Treasure of the Mayan King (2012) (10 page)

“That sounds good to me.”

Anita smiled at them. “Well you guys can go ahead; I’ll just stay on the beach and work on my tan.”

“I’m with you Anita,” Gloria chimed in. “Tomorrow’s our first full day here, so let the guys do what they want first while we relax.”

The following morning after breakfast, the five left the hotel and headed for the beach. From behind his dark glasses Chauncy watched the clear waters of Cancun shimmer and sparkle in the bright sunshine, making him very glad he had remembered to bring his sunglasses along. Puffy white clouds dotted the horizon; a warm breeze blew in from the ocean.

At the marina Chauncy checked out keys for three Jet Skis and walked over to Marlo and Troy. After showing Troy how to operate the watercraft, the three of them ventured out onto the water.

Gloria and Anita lay back on their beach towels, enjoying the warm tropical sun and talking occasionally. Eventually Anita dozed off on the white sand.

Marlo and Troy zigzagged on their skis, causing waves and splashing each other. Chauncy followed more slowly and admired the scenery. He didn’t quite feel like racing; he had come here to get away from his hectic life. He just sat there, motor idling, bobbing up and down over the gentle waves. As boats full of tourists zipped past him, he gazed in at the shoreline and the greenery of the jungle. For a long time he let his mind wander back to his adventures with Dr. Sova in the Mexican jungles.

Eventually, Marlo motioned Chauncy to come over. “Hey, I say we go in for a rest; Troy and I are both low on fuel.”

“I still have plenty left,” Chauncy said. “Of course, I wasn’t going as fast as you two. Go ahead. I’ll be just a few minutes behind.”

Chauncy had spied a cove in the distance that begged to be investigated. As he left, Marlo and Troy opened the throttles on their machines and began the journey back to the marina.

Half an hour later, Marlo scoured the horizon, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun.

“That’s strange,” he said. “Chauncy said he’d only be a few minutes.”

Anita looked up at Marlo. “I think you’d better go look for him; I’ve heard that rental Jet Skis aren’t always maintained properly.”

Marlo nodded and ran to his Jet Ski, accelerating into the open sea, the water frothing madly in his wake.

Another half hour passed, and Anita was becoming increasingly worried. She walked out into the ocean until the waves slapped against her legs, her eyes scanning the horizon looking for any sign of her husband or Marlo. A few more minutes passed before she spotted Marlo at a distance, towing Chauncy’s Jet Ski beside him. Her breath caught in her throat when she did not see Chauncy on the machine.

“Oh my God,” she murmured, her hand over her mouth. A million scenarios ran through her mind: Was Chauncy pitched off the Jet Ski by a rogue wave? Had he been knocked unconscious somehow? Could a shark have come upon her husband?

Marlo ran his machine up onto the beach, an extremely worried look on his face. Anita, Gloria, and Troy were waiting for him, but he motioned them over.

Anita got there first. “Where’s Chauncy?” she asked, her voice quivering with fear.

Marlo lowered his voice, more out of fear than anything else; the consistent lapping of the waves and other noises would have made eavesdropping impossible. “This is his Jet Ski, obviously, but he was nowhere to be found.”

“What!” Anita exclaimed. “Oh my God Marlo, where’s my husband? What do you mean he was nowhere to be found? Did you at least try looking for him?”

Marlo shook his head but remained silent.

“Why didn’t you?” Anita said, trying desperately to hold her temper.

Marlo took a piece of waterproof parchment paper from the utility compartment of his machine. “I saw this note stuck on the handlebars. Perhaps you’d better read it for yourself.”

He handed the paper to Anita. She read it aloud in a soft voice, a sinking feeling in her stomach.

“‘If you want to see Mr. Rollock alive again, do not call the police.’” she began to shiver despite the heat from the tropical sun. “Oh no, Marlo, someone’s abducted Chauncy - they know his name!”

Marlo stepped from his machine, and Gloria turned around to see if anyone was watching. “Let’s go back to the hotel room you guys, I’m scared.”

Troy looked out at the horizon hoping this was all a terrible joke. “Dad - where’s Dad?”

The first thing Chauncy felt when he awoke was a throbbing pain in his right shoulder. The second thing he noticed was a matching throb in his head. He opened his eyes and immediately regretted it; the harsh light from two bare bulbs only made his headache worse. Keeping his eyes squeezed tightly shut, he groaned and tried to move. He still had his swimming trunks on, but someone had removed his life jacket.

Moving slowly, mindful of the pain in his shoulder, he sat up and almost crashed back down. His head swam, pain thumping through him with every heartbeat. Gritting his teeth he fought against the pain; fought to stay upright. After a few moments he risked opening his eyes again.

The light wasn’t as intense the second time around, and he could take in the few details of the room. It was large, probably forty feet long by twenty feet wide. The bed was simple: firm but thin, a sheet, a blanket and a pillow. At least it smelled clean.

Raising his head he opened his eyes completely and then stood on wobbly legs. The walls were made of concrete block, with not a single scrap of plaster or paint on the floor, ceiling or walls. There were two doors on opposite sides of the room. One was wooden and the other looked like it might have been forged out of a single block of iron. It was locked; probably the exit.

Hoping the wooden door led to a bathroom, he opened it and confirmed his guess. The sink had two drawers below, one filled with soap, shampoo and towels while the other held clean clothes. Pulling out a shirt and pants, he noticed they were just about his size.

He put the clothes back in the drawer, frowning. The bathroom was clean; in fact the whole place nearly screamed simplistic, utilitarian cleanliness. At least it seemed whoever had brought him here wasn’t planning anything as crude as torture.

A table next to the bathroom door held a terra cotta jug of fresh water. He poured himself a drink and crossed the room to a desk covered with pencils and pieces of paper. Digging in the drawers yielded nothing but more pencils and paper. He sat on the bed to think.

As he drank the refreshingly cool water he set about trying to remember what had happened before he blacked out. He had set out to examine a secluded cove, he remembered that much. Concentrating, he thought back past the haze in his mind.

Another drink of water and his brain was sufficiently recovered to recall two men watching him from a small speedboat. He had ignored them, but they had circled close to him and he had felt something sharp in his shoulder. In hindsight he realized it had been a tranquilizer dart.

His next memory was waking up here.

His thoughts quickly turned to his wife and son. Did they know he was safe? Did they even know he was alive?

Minutes later Chauncy heard footsteps coming down a set of stairs, confirming his assumption that he was in a basement of some kind. A brief, muted conversation in Spanish took place outside the iron door, and Chauncy could hear the jingling of keys. His heart beat faster.

The iron door swung open and three men walked into the room. Two of them were obviously bodyguards; large muscular men with shoulder holsters prominently displayed. Chauncy was reminded of the two men in the boat that had been circling him.

The third man didn’t appear to be armed but was obviously in charge. His expensive suit emphasized his protruding belly and small arms. His smile contrasted with his strange eyes, which opened and closed slowly, almost like a lizard’s.

“Hello Mr. Rollock,” he boomed in thickly accented English. “I apologize for the inconvenience that we have caused you. Rest assured that, as you may have already noticed, we have tried to supply you with the most modern amenities for your comfort.”

“Who are you?” Chauncy asked as he stood from the bed. “And how do you know my name?”

“My name is Santo Domingo but you may call me Santo. We are honored to have you as our guest.”

Though noticing Santo had ignored his question, Chauncy smiled inwardly. He wondered to himself why any mother would have named her son “Holy Sunday.”

“So are you holding me for ransom? How much do you want? What am I worth, one hundred thousand dollars, two hundred thousand dollars? I suppose you know that I am a famous archaeologist.”

Santo laughed from deep within his protruding belly. “No, Senor Rollock, we do not want any money from you.”

“Then what do you want?”

Santo set a black briefcase on the desk. Opening it he removed a thick scroll.

“What we need, Senor Rollock, are your talents.”

“My talents, what on earth do you want my talents for?” Chauncy asked as he nervously walked to the desk.

Santo unrolled the scroll and Chauncy immediately recognized the glyphs that were drawn on it.

“We want you to translate the Mayan Code for us, Mr. Rollock.”

Chapter Three

In the usual hustle and bustle of downtown Guadalajara, people went about their business despite yesterday’s excitement. In an office high above downtown sat Captain De Leon, absorbed in one of the many reports scattered across his desk.

It was an in-depth, technical discussion of the helicopters used by the Mexican National Army, with details on everything from fuel consumption to how many times a month they needed maintenance. Also included was a listing of the flight schedules of every one of those helicopters for the surrounding area for the last two weeks. It was a longer list than he had anticipated. He struggled to wrap his brain around all the locations and times.

He was interrupted by an annoying buzz from the intercom on his desk.

“What is it, Laura?” he asked his secretary, trying not to sound as irritated as he was.

“A representative from the United States Embassy, a Mr. George Hawkins, is here to see you sir.”

De Leon”s irritation turned to exasperation. After the media, the thing he most despised were politicians, especially foreign politicians. They were always so condescending. Everything was always Mexico’s fault. Everything. Always. The drug war was far from over; the illegal immigration issue was hot in the border areas - and who was the perfect whipping boy to get all the blame? Mexico, the Mexican military, the Federal Police and the Chief of Police - and now it would be even worse, what with the incident in Guadalajara.

“Show him in, Laura,” he said, strained resignation in his voice. This is not going to be good, he thought.

He stood up from his desk and moved toward the door just as Laura opened it and ushered in two men. One had a camera around his neck - a reporter - which made the other man George Hawkins. The embassy representative was young for his post, probably late thirties, and dangerously thin. The reporter asked them to shake hands for a photo. They faced the camera and offered their best phony smiles. Once finished, the reporter walked briskly from the office.

De Leon”s smile promptly vanished. He motioned Mr. Hawkins to take a seat on the leather couch that De Leon reserved for special guests. The embassy rep put his briefcase on his knees, opened it, and took out a few documents.

“Well, Mr. Hawkins, first I must apologize for not being prepared for your visit. As you can see, it has not been a good week for Mexico and I am up to my neck in trouble trying to find Mr. Madrid.”

Hawkins shuffled the papers from his briefcase and his right eyebrow rose slowly as he spoke. “Well, yes, I understand perfectly Mr. De Leon. No doubt the recent news has kept us all distracted, hasn’t it? And that, Mr. De Leon, is the reason for my visit. I have spoken with the President of the United States and he is very disturbed by the incident.”

De Leon fumed. “Why don’t you go bother the chief of police? It’s his job to enforce law and order in Mexico, not mine.”

A smug smile came to Hawkins face. “I am aware of that fact, Mr. De Leon, but it was a Mexican military aircraft involved in the crime. That means this incident falls squarely under your jurisdiction.” Hawkins paused to shuffle more papers. “What a pity. You had Mr. Madrid right where everyone wanted him, but because of your internal corruption he escaped right under your nose! Obviously we at the Embassy want to know what you are doing to prevent such a thing from happening again.”

De Leon took a deep breath in an effort to calm himself before speaking. “It seems to me, Mr. Hawkins, that all eyes are upon me as if I may have had something to do with this. I am investigating this matter very thoroughly.”

“I trust your integrity, Mr. De Leon. At least from what I have heard about you. Rest assured that not once did it cross my mind that you were responsible for this fiasco. However, after what has transpired, we feel that the corruption in the Mexican military is sufficient to cause our government to lose confidence in your ability to control your own men, Mr. De Leon. Can you imagine the damage this has caused to our international relations? We just took a major step backwards in the drug war. Jose Padilla Madrid is a dangerous outlaw and now he is running around this country. It is only a matter of time before he reorganizes and the cocaine will flow across the border.”

Another deep breath then De Leon”s fingers found a pencil; he started twirling it to disperse the angry energy welling up inside him. ‘Mr. Hawkins, for the record, let it be known that corruption is not the exclusive property of the Mexican government. It runs everywhere, including your country.’

“Yes of course, Mr. De Leon, I am aware of that. But look how blatant yours is; a military helicopter in broad daylight rescues the most powerful drug lord of Central and South America! Can it get any worse? The populace of both our nations has lost confidence in the law enforcement agencies and national defense organizations of Mexico. If the chief of police and the head of the Mexican military can’t prevent these things from occurring, then fear will soon set in and tourism will drop considerably. This will spell a great economic loss for your country.”