The Arraignment

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The voice coming from behind stops me dead in my tracks. My heart pounding; if he doesn’t shoot me first, I will still lose half a year of life.

In the dim light I turn, no time to reach for the pistol in my pocket. Half lost in the shadows behind a tree, I can see the slight figure of a man sitting on what appears to be a large tricycle. It has two wheels in front with a small seat over them and a single wheel in back.

He pedals out of the shadows. His eyes seem to be riveted not on me as much as the cloth-covered package I am carrying under my arm. He gestures with a hand toward the seat in front of him, an invitation for me to get on.

I shake my head. “No thanks.” I start to turn.

“Senor.” This time he is more insistent. The message is clear. There is a reason he is here at this early hour. He has been sent to collect me.

He is wearing a thin cotton shirt and jeans, worn running shoes, sockless where I can see his brown ankle above the foot resting on one of the pedals.

If he is armed, he has hasn’t shown it, and there are no bulges in his clothing. Ibarra warned me not to take a bike to the site. But by now he and his men should have had plenty of time to get in position.

I could simply turn and walk away, take my chances. But from the look in his eye, I suspect he would follow me, clattering along behind on the bike like a cowbell telling everyone in the bush where I was. No doubt they have paid him for the ride, probably more than he makes in a week pedaling tourists through the jungle. Now he feels compelled to perform the service.

“Why not?” I step toward the contraption.

He nods and smiles, gesturing toward the seat as I climb up and sit down.

I hold the package in my lap as he pedals through the clearing, picking up speed on the slight downgrade, then takes one of the paths to the right, stands up, and his legs begin pumping in earnest.

We bounce along the trail, level as a tabletop, not quite as smooth, listening to the balloon tires as they crunch over the decomposed limestone. The tricycle splashes through a puddle of standing water, and one of the tires sprays muddy water up onto the seat. I try to shield it with an arm but too late.

He laughs and says something in Spanish, but I don’t understand him.

“Just a second. Hold on a second.”

He continues pedaling.

“Stop.” What’s the word? “Pare.”

“Que?”

“Pare.”

“Si.”

Slowly he brings the bike to a halt as I feel through my jacket pocket for the slip of paper with Ibarra’s diagram. I unfold it and try to make out the squiggles and lines in the dim light. Then I see the words “far right.”

“We went the wrong way.”

“ Que?”

“We took a wrong turn. Back there.” I wave with my arm back over his shoulder. “We were supposed to go to the right. The far right.” My voice projects volume to compensate for the lack of language skills. I turn all the way around on the seat and point back over his shoulder. “The other way,” I tell him.

“Donde?”

“There.”

“No,” he says. “Por aqui,” and he points down the path in front of us.

“The Door to the Temple of the Inscriptions is that way,” I tell him.

“No.” He shakes his head, stands up, and starts pedaling again. “Por aqui.”

“Stop.”

He ignores me.

I try to step off, but he picks up speed so that one foot drags on the ground.

“Senor.” His voice is harsh now, angry.

I look back over my shoulder and he shakes his head at me. “Por aqui.” He nods in the direction we are going.

I get the message. He’s saying it’s this way. Whoever has sent him has given him precise instructions. I could drag both feet, stop the bike, and get off. Use the pistol to get rid of him if I have to. But then I would never find Adam. They would kill him, if they haven’t already. Of course they will kill both of us the minute they open the package and see what’s in it. Ibarra’s plan was never to allow them to get that close. I was to see Adam. Have them bring him into the open. One of their marksmen would take out whoever was holding him, and at that same instant I was to throw the package into the underbrush and follow it.

In the confusion, Ibarra’s men wearing flak vests were to grab Adam and pull him behind cover.

Now I grind my teeth as we ride. The only certain security is the tiny Walther in my pocket. Each turn of the wheels puts more distance between Pablo Ibarra’s men and me. Herman was right. Whoever planned this planned it well.

I look down at the pink scrap of paper folded over in my hand. It’s one of the telephone slips Harry brought down from the office. On the form-printed side is the message. I recognize Marta’s handwriting.

It’s strange how in moments of crisis, familiar things offer the illusion of comfort.

I’m rumbling through the jungle on a three-wheeled bike, sitting in front of a crazy Mexican who is probably delivering me to my death, and all I can think about is Joyce Swartz, the name on the line. I can hear Joyce’s raspy voice over the phone, the muddle of her words, the cigarette dangling from her lips as she talks.

I stare at the slip in a daze, reading words, unable to decipher the message as the vibration of the bike shivers my vision and rattles my teeth.

Suddenly the rhythm of the wheels begins to slow as he stops pedaling and coasts. I look up and we roll to a stop in the middle of nowhere. The white limestone stand of the path narrows into the distance ahead, then disappears around a curve. He has covered at least a mile, maybe more, from where the bikes were parked. Now he motions for me to get off.

“Where? Donde?”

“Aqui.”

“Where am I supposed to go?”

“Aqui.”

“Here. You want me to stay here?”

“Aqui.” Then he motions down the path with one arm, as if he’s waving me away.

I pick up the package and step off the bike.

He swings it around in a wide arc, turns, and heads back.

I stand in the middle of the path, watching him until I can no longer hear the rattle of metal. I lose him as the bike recedes into the distance, swallowed by the edges of jungle as the path disappears.

I turn and look the other way. There is nothing but a narrow strip of white in both directions, like a single thread running through a cloth of green. The man on the bike pointed in that direction, so I begin to walk, staying along one edge of the path near the underbrush to make myself no more of a target than necessary.

Tucked under one arm is the package. Suddenly I stop and look around. Every bush and tree along the path looks like every other one. Still it’s better than delivering a package of empty hopes to men with guns.

I break a branch from one of the bushes to mark the spot, and then I set the package behind an outcropping of stones a few feet off the road. Its absence and my knowledge of its location give me something to bargain with, if only to kill time in hopes of finding an opening. If they don’t see it on me and they’re smart, they won’t shoot me at least until we talk.

I step back out to the path, still carrying the little slip of paper in one hand. There’s no way to tell the distance to the spot where Pablo Ibarra’s men are waiting since the diagram conforms to no scale. Besides, having ridden through curves and around bends on the front of the bike, I have no sense of direction.

I’m about to ball up the note and toss it into the brush when my eye catches a word on the other side. The word “Capri.” Without the jarring motion of the bike I read the cryptic message written by Marta and handed to Harry, along with other messages, in an envelope.

“Joyce says Jamaile owned one piece of property. The land under the old Capri Hotel.”

I stand there for a moment, my eyes on the slip of paper, weary, unable to focus. I start to walk slowly down the path, thinking Nick owned Jamaile and Jamaile owned the Capri, the greasy spoon downtown where we had coffee that morning.

I look up and step a little closer to the bushes on one side as I walk. What does it mean? None of it makes any sense. If Nick owned a chunk of land downtown, why didn’t Dana know about it, or Margaret in the divorce? Nick was broke. What was he doing looking at empty offices in San Francisco and New York, dealing with Metz and the Ibarra brothers to broker a piece of history worth millions? Certainly he would get a fee, but…

Suddenly I stop. My heart skips. I turn and start to walk quickly in the other direction. A few steps and I start to run, looking back over my shoulder, headlong down the path.

The broken branch pointing the way to the package is just ahead, when he steps out from the green foliage on the other side of the path ten feet in front of me. Adam is holding a pistol pointed at me.

“Where are you going in such a rush?”

I stop, look at him breathing heavily, then bend and put my hands on my knees to catch my breath.

“And here I thought you were coming to save me,” he says.

“You killed them. Nick, Metz, Espinoza, Julio.”

“No. No. There you go, jumping to conclusions. Actually I didn’t have anything to do with Espinoza. I didn’t even know about him until you told me. In fact the sheer volume of things I didn’t know overwhelms me.

“And as for Nick and Metz, I didn’t pull the trigger if it makes you feel any better. Though you could say I did set matters in motion. Some people out of Tijuana actually. The world has become an awful place. For enough money they don’t even want to know who you are. I have to say they did a better job than the two idiots in the airplane. I didn’t like that whole idea, but they insisted. By the way, if you don’t mind my asking, how’s Harry?”

“He’s going to be fine.”

“I see. That could be a problem. You see, I couldn’t be sure how much he knew, so I thought it would be best if he were invited to join us.

“You actually came here thinking you were going to meet the two brothers. I must say I did a bang-up job in a short period of time. You like the outfit?” His clothes are covered in dirt, one knee is torn out of his pants, and there’s a bruise on the side of his face.

“All part of the preparations,” he says. “You can imagine my panic when Harry dropped that bit about Nick’s handheld computer over dinner. We probably would all be getting on the plane about now, flying back to San Diego if I hadn’t heard that.”

“Why?”

“Why don’t you turn around get down on your knees? Now,” he says.

I do it.

“That’s it. Now put your hands out in front of you on the ground and lie down. Spread your arms and your legs and don’t move. That’s good.”

Adam steps forward, presses the muzzle of the pistol into the small of my back, and starts patting me down.

“Hell, I couldn’t be sure what was in Nick’s little computer. And you kept keeping secrets from me.”

He feels along my side, the small of my back, then the other side. “God knows what other little morsels you know that I don’t. It wouldn’t do to get us all home and have the police suddenly find some piece left behind by Nick that sends their magnetic dial pointing in my direction.”

He feels up and down both legs and then steps back. “You can get up now.”

I get to my feet.

“Tell me, is that the thing over there? This Mejicano Rosen. I saw you put the package behind the rocks and break the branch. I was going to follow you, and then I heard you coming back.”

“Why don’t you look?”

“I don’t think so. You’re a little too anxious. What is it, tear gas? Something to stun whoever opens it? Don’t tell me Pablo Ibarra actually had the stuff?”

“Actually no.”

“I’m dying to know. What is it? I don’t mean the package. I mean this Rosen thing?”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t have the foggiest.”

“Then why did you write the note telling me to bring it?”

“I had to have some reason to get you here. I mean it would have looked a little funny if I’d sent a note from the brothers just telling you to come here and pick up Mr. Tolt. But I have to say curiosity is killing me. Why don’t we walk while we talk,” he says. “It’s not far. Besides it puts a little more distance between us and anybody you might have brought along. You did bring someone along?”

I don’t answer him. We start down the path, Adam behind me with the pistol six or seven feet, judging by the sound of his voice.

“So this Rosen thing. Something Nick wanted?”

“It looks that way.”

“What?”

“An ancient text of the Mayan language.”

He laughs. “You have to be kidding. Nick? What was he going to do with it, sell it?”

“Actually he was going to trade it.”

“For what?”

“For a height variance on a piece of real estate he owned.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Yeah and I’m afraid you don’t have that much time.”

We walk for several minutes until we come to a clearing in the jungle dominated by a huge mound of stone, a pyramid eroded on the edges by time and weather. Facing us is a steep set of stairs rising all the way to the top, capped by what appears to be a small stone structure.

“I hope you brought your climbing shoes. Go on.”

We cross the clearing and I start up the steps. They are steep and there is nothing small about them. Most have a rise of two feet or more and a narrow tread, with nothing to hang onto except the steps above.

Leaning forward, we climb hand over hand. I have my hands on the stairs two or three above where my feet are. Adam manages to keep his gun hand free, with the muzzle pointed at me. For someone in his sixties, he has amazing dexterity.

The humidity off the jungle floor is beginning to heat up as the sun rises. It is light now, and as we climb I can see the top of the jungle canopy laid out like a green blanket all around us with mauve-colored peaks jutting through it in several places, the remnants of Mayan architecture stripped of their jungle cover.

“So what’s it going to be, a shot to the back of the head like Julio, or will it be an accident this time?”

“I thought we could decide that when we get to the top.”

“That’s a little dicey, isn’t it? When they find my body, either with a bullet in it or at the bottom, and you up at the top, the Mexican authorities may be asking you some pointed questions.”

“Of course they will. And I’ll have all the answers. How the Ibarra brothers held me hostage, without food and water. You like my costume? How they beat me, trying to find out about this Rosen thing. The fact that I knew nothing about it. After they shot you, or you went off the edge depending on how you want to do it, seeing as I’m flexible, the brothers, or more likely their hired guns, panicked and left me up there. It’s a harrowing story,” he says. “Of course, blindfolded I wasn’t able to see a thing. I’ve taken the liberty. The blindfold’s in my pocket, along with a little duct tape for my hands and feet. I don’t even have to tie any knots, just rub a little dirt into the tape and twist my wrists a bit like I’ve been struggling to get free. I think that should satisfy them.”

Adam’s got it all figured.

“Did you know it’s the highest Mayan pyramid on the Yucatan Peninsula?”

“I’m honored.”

“Actually if you look over there.” He gestures with the pistol. “Just off the stairs to your right, it’s more of a cliff.”

“I can see that.”

“I thought that would be a good place for us. They call this the Nohoch Mul. The big mound. According to the book, it’s a hundred and thirty-six feet high. Twelve stories. One hundred and twenty steps.”

“Maybe we could start over and I could count them.”

“I don’t think so. Just keep going.”

Tolt constantly maintains his distance, always two or three large stone steps below me, just out of kicking distance.

“I assume you brought help? Let me guess, Herman?”

I nod.

He laughs. “That man is an absolute pain in the ass. Always smiling through that damn chipped tooth. Though I have to admit he did give me the idea for disarming Julio.”

“Herman’s pretty upset about that.”

“Yeah I suppose they were pretty close.”

“Why did you have to kill him?”

“I had to have something to demonstrate the violence of these people, their desperation in dealing with you.”

“Shooting up the hotel pool wasn’t enough?”

“Well, they weren’t just going to snatch me and leave my bodyguards, were they?”

“What did you do with the rest of Julio’s people?”

“I made an executive decision. I called Julio that morning, before you and Harry got up, and told him that I wanted him to go up to the condo and to stay there until I came up. When I left the pool later in the morning to make my urgent phone call, I grabbed his man in the lobby and we both took a cab up to the condo. I’d already trashed my room before I came down. At the condo, I told Julio to send the rest of his men back to Mexico City, that we wouldn’t be needing them. Of course, he was happy to comply. He figured the job was over.”

He stops for a second, wipes his brow with the bottom of his shirt. “It’s getting warm. Anyway they packed their bags and ten minutes later Julio’s people were gone. I told Julio to take me back to the hotel. He got in the front seat. I got in the back, and I asked him for his gun.”

“Just like that?”

“No. I told him I didn’t want any more gunplay of the kind that Herman had engaged in the day before when he damn near got us shot. Pulling his pistol out like that was stupid. Julio agreed. The fact was, he was still stinging from the ass-chewing I’d given him in the car the day before. He just handed it over. It’s the thing about authority. Most people never question it.”

“Except people like Nick, is that it?”

“Well, I didn’t spend thirty years building the firm to have Nick Rush come along and tear the whole thing apart. He was out talking to my partners, making them offers, telling them he was going to come up with cash to capitalize a new firm with offices in every city. What would you do?”

“I wouldn’t have killed him.”

“Well, you’re younger than I am. You have some years ahead of you yet. I wasn’t looking forward to a solo practice or sitting on a porch somewhere in a rocking chair. I had a name, a reputation. I’d built something. People in politics, entertainment, business, the people who count, they know the name of Adam Tolt.”

“Is that it? Your identity was caught up in it?”

“Damn right. After all is said and done, what else have we got?”

Adam’s life was the firm. He knew that without it people wouldn’t return his phone calls, blue ribbon committees wouldn’t ask him to serve, politicians wouldn’t go out of their way to cross a crowded room to shake his hand. And to Adam those were the things that made life worth living, that and the private jet and high-rise corner office overlooking the bay. People have killed for a lot less.

“Who else came along besides Herman? Don’t tell me it’s just the two of you?”

“A few others.”

“I knew you would bring backup.” We’re getting near the top. He stops to take a breather, so I stop too. “No, no, you just keep moving. I’ll be right behind you.”

He takes off his hat and wipes his brow with the brim. “Of course, they would all be slinking around in the bushes about a half mile from here. Over there, I think.” He glances off to his left, keeping the gun pointed at me.

“Yeah, if you look you can see it. Get up there a little ways ahead, I’ll let you take a look. That’s it.” He shuffles to his right, so that I remain in his line of sight as he looks over his left shoulder.

“See that little building poking up through the jungle? What was the name again, something about a door?”

“The Doorway to the Temple of Inscriptions.”

“That’s it. I think that’s it. Coming by the trails on foot, it would take them at least ten, fifteen minutes to get here. By then, I’m gonna be long gone. I’ll bet they briefed you on that area until you knew every pebble on the ground.”

I don’t answer him.

“It took me a while, digging around in a bookstore after I shot Julio, to find a map of this place with names of the ruins so I’d know where to send them while I dealt with you.”

“That was a nice touch, Adam.”

“I thought so.” We continue climbing. “One thing I do need to know,” he says. “Where exactly is Nick’s little handheld?”

“You don’t really expect me to tell you?”

“I suppose I could look for it myself. You said it was in your office last time we talked. Which reminds me, how much does Harry know about all this?”

“Nothing. Harry doesn’t know a thing.”

“Now, you know that’s not true. He knew about the handheld. I wish I could believe you, but you’re just a constant disappointment. This is getting entirely too violent. Still I suppose people do die of infections and accidents in hospitals.”

I reach the top of the pyramid.

Adam stops on the steps below me.

My body is covered in sweat. Breathing through my mouth, my throat is parched. The sun is now hitting us on an angle out of the eastern sky, beginning to heat the stones, reflecting off the rock around us. Through the canopy from the jungle floor, steam clouds drift up like inverted cones of smoke.

In front of me centered on the top platform is a rectangular stone structure with a single door. The interior is lost in shadows. Carved into the exterior near the top of the corner stones at the level of the roof are two human figures suspended upside down.

“Step over there.”

I look at Adam. He gestures with the gun, toward my left as I face him. He is breathing heavily, sweat dripping from his chin, his shirt soaked through.

Ten or twelve feet away, the stairs disappear and it’s a sheer drop with a small ledge about halfway down.

I move toward it.

Adam approaches. He keeps one eye on me, along with the pistol, while he looks over the edge, surveying to see if the fall is going to be enough. Then he looks back and smiles at me. Apparently he’s satisfied.

“Now if you’ll just step over this way.”

“You don’t expect me to just jump off?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll help you.”

As the words clear his lips, there is a tinny sound of metal clattering somewhere below us. Adam takes a quick step around to put me between himself and the sound.

I see a bicycle rattling over the uneven ground as it enters the clearing from the path. The figure riding it appears to have his knees hitting him in the chin with each pump of the pedals.

He stops in the middle of the clearing, puts his feet down on both sides, sitting on the seat, the bicycle dwarfed beneath him, and looks up at the top of the pyramid.

“Dat you, Adam Tolt?” Herman shades his eyes with one hand. “You know I figured you for a son of a bitch. But you outdid yourself. And so you know, Julio didn’t think much a ya either. And I’m certain his opinion ain’t come up none since you shot him in the back of the head.”

“You try and come here, and I’ll kill him.” Adam puts the pistol up to my head.

“You know,” says Herman. His hands now on his hips, still sitting on the bike. “That thing’s not gonna do you a god damn bit a good against me down here. You see, I know Julio’s Glock don’t shoot for shit. You’d been more than a foot away from him, youda missed the back a his head. Kept tellin’ him to get the sights fixed.”

“Well I’m not likely to miss Mr. Madriani here.”

“Yeah but I got a question for you. After you shoot him, how you gonna get down here without coming through me? My forty-five shoots a little better than that piece a shit, and the bullet’s bigger to boot.”

“He doesn’t seem to put much value on your life,” says Adam.

“Well, I warned you that he was pissed about Julio.”

“So what are we going to do about this problem?”

“It’s not my problem,” I say.

“It won’t be if you’re dead. Tell him to go or I’ll kill you.”

“He says to go or he’s gonna kill me,” I say.

“Don’t change his situation none. Few minutes Ibarra’s people gonna be here with rifles. Then they gonna start bouncing bullets off the rocks up there. And it’s gonna get mighty hot. Don’t suspect you brought any water witcha?”

“No, we didn’t think about it.”

Adam presses the gun against my head. “Shut up.”

“It sounds like it’s your move.”

“Let me think.”

“You could let me go.”

“That son of a bitch is just crazy enough to try to kill me anyway. You said it. He’s angry over Julio. I shoulda shot him instead.”

“Well we all make our mistakes. And I should warn you. Herman’s confidence in the Mexican justice system is just a little higher than his respect for the modern American version.”

“Meaning what?”

“He’s probably gonna shoot you.”

“I’m getting tired waitin’ down here. You want I shoot a couple a rounds your way? Maybe I get lucky,” says Herman. “And the noise is gonna bring Ibarra that much faster. Or maybe I just come up there and kick your ass, throw you off that fuckin’ thing.” Herman gets off the bike, drops it on the ground, and starts marching this way.

“What’s he doing?” says Adam.

“I don’t know.”

“You tell him to stop, or so help me I will shoot you here and now.”

“Herman. Stay there. Don’t come up.”

Herman doesn’t listen. He just keeps coming, talking to himself, muttering under his breath. I can hear him all the way down at the bottom of the steps. He starts climbing, taking the two-foot steps in stride like they were built for him.

“Herman, stay there. ”

He keeps coming.

“Crazy son of a bitch,” says Adam. He points the gun at him, takes aim.

I hit his arm with my shoulder just as he pulls the trigger. The snap of the round, the explosion next to my ear, sends a ringing vibration through my head.

A thousand birds lift out of the jungle. Flitting black specks like bugs on a windshield, they fill the sky.

Herman stops on the stairs and looks up. “Now you fuckin’ did it.” Herman unholsters his automatic, the sun glinting off the polished stainless steel.

Adam tries to push me over the edge. I push back, the rubber soles of my shoes gripping the stone, my toes right at the edge. He tries to twist for leverage, one arm around my neck. We struggle at the edge of the stone precipice.

I slip his grip and end up landing on my butt on the hard stone platform behind him.

Adam points the pistol at me, and then out of the corner of his eye he sees Herman still coming, charging up the stairs. Adam turns and aims, both hands this time on the Glock, taking a careful bead on Herman’s bulk now only ten or twelve steps from the top. He fires, and I hear the bullet as it hits flesh.

Herman stops, looks down, puts his hand to his chest, and staggers. Then he looks at Adam and starts coming again.

I reach for the pistol in my pocket, and it snags on my jacket.

Adam aims and fires again. I hear the same thud as the bullet hits home. This time Herman goes down on one knee. He drops his pistol and it clatters down several steps. I can see Herman’s face pumped with blood, the veins bulging on his neck. He’s holding his side with one hand.

The small Walther is out of my pocket. I pull the slide and cycle a round into the chamber, aim at Adam, and squeeze. Nothing.

The safety is on. I bring it back, fumble with the tiny lever, click, and it shows red.

Adam has the Glock up, taking careful aim at Herman’s back as he struggles to reach for his pistol on the stairs.

I squeeze off a round. The little Walther torques in my hand and the bullet catches Adam in the arm, jerking his body just as he pulls the trigger. His shot goes wide.

He turns and looks at me, his eyes like two eggs sunny-side up in a platter, wondering where I got the gun. Adam missed it when he frisked me. The small pistol was underneath, inside the pocket of my zippered jacket as I lay on the ground. He failed to check the front when I got up.

He has the Glock lowered at his side, the muzzle pointed down at the stone as he stares in disbelief at the gun in my hand.

If he raises the Glock, Adam knows I will shoot him again. Instead he looks at me, smiles, then shakes his head as if he is daring me to do it. He turns toward the motion on the stairs.

Herman is reaching for the automatic.

Adam takes aim.

This time, with the crack of the Walther, it barely moves in my hand. Tolt’s head snaps sideways as a tiny red dot appears on his temple, followed by blood like someone tapped a barrel. His knees buckle. His ass hits the stone. For an instant his torso sits upright. Then gravity takes it sideways. When I blink he is gone, over the edge of the platform.