No Job for a Lady (29 page)

“An invitation to a treasure hunt.” I don’t know why I said that. Maybe to get his goat. Stupid, of course. He would be a perfect companion for my meeting with the witch. The only thing stopping me from asking is my pride and pent-up anger toward him.

“Really. Want company?”

“When I do, Mr. Watkins, it will be with a gentleman of integrity, intelligence, and impeccable manners.”

“Good heavens, Nellie, what a bore a man like that would be,” Gertrude puts in. She smiles at Roger. “So nice to see you again.”

“The pleasure is all mine.”

My right foot is tapping a mile a minute and I start tapping the table with my fork. “I wish they would hurry up and serve us.” I am trying to change the subject and keep from blurting out something to Roger in public that I might regret, but I am also hungry.

Being served to each guest is a delicious-looking concoction of grilled, freshly slaughtered goat, onions, peppers, and garlic. It smells savory and I can’t wait to dig into it. I’ve never had goat and am looking forward to experiencing something new.

It’s served with bread baked in an outdoor oven. And the bread smells heavenly, too, just like my mother’s loaves. I really like tortillas and beans, but after having them for several days, I’m ready to try something different.

A plate of the goat dish goes down in front of Gertrude and another is placed before Roger. My stomach juices gurgle with anticipation as I get a whiff of the pungent goat feast.

A plate of beans, cheese, and onions with a tortilla on the side is set in front of me.

The boss lady who tells all the laborers what to do smiles down at me.

“Special. For señorita.”

50

There are times when I have had to tread unknown territory to get ahead, whether it was showing up for the interview at the
Dispatch
after sending a letter scolding the paper or defying the gods of newspaperdom to run off to Mexico to pursue a dream of being a foreign correspondent.

At those times, and others, when I face the unknown with dread and apprehension, I just tell myself to bite the bullet and keep moving forward. I do it with dogged determination, executed by taking one hesitant step, then another and another, until I have accomplished my goal.

As I set out this night in a haunted city almost as old as time, to speak to a witch, who frightens the wits out of a very smart street boy, about bloodthirsty were-jaguars, I just hope tonight I will succeed—at least in staying alive.

However, my reluctant feet seem to be telling me that I should revise my theory of facing every challenge with grim determination, that sometimes the best defense is to run like hell in the other direction.

Not recruiting Roger to come along exposes one of my weaknesses. I’m not a team player, even at the best of times. I tend not to listen well to instructions from others, but learn best by going out and banging my head, sometimes until sense is pounded into it. And I hate asking for favors.

My tendency to be a loner and the fact that I am too proud or stupid to ask for a favor aren’t setting well with me tonight as my imagination runs wild when I pass ancient carvings of the unimaginable horrors of human sacrifice.

Unfortunately, it occurs to me that the dirt my feet are treading upon was once trod on by people who got in line to get their hearts ripped out as gleeful crowds roared for more blood for the gods.

Charming thoughts, girl.

Torches of a group of tourists climbing the Pyramid of the Moon at the far end of the boulevard are visible, but no one else appears to be about.

Great. About what I should have expected. I am all alone.

The crunching of steps comes from behind me, and I swing around, but no one is there—at least no one I can see, not that I can see much. There is just enough moonlight to take the edge off the darkness, but without exposing much detail.

Keep moving, girl.

Since I have come this far, I might as well go the rest of the way. Just a few more steps and the witch will be here and I will get answers and be able to go home. All very logical and reasonable. Except logic and reason fade as I trudge on alone in the dark night.

What was I thinking? I wasn’t. And am still not. Plain and simple. Most people do crazy things for the almighty dollar, or treasure of gold in this case. I do it for the story.

I expect she speaks English or has a translator, for a couple of reasons—it’s unlikely she would have set up a meeting unless she knew we could communicate, and in the note she sent, the word
Here
was written in English. I just hope I am right.

No one is at the ruins when I arrive at the spot where I met the doll bearer.

“Hello?” I say, loudly enough to be heard, but not enough to wake any vengeful gods.

My foot starts tapping impatiently, nervously, as if it’s trying to tell me something. I fidget for another moment, when suddenly the doll man materializes in the faint moonlight without a sound. He startles me and I let out a little yelp.

“Señorita” is all he says. Then he motions at me with his hand to follow him as he turns in the direction from which he had come.

Forcing my reluctant feet to move, I follow, my throat dry, my heart racing. My body seems to be telling me something to which my mind is stubbornly not paying heed.

Thick subtropical foliage begins immediately behind the line of ruins, and I follow the doll man into it. There is no trail, at least none I can discern in the dark, but he still moves rather quickly, and I have to do the same to keep up.

I’m only a short distance into the thicket when alarm bells go off in my head again and I stop in my tracks.

This is insane! Turn around and go back!

Swinging around, I see a dark figure coming toward me. I can’t make it out, but it must be a man. Or beast?

How did I get myself into this?

The doll man says,
“Señorita. ¡Andale!”

Hurry up I do, following the doll man. He is human, at least, and I haven’t the faintest idea of what’s behind me.

A glow in the foliage becomes visible in the direction he’s taking me. Torches or a campfire, I’m not sure.

We finally enter into a clearing where a circle of torches on the outer edge is creating a shadowy haze. There is just enough light so I can see that men dressed as peons, similar to the doll man, are the torchbearers.

In front of me is a woman sitting in a very large chair. A guard stands on each side of her. I take in a sharp breath. The two guards flanking the woman as if she is a queen are dressed in crude Jaguar Knight costumes, similar to what I had seen at the Zócalo in the city, and on the train.

The “knights” are holding broad wooden swords that look like the obsidian-edged swords shown in Aztec motifs. Obsidian is a volcanic glass that creates a super-sharp edge, enabling the wielder to whack off a head with one swing. These wooden swords probably have the same head-whacking edge as the Aztec ones did.

The woman’s features are fanned by flickering torchlight and shadows, but I can make out just enough of her face to see that it’s painted in wild shapes and colors.

“
Buenas noches, señora.
I hope you speak English.” And I hope she doesn’t hear the jitters I hear in my voice.

“Where is the map?” The woman’s voice is heavily accented, but I get the gist of it.

“The map?” I know exactly which map she is asking about, but the question catches me by surprise. Why is she asking me about the map? If these are followers of the ancient cult protecting Montezuma’s treasures, don’t they know where the disk is?

Why does everyone keep thinking I know where the treasure is?

“I don’t have the map.”

“The golden calendar round belongs to the sun god. It must not be disturbed. I will stop you and the other gringos from stealing it.”

“I don’t disagree with you, but I don’t have the map.” It’s pretty clear that she isn’t a keeper of the secret and is lusting after Montezuma’s treasure herself.

“You’re lying. You must give us the map. Otherwise, we will have to harm you, as your people have harmed us.”

My heart leaps into my throat.
“There! It’s there.”

As I point behind them to the bushes, the witch—queen, whatever she is—and her guards with the big swords turn. I whip around, taking off like Juan—a bat out of hell—hopefully back in the direction from which I came.

I have heard enough to know there is nothing here for me but unthinkable pain or death.

Driven by the mindless mania of pure panic, I fly past a startled peon holding a flaming torch and head into the dark foliage.

Running, stumbling, falling, and getting up again, I hear men thrashing through the bushes behind me. I don’t need to turn around to know it’s the two with the swords sharp enough to lop off a head.

It doesn’t matter who catches me anyway—I would get dragged back to that nightmare of a hag and whatever she had in mind about “harming” me.

My foot catches on something and I go flying forward, taking a dive to the ground. I hit hard, knocking the wind out of me. For a frozen, terrifying moment, I am unable to move and lie sprawled out, paralyzed.

I’m rolling over and trying to get to my knees when the witch’s guard, in a jaguar suit, almost runs into me. For a second, he is as startled as I am, but he recovers instantly and, with a snarl, raises his broadsword.

Something whips by me and connects with the man’s face with a sickening thump, knocking him backward.

Roger appears beside me, holding a tree branch.

We hear the other jaguar guard breaking through the foliage, coming in our direction.

Roger drops the branch and pulls a pistol out from under his clothes.

“Run!”

51

“Why did you hit him with a branch rather than shoot him? You have a gun.”

We’re back, within a short distance of the tents, and my breathing and heart are getting back to normal. But it’s dark and I’m still on edge. An oil lamp is burning next to the water barrel in the center of the circle of tents and another in front of the latrine just outside the circle. If I have any calls of nature tonight, they will be held till morning so that I don’t have to leave my tent and risk running into two-legged creatures of the night again. I have had enough of them for one night.

“Sorry, but I don’t usually kill people. Not strangers at least. Besides, I was carrying the staff to kill a snake if I saw one in the dark, before it got me. Swinging it was the first thing that came to mind.”

He stops short of the little tent city and begins packing his pipe. I know what he wants: an explanation. My mind has been churning away since we broke out of the thicket and saw the safety of the tents in the distance. I’ve been trying to think of a good reason as to why I was being chased by men dressed as jaguars at night in a jungle in Mexico.

Nothing clever comes to mind.

He peers at me as he lights his pipe, and I feel the compulsion to wiggle out of the jam I am in.

“Roger. I’m sure you saved my life tonight. I am forever grateful to you. It was courageous. Thank you.” I go up on tiptoe and kiss him on the cheek. I mean every word of it. I am close to tears from the fright I suffered and the gratitude I feel. “Good night.”

I take one step before he says “Nellie,” and I turn back.

“One more thing,” I say, “please don’t mention what happened to anyone. It will get back to Don Antonio and he’ll ship me home on the grounds that I am out to cast this lovely country in a bad light.” I squeeze his arm. “You will promise me not to tell anyone, won’t you?”

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

Here we go again. “Okay. You deserve an explanation. I saw something in the bushes. I thought it was a cat or dog—”

“I see there is a light on in Don Antonio’s tent. We should let him know there is a threat to the camp.”

“All right, all right. You really do deserve an explanation. I’m trying to get to the bottom of what happened on the train and to me in Mexico City. That’s all there is to it.”

“Were-jaguars,” he says.

“Were-jaguars, the Cult of the Jaguar, Montezuma’s treasure, and a nasty character called La Bruja, a witch who has to do with some or all of it. I don’t know. I went to the Aztec museum in the city to learn more about the jaguar legends. When I was there, a young man, the assistant curator, who is the curator’s nephew, told me that La Bruja was a good source for information about were-jaguars and dream dust.”

“Dream dust?”

I quickly tell him about dream dust.

“So you came to Teo to contact her?”

“Sort of. I actually got invitations to come to Teo from several people. And earlier tonight, when Gertrude and I went to see the ruins, a man suddenly appeared with a note from La Bruja—that note you caught me rereading at dinner.”

“The treasure hunt.”

“Yes.” I go on to tell him about doll man and my brief but explosive meeting with the witch and her bodyguards. “I have no idea how she even knew I would be here in Teo or what I look like.”

“She thought you had the map?”

“Have the map or know something about it.”

“And you thought she would have the map?”

“No, not the map. I thought she might be the head of the cult or whatever that is sworn to protect the golden disk and that she could provide information about the jaguar figures I’ve seen. But from the moment she opened her mouth, it was obvious that she only wanted information about the treasure. Which means she’s nothing but a treasure hunter herself.”

We walk slowly toward our tents.

Roger looks at me. “So, what do you make of it? The attack on the prospector, the vanishing
indio
porter on the train, the stuff called dream dust, Montezuma’s treasure?”

What I make of it is a good question, one I can’t answer because I just don’t know. It is a puzzle surrounded by fog.

“Someone believed the prospector actually had a map,” I finally suggest. “No use getting rid of the man if he had only a peso map.”

“The cowboys?”