Tears of the Jaguar
Read Tears of the Jaguar Online
Authors: A.J. Hartley
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious.
Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2012 by A.J. Hartley
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781612183800
ISBN-10: 1612183808
Dedication
For my family, and for all those friends and readers without whose support this book would never have been finished. Thank you.
AJH
Thanks, Acknowledgments, and Some Details of the Hazy Line Between Fact and Fiction
Deborah Miller lay under the mosquito netting listening to the distant thunder.
Please God
, she thought,
don’t let it rain
.
It was June eighteenth, and like every other day in the Yucatan jungle village, it had started with a frenzy of birdcalls the moment the sky lightened. Roosters crowed and grackles shrieked, and Deborah had lain there, watching the flicker of lightning, dreading the sound of rain. There had been too much rain already; more and the site would become unstable.
With the window still dark, she rose, splashed lukewarm water on her face at the stone basin by her bed, brushed and tied her hair back, then pulled on a khaki shirt covered in pockets and voluminous shorts. They were the longest she had been able to find but still didn’t reach her knees, and they flapped wide of her skinny legs like flags. She pulled them up, then pushed them down onto her hips, then sighed at her reflection in the mirror.
Well, it didn’t matter. At least her outfit was practical for the Ek Balam site, where the work was hot and muddy. It wasn’t like she was going to meet a tall, handsome stranger out here in the jungle. She smiled wryly to herself.
Most guys aren’t taller than I am, anyway
, she thought.
Deborah smoothed her shorts reflexively as she walked under the coconut palms and bougainvillea to the breakfast buffet, served under the palm-thatched patio. She glanced back toward her cabana through the tropical foliage. Dark clouds had moved in fast and now looked threatening. There was an eerie calm, no sounds of traffic noise or people talking. She heard nothing beyond the clatter of Adelita in the kitchen. Even the birds had gone quiet.
Adelita Lucia del Carmen Lacantun lived down the street with her parents. She was eleven and the granddaughter of Eustachio, the Ek Balam site foreman, who had been on every dig in the area for the last thirty years. They were Mayan through and through: short, stocky as they aged, their skin brown as teak, their noses strong and hawkish. Adelita was rail thin, like all the girls round here, though she would probably turn more or less square in middle age. She had big, black, intelligent eyes that made her look birdlike, and she worked constantly, moving with speed and purpose from one adult task to the next.
Adelita came into the seating area with a vast urn of coffee, dressed in a worn turquoise T-shirt, tie-dyed skirt, and flip-flops. Her feet were tough and scarred, her hands calloused with work, but when she smiled—peering at Deborah over the top of the urn—her face radiated her true age.
“There’s a storm coming,” said the girl, eyeing the sky, shrewd as a farmer. “Again.”
Deborah registered the wind that was coming in stiff across the garden and agreed in her ponderous Spanish.
“One of the dogs got out,” Adelita said, rolling her eyes. “The gray one. The boy. He ran after Mrs. Uk’s pig and I had to chase it all the way to the church.”
“How did he get out?”
“Someone left the gate open,” said Adelita significantly, glancing toward the wrought-iron arch that separated the stucco walls of the house from the roughly paved street beyond.
“One of the tourists?”
The girl shrugged, her head on one side, then checked there were none around.
“Probably,” she whispered. “I’ll get the eggs and
chaya
. There are fresh tortillas on the counter.”