Assumed Identity

8

What Buchanan saw stunned him. Threw his mind off balance. Assaulted his sanity. For a moment, he told himself that he had to be hallucinating, that fatigue combined with his concussion had distorted his perceptions.

But as Raymond stepped through the haze of smoke, tinted crimson by the lowering sun, Buchanan forced himself to accept that what confronted him, however grotesque, was definitely, dismayingly real.

Raymond was partially naked. He wore thick leather pads around his waist and groin. Similar armor was strapped to his shoulders, elbows, and knees. Otherwise, his body was bare, his nipples showing. His exposed muscles implied the strength and tone that could have come only from hours of daily exercise.

Buchanan, who had been in excellent condition before he began his assignment in Mexico, had been on the move for so long and been so wearied by his various injuries that he hadn’t had time for exercise and wasn’t in peak condition.

Raymond’s leather armor looked grotesque enough. But what added to the dismaying sense of the surreal was a helmet he wore, from which long feathers of numerous brilliant colors were swept back, creating the illusion that a Mayan warrior had stepped not only through smoke but through time. In addition, he carried a large ball that he dropped to the stone court. As it struck and rolled, it caused a thunking echo that communicated how solid and heavy it was. He threw leather pads at Buchanan’s feet. “Undress and put them on.”

“Like hell,” Buchanan said.

Raymond picked up the ball and hurled it at Buchanan, who dodged, but not soon enough, the drug still affecting him. The glancing impact of the ball against his left arm was startlingly painful.

“Undress and put on the armor, or you won’t last thirty seconds in the game,” Raymond said.

Buchanan slowly complied, gaining time, calculating. Above him, Holly looked even more terrified. Buchanan strained to think of a way for the two of them to escape, but no plan was adequate against the guard next to Holly and the automatic weapon in his hands. The guard would shoot before Buchanan could climb the wall and get to them.

As Buchanan’s naked skin felt prickly cold despite the sweat dripping from him, he strapped on the rough, thick leather armor.

“I designed these myself,” Raymond said, “based on the drawings on these walls.” He pointed to Buchanan’s left, just below the vertical stone hoop that projected from the top of the wall. “That engraving, in particular, interests me.”

Buchanan frowned in that direction, and for a moment, the image-a warrior in armor, with a feathered headdress- looked disturbingly like Raymond.

“When I first stepped onto this ball court,” Raymond said, “I felt as if I’d come home. I felt as if I’d been here, as if I’d played here. Long, long ago.”

Buchanan kept staring at the image. Appalled, he realized that the warrior was clutching a severed human head, blood dripping from the neck as the warrior raised the skull by its hair.

“That’s what I meant about life and death,” Raymond said. “You see, the penalty for the losers was execution. And the winner? He not only got to stay alive. He got to be the executioner.”

“What are we talking about here?” Buchanan demanded. “Are you telling me that if I win, I go free?”

Except for the din of construction equipment in the background, the ball court became silent.

“That’s what I thought,” Buchanan said. “For me, it’s a no-win situation.”

“It may have been for the ancient Maya as well,” Drummond interrupted, his voice filled with phlegm.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“There’s a theory among a few historians of Mayan culture that it wasn’t the losers who were executed but, rather, the winners.”

“That’s absurd,” Buchanan said. “Who on earth would want to play?”

“Raymond agrees with you,” the old man said. “But the theory is that winning was such an honor, it put you on a level with the gods. The next logical step was for you to be sacrificed so that you could take your place among the gods.”

“It sounds to me like the only true winners were those who watched.”

“Yes,” Drummond said. “As I told you, I pursue the unique. I’m about to be privileged to witness a rarity. For the first time in five hundred years, a game of pok-a-tok is going to be played. For me.”

“And how is this supposed to prove whether I’m telling the truth about the Special Ops unit that’ll come here looking for me? Am I supposed to confess so I won’t have my head cut off?”

“Oh, I think as the game progresses, you’ll have many painful inducements to tell the truth,” Drummond said. “But it’s not you I’m concerned about. My interest is in Ms. McCoy. I suspect that what she sees will make her more than willing to tell the truth. In exchange for ending what’s being done to you.”

“It won’t do you any good,” Buchanan said. “She doesn’t know anything about my unit.”

“Perhaps. I’ll soon find out. Raymond, if you’re ready.”