus layout, except there was no ivy creeping up the walls, and there were far too few trees.

He was several minutes early and slowly ambled across the mall among the students. He thought a moment about his own college days and realized that most of these kids weren't even alive then; all the social upheavals of that time were just history to them.

When he found the building where the Psychology Department was housed, he walked past the elevator, climbed the stairs to the third floor, and found himself in the rear of the department. He moved along a hallway, past several offices, until he came to one with Redington's name on the wall. The door was partially open, and he saw a man seated behind a desk. He was looking for something on a bookshelf and his back was to Pierce. He had snow-white hair tied in a short ponytail that fell over his collar.

He tapped on the door; the man turned, looked up over his half-moon glasses. He appeared to be in his late sixties or early seventies. "Dr. Redington?"

He scowled at Pierce. "Didn't you talk to the receptionist?"

"No, I came in the back way," he said hesitantly.

"So you did. Well, don't just stand there. Come on in."

He stepped into the office. "My name's Nicholas Pierce."

"Of course it is. It's right here. Pierce. Eleven o'clock. You were referred by whom?"

"Elise Simms."

"Is this for hypnosis?"

"Hypnosis, no. It's about the missing skull."

Redington frowned at him. "Oh, yes. Sit down, Pierce. You're the investigator. Elise—er, Dr. Simms sends students to me for hypnosis to improve their study habits. About this time—near finals—I get a flood of them."

"I see." He took a seat across from Redington. The office was cramped, but the chair was comfortable. The walls were lined with books, except for the wall behind the desk; that was covered with diplomas. Among them was a framed poster of a man holding a baby above his head. Near the bottom, a caption read: "The mythic journey begins here. For instructions, look within."

The desk was crowded with books,
 
papers, files. To one side, amid the disarray, was a thermos, and next to it something round and clear that was partially covered by a psychology journal.

Redington saw his glance and lifted the magazine. Below it was a gleaming skull the size of his fist, a shrunken version of the one stolen from Loften's office.

"It's a glass paperweight, a trinket. Nothing like the one you saw."

"Mind if I take a look at it?"

"Be my guest."

He turned it over in his hand. "Dr. Simms played me the tape of your telephone conversation with Paul Loften."

Redington stared at him impassively, so Pierce continued. "It sounded as if you knew Paul Loften fairly well."

"I knew him for several years. I've lectured a couple of times at the Beach Museum on the crystal skull."

"Why would a psychology professor lecture about a crystal skull?"

Redington smiled and reached for the thermos. "I'm interested not so much in the object itself as in what it represents." He removed the cup from the thermos, unscrewed the top, and poured himself a cup of steamy hot water. "You see, the relationship between myths and the collective unconscious is what intrigues me."

Pierce expected Redington to open a desk drawer and take out a jar of instant coffee. Instead, he sipped the hot water.

"There's a coffee machine in the hail if you'd like some."

"I'm fine. Thanks." Pierce set down the glass skull.

"Do you know about the legend?"

Pierce shook his head. "I'd like to hear about it, though." Redington removed his glasses, which were attached to a black elastic band, and they fell against his chest. "If I tell you about it, you'll have to promise me that you'll take what I say as being neither true nor false. Most myths, if not all of them, contain at least a spark of truth. But if you take them to heart, and believe them to be the true word, so to speak, then you create dogma."

Pierce nodded.

"I always preface my remarks on mythology with that comment, for a reason," Redington continued. "Our world - is filled with dogmas that are deterring our advancement as a species, and I don't want to lend my support to that process in any way."

"You don't have to worry about me. I'm not real big on dogmas." Especially related to Mayan mythology, he thought.

Redington took another sip of his hot water, cleared his throat, and collected his thoughts. The crystal skull Pierce had seen was called the God of Death by the Mayans, he explained. The skull was said to have originated in an ancient kingdom to the east, where it had an identical twin, the God of Life. Both mythical gods abandoned their kingdom before its fall; the God of Death went west to the Mayans, the God of Life to the east.

As he spoke about the legend, the gruffness disappeared from his voice. He sounded like a gentle grandfather telling a bedtime story. "Eventually, the God of Death arrived at a great Mayan city. There, on festival days, he talked to people, advising them how to overcome enemies, when to hold ceremonies in his honor, and even offered personal messages. You see, the skull apparently served as an oracle."

Pierce listened patiently. He didn't see how the legend had anything to do with finding the skull or the killer-thief. He needed hard facts, and he doubted he was going to find them in an ancient myth.

"Anyhow, one day the God of Death mysteriously vanished," Redington continued, "and a strange prophecy followed. It was said the skull would reappear and be reunited with its long-lost twin. The event would foreshadow a new era."

"When is that supposed to happen?" Pierce interrupted.

Redington looked up sharply at him. "I was getting to that. The new begins, according to the Mayan sacred calendar, begins next week – August 16-17."

"You believe that will happen?"

Now Pierce was starting to see the connection between the myth and the crime.

"Remember what I said about myths. A grain of truth, but if you get carried away..." He cleared his throat and frowned. "Elise, Dr. Simms, tends to believe that there is more truth to this myth than I attribute to it. But we'll see."

"You think the twin actually exists?"

Redington held his glasses up to the light. "It's possible. But I assure you, I don't know where it is."

"Do you know Mahoney?"

He wiped the lenses of his glasses with a handkerchief. "He's an old friend."

Pierce nodded. "And Andrews?"

Redington sighed, a deep, cloying sound, as if he were afflicted with perpetual fatigue. "Of course, I know him. I'm the one who introduced him to Mahoney."

"Really? Tell me about it."

Redington put his glasses back on, sipped his hot water, and told Pierce how Andrews had contacted him ten years ago after reading a paper Redington had written on the legend. Near the end of the article, he mentioned that the crystal skull owned by Mahoney best fit the perfect skull of the legend, and might very well be the so-called God of Death, since it had been found at a Mayan ruin. He also wrote that he'd seen the skull on several occasions and that it never failed to leave him awestruck.

"Anyhow, Raymond asked me to act as an intermediary between him and the owner. So, you see, I'm right in the middle of it."

"How did the skull become part of the museum exhibit?" Pierce asked.

"Every so often Mahoney has loaned out the skull for special exhibitions. He isn't against letting the skull out of his sight. He just doesn't want to sell it."

"I'd like to know one other thing. What's the story with Elise Simms? Why is she so interested in the skull?"

Redington cleared his throat. "Well, she is a Mayan scholar," he said in a cantankerous tone. "The theft of the crystal skull offends her."

Pierce nodded. Redington was protecting her. There was something more. He was sure of it.

As he drove from the campus, Pierce saw a Cuban sandwich shop in a small strip shopping center, and turned Swedie toward it. He found a table near the window and ordered a medionoche—grilled ham and cheese on Cuban bread—and an espresso coffee. As he ate, he looked over the other shops. There was a botánica, a Cuban religious goods store, whose display window was jammed with statues of saints, Indians with headdresses, and blacks in peasant garb. There were vases of flowers, and he knew that inside the shop a variety of herbs and potions were also sold. It was all for the practice of Santeria, the Afro-Cuban mystery religion. Tina's aunt Juana was a practitioner, and Pierce had heard numerous stories and had even witnessed ceremonies on a couple of occasions.

A couple doors down was a pet shop. Real handy, he thought. Most Anglos knew very little about Santeria, except that animal sacrifices, often involving chickens or small birds, were part of some rituals. He knew it was a fact, and he also knew it was blown out of proportion by those who opposed the religion. At one ceremony, he'd seen a chicken's head snapped and its blood drained. It was startling, because no one had warned him, but it hadn't been any crueler than the death of chickens the average American ate for dinner. In fact, after the ceremony was over, the chicken was cooked and eaten.