Ruins (9 page)
Scully glanced over at the old archaeologist. "Let's hold off on the vacation until we find Cassandra Rubicon."
Their stucco-faced hotel boasted modern construction with a pseudo-Aztec design, gleaming windows, sun decks with palm-thatched umbrellas, and direct beach access. The curling waves were as jewel-tone blue and the sand as powdery white as the brochures had promised.
After showering and changing, they met in one of the hotel restaurants for dinner. The maitre d' showed Mulder and Scully to a table with a centerpiece of tropical flowers that showered the air with heady perfume. While the waiter held the chair for Scully, Mulder sat down. He glanced at his watch, knowing that Rubicon would join them at any moment.
Mulder had dressed down in a comfortable cotton shirt and slacks, leaving his usual suit and tie behind. Scully finally noticed his change of outfit and raised her eyebrows, hiding a small smile. "I see you're already get-ting into the casual Mexican spirit," she said.
"It's the Caribbean," he answered. "We're supposed to be undercover, so we ought to look like tourists, not FBI agents."
Unbidden, another server brought them each a lime-laden margarita, the glass rims crusted with salt. Scully settled down to study the menu, a mouthwater-ing list of local fare—fresh lobster, lemon-and-cilantro grouper, chicken with spicy chocolate mole sauce. Mulder sipped his margarita, smiled, then took another drink. "Love those ancient Mayan beverages," he said.
Scully set her menu down. "I called the consulate to check in. The Bureau has filed all the appropriate clear-ances and notified local law enforcement, but apparently they weren't too helpful. So the next step is up to us."
"As soon as we figure out what the next step is," Mulder said. "I think we can rent a car and drive toward the area where the team disappeared. Maybe we can find a guide to take us through the jungles."
Before Rubicon even arrived, the waiter came by to take their order. Mulder was famished after eating only snacks on the charter plane from Miami. He chose chicken cooked with bananas and a side dish of lime-and-chile-pepper soup, while Scully ordered fish marinated in annato-seed sauce and baked in banana leaves—suppos-edly a Yucatan specialty.
Scully opened her briefcase and drew out a folder. "I've been going over the background information we have on the members of the archaeological expedition," she said, "the other missing American citizens. You never know where we might find a lead."
She spread the folder and took out several dossiers on the UC-San Diego grad students, along with photographs. She held up the first one. "In addition to Cassandra Rubicon, another archaeologist was instru-mental in getting this team put together: Kelly Rowan, twenty-six years old, six feet two inches, athletic, an honor student with a specialty in pre-Colombian art. According to his course advisors he had nearly finished writing a thesis that traced the connections in Central American mythologies between key stories of the Mayans, Olmecs, Toltecs, and Aztecs." She passed the paper over to Mulder, and he picked it up to study it.
"John Forbin, the youngest of the group, twenty-three, first-year graduate student. Apparently he planned to be an architect and structural engineer.
According to this, he was chiefly interested in primitive methods of large-scale construction, such as the Central American pyramids. It seems likely that Cassandra Rubicon took him along to suggest methods for restor-ing the fallen buildings." She passed the paper over.
"Next, Christopher Porte, from all reports a well-respected ... epigrapher.
Are you familiar with that term?"
"Just from what I've read recently," Mulder answered. "It's someone who specializes in translating codes and glyphs. Much of the Maya written language is still unknown and is very context sensitive."
"So they brought Christopher along to translate any hieroglyphics they found,"
Scully said, then shuffled to the last piece of paper. "And finally, Caitlin Barron, their historian and photographer. Also an aspiring artist. It says here Ms. Barron has even held a few minor exhibi-tions of her watercolor work in one of San Diego's stu-dent art galleries."
She handed Mulder the photographs, and he glanced at each one in turn. Then, checking his watch again, Mulder scanned the room just in time to see Rubicon at the entrance to the dining room, newly shaven and dressed in an evening jacket. Most of the other patrons of the restaurant wore shorts, sandals, and loud shirts. Mulder held up a hand to catch his attention, and the old archaeologist came over, walking as if already exhausted.
The waiter hovered beside Rubicon as he took the empty seat at the table. He ignored the margarita the waiter placed at his right elbow.
"No luck," Rubicon said. "I've called all the contacts I still have. Of course, some of them in the outlying areas don't have ready access to telephone service, but the ones in Cancun and Merida were unavailable. One is retired. I tried to talk him into accompanying me for one last field expedition, uh, until I found out he's confined to a wheelchair. Another of my old friends—a man who saved my life during an expedition in 1981—has been killed in some sort of drug-related shooting. I set his wife to weeping when I asked for him." Rubicon cleared his throat. "I had no luck reaching the three others."
"Well," Mulder said, "we may be forced to rely on our own ingenuity to find someone who can take us to the site. It's a long drive just to get to the right geographi-cal area."
Rubicon slouched back in his chair and pushed the menu aside. "There's one other possibility," he said. "In the last postcard I received from Cassandra, she mentioned a man who had helped her. A local named Fernando Victorio Aguilar. I have tracked down some-one with that name and left a message, uh, that we are interested in being guided into the jungles. The man who answered the telephone seemed to think Senor Aguilar might be willing to help us. If so, I hope we can connect with him either tonight or tomorrow."
He threaded his fingers together and squeezed his hands as if trying to massage arthritis out of his knuckles. "Sitting around at some glitzy tourist resort makes me feel so helpless ... so guilty, not knowing what my Cassandra could be going through at this very moment."
Mulder's and Scully's meals came, breaking the mood. Rubicon quickly chose a selection of his own from the menu and sent the waiter off.
Looking at the forlorn expression on the old man's face, Mulder remembered the days after Samantha had disappeared. Though he had teased her mercilessly—as any brother teases a sister—he had longed for her, des-perately trying to think of what he could do to help, how he could find her. He took it as his personal responsibility, since he had been with her when she dis-appeared. If only he had done something different on that night. If only he had faced the bright light.. ..
As a twelve-year-old boy he had limited resources but endless drive, a drive that had stayed with him all his life. He remembered riding his bike around the hometown neighborhood of Chilmark, Massachusetts— population 650—ringing doorbells, asking everyone if they had seen Samantha. He knew deep in his heart, though, that no simple explanation could possibly account for what he had seen.
He had worked for days, making "Missing" posters that described his sister, begging for information as if he were putting up notices for a lost dog. And that had been in the days before accessible photocopy machines, so he had handwritten each one individually with a black marker, the pungent fumes of the solvent drifting up into his nose and making him sniffle even more than he already had for his lost sister. He had taped up his paper notices on store windows, tacked them to utility poles and bus stop signs.
But no one had ever called except to offer sympathy.
His mother had been devastated by her grief, inco-herent with tears, while his father remained stony and stoic through it all. Possibly, Mulder now knew, because his father had had some dark knowledge about what had really happened.
His father had been given some warning, had known something regarding Samantha's danger—and he had done nothing.
For years now Mulder had seen an echo of Samantha in every little dark-haired girl. She had disappeared long before the days of the "Have You Seen Me?"
pictures of missing children on milk cartons or bulk-mail flyers. All Mulder's efforts to put up posters or knock on doors had ultimately been useless, helping not in the least. But he'd felt he had to do something. It had been his mission.
Now he watched Vladimir Rubicon going through a similar process, coming to the Yucatan, calling his old con-tacts, insisting on accompanying the FBI agents on their investigation.
"We'll find her," Mulder said, reaching across the table, forcing confidence into his voice. In the back of his mind he again saw an image of his sister being dragged off into the light.
Mulder looked into Rubicon's eyes. "We'll find her."
But he wasn't sure to whom exactly he was making his promise.
Caribbean Shores Resort, Cancun Thursday, 9:11 p.m.
Scully had just settled in for the evening, sat-isfied from a delicious meal and finally com-fortable after removing her shoes and panty hose. Knowing the lack of amenities and jun-gle hardships they were bound to encounter in the coming days en route to Xitaclan, she planned to get a good rest.
Her hotel room displayed a colorful, if typical, paint-ing of a sunrise over the Caribbean, complete with calm surf and silhouetted palm fronds. Her private balcony looked out over the powdery white beach and the ocean. She smelled the evening salty breeze, listened to the rum-ble of the waves, and watched couples stroll along the sand beneath bright electric torches posted above the tide line. The thought of swimming and relaxing sounded wonderful—but she reminded herself that they were here on a case.
With a weary sigh, Scully flopped back onto the bed without turning down the sheets, hoping that the moment of peace would last for more than two minutes.
The pounding on her door was sharp and strident, like cannon blasts from a warring Spanish galleon.
She hadn't ordered room service, and she became instantly on guard as she got up off the bed. The pounding didn't stop. "All right, coming," Scully called out in a voice devoid of enthusiasm.
She glanced over at the half-open connecting door to Mulder's room, feeling a cold chill—the insistent thud-ding knock was not the polite request for attention that room service would ever use. This pounding sounded bold and impatient. Cautious, she picked up her own weapon from the courtesy table.
Upon opening the door she found a barrel-chested man clad in a police chief's uniform, his hairy-knuckled fist raised to continue the insistent knocking.
Before she could blink back her surprise enough to speak, the man planted his foot in the door to prevent her from shut-ting it in his face.
"I came as soon as I learned of your arrival," the man said beneath a thick black mustache. "You are FBI Agent Scully—and the other one's Mulder." His police cap rested firmly on his head, and sweat glistened on his cheeks. His shoulders were broad, his chest wide, his arms muscular, as if he juggled bags of cement mix for exercise.
"Excuse me?" Scully said, making sure he saw her 9-mm pistol. "Who are you, sir?"
He waited for her to invite him into her room, ignor-ing the weapon. "I'm Chief Carlos Barreio of the Quintana Roo Police Force. I am sorry I could not meet you at the airport. Please pardon my rudeness. I have many cases, but few men."
"We were told you had been contacted," Scully said, "but that you offered no help in our investigation."
The connecting door opened, and Mulder stepped into her room, his hair tousled, his shirt untucked and hastily buttoned. She noticed that he had missed his buttonholes by one, but at least he had taken a moment to tug his shoulder holster in place.
Seeing the burly policeman, Mulder said, "We sure must have upset that hotel desk clerk by not going on one of his disco cruises."
"With your heavy case load, we're glad to focus our own efforts on this particular investigation," Scully said, straightening her blouse and running her hands down her skirt and hips. Despite his outwardly polite manner, she sensed an antagonism buried deep within him. "We have obtained all the proper clearances and authorizations."
"Yes, I cannot spare the manpower," Barreio said. "You understand." His complexion was ruddy, his face calm, but his posture remained stiff and on guard. He removed his cap, and she noted that his thinning hair had been slicked into a pronounced widow's peak. "I'm afraid I have little to report on the disappearance of the American archaeological expedition."
Scully, trying to remain polite, said, "We have a long-standing tradition of cooperation with local law-enforcement agencies, Mr. Barreio. We both have the same goal, after all—to find our missing people. We are anxious to proceed and happy to add our expertise to your own."
Barreio, his eyes still cold, said, "Of course I will coop-erate. I have been informed by the Federal Bureau of Investigation satellite office in Mexico City that you two have been assigned here as legal attaches. Your inspector in charge at the Office of Liaison and International Affairs has graciously requested that I provide you with copies of all information I have currently compiled. My own superiors have passed along this request."
"Thank you, Mr. Barreio," Scully said, still cautious, still sensing his antagonism. "Please be assured that we are not trying to infringe upon your jurisdiction. The State of Quintana Roo is the area in which the crime was committed—"
"Alleged crime," Barreio interrupted, letting his com-posure slip. "Allegedly committed, to use your legal terms. We have no confirmation as to what actually happened."
"Allegedly committed," Scully conceded. "You have jurisdiction. Mexico is a sovereign country. As agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, my partner Mulder and I are empowered only to offer our assistance."
Mulder cleared his throat. "However, we do have the right to investigate crimes perpetrated upon American citi-zens." With one hand he smoothed his hair back, standing beside his partner. "The FBI has as its mandate investiga-tions into terrorism, arms dealing, drug trafficking—as well as possible kidnapping of American citizens. Until we know additional information about Cassandra Rubicon and her companions, we must operate under the assump-tion that someone may intend to hold them as potential hostages."