Fallen Idols (3 page)

Walt closed his eyes and entered into the past.

Perched on his royal chair, which was adorned with pieces of jade, lapis lazuli, and other semiprecious stones, jaguar pelts, and feathers from parrots of every color in the rainbow, and surrounded on all sides by his warriors and subjects, the great ruler watched as the ball game was played on the court below him. It had been going on for a long time. The participants were ragged, tired. But they had to keep playing.

The game flowed back and forth, like the sun crossing the sky on his journey throughout the day. The spectators cheered on the participants. Smoke-Jaguar watched intently. Below him, his rival, the ruler he had defeated in battle, captured alive, and brought here, was almost spent. Still a young man, strong and in his prime, he was moving more and more slowly around the court. He knew his destiny, and he had lost the will to change it.

The ruler watched all this with great satisfaction and entitlement. When this game was over, his victory, here and on the battlefield, would be written on the walls of the court for all to see, those who followed in the days and years to come. He was going to have a long dynasty, his blood was strong.

Finally, just as the sun was disappearing behind the jungle in the west, one of Smoke-Jaguar's warriors knocked the heavy ball through one of the rings. Pandemonium broke out. The crowd rose as a mob, screaming and cheering.

Smoke-Jaguar, too, stood up. He was flush with the fruits of victory. As he turned to receive the accolades of his people—

“God, it's so incredible here. I'm really going to miss this place.”

Walt jerked with a start. He turned to the woman, who was standing a few feet to his right.

“You snuck up on me, Diane,” he chided her. He hadn't heard her approaching; he'd been too deep into the past. “You should be sleeping. We have a long, hard day ahead of us tomorrow.”

She shook her head. “I can't sleep. Not our last night here.”

The tall, slender woman was wearing a simple native cotton shift she'd bought in a local market, and expensive sandals. She was without makeup; her dark blond hair was worn in a single braid that went halfway down her back. Even unadorned, however, she was very attractive, in a classy, understated way.

Diane Montrose was distinctive among this group of volunteers. She was in her early thirties, while the rest of his team were younger, some by more than a decade. And although she was a good worker, competent, helpful, and uncomplaining, there was an air of reserve about her. All the others had morphed into a big, messy family, like summer campers. She stood apart, friendly with everyone, but close to no one.

She took a couple steps toward him; they were almost touching. He could smell her. This was the jungle—bodily odors were stronger here than at home, even those of refined ladies who showered and used deodorant daily.

She smelled like sex.

“I hate it that we're leaving,” she said. She seemed at ease standing close to him; as if being alone with him, late at night, in this exotic setting, was the most natural thing in the world. “It feels like we're leaving paradise. The original fall.”

Her analogy was too close to the bone for comfort. “You can always come back,” he replied. “The work here will be going on for decades.”

“I know I can come back, but whether I will or not, who's to say?”

That was another difference between her and the rest of them: she wasn't an archaeology student, nor did she have any practical experience in the field. Under normal circumstances her application wouldn't have been considered, let alone accepted.

She'd gotten in on a fluke. Before the trip began she had sent him an e-mail, asking to be allowed to join his summer tour. He had explained via return e-mail that, unfortunately, he couldn't accommodate her—the trip was full, he was turning down worthy candidates, and he was opposed to including anyone who wasn't academically qualified.

A week before they were scheduled to depart, however, one of the accepted applicants, another woman, had e-mailed the unfortunate news that she had to drop out, which left an open space that needed to be filled—the plane fares and other bookings had already been made, and he was financially responsible for them.

He started digging through his files, scrounging for a replacement, which wasn't going to be easy—most of those he'd rejected had already made other plans. And then, while he was sitting in front of his computer, another e-mail from Diane, as if conjured by a genie, popped up on his computer screen. It was one last, eleventh-hour, impassioned plea that he reconsider her application. She wasn't an archaeologist, true, but she was an ardent student of cultures, ancient, modern, everything, she loved off-the-beaten-path experiences, she'd traveled all over, under every kind of adverse condition, she'd take on whatever lousy job no one else wanted to do. She'd scour the pots and pans every night if that was what was needed, she'd clean the latrines. Whatever it look. She really, really,
really
wanted him to let her be part of this.

Who could resist such an entreaty? Especially when you're holding the bag for more than three thousand dollars and you need a body to fill the space—a female body, for room-sharing in some of the locations.

He ran it by Jocelyn, who agreed that given the time constraints, this woman was the easiest answer to their problem. He had e-mailed back to Diane, advising her of her acceptance, along with instructions; three days later she met him at the airport with Jocelyn and the others, and off they all went.

She had worked out fine. No shirking—she pitched in as hard as anyone. She was always a lady, even when she was doing a scummy detail, but she'd never been a prima donna, or caused any trouble. And she had an adventurous spirit. He could understood that, because his was, too. It was why he'd become who he was.

Diane looked at him, her eyes steady, unblinking. “It's wonderful here, but you're the real attraction.”

She raised her arms above her head and loosened the tie that held her ponytail in place. Unlike most of the other women, who'd given up caring about how they looked, her armpits were cleanly shaven. Dropping her arms, she shook her hair loose.

“Was there a game?” she asked, turning away from him and staring down to the court. “You looked like you were here, but not
here
.”

He had lectured extensively on the ball games. The students knew about the games and his passion for them. Nodding in response to her question, he managed to work up some saliva.

“Yes.”

“Was there a winner?”

“Yes,” he answered again.

“You?”

He smiled in spite of himself.

“To the victors go the spoils,” she declared. In one quick, clean motion, her dress was over her head, off. A second movement, as fast and economical as the first, and her bra was no longer on her body. It was dangling in her hand with the dress.

Her breasts were firm, the dark pink nipples puckering, rising. And while he stood there, rooted in his tracks, her cotton underpants were down her legs and off. Dress, bra, underwear—a heap at her feet.

“The spectators who lost their bets gave up their clothing to the victor, did they not?” She knew they did—he had lectured on what was known of the betting aspects of the ball game a few days earlier.

“Yes. That's true.”

“And their jewels. The losers gave their jewels to the victors, didn't they, Walt?”

She took his hand and brought it to her vagina. She was sticky.

“Would you like my jewels, Walt? They're yours, if yon want them.”

He showered her smell off and put his clothes back on. He was having a hard time standing: his legs were rubber.

Aside from the moral implications, having sex with her out there in the open had not been a smart move. What if someone else had also been restless and come upon them? Not that anyone would come out here at this late hour, but still … He felt he had dodged a bullet.

Time to move on. In a few hours the group would be tip and on their way. A day later, they'd be back in the States. After the hurried good-byes and the I'll-e-mail-yous at the airport, everyone would scatter to the four winds. He had to put Diane out of his mind—he had more important issues to deal with.

They had to leave at first light: that was imperative. Even then, they would be racing the clock to get out of the jungle before dark—the narrow scar of a road was terrible, in some places almost impassable. And they were going to be traveling without the military escort they'd been promised.

He had received that distressing piece of news the day before yesterday. Citing growing disorder in the north, where they claimed their troops were more immediately needed, the government had pulled the four-man squad of army regulars that had come here three days ago to guide him and his party to safe harbor.

Walt had been blistering in expressing his anger at what he described to the bearer of this distressing information as “an extremely ill-advised, stupid, and dangerous decision.” Over the scratchy wireless telephone, he had reminded the Minister of Archaeology and Culture, a man with whom he'd had a working friendship for years (who, in deference to Walt's international stature, had personally called to deliver the bad news), of the many contributions he had made to this country's archaeological discoveries, especially La Chimenea. Hadn't he slogged through the godforsaken jungles year after year, leading the efforts to unearth invaluable treasures? Wasn't he doing that right now at this magnificent site, which almost certainly, even in this early stage of excavation, was going to turn out to be the most important discovery of ancient Maya civilization since Tikal and El Mirador, potentially even more glorious than Chichén Itzé or Copén? A site, he reminded the minister forcefully, that was not only going to be important for further understanding and appreciation of Maya culture, but would also, when it was more fully developed, bring a windfall of tourist money into this impoverished country.

“Unlike El Mirador,” he had reminded his caller, “which will never be opened to the world. Because the money isn't there to do it.”

“I know that,” the man said meekly. “We are very appreciative of everything you have done for the archaeology of this country.”

Finding money to develop La Chimenea had been Walt's most important contribution, even more than the actual reclamation from the jungle. He had raised over twenty million dollars from his benefactors. The initial funding had been spent on gouging the road through the jungle, which meant they could reach the site in a day instead of a week, and could bring in the necessary equipment to build the large infrastructure needed for an excavation of this size and scope. The road had cost millions of dollars and taken two years of intensive labor. Local workers had labored yard by yard to cut the ten-foot-wide gash through the thick jungle foliage, so that four-wheel-drive trucks and vans could get to the site.

Being able to motor there, instead of transporting everything by pack animals or human bearers, had enabled Walt and the other archaeologists working at La Chimenea to excavate and restore it on a scale much grander than that of other important sites, including the great one in Guatemala, El Mirador, which he'd brought up to the minister. Those sites were too remote to get to, and the cost to restore them was too great for the Guatemalan government. The difference at La Chimenea was that Walt had gone out and raised the money privately. The government owed him a debt they could never repay. Which made this chickenshit stunt they were pulling doubly outrageous to him.

“For the love of God,” he had implored the man, “six soldiers aren't going to make a gnat's ass bit of difference in putting down some far-off disturbance.” (If, in fact, one even existed. In this country there were a hundred rumors to one truth.) “But they're critical insurance right here,” he argued strenuously, “to guarantee the safety of my students and me. You wouldn't want anything unfortunate to happen to any of us, would you?” Walt said bittingly. “People the world over still recoil over the massacre of the nuns. Tourism is your golden egg. You don't want to kill the bird that lays it,” he added bluntly.

He could feel the man wince over the phone. That was, at least, a small piece of momentary satisfaction. But it was all he got. The minister had apologized profusely (from his air-conditioned office), but could offer no help, he had bluntly informed Walt. The decision, regrettably, was out of his hands; the military, as usual, answered to no one but themselves. They were still, as a country, learning the nuts and bolts of democracy. But not to worry: everything was peaceful where they were, everything was running smoothly. There would be no problems.

“A promise,” the minister assured Walt, “from the highest authorities to you. Besides,” he'd reminded Walt, trying to salvage something from this sticky situation, “the nuns were social agitators, not neutral scientists.”

As if that gave their murderers license to kill—a typical bureaucratic reply.

In the end, Walt had no recourse but to accept the decision, and he knew it: despite his prominence, he was still a guest here, he had to live by their rules. But before hanging up, he'd fired one last shot.

“Let me remind you,” he told the minister, “unfriendly actions like this cut both ways.”

“This is not an unfriendly action,” the minister had sputtered.

“What I'm trying to make you understand, my good friend, is that there has to be mutual trust. We had an agreement. You've broken it.”

In fact, the soldiers had already left earlier in the day, while Walt and his people had been at the site, working their butts off under the blistering sun. Slinking away like dogs with their tails between their legs; an act done deliberately, Walt knew, to prevent him from trying to stop them. Typical behavior in this country—pass the buck, avoid confrontation whenever possible, and lie about it when you're caught.

Things had changed from the days when he was young and the government would give foreign scholars anything they wanted. Now the patron countries decided how to develop the sites. Which was the right thing to do, but hard for outsiders like him to swallow. Thank God, he thought, he was near the end of his career instead of the beginning.