No Job for a Lady (34 page)

He turns and looks at me as I scream and scream.

It’s Howard, the prospector.

I back up as he comes toward me.

His face is distorted; his skin is … is …
stretched.

It hits me like a blow to the chest, knocking the wind from me, startling me so much, I freeze in place.

Howard’s skin is stretched.

It’s someone wearing his skin. What was I told at the museum? Xipe, the flay god, skinned people alive, removing the skin whole and then stretching it over his whole body?

Howard had jumped from the train and made his way to Teo. And into the arms of those who feared he had uncovered their secrets. He’d been flayed, skinned alive. And now someone is wearing his skin.

A door flies open, the same opening that the torch was flung out of.

A man—a beast—
a were-jaguar
—is standing in the doorway.

A creature of the night with the body of a man but facial features that have some of the shape of the jungle beast guards the door, preventing me from any escape.

A beast I have seen before.

59

In front of me, seemingly materializing out of nowhere in the darkness, is the creature I saw outside the train after I argued with Traven. The thing is naked except for the sort of short skirt ancient
indios
wore.

My heart jumps back into my throat. I don’t know what it is. Man? Beast? An Aztec magician who inhales magic mushrooms and changes shape?

I can see for sure now that it is not wearing a mask, but I don’t know if the animalistic features of its face are formed by the hands of the gods or by a good artist.

It turns away from me and goes deeper into the cavern. Its intent seems to be that I am to follow. There is nothing behind me but an otherworldly darkness, so I follow, passing the thing in a dead man’s skin, staying behind the were-jaguar for want of any place to hide.

My knees are weak and my courage is waning. I want to cry and flee at the same time, but I have nowhere to flee. And I’m afraid to show fear, to turn tail and run, sure that the creature will chase me down and rip my flesh to pieces if I try to flee or expose the terror I feel.

I follow the thing into a larger cavern lit by torches. There are more things in the room, more creatures from nightmares. All appear lifeless, statues of stone, until one of them speaks.

“Do you know where you are?” it asks.

It takes a second to recognize the voice, to realize where I have heard it before—the curator at the Aztec museum in Mexico City. His name is Torres.

Then I see him. He is on an elevated throne in front of me. He’s dressed as an Aztec nobleman, with robe, tunic, and the brilliant headdress made of the dazzling feathers of rare tropical birds. His features are concealed by a golden jaguar mask.

Do I know where I am? In the caverns of a netherworld? I hope it’s not hell. I’m not ready for that place, yet.

“Under the city,” I say. “Somewhere. The Pyramid of the Sun, Moon, or one of the other ruins?”

“The archaeologist told you there were secret places.”

How did he know that? From Traven? Or his workers?

“Yes. He said he believed there were passageways and chambers but that they would be difficult to find and access.”

“Do you know why you are still alive?”

I find this a strange question even in these peculiar circumstances.

“The Good Lord has spared me. So have you.”
So far.
“Besides, I’ve done nothing to deserve to have my life taken. And enough blood’s already been shed.”

“Don Antonio used his position of trust to permit foreigners to rob Mexico of priceless and irreplaceable antiquities. There are museums in your country and Europe that have finer collections of our art than our own museums. He paid with his life for his crimes against our history.”

“I’ve done nothing to hurt your country.”

“Sometimes a life must be sacrificed to save something much more important. You’ve trespassed. You came to the City of the Gods to find the golden disk of the sun god.”

“No, that’s not true. I came to Mexico to write entertaining stories about the people and the food. I got involved innocently because people believed the drunken old prospector had passed me information. I was lured here by others who are trying to find the treasure. I don’t have any interest in treasure. I came to Teo only to find out what was going on.”

“Why? So you can also expose the location of the disk in a newspaper story?”

“I’m not a treasure hunter. I don’t care about the disk. I came here in the name of justice, to find out why two men were killed on the train. At least I thought I saw two killed. But back there…”

“You saw the skin of the prospector. He didn’t die on the train. He had arranged with two conspirators to pretend to be killed so they could get to the treasure first and not split it with so many others. The porter on the train was one of us, sent to watch those we knew were seeking the artifacts that we have sworn to guard.

“In terms of the justice you mention, the prospector received what he deserved. Following the conquest, the Spanish conquistadors tortured the native people to get them to reveal where they hid their valuables. Their favorite method was to roast the feet of people over a blazing fire until the information was revealed or they died from the pain.

“The prospector was a cruel demon who learned the secret to where the golden disk of the sun god was hidden by torturing one of our members in the same way until the man revealed the map. But he paid for his crimes and atrocities when he returned here. Before our man on the train was killed, he sent a message, telling us that the prospector had faked his own death. We were waiting for the prospector when he arrived here.”

“Are all these deaths and horrors necessary? Why don’t you just turn your golden disk over to the Mexican government and let them put it in your museum?”

I already knew why. The government is unstable at best, with veins of corruption running deep. As Torres told me at the museum, the artifact he saved from being exported ended up at
el presidente’
s house rather than in a museum.

I lamely answer my own question. “You don’t trust the government.”

“I trust no one but a few like myself who have devoted their lives to the sacred duty. Don Antonio was a good example of how faithful to historical treasures our government will be.”

“But you can’t kill everyone who seeks your treasure. There are a lot of them in Teo right now and they have guns. And even if you did, more would come.”

“They will come as long as they believe there is treasure here. That is why we have brought you here.”

“What do mean?”

“There is no treasure, no golden disk. It is true that a golden calendar that is round and as tall as a man once stood atop the sun god’s pyramid, but that disk was moved centuries ago, after its location was revealed under another torture. Where it is stored”—he shakes his head—“is a secret taken to the grave by those who hid it. They knew that where it rests could be again revealed by torture and thus they allowed the secret to die with them rather than passing down its location.”

“You want me to tell the others this? They won’t believe me.”

Oh my God, did I say that? As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wished I could grab them and pull them back.

“You’re correct. They won’t believe the truth. So you must tell them a lie.”

“A lie? What lie?”

“That you met the leader of the Cult of the Jaguar and he told you that the disk was moved after we discovered that the prospector had obtained the location.”

“I’m confused. You told me that long ago the disk was taken from Teo and put somewhere no one living knows. Now you want me to say that it was actually here and you moved it after you found out the location, this place, was compromised?”

“As you said, no one will believe we don’t have the disk, so they will keep looking. And if not these men, then the next seekers, and sooner or later, one of them will find these caverns. When they do, they will discover the true treasures hidden by my forefathers—codices that are irreplaceable works of arts and literature, murals so well preserved that they are as beautiful as at the moment the artist finished them.

“These are the treasures my ancestors hid and that I am sworn to protect with my life. Those with lust for treasures will take these artifacts when they discover there is no disk of gold, and they will sell them to the highest bidder in New York, London, or Berlin.”

I understand his concern. But some sense of justice in me will not let a hole in his theory be passed over.

“I want to help. I sincerely do. You should keep the historical pieces of your history safe until they can be displayed for everyone, but I just don’t see how those people out there will believe me. They already think that I am imagining things. Don’t you see,” I pled, “I don’t have any proof. They just aren’t going to buy the story.”

“Once again, you are correct. So I am sending you back with proof that you have met with the Cult of the Jaguar. This will go with you.”

A round bundle comes flying out of the darkness. It hits the cavern floor and rolls up to my leg. In the dim light, it appears to be a bundle of cloth.

“What the…” I stare down at the bundle, wondering how a bundle of cloth is going to convince people I have met with the leader of the cult.

I lean down to get a closer look at the bundle.

Oh … my … God!

60

“Well, I think it gets across the point nicely.”

That is from Gertrude.

We are in the dining tent, all of us who were drawn one way or another to the City of the Gods by the legend of its golden treasure. Besides Gertrude and me, Roger, Traven, Thompson, Maddox, Sundance, Gebhard, and Lily are here. Maddox’s cowboys are outside somewhere, probably still fraternizing with the señoritas at the makeshift cantina.

Oh, and the guest of honor: Howard, the prospector. At least at the pile of skin that was left of the man. Before I began my explanation, I put the bundle that had been thrown to me in the caverns on the table, then opened it.

He had been nicely folded, so his startled face was up. The sad, pale face, flattened as if it had been a balloon that the air was let out of, is not one that would be recognized by his mother, but I don’t think anyone present doubts that it is his. The bushy hair, beard, and eyebrows are recognizable features that would be hard to duplicate.

“Howard left the train, came here, and ran afoul of the cult, which have taken on the task of protecting Aztec artifacts,” I tell them, deliberately avoiding the word
treasure,
at least for the moment. “It got him skinned. Some sort of ritual for those who offend the Aztec gods.”

“Xipe,” Traven says. “The flay god. Aztecs worshiped him as a god of life, death, and rebirth. Priests flayed the skin whole from people and wore it as a symbol of rebirth.”

“That double-crossing, two-timing bastard will be reborn in hell,” Maddox says.

Hopefully, Maddox will meet him there one day … soon. Running an outlaw gang isn’t going to be ticket through the pearly gates.

Traven’s explanation helps me catch my breath. I am so mentally drained and numb that I was able to flop Howard down and open the bundle without fainting or vomiting—I didn’t have the strength to get nauseated.

Howard went on the table, faceup, for the exact reason that Gertrude had guessed: He gets the point across nicely. Now I had to drive it home.

No one seems to have much to say. More likely, they don’t know what to say. Me, either. I’d been blindfolded again while in the caverns and taken on a circuitous route before being released about half a mile north of the Pyramid of the Moon.

The first person I saw was Roger, who had a genuine expression of relief when he saw me. I led Roger, Gertrude, and the others who had been out looking for me down the Avenue of the Dead, refusing to answers questions or tell them what was in the bundle I was lugging from a piece of rope tied around it until I had had a glass of water and the undivided attention of everyone.

After I had Howard on the table and we got past the gasps, mutterings, and quite a bit of profanity that was new to me, I told them the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth—except for the part the cult leader had told me to lie about.

No one said much as I laid out the fact that the disk had been moved from Teo to a secret place far away. Not that I had their undivided attention. I’m not certain which of them really listened. For sure, the ones who had come here to find the treasure didn’t hear what they most wanted—some clue from me as to where it is.

I looked around as I told them what I had been through and learned, hoping that I’d get some clue as to who lusted the most for the treasure and may have been capable of murder to find it, but mostly they just stood quietly and stared at Howard, as if he had the answers.

I finished talking and there was an awkward silence, the kind you get when you tell a joke that falls flat. That’s when Gertrude piped up about Howard getting the point across.

It certainly does make the situation clear, at least to me. If they had the time to catch and skin Howard before the pack of us even arrived, then it’s obvious that the protectors of the sun god’s gold disk knew treasure seekers were coming and would have had both the time and inclination to move the disk to a safe place. And they could do it faster than their ancestors did because it could be loaded on a wagon.

But logic and reason doesn’t count for much when you trample someone’s dream of getting rich fast.

“That’s all I know,” I tell them. “The treasure’s been moved somewhere else and you all might as well go back to whatever you were doing before you got involved in this wild-goose chase.”

“Bullshit!”
Thompson snaps.

I give him a polite smile. I’m calm and even a bit at peace. I think all my energy to do anything more than just keep my eyes open and breathe has been burned up.