Look What the Wind Blew In (5 page)

Chapter Three

Dzulob: Foreigners or outsiders.

Later that evening, after crashing on his cot for a couple of hours and then scrubbing off a layer of dust under a short camp-style shower, Quint headed for the mess tent. At the entrance, small buckets with burning citronella candles stood guard, flickering in the twilight. Male voices rumbled on the other side of the thick canvas. His thoughts replayed a similar moment from twenty years ago, triggering a twang of melancholy that fueled the anger smoldering inside of him. Dr. Hughes should still be around, damn it, cracking his corny jokes and filling Quint’s head with more stories about Maya life long ago.

Shaking off the past, he stepped through the tent flaps. He scanned the sea of heads, locking onto Angélica and Juan. They sat at a picnic table against the far wall.

As he squeezed between tables, brushing past sweat-soaked backs, several heads turned. He nodded at a few of the men at first, but after receiving no greeting in return, he gave up on making any new best friends forever. He dropped onto the bench next to Juan. A spicy scent filled the humid air, making his mouth water.

Juan greeted him with a shoulder bump. “Boy, am I glad to see you. My daughter’s been picking on me about my dining room etiquette since I dug in.”

“A lot of good it’s doing,” Angélica said as Juan picked up his meat-filled tortilla, dripped orange sauce all over his fingers, and bit a chunk out of the wrap. As he chewed, he smirked across the table at her.

She shook her head. “You need a keeper.”

“Why do you think I had you?”

“I was an accident, remember?”

“No, spilling my drink down the front of your mother’s dress on our first date was an accident. You were an adorable bundle of surprise with Marianne’s lovely hair color and my striking good looks.”

Angélica laughed. “Good thing I got Mom’s unpretentiousness along with her hair.” She cut a bite-sized piece of her much thinner tortilla. “Hungry, Mr. Parker?” she asked before sticking the morsel into her mouth.

“Quint,” he corrected, his stomach rumbling. “I could eat a horse.”

She swallowed. “That’s too bad. We have no horse here. Teodoro has a donkey, but we need him since the motorcycle is out of commission.” She surveyed the room. “Teodoro,” she called above the murmur of conversation. “Will you please ask María to make up a plate of food for Mr. Parker?”

“I can get my own plate.” He started to stand, but Teodoro was already at the kitchen counter.

“You will not,” she told him, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Tonight you’re our guest.” She tapped the shoulder of the man sitting to her left. “Fernando, this is Quint Parker. He’s going to write an article about the dig site. Quint, meet Fernando, my foreman.”

Fernando nodded at him before taking a sip of his coffee. Judging from the lines fanning from Fernando’s eyes and the gray at his temples, Quint guessed him to be a half a decade his senior.

When he looked back at the boss lady, he found himself the bull’s eye of her focus.

“As of tomorrow,” she said, “you’re one of the crew, and that involves a couple of rules.”

Ah, crap. Here we go.
He knew the drill—smile and nod as she explained how this was her territory, her crew, and her dig, blah, blah, blah. Then thank her dutifully after she explained where, when, and how often he could eat, breathe, and use the latrine. No problem, he’d play along. He had no choice, really. He’d do whatever it took to buy the time he needed to find the answers he and Jeff Hughes were looking for down here.

Teodoro placed a tin plate laden with a thick, meaty-looking burrito wrapped in a homemade tortilla in front of Quint. The smell alone had him drooling like his nephew back when the kid had been teething. “Thanks. What is this?”

“It’s called a
panucho
,” Angélica said. “It’s a tortilla typically stuffed with black beans and topped with onion, tomatoes,
chile
, and sometimes egg. María, our cook, has her own versions of it with various meats, which she super-sizes for the men. It includes what we call her ‘special sauce,’ which is orange and delicious and very top secret. I wouldn’t advise asking her about it.”

“She’ll threaten you with a cleaver and chase you out of the kitchen,” Juan warned.

“She does that only to you, Dad.”

Using both hands, Quint lifted the
panucho
toward his mouth, his teeth all ready to tear into it. At that moment, he didn’t give a rat’s ass about the heat, the lack of modern plumbing, or the bossy woman eyeing him from across the table. He just wanted a moment alone with his food.

Angélica cleared her throat.

He hesitated, his jaw open and ready to chomp.

Juan leaned over. “Don’t give her an inch, boy.” His tone was full of mirth. “Trust me, I know my daughter. She takes after the bulldozer we have back home on our ranch. A real chip off the old diesel.”

“Dad, that is a blatant misrepresentation of one of my better character traits.”

“I knew there was something wrong with her early on when she asked me to read the dictionary to her at bedtime.”

“And
that
is another.” She turned to Quint. “It was a book on Mayan language and symbolism that my mother treasured and often studied aloud with me in the room.”

“A dictionary.” Juan stuck to his guns.

Glancing back and forth between father and daughter, Quint lowered the wrap to his plate and picked up his fork. His mother would have patted his head, but it wasn’t good manners that won him over. It was his goal to get on Angélica’s good side so she’d spill all she knew about Dr. Hughes.

“You’ll rue this day, Quint,” Juan said, his grin wide.

“You’re going to rue this day, Dad, after I have Teodoro move your tent next to the latrines,” she joked with her father. But then her expression sobered and she hit Quint with both barrels. “As I was saying, there are rules here. We eat breakfast at six, lunch at one, and supper at seven. From two to three, you can take a
siesta
if you’d like, and I suggest you do. We work long, hard hours because the dig season is so short. After supper, the rest of the evening is yours to do with as you please.”

“Gotcha.” He chewed the
panucho
, swallowing a groan of appreciation for María’s mouth-watering food, and stuck another forkful in his mouth. Hard work wasn’t new to him. Neither were strong-minded women. He’d gotten his hands messy with both in the past.

Juan finished his meal and wiped his fingers on his napkin. “Warn him about the
cenote
.”

Angélica stabbed the last piece of her tortilla. “Do you know what a
cenote
is, Quint?”

“A sinkhole in the limestone, usually full of water, considered sacred by the Maya people,” he shot back.

She nodded, appearing impressed. “You know your Maya terminology.”

“I read it in a guidebook on the plane ride down here,” he lied. Way back when, he and a couple of Dr. Hughes’ crew used to sneak swims in the big
cenote
about a hundred yards from the site until they were caught and lectured thoroughly on the dangers lurking under the water.

He struggled with cutting through the tortilla for a moment before giving up, picking it up, and taking a bite.

“That’s more like it!” Juan clapped him on the back.

“You dripped sauce on your shirt, Mr. Parker.” She pointed her fork at her father’s chest. “You, too. Now you’re twins.”

“It’ll wash out,” Juan said, dabbing his napkin on the orange stains.

“Not María’s special sauce. It’s potent.” She piled her napkin and fork on her plate and then watched Quint take another bite, her forehead wrinkling. “Everyone has been ordered to stay away from the
cenote
unless instructed otherwise. If you are asked to go, take someone with you. We had an accident this morning,” she said in a louder voice, addressing all who’d turned in their seats at her words. “We don’t need any more.”

Quint made a mental note to find out later what had happened at the
cenote
. “Got it. What else?”

“Don’t be nosing around in any of the temples. I’ll take you on a tour of each so there’s no need for you to explore on your own.”

He’d bet his sister’s favorite purple boots Angélica wanted to keep him out of those temples for some reason other than his safety.

“Don’t go into the jungle alone. You’re unfamiliar with the surroundings and it’s very easy to get turned around.”

“Plus there are venomous snakes, hairy spiders, and huge Paca jungle rats,” Juan added.

Quint knew all about those nasty critters. They were part of why he’d sworn never to return to this dreadful place.

“Your time will be divided between my father, Fernando, and me,” Angélica continued.

Quint wondered how many years Fernando had worked with her, and how much he knew about the history of the site.

“You’re free to talk to other members of the crew, but don’t try to get them to take you any place that’s off-limits, or you’ll be sent back to the village, backpack in hand.”

Her stern expression emphasized her point. He needed to step carefully. He didn’t need Angélica as an adversary.

“I’m responsible for every person here,” she continued. “Any accidents or problems need to be brought to my attention immediately. Teodoro is our resident healer, so if you get bit by a snake and need immediate attention, he’s the person to see.”

“He’s good with toothaches, too,” Juan added.

Teodoro was apparently a real jack of all trades.

“In the States, the freedom of speech allows the press many excesses. But this is Mexican soil, and since I work for the Mexican government, I have the authority to limit your freedom. So, I’ll let you know what you can and can’t take pictures of around here.”

Ah ha!
That’s why she ruled over the men instead of Juan. The University of Arizona wasn’t paying for all of this, Mexico’s National Institute of Anthropology and History was. Quint measured her with a stare. With dirt smudged from her temple to her jawline and a petite nose sprinkled with freckles, she didn’t look like a lead archaeologist. Then again, neither had Dr. Hughes.

“Do you have any questions?” she asked.

Quint lowered his cup to the table, weighing all she’d divulged. “Do you send anyone into the village on a regular basis? I left a forwarding address at the hotel, and I need someone to check for mail.”

“You’re having mail shipped to the hotel?” Her green eyes narrowed, suspicion lurking there. “How long do you plan on sticking around, Mr. Parker?”

“As long as it takes to get all I need for the article.” And then some. He doubted he’d get to the bottom of Dr. Hughes’ disappearance in a couple of days.

Her jaw tightened. She didn’t seem to like his answer. “How about we take it one day at a time and see how everything works out?”

“With us?” he deliberately misunderstood, flirting with a wink, testing those waters.

“With you,” she snapped, slamming the door on his attempt to charm her. Gathering her father’s and Quint’s plates, she stacked them on top of hers. “Teodoro goes to the village on Tuesdays. I’ll have him check for mail then.” She stood with the plates in hand. “Anything else?”

There was something he’d been curious about all afternoon. “What’s this I hear about a curse?”

The hum of conversation throughout the tent ceased.

Quint scanned the room, shifting in his seat under the weight of all of the stares focused on him. What? Had he opened Pandora’s box?

Angélica frowned at her dad. “What did you tell him?”

Juan held up his hands. “It wasn’t me, I swear.” His eyes sparkling with excitement, he turned to Quint. “We found some glyphs that read like a curse and—”

“We found some glyphs that tell a story from the past,” Angélica spoke over him loud and clear, as if giving an announcement at a podium. “And some people have jumped to the conclusion that it sounds like a curse. However, I’m sure you all will soon realize that it’s not a curse.” She peered around the room, her hard expression hammering her point home. “Just a few mishaps.”

The sound of silverware scraping across tin plates and the rumbling of voices started up again as if on cue, but Quint could feel the tension still in the air. Maybe he could get Angélica to show him these curse glyphs, find out what the big deal was about.

“Time will tell.” Juan’s voice was low, meant for only those at their table.

“Yes, it will,” Angélica challenged back, and then leaned over the table and kissed her father on the cheek. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to my tent to look up a few things.” Carrying their dirty plates, she negotiated through the other tables while bidding her crew “goodnight,” set the plates on the counter, and left the tent.

This was it, Quint’s opportunity to catch Angélica alone and see what she knew about the site’s past. “Excuse me,” he said to her father and Fernando and then rushed after her. “Dr. García,” he called, catching sight of her white shirt in the shadowy darkness outside the tent. She held still as he jogged up to her. “Can I ask you something?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Your question.” She crossed her arms, waiting.

Sheesh, porcupines were less prickly. He formed his sentences carefully, trying not to be too obvious. “I like to begin an article with a little history of the location I’m covering. Give the readers some background, you know.” He paused to see if she’d allow him to continue or shut him down before he got out of the gate.

A cricket chirped in the grass. She remained silent.

Crossing his fingers behind his back, he continued. “What was the first thing to be excavated at this site?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t working here at that time.” Her tone said that was it. End of story. Goodnight. “I’ll see you at breakfast, Mr. Parker.” She took off toward her tent, the beam of her flashlight bouncing with each step.

If she thought she could get away that easily, she didn’t know with whom she was messing. He hadn’t made it this far in his career by giving up when faced with a brick wall—or a closed-lipped, hard-headed female. Determined to get some answers, he fell in step beside her. “So, was it your father who first began the work here?”