Curses!

Chapter 9

He didn't have long to wait. The next day, on a humid morning under a sullen gray sky, the Curse of Tlaloc struck again. Lurking in the supposedly deserted work shed was a bloodsucking kinkajou.

Or near enough.

Julie, Gideon, and Abe had walked to the site after an early breakfast at the Mayaland, planning to put in an hour of organizing and sorting before the crew arrived. Gideon had unlocked and opened the door, then quickly put out his arm to block the others as the smell of something rank and wild seeped from the stuffy interior.

"What's wrong?” Julie asked. Then she smelled it too, and stood very still and stiff, peering past him into the dim interior.

Something grunted thickly in the darkness, like a pig rooting, and there was a scrabbling sound, as of clawed feet moving over the limestone mortar floor toward them. The hairs rose at the back of Gideon's neck. All three people stepped instinctively back from the threshold.

From the shadows a furry brown animal emerged tentatively, then stopped and backed away again. About the size of a raccoon, with a ring-striped tail balanced daintily above it, it had a face that looked something like a fox and something like an old basketball sneaker. It looked warily up at them.

"Good morning,” the neatly lettered placard hanging from its neck said. “I am a bloodsucking kinkajou."

"Good morning to you,” said Abe. “I am a broken-down old professor."

Julie laughed. “It's a coati, a coatimundi. And it doesn't suck blood, it eats fruits and berries."

She knelt to coax it near with a fig from her box lunch, and after some indecision the animal approached with rubbery-nosed interest. But as soon as it saw its chance it darted between her and Abe and made for the fence with a rolling, flatfooted gait. In two seconds it was through the opening, and in one more it burst through the jungle's green wall and disappeared.

Opinion as to the perpetrator varied. Julie was sure it was Leo, Gideon thought it just might be a sarcastic comment from Worthy, and Abe wondered wryly if Dr. Gideon Oliver might not be behind it.

Julie stood up for him. “He hasn't been out of my sight since we quit work yesterday,” she declared staunchly.

"Oh, yeah, what about when you took a shower?” Abe wanted to know.

"We took it together,” Gideon told him. “Abe, on my honor as a serious and responsible scientist, I didn't do it.

"Ha,” said Abe, but he switched his vote to Leo.

When the others arrived at eight-thirty and were told about it, Leo was everyone else's favorite suspect too, and was roundly accused, but he swore with his hand on his heart that he'd had nothing to do with it.

"It was the work of the gods,” he said darkly. “An omen.” He cut his voice to a melodramatic whisper and wiggled his eyebrows at Preston. “There are some things we aren't meant to know."

"Absolutely,” said Preston, for whom this seemed to be a guiding philosophy.

"A coatimundi, I love it. Out of sight!” Chuckling heavily, Stan Ard slowly wrote something in a spiral- bound notebook. “Coatimundi, what is that, some kind of lizard?"

Regretting that he had brought it up at all, Gideon told him about the raccoonlike mammal. It was 5:00 p.m. and they were sitting in basket chairs on the shaded, tiled veranda of the hotel, where Gideon had promised Ard an hour-long interview. Earlier, during the lunch break, Abe had told the crew about the free-lance reporter's arrival. He had suggested that they cooperate with him but keep to the facts and try not to say anything sensational; the ever-alert Dr. Villanueva was no doubt on the lookout for lapses of good taste that might appear in print.

Privately, Abe had confided to Gideon that he was worried. A brief talk with Ard had made him wonder about the reporter's judgment, and the man had hedged on what publication would print his article. Abe had considered asking the crew to refuse to talk with him. But he had decided on second thought that Ard was the kind of journalist who wouldn't quit, and might make up his own story if he had to-which was the most worrisome possibility of all.

After five minutes of conversation, Gideon's impression of the reporter was equally unfavorable. Stan Ard was a coarse, blowsy man who gobbled unfiltered cigarettes like someone bent on killing himself as quickly as possible, and who coughed like someone who was succeeding. He had spent the first few minutes of the interview hacking, pounding his chest, and talking about himself, hinting broadly at a shadowy past full of vague and undisclosable associations with the CIA and Soldier of Fortune.

He had struck Gideon as not very bright, not very subtle, and not very principled. But he had done his homework. He had a copy of the curse and a binder full of earlier reports about the theft of the codex.

"Look, Stan,” Gideon said uneasily as Ard continued to fill up the page with his round, methodical script, “this thing with the coati was just an in-joke, not something that was intended to make the newspapers. If it's all the same to you…"

Ard stopped writing and held up a hand in acquiescence. “Hey, no problem. Fine, great, we'll forget all about it.” To show his sincerity he ripped out the page, crumpled it, and tossed it into an ashtray. “Okay, Gid, let's get down to brass tacks. Let me tell you what I'm doing here.” He leveled two thick fingers and the cigarette between them at Gideon. “I think you're going to like this."

Why was it, Gideon wondered idly, that he had never much cared for anyone who called him “Gid"?

"What I'm doing here is I'm doing a three-part feature for Flak on the curse, the dig, the whole schmear. You couldn't ask for better publicity."

"Flak?" Gideon said doubtfully, putting aside his questions about the need for better publicity. “Isn't that one of those papers you see at the checkout counters? ‘Boy Weds Own Mother to Get Even with Dad over Allowance Dispute'? ‘Priest Splits into Four Segments While Addressing Congregation'?"

"You got it."

No wonder Ard had hedged with Abe. “Oh, God,” Gideon said, “I can see it now. ‘Grisly Curse of Death Stalks Jungle Excavation.’”

Ard blinked thoughtfully. “Hey, not bad.” Apparently he meant it, because he wrote it down on a fresh sheet. “Got any other ideas?"

Gideon laughed. “I don't suppose you'd go for ‘A Textual Analysis of a Post-Classic Mayan Incunabulum'?"

"You're right, I wouldn't, and neither would the schmucks at the checkout counter.” His heavy chuckle turned into a gangly cough and died away. “Okay, look, I was reading the original report you wrote up in ‘82 and I needed to check some things with you. Make sure I've got it straight.” He flipped back a few pages in his notebook.

On the glass table in front of them were a Tecate beer for Gideon-which he didn't really want, but Ard had insisted on ordering him something-and a double scotch on the rocks for the reporter. Nearby, others also chatted and drank, enjoying the relative coolness of the predinner hour. Behind Ard, a few tables away, Emma was hectoring Leo Rose on cosmic consciousness. Leo, in his usual manner, was jollying her along. Or maybe she was converting him. Who could tell with Leo?

"Okay.” Ard gulped Scotch. “I want this to be human-interest stuff, not just facts.” The face he made showed what he thought of facts. “Let me ask you this.” While he chose his words he rooted with a finger in the curly hair at the base of his throat, jiggling the thin gold chains nestling there. “Describe to me how you felt in the…in the dark, damp depths of that passageway when your eyes beheld the long-lost Tlaloc codex.” He thought a moment, then wrote that down too, visibly impressed.

Gideon decided to have a swallow of beer after all. An hour with Stan Ard was going to be a long time. There were still fifty-one minutes to go. “I don't know, Stan. It's hard to remember. It was a long time ago."

"Yeah, but you must have thought something,” Ard said. He decided to clarify the question. “I mean, you must have thought something."

"Well, I didn't know it was a codex when I first saw it,” Gideon said, aware that he wasn't providing very good copy. “I thought it was just some bundles of cloth."

Ard frowned and shook his head. “Nah, that's no good,” he said reprovingly. “What are you, kidding me?” He downed another slug of Scotch, made a pained expression, belched, sucked on his cigarette, and gave himself over to coughing again while he hammered on his chest with the flat of his hand.

"Okay, let's start with basic concrete facts,” he said when he could speak again. “The five W s: who, why, what…uh, which…you know. Maybe that'll get us to something we can use. Now, according to what I read, the tunnel started looking like it was going to cave in right after you found the codex, while all you guys were down there, right?"

"Right."

"At 4:12 p.m."

Gideon nodded.

"Great,” Ard said without enthusiasm. “How much more concrete can you get than that?” Squinting, he flapped at the cigarette smoke. “So how did you happen to know the exact time?"

Gideon shrugged. “I guess I looked at my watch…” He hesitated, seeing a sudden ray of hope. “No, wait, it was his watch.” He gestured in Leo's direction. “When that post broke and some of the ceiling came down it broke his watch. Stopped it at 4:12. We noticed it later, when we were on our way back to the site."

"Broke his watch? Did he get hurt or anything?” Ard asked hopefully.

Gideon saw his chance. “You know, Stan,” he said, “Leo Rose is really the guy you ought to be talking to; you've already got my version in those clippings. But Leo was right there with me, up there on that-that dark, lonely pyramid when it happened. He could give you a fresh perspective."

This wasn't as low a trick as it seemed. By now even the durable, resilient Leo was withering under Emma's remorseless, high-volume barrage ("… because which reality plane you select doesn't really matter,” she was saying. “That's what past-life regression is all about. If you think about it in terms of Jungian synchronicity…") For some minutes Leo had been paying more attention to Gideon's and Ard's conversation than his own. His eyes were cast plaintively in their direction for possible escape.

And regardless of what the irrepressible Leo might say, Abe had nothing to worry about. An article in Flak was not going to be read by anyone in the academic world; not admittedly, anyway. And even Dr. Villanueva couldn't claim there was any danger that it might be taken seriously.

"Yeah?” Ard said with interest. He reached for the cigarette he'd put down during a coughing spasm, peered interestedly over his shoulder at Leo, and gave him a small, welcoming wave. Leo was quick to take advantage of it. In a flash he was out of his chair, leaving behind a sulking Emma displeased at having Leo's mind expansion interrupted. Four quick strides put him at their table.

"Hi,” he said brightly. He blew out his cheeks, rolled his eyes, and grinned at Gideon.

"Leo here was lucky to escape with his life when the ceiling gave way,” Gideon said. “It not only stopped his watch at 4:12, it almost took his arm off. There was blood all over the place.” It was but a small exaggeration for the greater good. Leo's wrist had, after all, been scratched, if Gideon remembered correctly.

Leo was more than happy to go along. “There sure was,” he agreed. “There was blood everywhere."

This obviously appealed to Ard, and Gideon pressed on. “Leo, Stan is doing a story on Tlaloc for Flak. He was thinking you'd be a good person to talk to."

"Flak!" Leo was clearly impressed. “You work for Flak?"

"No, I'm a free-lancer. I work out of L.A."

"L.A.!” Leo was even more impressed. “L.A. is a great place to live. Wonderful. You're only a hundred and fifty miles from the Salton Sea, did you know that?” He slid a chair next to Ard's. “Stan,” he said, bulking sincerely at his side, “have you ever thought about the benefits of time-share ownership of a waterfront hacienda in the desert?"

He was reaching for a soggy brochure when Gideon made a discreet exit, and the last he heard from them, as he headed up the stairs, was a brayed "bueno-bueno." Leo was calling for another round.