Deity (20 page)

“I
think the Profesor will be sick,” the priest said.

KC
glanced over her shoulder to find Peet strapped and hunched over in his seat,
looking much the same as he did on their first take off from Salt Lake City. She grinned and turned back
to her controls. “I think he’ll hold his own,” she said.

There
was an awkward pause. KC’s skin all but crawled with the priest sitting next to
her. She didn’t know if it was his vocation that repulsed her, or if it was his
size. She’d always had
a distaste
for small men. They
reminded her of the track jockey that tailed her for a year trying to get into
her pants.
Every small man after was just like him—weasely, arrogant
and always trying to prove themselves against their taller cohorts.
But
she had to admit, Father Ruiz was in a league all his own. He was short, and he
was a priest. Somehow, it seemed the one should cancel the other out, but in
KC’s mind, the negative was only compounded.

“This
has been a rough journey for Peet,” Father Ruiz said, interrupting KC’s inner
affliction.

His
observation lifted KC’s barrier, if only momentarily. It wasn’t what Father
Ruiz said
so
much as the opportunity to turn her attention
on Peet. She had spent
a restless
night thinking about
him, about his loss and what she should do about it. The situation was
delicate. It was never easy tiptoeing around death, and she recognized how
deeply Lori’s death affected Peet.

From
the moment she climbed out of the cenote in Chichen Itza, KC had detected a strong
connection between Peet and Lori. She noticed the way Lori watched Peet climb
every last rung of that ladder. She noticed the surprise on Peet’s face when he
saw her waiting at the top. Sure, they may have convinced the world that they
were only a professor and student to each other. They might have even convinced
themselves of that. But KC recognized something that perhaps neither dared to
acknowledge.

She
wondered if Peet was acknowledging it now.

“I’ve
never been good with death,” KC admitted.

“What
do you mean?” Father Ruiz asked.

“What
do you say to people in mourning? What do you do?”

Father
Ruiz already had the answer. “You say nothing,” he said flatly. “You just sit
with them.”

“I
don’t know. People seem to prefer to be alone during times like these.”

“Do
they? Or would you rather leave them alone? God never intended for us to weep
alone.”

KC
bristled. “All right, cut the sermon, Father.”

Father
Ruiz sat back in his seat as though given a punch by her remark. “Why does God
offend you so?” he asked.

KC
snorted. “God doesn’t offend me. It’s the way all you Jesus freaks believe in
something you’ve never seen that I find annoying. And if that isn’t bad enough,
you insist that everyone else join you on your bandwagon.”

“You
don’t believe in God?”

“I
believe God is nothing but an overrated Santa Claus and I’m not about to
believe in something based on someone else’s say so.”

“So
you’d rather believe mankind evolved from monkeys than trust in God’s
creation?”

“At
least there’s cold, hard evidence behind the monkeys. You can’t dispute
science.”

The
priest studied her for a long uncomfortable moment. KC suddenly wished him
gone.

“I
sense I may have touched upon a tender subject,” he said.

She
shook her head and forced a grin for cover. “No, no,” she insisted. “We were
talking about Peet, remember.”

“But
given your distrust in God, you must have experienced a great loss yourself,”
he pressed.

KC
shifted in her chair. “What makes you think that? I’ve been lucky. Nobody in my
life has died.”

“Death
is not the only form of loss.”

“Well
you’re barking up the wrong tree, Father. My life has been very happy.”

“I
might believe you if you weren’t so threatened by me.”

KC
snorted. “You, of all men, are not threatening.”

“So
men are the problem.”

KC’s
voice lifted as if carried by the heat rising along her collar. “I’m not
talking about men, Father. Quit twisting my words.”

“Yes,
but as Jesus said, ‘out of the overflow of the heart, the mouth speaks.’”

“Dammit!
There you go getting all preachy on me again!”

“Do
not harden your heart against God’s word. It will comfort that emptiness within
you.”

KC
had had enough. How the conversation managed to spiral down against her was
infuriating. “Look,” she barked. “If you don’t take that Jesus talk to the back
of the plane I’m going to fly us straight into a cliff. Then we’ll all see what
exactly lies between Heaven and Hell.”

Father
Ruiz didn’t even flinch. “You are not prepared for the eternal consequences.”

KC
narrowed her eyes. “Or is it you who’s unprepared?” she challenged between her
teeth.

She
held the priest’s firm gaze but the little man refused to back down. KC had
confronted stubborn men before, but Father Ruiz displayed an unapologetic will
that graveled her nerves. Was he truly daring her to crash the plane?

As
he held her glare she knew that her last ace had been played. KC gritted her
teeth.

“Why
don’t you take your own advice, Father, and go sit with the one in mourning,”
she growled. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t say another word.”

To
her relief, the priest relented in that smug little way that little men
reluctantly do. He quietly rose to his feet but before abandoning the cockpit
he said softly, “Just remember one thing. Men will never fill that space intended
for God.”

KC
sighed as she returned to her controls. What did that priest know anyway? She
glanced over her control panel but in the background, behind the drone of the
engines, she could hear Peet’s voice. She bit her lip against his inquiring
words.

“Is
everything all right up there, Father?”

* * * *

Peet’s
stomach had leveled with the plane but his headache lingered on. Flying still
played its role on him, but this time its havoc was compounded by a long
night’s lack of sleep. A million thoughts had swarmed for hours in his head and
they’d all centered
around
Lori. What little sleep he
did manage to catch was plagued with darkness and the sensation of fleeing
invisible predators, awakening him in the dawn to sore muscles, a troubled
memory and an aching heart.

And
that was before he overheard the conflict brewing in the cockpit. He thought it
unwise to anger a pilot in mid flight and had just convinced himself to go
forward and referee the situation when to his
relief,
Father Ruiz surrendered to the cabin seat beside him.

“She
is an incorrigible woman,” the priest said as he strapped himself in. He took a
deep breath as though restructuring his thoughts and then, turning back to
Peet, he asked in a more sympathetic tone, “But I imagine your thoughts are on
another.”

There
was no denying the statement, but Peet couldn’t talk about Lori. Not now. It
didn’t feel right to be on a plane headed to Chiapas right now. There was too much
unsettled back in Yucatan.
It was certainly a struggle to focus his attention on the business set before
them, but he had to force his attention, even if all the while it was
distracted by the wait—the wait for a phone call from Chac. The call that would
inform him that Lori’s body had been found.

Focus.
Just focus.

“Father
Ruiz,” he began heavily. “I must tell you about something we found in the
cavern just before that bomb went off.”

The
priest quietly waited for him to continue.

“We
found a cross.”

Father
Ruiz’s eyes lit up. “Where is it?” he asked.

Peet
shook his head to clarify. “It wasn’t your reliquary cross. It was only a
drawing. But this cross had a peg on the ends of the head and cross arms. Is
your reliquary cross pegged like that?”

“No.”

Peet
slumped in his chair. He hoped he’d found a link in all of this mess, but just
like before he only found disappointment. “What is so important about this
reliquary cross you’re after, Father?”

“I’m
not sure I understand the question,” the priest said.

“The
cathedral must have hundreds of crosses. I saw some that looked like they were
made out of pure gold. Is the cross we’re looking for anything like that?”

The
priest shook his head. “No. It’s nothing like that. It’s a simple, wooden
cross. No gold.”

“So
what is so important about it?”

“It’s
not necessarily the cross itself, but its history that is so important.”

“Its history?”

“Are
you familiar with the Caste War of Yucatan?”

“Vaguely.
As I recall the war liberated the Yucatan natives from
their oppressive Spanish landlords operating under the caste legal system.”

“Mexico’s
history is riddled with native uprisings and revolts. Even today there are
paramilitary groups spreading violence through some of the poorest regions of
the country. They spread hate and distrust toward the government and it all
began in 1848 when the Mayan Cruzob challenged the government in the Caste
War.”

“What
does this have to do with your cross?”

Father
Ruiz lifted up a hand. “Be patient and listen. By 1850 there was a stalemate
between the Cruzob and the Yucatecan government, but the natives were encouraged
to keep fighting by their belief in the Talking Cross—a cross through which
they claimed to hear the voice of God.”

Peet rubbed his chin. “Chac mentioned that the Calendar
Deity had been drawn some time in the nineteenth century. Perhaps it was drawn
by the Cruzob. They could have drawn a picture of their Talking Cross in the
hole behind the Kin piece.”

Father
Ruiz shrugged.
“Maybe.
In 1901 General Bravo
surrounded the Cruzob stronghold in Chan Santa Cruz. I’ve been told that during
a skirmish that year, one of his troops recovered the Talking Cross, thus
removing the Cruzob’s access to God. Fifteen years later the Mexican government
entrusted the cross to the cathedral.”

“Are
you telling me the reliquary cross you’re looking for is
the
Talking Cross?”

Father
Ruiz nodded. “The Talking Cross represents spirituality gone loco. There is
power in what one entrusts their faith. You see, the power of the cross is
strictly a mental apparition of a desperate people. When they believed God was
protecting them, they fought harder for the cross. When the cross was taken
away, they believed themselves defenseless and were ultimately defeated. Isolated
groups remain hostile to this day but the Maya resistance has been kept to a
minimum, mainly because the true location of the Talking Cross has long been forgotten.”

“Until now.”

“That
is why we must get the cross back. If a Mayan paramilitary has the Talking
Cross in their possession, there’s no telling what their primordial belief will
lead them to do.”

Chiapas

KC
McCulley noticed the pickup tucked within the cocoa trees, its bed laden with
farmers. She dipped the nose a little more, dropping the Ladybug right over the
top of them.

“Greetings
from America,
boys!” she laughed, imagining their surprise as the landing gear buzzed the
tops of the trees.

A
hand suddenly choked the back of her seat. It was Anthony Peet.

“Where
are we?” he asked. “This doesn’t look like Tapachula.”

“Chill, professor.
I got a radio
transmission from traffic control. The Tapachula runway is closed for
maintenance and they’re diverting small aircraft to that abandoned runway
ahead.”

She
pointed through the cockpit window to the poor excuse for a landing strip
splitting the middle of a short open field. “Need a better look?” she asked,
dipping the plane’s nose again.

Peet
braced himself, his face draining of color. KC laughed. “Better buckle yourself
in, professor. It won’t be the smoothest of landings on that dirt track.”

As
Peet stepped back to his seat, KC adjusted the flaps on the wings and heard the
adjustment in the air flow. The Ladybug dipped and wavered as she zeroed in on
the strip, and even as she did so, a strange feeling came over her. Although
she was focused on her touchdown point she became acutely aware of one thing—there
were no other aircraft around.

But
there were more pickups.

They
charged out of the trees just as the Ladybug took her first bounce. They came
from all sides, ambush style. It was as though they’d been lying in wait for
this very moment and, like a pack of wolves, they were pouncing upon their
prey. Pickups, Jeeps, there was even an old Volkswagon convertible spilling
with men—