Trader of secrets

Chapter Fifty-Four

We decide to time our reconnaissance of the road north of Coba for late afternoon, to drive slowly, and if need be, to wait until dark to take a closer look.

Harry and I select a pair of hundred-power binoculars from a local sporting goods shop. We buy a half-dozen bottles of water, put them in an Igloo container filled with ice, and pick up two large hunting knives for defense along with a handful of road flares, anything that might come in handy if we need help. We would buy guns but we can’t.

Possession of a firearm or even a single round of ammunition by a foreign national in Mexico will net the visitor a long and harsh prison term. Mexico is a testament to the failure of gun laws to curb bloodshed. It has among the most severe firearm restrictions in the world. Yet the country has become a veritable war zone of gun-fueled drug violence. Any Mexican teen with a trigger finger can buy a fully automatic assault rifle and bandoliers of bullets for a few pesos from black marketers. The fact that the transaction is illegal means only that the dead victims are all law abiding.

Since guns are not available to tourists, Harry and I have to make do with what we can find. We settle on two rubber-sling spearguns from one of the dive shops in Playa del Carmen. All the while Joselyn is laughing. “Why don’t you get the mask and flippers and finish out the outfit?”

Harry is in no mood for humor. He throws one of the spearguns onto the front seat and nearly ends up sitting on the tip as he gets into the car.

By three thirty we reach the highway intersection at Coba. I turn, and we head north. We turn off the air conditioner and open the windows so that all of our senses are alive as I drive slowly up the road. Within two miles, the absence of any other traffic becomes obvious to all of us.

“Get the feeling we’re in the land of the dead?” says Harry.

We pass occasional mud-brick huts and small concrete houses, all of them abandoned. Some have their windows broken out with their front doors off the hinges. A few show the scorch marks and black soot of fire.

To Joselyn it reminds her of some of the test sites in the Nevada desert, what she calls “atomic city.” “All that is missing,” she says, “are the mannequins strapped to posts along the road.”

Harry and I are in the front seat. Joselyn is in the back, her head almost on my shoulder as her eyes give the road the thousand-yard stare. The three of us strain constantly to see what is up ahead.

Each curve brings us to a near stop until I can creep around and see what’s there. The foliage is so thick that it crowds the road in places, growing over the edges of the asphalt as if to reclaim the offending ribbon that runs through the jungle.

We come to an intersection with a dirt road off to the right.

“Stop!” Harry is halfway out of the car before I can hit the brake. “If anything happens, don’t wait for me.” With the speargun in hand, he runs cautiously toward the dirt road as Joselyn and I sit in the hot car with windows open, my foot ready to hit the gas pedal to pick him up if I have to. He disappears down the dirt road, and a few seconds later comes back and waves me forward. Neither Joselyn nor I have to ask what Harry is doing. We all know that the road of death is likely to be a dead end. Without saying it, the thought of a vehicle getting behind us and blocking our retreat is ever present.

From the look of it, the pavement has not seen much in the way of recent traffic. There are sizable chunks of rock in the middle of the road.

Harry gets back in the car. “It’s OK,” he says.

About a mile farther on we pass several abandoned and wrecked cars along the shoulder.

“Slow down,” says Harry.

“I’m doing ten miles an hour,” I tell him.

“I know. Slow down.” Harry tightens his grip on the speargun, though what he is going to do with it if we run into trouble I’m not sure.

I tell him to watch where he’s pointing the thing. He tells me to keep my eyes on the road.

Several of the wrecked vehicles have the brown-rusted hue of burned-out metal, their tires gone as if eaten by fire. A light pickup truck, or what is left of it, appears to have been shot to pieces. The driver’s door panel is filigreed with enough holes that it looks like a lace doily.

“Pull over,” says Harry. He wants to check it out.

I pull in front of the burned-out pickup and put the car in park, but I leave the engine running. Harry and I get out.

As we approach the burned-out vehicle, we realize that the passenger compartment is not empty. Slumped across the narrow bench seat is a partially burned and decomposed body.