The Mayan Secrets fa-5 Read online

  “What are these people — friends of yours?” asked Señor Lopez.

  “This is only the second time I’ve seen them,” Dr. Huerta said. “But I find I like them more and more. I’ll show you why.”

  He stepped up to Sam and Remi, lifted Sam’s shirt, and pulled his semiautomatic pistol from its hiding place and held it up. There was a murmur from the crowd. He released the magazine, looked at it, pushed it back, then stuck the pistol back under Sam’s shirt. He lifted Remi’s shirt slightly to reveal her gun. “After all these years as a doctor, I’m good at seeing things on people that aren’t part of their bodies.” He stared at the circle of townspeople. “Some of you are eager to kill them. If they’d wanted to, they could have killed plenty of you. But they didn’t want to. They were here on a friendly mission and didn’t let your threats change that.”

  He put a hand on Sam’s shoulder and the other on Remi’s and began to walk them toward the trail to town.

  “Stop.” They stopped and slowly turned. It was Señor Lopez again. “Maybe you’re right and these people should be freed. But we need time to decide what to do.”

  The townspeople responded with a roar composed equally of approval and relief that they didn’t have to make such a momentous decision right then. The people swarmed around Dr. Huerta and the Fargos and swept them along the trail, down from the stronghold, and into the town.

  When they reached the main street, the crowd ushered Sam and Remi into an old adobe building. There was an outer room, with a table and chairs and a big, heavy wooden door. On the other side of the door was a row of three cells with thick iron bars and padlocks. The crowd pushed Sam and Remi into one of the cells, and someone locked the door and took the key. Then the people trickled back outside.

  After a minute, Father Gomez entered the cellblock. “Sam, Remi, I’m terribly embarrassed by this. I apologize for them. They’re good people, and they’ll come to their senses very soon.”

  “I hope so,” said Sam. “Could you make sure our backpacks don’t disappear?”

  “They’re already in the outer office. If you need anything from them, Señora Velasquez will be here to get it out for you.”

  “Thank you,” said Remi.

  “And one more thing,” said Father Gomez. He held out both hands, pushing them through the bars.

  Sam and Remi took their guns out from under their shirts and handed them to the priest. He put them into his coat pockets. As he left, he said, “Thank you. I’ll keep them safe for you in the church.”

  A minute later, Señora Velasquez opened the big wooden door, propped it open, and returned with a tray with soft drinks and glasses on it. She slid it through the feeding slot at the bottom of the bars.

  “Gracias, Señora Velasquez,” said Remi.

  “I’ll bring your dinner in an hour, and I’ll be outside the door all night,” said Señora Velasquez. “Just shout if you need anything.”

  “You don’t need to stay,” said Sam.

  “Yes I do,” she said. She reached into her apron and held up an old but well-oiled long-barreled .38 revolver that could have been from the 1930s. “If you try to escape, someone has to be here to shoot you.” She put it back in her apron, took her tray, and disappeared through the doorway. After a second, the heavy wooden door swung shut.

  Chapter 28

  SANTA MARIA DE LOS MONTAÑAS

  At dawn, the sun shone into the jail through a ventilation shaft, impeded only by the motionless blades of a fan. At some point in the night, Sam and Remi had fallen asleep on the two bunks, which each consisted of a shelf like a door on hinges folded against the wall during the day and lowered at night on a pair of chains that held it horizontal.

  Sam woke to find Remi sitting on her bunk and swinging her legs. “Good morning,” he said. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I was thinking how cute you are when you’re lying there in your bunk,” she said. “Too bad I don’t have my phone to take your picture. You could be Cellmate of the Month in women’s prison.”

  Sam sat up and pulled on his shirt, then began to button it. “I’m flattered, I think.”

  “It’s just an observation, and I don’t have much to look at,” she said. “It doesn’t look as though they use this jail much. No graffiti, not much wear and tear, since the last paint job.”

  “Have you seen anybody yet?”

  “No, but I’ve heard the front door close a couple of times, so we’re still under guard.”

  A moment later, there was a loud knock on the wooden plank door at the end of the cellblock. Remi smiled, and called, “Come in.”

  Señora Velasquez opened the door and came in, bearing a tray with two covered plates, some glasses of orange juice, and other good things.

  “It was nice of you to knock,” said Remi.

  “Nobody said you can’t have any privacy,” said Señora Velasquez. “You just can’t leave yet.”

  “Yet?”

  “People have been listening to what Father Gomez and Dr. Huerta say about you. I think we’ll all meet in the afternoon, and you can be on your way after that.”

  “That’s a relief,” said Sam. “But I’m glad they didn’t let us out before breakfast. That food smells so good.”

  “Yes it does,” said Remi. “You’re very kind to us.”

  Señora Velasquez slid the tray under the bars, and Sam picked it up and set it on the shelf that served as his bunk. “I wish we had chairs and things,” said Señora Velasquez. “We weren’t expecting anyone like you.”

  “Thank you for what you’ve done.”

  As Señora Velasquez went out the door, there was no mistaking the sound of a big bolt being slid into place.

  Just as they finished their breakfast, they heard the morning silence of the little town broken by the sound of a truck laboring up the long hill to the main street. They could hear the transmission whining, the engine’s revolutions speeding up on the last hundred yards, and then the engine idling in the street in front of the church. After a moment, there was a man shouting, and then other men jumping from the truck to the pavement, and then running footsteps.

  Sam and Remi looked at each other. Sam stepped to the space below the tiny, high window in the wall, bent his knees, and knitted together the fingers of both his hands to make a step for Remi. She put her foot in his hands and he lifted her up. She grasped the bars of the little window and looked out.

  Men in a mixture of camouflaged fatigues, T-shirts, khakis and blue jeans ran from the truck and entered buildings along the main street. They kicked in doors and shouted at people to come out to the street. “They’re rounding up the townspeople,” she said.

  Men, women, and children came outside, looking confused and worried. They joined their friends and neighbors, adding to the growing crowd. Groups of armed men ran up the side streets and brought back more people. “They’re gathering the whole town.”

  The cab of the truck opened and two men got out. “It’s the two men!” Remi whispered.

  “What two men?”

  “The ones who tried to kill us for Sarah Allersby. The ones from Spain. The one you painted blue.”

  “How does he look?”

  “He looks sunburned but still has a trace of a blue tinge, like a dead man.”

  “I can’t wait to see him.”

  Outside, Russell and Ruiz stepped to the bed of the truck, climbed up, and used it for a stage. Russell took out a thick sheaf of legal documents and handed it to Ruiz, picked up a bullhorn, and spoke. “Testing.” The word was loud, echoing from the hills. He held it for Ruiz, who read the Spanish text.

  “Citizens of Santa Maria de los Montañas,” he said. “Your town is situated in the middle of a tract of land that has been set aside as an archaeological preserve. In five days, you will be removed and taken to a new town a few miles from here. You will be provided with a place to live and given employment in exchange for your cooperation.”

  An old man stepped out of t
he crowd. He wore an ill-fitting blue sport coat and an old pair of khaki pants. He stood near the truck and spoke in a loud voice. “I am Carlos Padilla, mayor of Santa Maria.” He turned to his people. “These men want to move us to the Estancia Guerrero. The work they offer is growing marijuana, and we would live in the barracks they built years ago when the gangsters moved in. They’ll charge us more for rent than they pay us for the work, so we will always owe them money and can never leave. The land we’re on has been ours for twenty centuries. Don’t give it up to be slaves.”

  Ruiz read on into the bullhorn. “You will all sign a paper, accepting the offer of relocation, housing, and a job. Doing so will end any claim you might have to land in or around the town of Santa Maria de los Montañas.”

  Russell jumped down from the truck, holding a paper. He went to old Carlos Padilla, pulled a pen from his pocket, and held it out to the old man. “Here. You can be the first to sign.”

  “He’s trying to get the mayor to sign,” Remi whispered.

  The answer was loud. “I would rather die than sign that.”

  One of the men from the truck waved his arm, and four men rushed the mayor. They slipped a loop of rope over him and tightened it under his arms, threw the end of the rope over a large limb of a tree beside the road, hoisted him up, and tied it so he hung there.

  “No!” Remi whispered. “No!”

  Sam said, “What are they doing?”

  The man who had waved his arm took out a pistol and fired a round through the mayor’s head. All of the witnesses, including Remi, groaned in horror.

  Sam said, “What was that shot?”

  “They killed the mayor.”

  Ruiz spoke into the bullhorn. “Let no one move his body from this spot. We will come back in five days. If he’s not here then, we’ll hang five others up there in his place. If this paper is not signed by every one of you, we will put ten who have not signed up there and ask again.”

  “Did you understand that?” Remi whispered to Sam.

  “I’m afraid I did.”

  Russell stepped to the nearest building, which was the church. He nailed the papers to the front door. Then he and the other men climbed back into the truck. They turned around in the space in front of the church and drove back to the crest of the hill and began to coast down the long road in the direction of the Estancia.

  The wails of women began immediately and soon reached the window of Sam and Remi’s cell. Remi said, “They’re gone.” She jumped to the floor.

  A half hour later, they heard footsteps in the outer office. The plank door opened and several people filed in — Señora Velasquez; Father Gomez; Dr. Huerta; Pepe, the mechanic; Señor Alvarez, the restaurant owner; and the two farmers who had volunteered to dig their graves. Father Gomez said, “Do you know what happened?”

  “Yes,” said Remi.

  Señora Velasquez unlocked their cell, and they all walked through the office, where Sam’s and Remi’s backpacks sat. Dr. Huerta went to his office two doors down the street and returned with a wheeled stretcher. He wheeled it across the street to a spot below the hanging body of the mayor. He and Sam held the rope taut while one of the farmers produced a knife and cut the rope so they could lower the mayor onto the stretcher. They lifted the stretcher to straighten the legs, covered the mayor with the blanket, and pushed him to Dr. Huerta’s infirmary. Many of the townspeople followed them in and others stood outside.

  Inside the office, Remi said, “Is there a regional government to handle this?”

  “Not one with troops,” said Father Gomez.

  “The police?”

  “You saw them,” said Dr. Huerta. “They were the ones trying to arrest you for smuggling drugs after you fought the killers who attacked you on your last visit.”

  “Then it has to be the national police in Guatemala City,” Sam said.

  Dr. Huerta said, “I just spoke with them on my satellite phone. They said they would send an inspector to take our statements next month, two months at the latest.”

  “One inspector?” Sam said.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, by the way,” said Father Gomez, “I brought you these.” He took the two pistols and two spare magazines out of his coat pockets and handed them to Sam and Remi.

  “Thank you,” said Remi.

  “Your car is ready too,” said Pepe. “No charge. I’m sorry for what we did to you. Maybe when you’re back in the big world, you’ll tell people we weren’t so bad.”

  The door opened, and the crowd parted to let a small group of townspeople enter the clinic. Sam and Remi recognized many of them. Señor Alvarez, the restaurateur, seemed to have been chosen as a spokesman. “Señor and Señora Fargo,” he said. “What just happened was exactly what you said would happen. Those men came from the Estancia Guerrero. Instead of asking to look at the old stronghold peacefully, they made us watch them murder the mayor. They’re going to take our town and the stronghold and even our homes and families. We won’t ever be able to complain, because they’ll keep us deep in the Estancia. If we try to get help, they can kill all of us, and there will be nobody left to say what happened. We were wondering — I know it’s more than anyone has a right to ask — if you would stay and help us fight.”

  Remi said, “After what just happened? Of course we’ll stay.”

  “I have to warn you that we’re not soldiers,” said Sam. “But we’ll do everything we can to help.”

  Dr. Huerta said, “You fought the men who were guarding the marijuana fields and won — just the two of you.”

  “They attacked us, we defended ourselves for a while, and then we got away. That’s not winning.”

  “You killed a dozen of them and you’re just fine,” Huerta said. “I call that a victory — a big one.”

  Sam said, “I don’t think we’d have much chance against these people in a fight. They’re heavily armed with modern weapons, they’re trained and organized, and they’ve clearly fought before. Our best chance is to keep trying to get the authorities to protect the town.”

  “I agree,” said Dr. Huerta. “I hope we can, and we will keep trying. But we should also be ready to fight.”

  “Yes,” said Señor Alvarez. “We’re all willing to fight, but all we have is five days before they come back. We need to start preparing.”

  “I’ll get started by making a few phone calls,” said Sam. He put an arm around Remi’s waist, and they stepped toward the door.

  “But you’re going to stay?” said Dr. Huerta.

  Remi said, “You bet we are. When he’s all gruff like that, it means he’s digging in.”

  * * *

  “Thanks,” Sam said.

  “Just don’t get in any more trouble for now.”

  “No, we’ve got enough to last us.”

  Sam hung up and called the number of the U.S. Embassy in Guatemala City. He identified himself and asked for Amy Costa.

  In a surprisingly short time, he heard Amy’s voice. “Sam!” she said. “Good to hear from you. Is everything all right?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Sam said. “We’re in the town of Santa Maria de los Montañas, maybe twenty miles west of the Estancia Guerrero.” He told her about the truckload of armed men arriving, the demands, and the murder.

  “Oh, Sam,” she said. “I can hardly believe this. You said they gave the town a deadline. What is it?”

  “They said they’d be back in five days to get the signed agreements and presumably to move the townspeople to barracks on the Estancia. But it doesn’t seem to matter much to these guys how the town gets vacated. They drilled the mayor in front of two hundred witnesses.”

  “Five days,” Amy Costa said. “It’s the worst possible timing. Commander Rueda is the only one we can count on to react the way we want and he’s suspended for the next thirty days.”

  “I’m sure that isn’t a coincidence.”

  “Sarah Allersby makes her own coincidences,” said Amy.

  “Can you get us a
ny help?”

  “I’ll try. But the high-ranking officers all know what happened when Rueda agreed to go after Sarah Allersby. It will take time to get somebody else to stick his neck out.”

  Sam said, “Do you know of any way we can get some weapons to defend the town?”

  Amy said, “Weapons? I’m sorry, but involvement in unauthorized firearms transactions would get the embassy expelled from the country. And it would require going all the way up the chain of command to get permission at the highest levels. Some of my superiors don’t see Sarah Allersby as our business. They think the locals should take care of her.”

  “Let’s just hope the townspeople are still alive when that happens.”

  Chapter 29

  THE ESTANCIA GUERRERO

  Sarah Allersby was waiting in the old countinghouse, a relic from the days of the Guerreros. She sat at the biggest of the old desks, directly under a ceiling fan operated by a belt attached to a long shaft along the ceiling and turned from outside the building, originally by hand but now by electric motor. She sat back, closed her eyes, and took a couple of deep breaths to relax. Russell had telephoned her a half hour ago, so she guessed they were almost here by now. Soon she heard the sound of the truck gearing down on the highway, then making the turn onto the drive. It still amazed her how quiet the Estancia could be. There was noise whenever there was a flurry of work — harvest, planting, or shipping — but for weeks on end there was almost no sound out here. She stood, stepped up to a window that faced the forest, and looked at her reflection in the glass.

  She wore a loose white silk blouse, a pair of fitted black slacks with black knee-high riding boots, and a black flat-brimmed hat that hung down her back from its stampede string. She adjusted the black leather belt on her hips so the gun hung lower on the right, as though she were about to engage in a quick-draw gunfight. She stepped outside onto the wooden porch, her leather boot heels making a hard clicking noise on the boards.