Effigy (36 page)

“‘Don’t let Reed One reach Tollan,’” Lori recited.

“One Reed,” Dr. Friedman corrected. “Obviously referring to Quetzalcoatl, or the effigy.”

Lori frowned. “No. It says ‘Reed One.’”

“He must have made a mistake if he was writing in haste,” he suggested.

“Where’s Tollan?” Eva asked, her expression suddenly grave, her tone faintly laced with worry.

“Tollan is the Aztec name for the Toltec capital.”

“You mean
Tula
,” Lori said matter-of-factly.

Dr. Friedman hesitated. “This seems to indicate that Mr. Gaspar knew where his killer intended to take the effigy if he acquired it.”

“If he knew that,” Eva said, “then he knew who was pursuing him.”

“I don’t understand,” Lori said. “If
Tula
was Topiltzin Quetzalcoatl’s city of knowledge and peace, why wouldn’t your father want the effigy to go there?”

“Possibly because
Tula
was the city from which Topiltzin Quetzalcoatl was overthrown.”

Lori studied Eva’s drawn face. “So maybe your father’s murderer is trying to repeat history. He’s going to overthrow the power of Quetzalcoatl before the deity takes the throne of the new age.”

Dr. Friedman’s face fell, his eyes suddenly fearful. “Or he’ll just destroy it.”

* * * *

Peet’s legs felt a bit rubbery after the dizzying descent down the pyramid. They were nearing the last flight of steps, well on their way to the base of the pyramid, but he wasn’t ready to stop for a break. He was anxious to see what the others may have found in the serpent statue.

“It’s too damned hot to be climbing this many stairs.” Derek complained beside him. “This was a total waste of time.”

Peet wasn’t listening. Despite his urgency to get off the Pyramid of the Sun, he had stopped, suddenly noticing the parking lot behind the row of ruins in the distance. There, a half-dozen navy blue vans and law enforcement vehicles were filling the parking lot—vacant spaces or not.

“I wonder what they’re doing way out here,” he said aloud.

“Those aren’t exactly traffic cops,” Derek said. “That’s the Mexican equivalent to our FBI. I ran into their road blockade back in March.”

Navy-clad officers spilled out of the vehicles, complete with black bulletproof vests, hooded balaclava masks and rifles.

“Looks like a S.W.A.T. team,” Peet said.

Among the offensive storm stood a man lacking all the militaristic gear—a director Peet supposed—doling out orders and pointing toward the temple ruins where John, Lori and Eva were huddled, unaware of their peril.

“We have to get off this pyramid,” Peet said. “They’re after us.”

He started faster down the steep flight of stairs with Derek right behind him. “What’re they after us for?”

“I don’t know. What were you doing here in March?”

“I was looking for Shaman Gaspar,” Derek announced defensively, his voice trembling in his haste down the pyramid steps. “The New Agers were supposed to meet in
Teotihuacan
for the equinox. But at the last minute Shaman Gaspar decided to hold a secret meeting of the chapter leaders in
Chichen Itza
instead.”

A scream echoed across the ruins. Startled tourists spread like grease to a drop of dish soap. The police had quickly descended upon the temple. Before she could react, they had Eva pinned against the temple walls. John was wrestled to the ground. Lori was the only one with a wink to spare, giving her enough of an advantage to slip from her captor’s reach and careen down the temple steps.

“Not good,” Peet growled under his breath, his feet suddenly flying down the steps.

“This is bad,” Derek was repeating behind him. “This is way bad.”

Lori ran along the Avenue of the Dead, the white tail of her long-sleeved shirt flailing at her waist, with three officers in hot pursuit. One of them caught her just as she reached the base of the pyramid directly below them.

Time suddenly stopped. Peet’s legs felt like lead. Lori was struggling in slow motion, and he’d lost all track of Derek. He leaped onto the steel handrail that had been inserted into the pyramid for unbalanced visitors, and slid down the remaining flight of steps. He flew off the end feet first as the unsuspecting officer struggled to slap a pair of handcuffs on Lori’s wrists. All three of them collided and tumbled across the packed earth, dust and tourists scattering in all directions.

Peet found his feet first. Catching Lori’s hand, he yelled, “Run!”

Without question, Lori turned with him and raced around the pyramid. People skirted out of their way as they ran toward the packed parking lot. Peet suddenly pulled to a stop when he noticed another fleet of AFI vehicles hemming in a travel bus. More Ninja-masked officers stormed out. The first two hesitated over a car, aiming their rifles at them.

“This way!”

It was Derek, his camera flopping wildly about his chest as he ran. As one, they turned and bolted for the mouth of a reinforced cave. Peet dodged inside just as a close range pistol shot ricocheted off the LA GRUTA sign, dusting him with mortar and limestone.

Inside, Lori stopped in her tracks, mouth gaping. Peet also hesitated, finding himself in the elegant foyer of a restaurant. The ground dropped near his feet, cascading down a long flight of stairs to a pleasantly cool underground cavern.

Sunlight filtered in through several gaps, complete with yellow and green ambience lighting that glowed off the massive walls. The floor of the cavern was bursting with color. Waitresses prepared the brightly-clothed tables, floating between flowers and ferns erupting from polished glazed vases.

“We are not yet open,” a hostess said through her refreshing smile. “Please come back.”

Derek pushed her aside and ushered them down the stairs. There was no time to apologize as Peet heard the AFI officers racing after them. They pedaled down the uneven stone stairs and dodged past an elbowed tray of wine. Peet glanced behind him and spotted the pursuing officers, their shadowy forms backlit from the sunlight spilling through the mouth of the cave.

“Through the kitchen,” Derek ordered as they dashed by a round stage where folk dancers practiced tossing the ruffles of their traditional skirts to the strumming of mariachi guitars.

They climbed a flight of stone steps and burst into the kitchen, the maître d’ now leading the AFI pursuit behind them, shouting Spanish curses in rapid fire procession. Through a blur of white dishes, glass stemware and an arsenal of cutlery, they raced through the kitchen and out the back door.

Silence.

Lori paused against a rancid dumpster fermenting beneath the hot sun, panting for air. Peet grabbed her arm. “C’mon,” he said. “We haven’t lost them yet.”

They fled into the sporadic grass and scrub of the desert beyond. A bullet zinged alarmingly close to Peet’s churning feet. He heard the sand kicking up behind them with each pounding step.

“There’s no place to hide out here!” Lori yelled. Another shot thumped into a barrel cactus in front of them. They were fast approaching
Teotihuacan
’s perimeter fence. “We’re trapped!”

“Keep moving,” Derek ordered. “If the Mexicans can cross a ten foot steel border fence, we can manage a little chain link!”

To Peet’s surprise, what appeared to be a looming barrier turned out to be a mere hesitation to their pace. The fence was surprisingly inadequate as far as fences went. Stray dogs, or perhaps wild animals, had dug large holes through the sand underneath, but the wire itself had gaps of its own where ties had been released from posts, if they weren’t missing all together. The particular spot they had come to had been cut and shoddily propped back in place as though children had tried to cover a secret entrance. But as Peet slipped through he noticed that had they gone another two hundred yards north, a full section of the fencing lay flat on the ground.

Another shot zinged off a post.

“Head for the agave row!” he ordered.

They altered their frantic course for the spray of huge gray plants growing alongside a dirt road like some sort of desert tree line. Lori tripped and crashed into the spines of a yucca sapling. Peet reached for her arm as Derek grabbed the other and they pulled her to her feet.

“Why are they shooting at us?” she asked as she regained her stride.

“Just keep running!” Peet urged.

They’d lost ground. Lori was weakening. Peet felt his own pace slowing and he could hear the officers drawing closer.

Only Derek appeared conditioned enough for energy to spare. He ducked beneath the massive reaching arm of an agave, startling two Mexican farmers frozen to their harvest machetes. As Peet and Lori leaped through the row, Derek took refuge against a lumbering plant.

“Keep going!” he panted, slipping his camera off. He began twirling it as David might have prepared to take down Goliath.

Peet took his lead and pushed Lori behind the next agave plant, ripping a machete from the first farmer who, upon spotting the AFI officers fast approaching, scurried with his partner back to their truck and promptly drove away.

Peet cursed under his breath.
We could’ve used that truck.

The first officer broke through the agave line. With a tremendous whoosh, Derek’s camera crashed into his face, exploding in a shower of broken plastic, lens and digital parts, stopping the officer cold in his tracks.

The second and third officers were right behind him. As they bolted into the agave, Peet swung the machete. His aim was too high, or the officer possessed an impressive ducking reflex for the sickening crunch he heard was merely the metal blade slicing deep into the thick, fleshy trunk of the agave. It stuck there.

The officer pistol-whipped him across the head, sending Peet flailing across the ground. He would have called for Derek, but the boy had his own hands full with the third officer. Peet’s opponent aimed his pistol. A shot left Peet’s ears ringing, but he felt no pain. Lori screamed, startling the officer and giving Peet just enough time to kick the pistol out of his hand.

The officer pulled a riot baton from his hip and lunged. Peet dodged the flying weapon and fell back defenseless as the officer landed blow after blow, sending him scrambling across the dirt road.

More shots.
Bang, bang…bang
.

Peet waited for the searing pain of bullets, but there were none. That’s when he realized the officer had pushed him back toward the loose pistol. They both lunged for it and in their momentum Peet rolled flat on his back, the officer straddling his chest and wrestling for control.

As Peet enforced all his strength to keep the muzzle pointing in a neutral direction, more shots pierced the air. He suddenly realized it was Derek. Having gotten the upper hand of the third officer, the boy was shooting at more officers Old West style from behind the agave. The officers shooting back had taken cover behind brush and slight recesses in the sand, whatever cover they could find, and Derek was doing his best to keep them there.

Peet, on the other hand, was losing his battle over the pistol. The officer punched him in the face and the gun ripped free from his hands. The officer jumped to his feet, training the barrel on him. He shouted something unintelligible through his black mask, but his words were cut short by a hollow thud. He stiffened beneath a spray of fleshy gray sap, his neck bristling with agave spines.

Lori stood behind him holding the remnants of a needle-laced agave arm, freshly hacked by the farmers with sap dripping from its severed end. She was trembling, but effectively restraining her second blow. But there was no time to watch the officer bleed to death. With Derek’s defense clicking out of ammo, the three of them were running again by the time the officer hit the ground.