Curses! (19 page)
Fourth, the one called Xecotcavach will pierce their skulls so that their brains spill onto the earth.
Marmolejo didn't believe in curses. Not exactly. He didn't believe that Xecotcavach had come up from the Underworld and pierced Ard's skull. No, that had been a twentieth-century human being with a twentieth-century gun. Nor did he think that it had been Tucumbalam who had personally slipped a little something into the crew's food, or some other Mayan god who'd said “ow” (with a
gringo
accent) when Oliver hit him in the stomach.
Perhaps Emma Byers, who was writing a book on the curse, and with whom he'd spent thirty bizarre minutes the day before, really believed all these things, but not Marmolejo. Not precisely. What Marmolejo did believe—and what he had learned to keep to himself—was that there were a lot of things in this world that nobody could explain. Not the professors, not the doctors, not the priests. And definitely not Javier Marmolejo.
He couldn't explain the Evil Eye, but he had seen it work. Oh, he had seen it work. And he couldn't explain how it was that his uncle Fano, who had been given up on by the doctors and carried home to die in Tzakol, had not died after all. The family had brought in a curer who had propitiated the winds, given Fano an amulet of wood from the
tancazche
tree, and called upon Ix Chel, the goddess of health, to help him. And he had recovered. That very night he had stood up on his feet for the first time in weeks, and he had lived. All right, for six or seven months only, but still...
Marmolejo had been just a child, but he had learned something valuable from it. A health official, Dr. Zuniga, had visited the family earlier, when Fano had returned home. With the best of intentions he had explained that rituals were fine in their place, but there was no hope at all for the dying man. What could ceremonies do against bacteria and viruses? The best thing the family could do was to resign themselves and make Fano's last hours comfortable. He would be dead within a very few days.
But when Fano didn't die, Dr. Zuniga's philosophy was undisturbed. Yes, the ritual had been effective, he explained patiently, but not really; not the way they supposed. It had no power of its own. It was all in the mind. Fano had
thought
it would work, and so it had. That was all. Where, Dr. Zuniga had asked with a smile, was the mystery in that?
Marmolejo had been much impressed. First the doctor had told the relatives that the ceremony couldn't work and why. Then afterward, without blinking an eye, he had told them exactly why it
had
worked. This he managed to do in a way that showed he had been right both before and after, and the family had been wrong all along. The fact that Fano had recovered, if only for a while, didn't seem to have much to do with it.
It was the young Marmolejo's introduction to the mind of the scientist, and these many years later it was still his key to how their thinking worked: Even when they were wrong they weren't wrong.
Well, Oliver was a lot better than most. And, happily, what he needed from him now was not more of his forensic expertise, but some plain old-fashioned information.
He picked up the telephone on his desk and dialed the Hotel Mayaland.
"Hola,"
he said to the clerk who answered.
"Puedo hablar con Senor Oliver?"
In five-and-a-half years Merida had changed very little. Animated, noisy, cheerful, the city was teeming with round little people not much over five feet tall, among whom outlanders loomed here and there like isolated peaks sticking up above the clouds.
At five feet, six inches, Julie didn't often get the chance to loom, and she was obviously enjoying it. “I feel like Dorothy in Munchkinland,” she said happily to Gideon over the heads of the chattering shoppers who had bustled their way between them.
They were fighting their way out of Merida's great public market, heading for an eleven o'clock meeting with Marmolejo. The inspector's request that Gideon—and Julie, if she liked—pay a visit to his office had come at a good time; they were ready for a change of scene. Ard's death had naturally cast a pall over things, but besides that, they had been in Yucatan eleven days and had yet to get more than a mile from the Mayaland. They had caught the morning bus originating from Cancun at its Chichen Itza stop (one of Marmolejo's men had seen them off), and a two-hour ride had put them at the main Merida bus station on Calle 69 an hour before their appointment, giving them time to walk through the famous
mercado.
They hadn't intended to buy anything, but had succumbed at a stall selling the celebrated local string hammocks. Yucatecan hammocks were delicate, threadlike affairs and Julie had made Gideon ask the vendor if the large size—the
matrimonial especial—
could really hold the weight of two people.
The vendor had drawn himself up. “I myself have no beds in my house, senor,” he had told Gideon. “Only hammocks. And I have eight children."
Twice on their walk to Marmolejo's office in the center of town, Gideon had been sidled up to by teenaged boys who recognized him as an American (he loomed more than most) and slipped business cards into his hand. Almost anywhere else they would have been invitations to the Pussy Cat Club or the Eros Massage Studio, but there wasn't much big-city nightlife in Merida, and little in the way of earnest vice. “Welcome, gentlemens and ladies,” said one card. “We have finally made handcraf scultures for your examination.” The other said, “Restaraunt T'ho inwites you to a happy dining on Typical Yucatan Cookings."
Other young men—boys, really, some no more than nine or ten—hawked walkaway snacks from hand- pushed or bicycle-powered carts at the curbside: spiral-peeled oranges; mangoes on sticks; sliced papayas and pineapples; brown-kerneled corn doused with chili sauce and eaten out of the husk.
"That's what Marmolejo did when he first came to the big city,” Gideon said.
Julie watched a sweating. skinny kid of twelve in a ragged gray T-shirt deftly pare a coconut, then whack it into a dozen wedges, all with a few quick strokes of a
coa,
a miniature machete with a wicked hook on the end of it.
"Then he sure has come a long way,” she said.
He sure had.
His office was like something out of
Viva Zapata,
an airy, dusty, once-grand space with tiled floors, high windows, cracked walls, and not enough furniture to keep it from looking like a railroad-station waiting room. What furniture there was was eighty or ninety years old, massively made of dark, heavy wood: a sort of
latino
-Victorian. It was far from crude, but somehow one wouldn't have been surprised to see a couple of crossed cartridge belts hooked over a chair back, or a stained sombrero tossed on the corner of the enormous desk.
Marmolejo himself sat, erect and compact, in a richly carved chair that could have held two of him side by side. He apologized handsomely for his sharpness the day before and accepted Gideon's equally sincere apology. Amends made, they relaxed. Marmolejo asked an assistant to bring in soft drinks, then slid four photocopied typewritten pages across the desk.
"This is from Mr. Ard's room; a copy of the article he submitted to his newspaper several days ago."
Gideon looked at it and winced.
Marmolejo's eyebrows rose. “Is something the matter?"
"No, nothing."
Just that the title was “Grisly Curse of Death Stalks Jungle Excavation."
"Perhaps you would look the article over,” Marmolejo said. “I thought that as the only member of both the 1982 excavation and the current one"—he inclined his head courteously—"the only one above suspicion—you might be in a position to see if there is something in it that would throw some light on things."
Gideon had wondered where Marmolejo's cigar was, but now the inspector opened the upper right-hand drawer of the desk, revealing a white onyx ashtray. He took a two-inch stub from it, stuck it in the corner of his mouth, and settled down to wait for Gideon to read the article. The drawer was closed with the ashtray still inside.
Gideon quickly read the article. There were no secrets in it, no clues as to why Ard might have been killed. It was a predictably lurid account of the curse and its “terrifying realization.” It mentioned the mysterious appearance of a “strange, unidentified jungle animal that whispering native laborers secretly swore was a kinkajou.” (There was no mention of the placard around its neck.) It described the “night of fiery agony, when Tucumbalam's revenge was extracted...and which even the scientists have yet to satisfactorily explain.” And it gave three overwrought paragraphs to a segment that began:
On the night of January 5, Professor Oliver, who had more to fear than most (for who else was so intent on disturbing their sleeping bones?) was driven by an unnameable compulsion to climb the stony, deserted steps of Chichen Itza's ancient ceremonial ball court under a moonlit sky. It was a brave but foolhardy thing to do, for, as this is written, Dr. Oliver is still recovering from the effects of an attack by an unseen, unheard presence...
Gideon sighed and moved quickly on. The article's ending, given what had now happened, had a poignance it didn't have when Ard had written it.
And now what? Will the fourth covenant really come to pass, as the first three have? Will skulls be crushed and brains be spilt? Or will Huluc-Canab intervene with the mighty Xecotcavach, as Emma Byers says he promised?
Deep in the jungles of Yucatan, the diggers of Tlaloc eye each other nervously and wait. And wonder.
The previous dig was mentioned only in passing, and there was no reference to the codex. That, apparently, was what had been planned for the second installment, for a postscript promised, “Next: The Strange, Tangled Story of Howard Bennett and The Tlaloc Codex."
Julie had been reading the article too. She tapped the postscript with her finger. “Could it be that someone killed him to keep him from writing the next part?"
"I don't know,” Marmolejo said. “Could it?"
"I doubt it,” said Gideon. “The story's been printed a hundred times. There's nothing new to tell."
"What about the rest of the article?” Marmolejo asked. “Is there anything at all that might provide a clue? Perhaps someone meant to keep him from revealing something, not knowing it had already been submitted."
Gideon shook his head and passed the article back to him. “Sorry, Inspector, I don't think so. I can't see anyone committing murder to keep something out of
Flak
. It's not the kind of newspaper anybody rational pays attention to. And even if someone did pay attention, what is there to get Ard killed? There's nothing here that half the people in the hotel don't already know, thanks to Emma."
The drinks were brought in. Julie and Gideon had the locally bottled Cristal grapefruit soda; Marmolejo had Coca-Cola. The cigar went back in the drawer, none the worse for use. Not only did he fail to smoke the things, he somehow managed to keep the tips dry.
"I have something else to show you,” he said. “Do you recognize this?” He took a small yellow Pen-Tab notebook from a brown paper envelope and held it up.
Julie shook her head.
"It's Ard's,” Gideon said. “He was taking notes in it when he interviewed me."
"Ah, good,” Marmolejo said with satisfaction. “I thought as much, but I'm glad to have you confirm it; it was found under his body.” The notebook too was slid across the desk. Marmolejo was so small and the desk so broad he had to get halfway out of his chair to do it.
There were only about a dozen pages left in the spiral-bound pad, and just one entry, at the top of the first page; “Return to the scene of the crime,” it said, written in ballpoint in Ard's round, uncomplicated hand. The final
e
disintegrated into a distorted hook that the point of the pen had jabbed through the paper, then became a scrawl that ran crookedly off the page. At the top right-hand corner of the page there was a smear of what appeared to be dried blood.
"I don't suppose you have any idea what it means?” Marmolejo said. “'Return to the scene of the crime?’”
"No,” said Gideon. “A note to himself? Something about the next installment?"
"This—this scrawl,” Julie said, frowning uneasily down at it. “This stain. He must have been—was he writing it when he was killed?” Her hands were in her lap. She wasn't about to have them anywhere near the notebook.
"Yes, it appears so,” Marmolejo said. “The notebook was open to this page, and his pen was under him, with the point in the unretracted position."
"Well...is it possible it was meant as some sort of clue to his killer? You know—I know this sounds silly—a way of telling us who the murderer was?"
"I don't think so, Julie,” Gideon said. “The writing is slow and careful, just the way he usually wrote. No haste, no sign of agitation. That has to mean he didn't know he was about to be killed. It also means there's not much doubt about his killer being somebody he knew, somebody he wasn't afraid of."
The inspector nodded his agreement.
"Whoops,” Julie said. “What did I miss? How does that follow?"
"The wound was a contact wound, as you know,” Marmolejo began.
"No, I didn't know."
Marmolejo looked surprised. “Forgive me. I assumed that Dr. Oliver confided in you—"
"I do confide in her,” Gideon said. “I just spare her some of the messier details."
"Which I appreciate, believe me,” Julie said. “But now I'm interested."
"A contact wound indicates the gun was held against his head,” Gideon said. “So obviously his killer was standing next to him, right in his space. But Ard wasn't bothered enough to stop writing. And he couldn't have had any idea he was about to be shot or he wouldn't have been making those nice, round letters. At least I wouldn't have."
"I see,” Julie said. “But that's a little strange, isn't it? Even if you know somebody, how do you press a gun to his forehead and kill him without his being aware of it until you pull the trigger?"