Treasure of the Mayan King (2012) (14 page)

“What is Dad trying to tell you, Mom?” Troy asked.

“Well, I haven’t used the code in a long time, but the opening is code for ‘Anita, my love.’ Chauncy always started his code messages to me with those glyphs. I can’t tell what the rest says yet. I need to study it for a while. Can you both do me a favor? Take Troy with you for the rest of the day and bring me some dinner later on. I need to be alone for a while.”

Gloria took Troy”s hand. ‘Sure, Anita, don’t worry. We’ll find some fun ways to entertain him.’

Anita gave Troy a reassuring hug. Once the three were gone, she closed the door after them. A great sense of doom enveloped her. God, I don’t think I can go through with this!

She paced around the room, her mind and emotions running wild. Somehow she would have to properly translate the cryptic Mayan Code, something she hadn’t done for years.

She thought of Troy. How would he fare if he were suddenly deprived of his father? How would he react if he ever found out that it was his mother who had failed them?

Tears streamed down her face as she gazed out the window. Down on the beach, tourists were throwing beach balls, swimming and running, oblivious to the danger to her family. She had a sudden urge to run and tell the whole world about her plight.

But the warning not to notify the authorities was branded into her memory. No amount of emotion could override that.

She wiped her tears away and took a deep, shuddering breath in an effort to calm herself. No amount of crying, no amount of wishing was going to save her husband. Whether she liked it or not, the fate of her family was in her hands. Only logic would get them all out of this. She sat down in front of the TV and copied the code. Four hours later she finally came to a translation:

ANTMLVHLPFRMAYOAFARMERTELLIONTHATSPANISHBIRDYUCATAN

The first part was easy as she had already translated it: ANTMLV came out to “Anita, my love.” Chauncy had taught her to isolate the words that were easily recognizable. After highlighting them, she came to this:

HLPFRMAYOAFARMERTELL-LION-THT-SPANISHBIRDYUCATAN

She stared at the letters, her mind whirling with possibilities. HLP was phonetic for “Help.” FRM became “From” - but what was AYOA? Remembering what Chauncy had taught her, she spoke out loud. “Aye oh ahh…aye-oh-ahh…that’s it! Iowa!”

She had something! “Anita, my love, help from Iowa farmer…”

Within a few moments she had the rest of the message. She stared at the message, her hope fading.

Anita-my-love-help-from-Iowa-farmer-tell-lion-Spanish-bird-Yucatan

It made no sense. The first part was easy enough to understand, but what “lion” was she supposed to tell? And what was she supposed to tell him/her/it? What was the Spanish bird?

She ran her hands through her hair, frustration and hopelessness tugging at her. She felt like crying again; the stress of knowing that if she was improperly translating the message, it would mean her husband’s life.

She gritted her teeth and remembered Chauncy’s words: Emotions can kill you. They had never been truer. Be strong, Anita, you can do it. You’ve already come this far.

The others returned at dinnertime. Troy carried a covered plate.

“I brought your favorite, Mom, two chicken enchiladas, with rice and beans of course.”

Smiling, Anita invited them in, took the plate from Troy and gave him a hug. “I have some good news and some bad news,” she announced. “I’ve decoded and translated the message!”

“That’s very good news, I think.” Marlo was visibly relieved.

“What’s the bad news?” Gloria asked with fear in her voice.

Anita’s smile faded. “Chauncy is in a lot of trouble and in bad company. I mean really bad company.”

“What do you mean?” Marlo warily asked. “You’re talking in circles again.”

Anita put her dinner on the table and they all sat down.

“These are the words that I put together from Chauncy’s message. ““Anita my love, get help from the Iowan farmer and tell the lion that his Spanish bird is in Yucatan.””

Marlo and Gloria traded glances.

“Huh? What does that mean?” Gloria asked.

Marlo scratched his head. “Great! We’re right back where we started: clueless.”

Anita continued with her explanation. “Let’s start from the beginning. First of all, Chauncy is requesting that I get help from an Iowan farmer. I know who he is talking about: Kelly Sorenson.”

“Kelly who? Who is she?” A perplexed Gloria asked.

“No, not a she, it’s a he. Kelly Sorenson is a good friend of ours who lives in Iowa. Chauncy saved his life many years ago, and Kelly swore that if Chauncy was ever in trouble, he would do all he could to help. Well, it’s time to collect.”

Marlo nodded. “Okay, what about the lion and the Spanish bird?”

Anita smiled. “How do you say ‘lion’ in Spanish?”

“Leon,” Gloria answered.

“Exactly, and what is the name of the military captain in Guadalajara?”

Troy beat them all to the punch. “Captain De Leon!”

“Very good Troy,” Anita said, smiling. “Now, what is the capital of Spain?”

Marlo was getting irritated. “That’s easy, it’s Madrid. Come on, Anita, you’re freaking me out again. We’re not playing Trivial Pursuit now are we? What’s your point?”

“Don’t you see the message? Here, let me translate it into clear English:

Anita my love, go get help from Kelly Sorenson and tell Gustavo De Leon that Jose Padilla Madrid, the escaped jailbird, is in Yucatan.”

Marlo stood up. “Anita, that’s brilliant! Chauncy didn’t marry no fool, that’s for sure. Now let’s get moving!”

Gloria spoke up. “Uh, hello, is anybody home? You guys are missing one very important factor - we’re not supposed to contact the authorities.”

Anita turned to Gloria. “Apparently Chauncy trusts De Leon. I have a plan, but leave that to me. I just need a small favor from you, Marlo.”

Marlo raised his hand to stop her. “Let me guess - it involves a trip to Iowa.”

“How perceptive of you!”

“And I suppose you have Mr. Sorenson’s address in your head?” Marlo said with a smile.

“1843 N. 140th Lane,” Anita replied with a larger smile. “I always used to send letters for Chauncy. It’s in a rural area of southwest Iowa. I’ll call the airport and make reservations for you.”

Chapter Seven

The plane flew toward Des Moines, Iowa, with the northern hemisphere in deep winter. It was such a different world from where Marlo had come, but he had been in similar weather only a couple of weeks ago. Relaxing in his airline seat, his mind wandered back to the day when this recent adventure had started, when he had sat in Chauncy’s spacious ranch house, warming himself in front of a roaring fire. He could still smell the pinewood, a scent that had permeated the entire house and had gone a long way to fostering a contented feeling. He had reminisced with Chauncy, noticing how little his friend had changed in three years; his short frame still powerfully built, but his blond hair more gray. Then Chauncy had revealed the plane tickets, and Marlo had looked forward to the trip down to Cancun. But life was funny in a strange way. Marlo’s vacation was cut short by the sudden change of events.

The bumpy landing jarred him out of his musings. The long walkway that connected the plane to the airport was a welcome relief, but he could still feel the chill. After a few confusing minutes he found the car rental place, provided his information, and was directed to the parking lot. Once outside, he buttoned his large overcoat and shivered as he walked rapidly to his car.

Within an hour he had made it out of the bustling metropolis of Des Moines and was driving toward the farmlands of the great Midwest. Marlo found it hard to believe that somewhere in Iowa, on some rural farm, was a man who would be able to help Chauncy out of his predicament. Marlo couldn’t even begin to fathom the connection; he had left too quickly to ask Anita any questions or details. He had his orders: find Kelly Sorenson and bring him to Yucatan.

He took a sip of his hot coffee and glanced at the map again. He wondered how a simple vacation had turned into this. He hoped that this trip would prove successful. What would he do if he returned empty-handed?

An hour later Marlo left the freeway and turned north. He passed rolling hills so unlike the mountains he was used to. The barren brown soil with patches of melting snow was unappealing, but Marlo knew that in a few months the empty fields would be brimming with corn and soybeans.

He pulled onto a gravel road and drove east, passing several white two-story farmhouses. When he finally found the address, his heart sank after he got a good look at the house through the trees. He glanced at the address on the piece of paper in his hand, then back again at the house. This was indeed the place.

The dilapidated house looked abandoned. Marlo surveyed the area and then exited the car and walked across the property.

Rusting farm equipment was everywhere. Tall brown weeds grew where they wanted. Engine parts were scattered around four abandoned cars. Marlo heard a sound from the barn. He went over to investigate and was overwhelmed by the smell. Hogs!

He could only imagine what the place smelled like in the summer when the heat and humidity were at their zenith! He returned to the house, a bit more confident that someone did indeed live here. The beasts had to be fed and he doubted that someone would travel snow-filled roads just to feed some hogs in an abandoned barn.

He walked up a few steps to the front door. With no doorbell in sight, he knocked loudly. He heard nothing. After a few moments he knocked again, even louder.

No answer.

Marlo had almost given up when he heard the sound of shuffling feet within. Ah, someone is here.

The front door took a while to unlock. Finally the door opened and a medium-built older man stuck his face out into the cold. He appeared to be in his late fifties. Marlo’s gaze brushed passed the wrinkled face, the large nose, the bald head, and focused on the man’s bloodshot eyes.

In a gruff voice he demanded, “Are you one of Jehovah’s Witnesses?”

“Uh, no sir, I….”

“Are you a stinkin’ salesman? Because if you are, then I’m gonna blow yer legs off if you don’t git off my property!”

“No, no!” Marlo blurted. “Chauncy needs your help!”

The man’s belligerent expression abruptly disappeared. “Chauncy, you mean my buddy, Chauncy Rollock?”

Marlo nodded and the old man opened the door. “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place, son? Come on in. Whatcha doing out in the cold?”

The inside of the house was warmer but didn’t look any better than the outside. The furniture looked as old as the house and there was a musty smell. A handful of cats glared at Marlo and he glared back. He was then startled by a friendly dog licking his hand.

“Here, sit here,” the old man said, motioning Marlo to sit on an old sofa. He removed a pile of old newspapers, which, like everything else, seemed to have been accumulating since the house was built.

“My name is Kelly, Kelly Sorenson. What did you say your name was, boy?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. My name is Marlo Gund. Chauncy and I work together. But we’re also good friends.”

Kelly walked over to his stove. “Want some coffee, Mr. Gund?”

“Uh, no thank you; I just had some,” Marlo said quickly. He was dying for another cup, but not from that kitchen.

Kelly ignored the negative response and placed a full cup in front of Marlo before taking a seat in an ancient armchair. “So tell me, son, what kind of trouble is Chauncy in?”

“Well, I’ll tell you the edited version. I had been involved with Chauncy about three years ago on an archaeological expedition to Chile. Life got in the way afterwards and we hadn’t seen each other in a while, so last week Chauncy invited my wife and me to his house and surprised us with tickets to Cancun for a vacation with his family. While we were in Cancun, Chauncy was kidnapped, apparently by Jose Padilla Madrid, the drug lord. Long story short, we received a cryptic message from Chauncy that instructed us to get your help, Mr. Sorenson. He specifically asked for you! That’s why I’m here today. We need your help.”

Kelly rubbed his chin, staring out the window. “That man sure has a knack for getting into the strangest types of trouble.”

“Amen to that!” Marlo exclaimed.

“And where in Mexico did you say this happened?”

“This happened in Cancun, the Yucatan peninsula.”

A pained expression came over Kelly’s face as he closed his eyes. “Oh no,” he muttered, almost shaking. Kelly opened his eyes. “I hate the jungle, Mr. Gund. I hate it with a passion! I have promised myself that I would never ever set foot again in a jungle. I’m sorry. I wish I could help poor Chauncy.”

“But - but Mr. Sorenson,” he pleaded. “Chauncy really needs your help. He specifically asked for you!”

Kelly stood and walked to the window. He stared outside at the patchy snow-filled landscape, rubbed his face and took a deep breath.

“I was born here in Iowa, I was raised here on this farm, and so was my dad and my dad’s dad. But the war came and soon I found myself flying choppers in ‘Nam. It was a dreadful, dreadful war, son, most likely before you were born. It was my job to do search-and-rescue missions. I had to airlift wounded men from the battlefield, in the jungle.’

He paused for a moment, swallowing. “Do you know what it’s like to pull injured men from the jungle?” he asked, his eyes gazing off into the past. “They’s all screamin’ and yellin’ in pain, you know. Most o’ the time they were missing limbs; blood all over the place. I knew that with some of these boys, if they survived, they’d be livin’ the rest o’ their lives in wheelchairs. It was a sad thing to experience, son.”

He took another breath, closed his eyes, and shuddered. “It was only a matter of time before I got hit.” Kelly pulled up his long-sleeved shirt. A horrible scar twisted its way up his left arm.

“I was hurt bad and I was bleeding all over the place. I had to pull the chopper away from the firing line. I had to leave the wounded behind - it was a terrible, horrible thing, boy. I left around twenty wounded men in the jungle ‘cause I could barely fly the chopper, know what I mean? I heard their voices on my radio. I can still hear their voices to this day.