Look What the Wind Blew In Read online

  “You can bunk in here for now.” She stood aside and waited for him to enter.

  He slipped past her. The smell of sun-baked canvas greeted him as he looked around his new home, taking in the stack of waterlogged boxes in the corner, the jumble of smashed and dented electronic equipment on the wooden desk, and the pile of thick books on the canvas floor next to a cot strewn with notebooks. He fanned himself with his hat. A sauna would be refreshing in comparison.

  Angélica stepped in behind him and zipped closed a piece of fine mesh across the opening. She glanced around the tent. “Sorry about how cramped it is right now,” she said, lifting off what looked like a mangled satellite phone base from the desk and dropping it onto the tent floor. A laptop broken into two pieces followed it, along with a tangled nest of cables. “A tree fell on our communications tent last week. We’ve been storing the salvaged remains in here along with our other supplies. I’ll have someone remove this stuff after supper.”

  He opened his mouth to ask if the so-called “curse” had taken out their electronics, too, but then reconsidered, figuring she might take a bite out of his hide in response.

  The satellite phone being disabled was unfortunate, since Quint couldn’t get any cell phone service here under the thick canopy of trees. He’d left his own satellite phone at home because Juan had written that they already had one on the dig site. Maybe if he climbed to the top of one of the temples, he could get a signal. He needed a way to contact folks in the States in case he found something down here. For now, he’d have to rely on the backup plan—using the hotel in the village as a base for incoming and outgoing packages and messages.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Quint dropped his backpack onto the floor next to the desk.

  “Supper’s at seven. We eat in the mess tent, which is what we were standing next to when we met.”

  “Great.” Right now the idea of eating in this heat made him nauseated. He’d have to be careful about heat stroke these first few days and drink lots of water.

  He eyed the cot jammed against one side of the tent. Switching from the freezing Canadian Rockies to the sweltering Yucatán jungle in less than a week was taking its toll. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling every one of his thirty-eight years.

  Later, he could ask Juan García and his daughter more about the curse Teodoro had mentioned and somehow convince them to share what they knew about the history of this place.

  Angélica must have seen him staring at the cot, because she collected the mound of battered notebooks off the top of it and dropped them onto the floor over by the boxes. “If you need anything, find Teodoro. His place is behind the mess tent. He can show you where the latrine is located.” She glanced at his shirt, “And the showers, too.”

  “A shower would be fantastic.”

  “Yeah, well keep in mind this isn’t a Hilton Hotel.”

  “Darn. I suppose a visit to the spa for a massage is out of the question,” he joked.

  The only thing he needed right now was that cot. And some time to regroup and modify his plan of attack. There was also a certain newspaper picture he wanted to check out again.

  She nodded and unzipped the mesh flap. “Be sure to zip this closed after I leave or the mosquitoes will drain your blood in an hour.”

  “Got it.” Some things hadn’t changed in twenty years.

  “I’m sorry to play bad hostess and skip out on you,” she paused to zip the flap closed behind her before he had a chance to do it, “but I need to go find my father and string him high up in the nearest tree canopy for the spider monkeys to have their way with him.”

  Quint listened to the fading crunch of her footfalls in the dead grass as she marched away. When the coast was clear, he closed the main tent flap for total privacy and reached for his backpack. Unzipping the top of it, he sorted through several shirts and pairs of socks before finding the blue plastic file holder; his old friend, Jeff Hughes, had given it to him when they had met for drinks last month back home in Rapid City. He dropped onto the cot and unwound the string securing the cover.

  He sorted through photos of Jared Steel that Jeff’s mother had hired a private detective to take before she’d died last year, double checking to see if Angélica was in any of them. She wasn’t.

  Setting them aside, he fingered through the handful of yellowing newspaper articles about Jared Steel, his mind flitting back in time to that last summer here at the dig site with Dr. Hughes as it had many, many times before. Was there some clue he’d missed? Something he’d overlooked before flying back home and never seeing Jeff’s dad again?

  He flipped past the magazine article covering Steel’s latest accomplishments in the archaeology community and an older university newspaper article with a picture of Steel kissing the hand of a good-looking brunette. Mrs. Hughes was amazingly thorough in her detective skills. He wasn’t surprised, really, when he thought back to the way she’d always been able to sniff out any trouble Jeff and he had gotten into back in junior high. Jeff used to say his mom didn’t have eyes in the back of her head; she had spyglasses.

  “Ah ha,” he whispered, finding the newspaper photo from over a decade ago that he’d been thinking about since seeing Dr. Angélica García in the flesh.

  Easing onto his back, he stared at the princess in the photo. With her frosty smile and poised demeanor, Quint had assumed she’d fit perfectly into Jared Steel’s high society life. Steel stood behind her in the engagement photo, acting the loving fiancé, flaunting his trademark smirk. The same smirk Quint had wanted to put his fist through twenty years ago.

  His focus drifted back to the photo of Angélica in her high-collared shirt, her perfectly coiffed hairdo, her flawless skin. So different. He thought of how animated she’d been with her father when Quint had introduced himself. The sweat lining her brow and ringing her neck, the way strands of her hair escaped her braid and stuck out like live wires, her heated cheeks. So much more vibrant. She was not the porcelain doll he’d imagined.

  Tracing the outline of Angélica’s face, he chewed on his lower lip. Should he tell the Garcías he’d been here before, back when it was mostly jungle with a couple of temples rising out of the brush? That he’d known Dr. Hughes and his family since childhood? That his reason for coming to this dig site had nothing to do with an article about the site and everything to do with a promise made to Jeff Hughes after his mother’s funeral?

  He covered Jared Steel’s image with his thumb and focused on Angélica with her over-glossed smile. “Can I trust you, Dr. García?”

  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 sm
irked 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 go
od 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?