Elisha's Bones Part 6

I turn to the crew, who are milling about behind us. One of them is kicking at loose pebbles. Another seems fascinated by a small lizard clinging to one of the saplings that's fighting to reclaim the site. Clearly the magic of the moment has run its course.

"Let's start unloading. Set the tents up over there," I say, pointing to an arbitrary spot while making it look as if I have a compelling reason why that piece of earth is better than any other. Using the same method I pick another spot and add, "I want the tools stacked there."

With them occupied, I take hold of Esperanza's elbow. "Want to take a look inside?"

"More than anything."

"Don't get too excited. Most buildings like this are more impressive on the outside, where you can appreciate the scale."

"Thanks for the pep talk."

"And you have to remember the steps," I say, gesturing to the three ascending levels leading up to the temple entrance. "There are fifty-two of them. And if we're going to do this right, we'll have to go up and down several times a day." Even as I'm saying it, happy to be irritating Espy, I'm reminded of my own b.u.m knee and how much I dislike climbing stairs.

"I'm pretty sure I can keep up." She disengages her elbow and starts for the steps, using the trail of weathered two-by-eights that straddle pits and small ravines. I'm right behind her, my boots thudding on the old wood.

We're halfway up before she starts to lose steam. The steps are tall but have a short tread length, which makes ascending them difficult. And while I doubt she's noticed, the cut of the stones changes slightly in either direction. Later on I'll tell her how the builders intentionally designed the nonuniform steps to produce echoes in musical notes.

When finally we reach the top-out of breath, with sweat beading on my forehead-I turn around so that I'm looking back over the clearing, at the five men cutting paths between the trucks and the two sites I chose, and at the jungle that closes into a solid wall of green along a defined line of demarcation. It's easy to understand how a Mayan priest would have felt, standing here above everything. It makes me wonder, again, why this temple is a freestanding structure. Why are there no plazas around it? Where are the evidences of dwellings, of industry? What exactly would a priest have looked down upon?

"It's dark in here."

I turn and see Esperanza peering into the single chamber that tops the pyramid.

"A lot of the later structures are open to the sky." I pull a miniature flashlight from the front pocket of my jeans.

I click on the light and step into the doorway, playing the beam over the interior. It's empty, save for the stone ceremonial table in the center. It's where the priests would have performed the ritual sacrifices integral to their religion.

"It's so small," Esperanza says, following me as I step deeper inside.

"We're at the top of a pyramid. What did you expect?"

I know where she's coming from. All of the labor involved in building something this large just to support a single fifteen-by-fifteen-foot room?

Turning back to the door, I direct the light over the lintel and the carvings in the stucco that decorate it. It's the only ornate part of the chamber-further evidence to support the time period in which I have placed its construction.

"Up until about 1950, experts believed these pyramids to be solid," I say. "That the whole structure supported a single room. A Mexican archaeologist discovered a hidden entrance into the substructure in the temple pyramid of Pacal at Palenque."

I see a spark of interest in Esperanza's eyes, displacing her disappointment. I think she'd been expecting something more elaborate, more ornate. Most people do.

Circling the ceremonial table, my feet echoing on stone, I search for the entrance to the larger chamber below us.

"c.r.a.p."

"What?"

A portion of the ceiling has given way, creating a barrier to the access panel. I aim the light up until I see the gaps in the ceiling, and the lines that suggest another round of falling rock is inevitable.

"I hate limestone," I say.

It is almost noon and we've been at it for the better part of six hours. There's a lot more debris than I'd first estimated. In fact, I find it difficult to believe that the sections of felled ceiling could account for all the rock blocking the entrance. It almost looks as if someone has brought in additional material just to make this more difficult. It's like something Duckey would do just to irritate me.

From my vantage point on the steps, the second tier, I sip from a water bottle and watch a swarm of bugs that seem to hang in the air in front of me like a small cloud. I'm covered with insect repellent but have still suffered a few nibbles from the more adventurous of the little monsters.

It's taking a while to clear the entrance because I've been adamant about using the proper methods. Even though I've already been inside, I can't bring myself to ignore the rules. It's unlikely, but I may have missed something the first time through-something that might be contaminated or destroyed by hasty work. Too, I suppose I'm milking my first time back.

The ringing of my cell phone brings me back from my musings. I pull the thing from my pocket and check the incoming number. It's not Duckey. He's called several times since I hung up on him in Rubio, and I have yet to answer. I'm enjoying the fact that I've got something on him-that I've driven a splinter into his vacation. I'll call him again before the twenty-fifth, so he can enjoy Christmas unenc.u.mbered. But for now I'm taking pleasure in messing with my boss's head.

"h.e.l.lo, Gordon," I answer with a forced cheerfulness. I never liked having to give periodic accounts to the backers when I was out in the field, and I find that five years of separation have not made this part of the dance any more palatable. Still, it is his money.

"h.e.l.lo, Jack," returns Reese. "How are things progressing?"

It's interesting how a few days can change the appropriateness of that question. Before Espy and I connected Gordon's research to Quetzl-Quezo, I would have a.s.sured him that I would have an answer for him soon. Now the query has no appropriate response. To do this by the book will take years, and while I know my benefactor is not paying me to conduct this as I would a normal dig, I can't think that I will have any useful data soon. Even if I discover something here, it will be another piece to a larger puzzle.

"We're making some progress, Gordon. But I'm not sure how quickly I'm going to have anything for you."

There is a silence that lasts perhaps a half beat, then he says, "You've reopened Quetzl-Quezo."

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that he knows. I am am using his credit card, and if viewing his research has taught me anything, it's that he's smart enough to look at the growing list of items flooding into his accounting department to determine what I'm doing. And I'd bet anything he's familiar with all the doc.u.mentation from the original excavation. using his credit card, and if viewing his research has taught me anything, it's that he's smart enough to look at the growing list of items flooding into his accounting department to determine what I'm doing. And I'd bet anything he's familiar with all the doc.u.mentation from the original excavation.

"I found something I think merits investigation," I say. "I'm not sure how long it will take, but I think it's important enough to warrant the time and expense."

I can almost see him waving away concern for the cost. He probably has wine that is worth more than what I've spent so far.

"You're the expert, Jack," he says with a chuckle. "I wonder, though, if this means that you will not make it back for the start of your semester?"

"I'm not sure I can answer that. It's still my plan to be there, but I can't project how long it will take to finish things here." And that's a.s.suming that things end here, tied up with a nice little bow. But I can't think about where I'll be in two weeks; I can't do that and devote my full energies to this project. I know I will need to make that determination soon, yet I can put it off for a little while longer.

"Of course, I understand. But I'm hoping that it will not be long before you find something of value." A pause, then, "I'm counting on you, Dr. Hawthorne."

From any other person I've spoken with, those words would be a simple admonition for an increased pace of operation. From this man, though, they carry the weight of desperation-only because I would not have expected them from him.

I'm still pondering this after I've ended the call, and as I hear footfalls coming down behind me-softer sounds than those made by clunky work boots. And even as she has been working as hard as any of the men, there is still a slight smell of flowers that precedes her.

"We're finished." She sits down next to me on the step and reaches for my water bottle. She almost drains it before handing it back. "Are you all right?"

"Just fine."

She nods and swats at a bug that has left the swarm and come too close.

"Then why are you sitting out here by yourself?"

"I'm resting."

"You mean you're thinking."

"Almost the same thing."

She wraps her arms around her knees and looks out over the clearing. "What do you think we'll find in there?"

"I know what we're going to find."

"Yeah, I was wondering about that. You've already been here; you excavated this place. If there's nothing else, and if you've already seen this carving you're so interested in, then why go through all the trouble?"

I smile, because she must have thought this through before we left Caracas. She could have asked me then-asked why I would waste so much of the limited time I have to pursue what seems like a fool's errand. She wanted to come here as much as I did.

"There are two reasons. The first is that we have nothing else to go on. We have two representations of an obscure symbol; one of them is in a book, and the other is inside this temple. The second reason is that we didn't finish our work here before your government drove us out. Who knows what we missed the first time?"

"So you're telling me that you wanted to bring half a dozen people and what looks like the entire contents of an army surplus store to the middle of the jungle because you couldn't think of anything else to do?"

Granted, the way she says it makes it sound absurd. But my question stands: What better course of action did we have?

"It makes all the sense in the world. It's probable that this guild of yours has been here-and not just at the site, but down in the burial chamber. With that established, then they either did a bit of carving down there, or they lifted one of the symbols they saw. And either one of those choices brings up a slew of others. One of the interesting ones I'm considering is whether or not the Brotherhood of Dirt was around a lot earlier than that 1659 Spanish placement you gave me."

She looks unconvinced.

"At this point I'm considering the involvement of another organization-some ent.i.ty that has monitored the bones' pa.s.sage from one group or family to another. Think about it," I add at her frown. "How does the handoff occur? Who chooses the next family or organization to guard the bones? There has to be some larger organization involved, someone or something bigger than any of these individual groups."

"You're really getting into this conspiracy thing. I thought you weren't buying it."

"I don't. But I work for Reese, and he believes it. And since it's his money, I have to follow his lead. If I do that-if I take a step down the road that says the bones exist, that they receive pa.s.sage from one group to another-then I have to pursue it in a way that makes sense to me. Without some umbrella organization overhead, I think the theory falls apart."

Behind us I can hear the men moving down the steps. I wave as they pa.s.s. They're laughing and covered in dust from head to toe. They look like ghosts. I watch them as they navigate the narrow steps with their large work boots, then cross the plank trail. They head for the trucks where there's a cooler filled with sandwiches.

"I think they have the right idea," I say.

Esperanza doesn't join them but stays at my side, letting the silence pa.s.s between us. The sounds of the men's lunchtime camaraderie drifts up from the flatland below.

"I'm sorry about Will."

It's the first time she's mentioned my brother. For obvious reasons she didn't make it to the funeral. Even though she knew him well, my relationship with her had ended just before Will and I went to Egypt; the wound between us was still too raw for her to make the trip.

"Yeah, thanks."

It appears she's going to say something else but she doesn't, as if she can't find the right words to ask what she wants to know. It's human nature to want details. Will didn't die right away.

But she doesn't go down that road. Instead, she offers a sad smile and says, "You're angrier than you were when we were together."

I give her a look meant to convey that I don't understand.

"You hide it, but I know you better than just about anyone on the planet. You're angry about Will, and I don't blame you for it. But it's five years later."

"You're right. It's been five years. So how well do you think you know me anymore?" I sound like a petulant child.

The Espy I knew years ago would have been baited into anger. Instead, she fixes me with a pointed look. "Are you angry at G.o.d?" she asks.

"Since when do you talk about G.o.d?" I snap, feeling more vulnerable than I would have thought possible.

"Since about a year after you left me." It's not meant to be an accusation, though it comes across as one. "When I realized that G.o.d isn't just a convenient concept around which to base a religion. When I found out that He's real."

My best weapon at this point is silence and I make use of it. I'm not sure I could come up with the words I would need to describe how I could hear Will underneath a ton of dirt and rock. How I could hear the faint banging of a shovel coming up through the ground. Most of the images and sounds from that day are still vivid, even after more than five years. But two stand out. One was a plea, the only clear thing I heard Will say while he waited for rescue. We'd removed at least two-thirds of the debris so his words were clear when he shouted, once, for G.o.d to save him. G.o.d may be real, as Espy claims, but He must have been busy that day, because my other most clear recollection is Will's lifeless eyes when we pulled him from the hole.

"I'm hungry," I say, and then I start down the steps.

CHAPTER 9

Careful now."

I've got the crowbar wedged beneath the thick limestone slab, and Antonio and Ruben are in similar positions.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say someone glued this thing shut."

I'm putting my back into it, which I will regret later. But after a few very long seconds, we're rewarded with a satisfying pop and the slab lifts. Two others place metal shims in the gap in case we lose our grip. We wriggle the stone to the side with a combination of pulling and pushing until we've cleared a s.p.a.ce large enough to slip past. When I feel the slab is in a good spot- that it won't find some strange angle and topple into the hole-I release my hold and collapse onto the ground.

"You're out of shape," Esperanza says, then points to my fellow workers. While they're all breathing heavy, they appear to have emerged from the strenuous activity in much better form.

"I'm a college professor, not an athlete," I say, but her chiding gets me off my backside. I reach for my flashlight and direct its beam down into the hole. Cool, stale air wafts up, along with a smell I remember from the last time: mold. There's a lot of it here, because the rocks that make up the pyramid structure were not mortared, nor do they fit together as snugly as they do at other Mayan sites, so water has seeped in over the centuries.

The two-by-three-foot hole goes down three meters and ends in a narrow pa.s.sage. At the end of this corridor, which runs the length of the second tier of steps, is a staircase that cuts down toward the bottom center of the pyramid and the burial chamber. Or what would have been a burial chamber at Palenque and other similar sites. Here we find an empty room-save for three dead rats, possibly killed by the dark mold covering the walls and a good portion of the floor, and the skeletal remains of a bird.

"It stinks," Esperanza says. She's knelt down next to me to peer into the hole.

"It's their ventilation system. They're still using the original contractor grade."

She hits me on the shoulder and I almost drop the flashlight.

"You would have been the one going back down the steps to get me another one," I say.

I straighten and look around. Our five intrepid workers are standing farther away from the rectangular opening than is warranted. And I think I caught Antonio at the tail end of crossing himself. I chuckle. They imagine some mysterious chamber of horrors beneath our feet, one full of traps and skeletons lifted straight from the movies. I don't correct them. Sometimes fear can be a good thing. It releases a whole set of interesting chemicals into the blood that heighten awareness and improve performance. I won't take that away from them. Besides, they'll only be disappointed when they discover what it's really like down there. Just to test my theory, I give them the choice.

"Anyone who wants to stay up here can, but you're all welcome to come down."

They share looks that speak of genuine nervousness, but then, almost as a single unit, they step forward.

I fetch a coiled rope ladder from near the doorway and secure the ties around the ceremonial table, tugging the knot hard to make sure it stays. I toss the ladder through the opening and it disappears into the darkness. The five Venezuelan men watch with wide eyes as it disappears.

I'm not as young as I once was and what I told Esperanza is true: I'm no athlete. So it is with some trepidation that I slide into the hole, my feet searching for a rung, and try to keep the sway of the ladder from upending me. After the swinging of the ladder becomes less p.r.o.nounced, I lean back, smile at the others, and lower myself into the darkness.

I'm seven rungs down when a train hits me.