Passage Graves (32 page)

Chapter 79

SUNDAY, 6:01 p.m.

Wadi Musa, Jordan

Rain fell in random, infrequent drops. The ligh
t precipitation cooled her skin and wetted her shirt, soothing the rope burns on her back. She stared at Asor’s hands as she followed him along the twisting path. Unlike his other wounds, the blisters from when he had forced David’s palm against the wall had not healed. What did that mean? Everything about the repulsive, emaciated man was unbelievable. The handgun from the church was tucked against her hip. It was a cold comfort, but if Asor was no longer impervious to injury, the weapon might come in handy.

The path began to wind inward, and
Asor quickened his pace. At each bend, the trail curved more and more tightly, and at times Asor would disappear altogether.

They were close.
Thatcher could feel it. Judging by the flattened look she had seen on David’s face, he probably sensed it, too. There was an electric pulse stirring the desert air. An almost imperceptible friction made her hair stand on end. The path felt like a twisting seam separating earth from hell. Wadi Musa was a fitting place to find an apocalyptic key.

Asor vanished around the path, and s
he whispered to David. “Keep walking. Don’t look back at me.” 

Asor came i
nto view again.

Thatcher
quieted until he rounded the bend. “Brenton was here when he died. Look at the sand.” It was the same color and texture of what she’d seen inside Brenton’s lungs.

They could see Asor again, so
David couldn’t respond. She wished she could see his face.

The path narrowed.

She had a moment to speak again. “Sound killed Brenton. Sand killed Brenton. But who shot him?”

David stopped. His face was pale.

“He was here with Asor,” she said. “If Asor killed your father, what happens to us after we find this seal?”

“Vanderkam said Brenton died to protect me.”

“To protect you from the seal or protect you from Asor?”

The old man
reappeared around the corner. His eyes were glowing. Ten feet ahead, the canyon path ended at a stone archway. The archway opened onto a sandy mound covered with human bones.

Asor pointed to the mound.
“It’s there.”

Thatcher
took David’s arm and whispered. “Tell me you have a plan.”

He nodded nervously
. She could tell his mind was racing.

They
joined Asor at the arch entrance. At the center of the mound, a clay pot protruded from the earth. The white seal lay beside it on the sand, scuffed with age. It hardly looked like a gemstone key capable of destroying the world. The pot leaned towards the seal as though unsettled by their separation.

Asor’s
lips were quivering.

W
ind blew up the canyon, sending chills down Thatcher’s spine. David looked at her, unsure what to do. She felt for the handle of the gun at her hip. Warm raindrops pricked her face.

Asor sensed their hesitation.
“Go,” he said to David. “It’s yours.”

Thunder crashed in the distance. Large, splattering droplets pelted the ground.

Stepping through the archway, David climbed up the mound, leaving deep footprints in the sand. His face was utter confusion. He knelt beside the seal, brushed its surface. Large gemstones formed a spiral. Rounded at the edges, flat and dull in color, the seal fit in his palm. He scooped it off the ground, and wind whistled off the canyon walls. 

“Come back quickly!” Asor yelled.

David turned and froze. He stared at the ground.

His
footsteps disappeared. Sand filled in each indentation, from the arch entrance to his feet, as if erasing his intrusion.

Asor leaned through the archway and reached for David. “Give it to me.”

A mind-numbing roar shook the canyon walls, and the sky released a downpour. Wind roared up into the circle. Thatcher grabbed her ears. Just like the human cochlea, the canyon was a funnel for sound. Her eardrums pulsated like that night outside of Stenness. The pressure made her head spin. The canyon floor flipped upside down. The sky became the ground. 

Helicopters appeared overhead. T
heir throbbing rotors stopped her heart.

From out of nowhere, m
en poured over the sides of the canyon, rappelling down the walls.

Asor grabbed the twine around his wrist.

Thatcher shoved the gun against the old man’s head. “Stop!”

Asor
lashed out in desperation. His jagged fingernails sliced through her shirt. She doubled over. Asor caught her arm and twisted the gun to her head. He screamed at David. “Give me the seal!”

The prickly rope surrounding
Asor’s bones tore at her throat.

Confused, David stumbled backwards
across the mound in the opposite direction. His back hit the wall. A rumble erupted down the path like an approaching herd of beasts. A flash flood swept through the canyon. Its tidal wave swallowed Thatcher and Asor in a single, explosive gulp.

Thatcher’s lungs filled with water. She choked, struggling to escape Asor’s iron grip
. The current forced them apart and flipped her upside down. She kicked toward the surface, wherever the surface was—gasping as she broke through. The whirlpool sucked her body down. She spun passed David, who was reaching for her as he climbed the canyon wall. One of the uniformed men was pulling him up the cliff. The seal was in David’s hand. Rushing water swelled over his legs.

Some of t
he men were swept off the rock. A body slammed into her, knocking the remaining air out of her lungs. She gulped bubbling quagmire until the swarming waves sucked her under.

Some
one grabbed her ankle and pulled her deep into the abyss. She reached for the surface, stretching, begging for air, but her body twisted downward. Her brain tingled. A burning sensation flooded her mind. Movements became slow. Everything sluggish.

The
hand grabbed her throat and pulled her to the canyon floor. Asor stared at her, his eyes ablaze in the dark water, delight on his wiry lips. The current coiled and entangled their bodies together. She felt the prick of his twine on her arms. The edges of his bony cheeks were pinned against hers.

Thatcher
tried to scream.

He forced his mouth over hers.

The wintry kiss froze her throat, her lungs, and then her heart.

Chapter 8
0

An approaching helicopter startled Ian and he stopped digging. Rotors cut through humid air with a rapidity that resonated off the lush overgrowth. Even at night, the jungle swelter was unbearable. Dettorio walked by, a cigarette hanging crookedly from his lips. Ian waited for him to disappear inside Javan’s tent, and then returned to unearthing the rock.

He
dug furiously around the obsidian bacab in the floor of his cage. The stone pointed out by Javan would work as an effective weapon. Beneath the dark topsoil, the mountain dirt was leached, compact granite mixed with quartz grit. It was abrasive and difficult to dig through. It cut open his fingertips, but he didn’t stop. He pried it up with both hands and held it into distant light. The rock was chipped on the underside, and had a sharp, jagged edge. It would work.

The helicopter lowered
into the canopy a short distance from the encampment.

Javan rushed from
his tent. Dettorio followed with three men from the local village. Dressed in filthy rags, the men carried lanterns and machetes. They looked like local farmers—hardly the type that Javan would associated with.

Because of
the brush, it was impossible to see what was happening by the helicopter. 

After a minute,
Javan yelled to Dettorio.

Ian tucked the rock
under his palm as Dettorio approached the cage. The henchman unlocked the door and tossed Ian outside.

“We’ve got it.”
Javan yelled as he ran over. He clutched a small box. He opened it and smiled.

David’s Mayan ring was clasped to the felt cushion.

Ian had no time to comprehend the significance of what that meant. Dettorio picked him up off the ground and they were on the move.

****

Javan unbuttoned his shirt and folded up his shirt sleeves. Scar tissue stretched from his missing ear down his neck and then branched off in two directions. One keloid vein extended along his arm down to the wrist, the other wrapped across his chest and stopped directly over his heart. It was a hideous wound, in some places pitted and in others tumorous. The purple, necrotizing tissue had splotches of cankerous black that spread like tiny branches off the initial injury. He unclipped David’s gun from his side holster and attached it to his belt, away from his irritated skin. He threw the side holster into the jungle and then turned to the native leading them. “How much further?”

Two
of the villagers led the way, trailblazing through the undergrowth. The third brought up the rear as protection. They conversed in Spanish in a local colloquialism and too quickly for anyone to understand. The men didn’t answer Javan. They had their own way of doing things.

Everyone just continued forward
. Dettorio forced Ian into step behind Javan.

Even after the men cut their path, there was still not much of a
trail—only prickly brush. The thick canopy squelched the moonlight. Branches and dead leaves crackled underfoot as they climbed one hillside, and then another.

Certainly, there were
simpler ways to get to Chichén Itzà. During the day, it was a tourist attraction with crowded dusty roads. A highway ran along the northern end of the ruins. Javan had purposefully set up a remote camp and wanted to approach the ruins from the less populated southeast. Whatever he was planning to do, no one was meant to see it.

Lanterns swept across the ground as the guides
searched for the easiest path. Dettorio shoved him forward, and Ian tightened his grip on the stone. They stopped again at the foot of a tabletop plateau while the men argued. When the discussion ended, the first guide scrambled up the rocky ledge. Ceiba roots protruded from the steep embankment like ladder rungs. The second guide followed, and then Javan, single file up the cliff. Dettorio pushed Ian onward.

Ian slipped, sending a rockslide of gravel into Dettorio
’s face. With a grunt, Dettorio grabbed Ian by the shirt collar and flattened him against the dirt. He climbed past, forcing Ian to the rear by the last guide.

Ian stared a
t the back of Dettorio’s head. It was such an easy target, the balding, bulging cranium. Compact with lead, his brain contained no meaningful intelligence. Ian clutched the rock. Holding it made the climb more difficult. His timing would have to be perfect.

During
his stay in the cage, Ian had regained his bearings. Valladolid, the City Built of Stone was the closest inhabited area. Once the group reached the ruins, if he found the main road and headed east, he could find the village and disappear. He clung to a root and looked back at the guide below. The man was ten feet away and Dettorio was an arm’s length ahead. When should he strike?

“
Estamos aquis!
” The first guide reached the precipice. 

Javan
peered down at Ian excitedly. Sweat and dirt had formed a layer of gray paste on his neck. “Ian, look at this.” 

Dettorio climbed over the ledge and
lifted Ian onto the plateau.

The view was stunning, an
acropolis illuminated by starlight. Walkways of compact sand and uneven stone blocks led to five towering temples. Javan pointed at the largest temple, a step stone pyramid of gray slabs, which stood nearly two-hundred feet high at the center of the ruin.

“
El Castillo
,” Javan said. “There are ninety-one steps on each side, and one last step onto the platform at the top. That’s 365 steps in its entirety, one solar year. Maya is a remarkable culture, so precise.”

He pointed a
t the foot of the northern balustrade where the face of a snake was carved into the stone. “On the summer and autumn equinoxes, the sun casts triangular shadows off each step, and it looks like a fiery feathered serpent is descending the pyramid.”

Across the plaza
were hundreds of collapsed pillars and bricks from walls. Javan grabbed Ian’s sleeve and pulled him north. “We haven’t come all this way to see Kulkulcan’s pyramids.”

They stopped a
t the edge of the ruins. A short hedge marked the perimeter. Just beyond the short stone wall a raised path of limestone stucco disappeared into jungle.

Javan gestured for the guides to lead.

“
Bolontiku
,” one man whispered. His voice quavered. He wouldn’t move.

Dettorio shoved them forward. One
man spun away, dropping his light. 

“Fine, get out of here.” Javan snatched up the
ir lanterns. He stepped onto the walkway, holding a light in each hand. 

Ian hobbled
behind him. The bumpy path ran north to south. Copal trees draped over them, their elliptic leaflets hiding the view of the Castillo the farther they traveled away from the acropolis. After ten minutes of walking, the path ended on a wide stone platform that protruded out over a massive pit. Nearly one-hundred feet down and the size of a football stadium, the Mayan cenoté was filled with murky green water that stunk of decay. Even from a distance, Ian could tell the sand walls were impossible to climb. When the sacrificial pit had been excavated in the early 1900s, human bones of all sizes had been recovered from the mud.

Javan raised an eyebrow.
“How about it, Ian? You feel like a swim?”

He p
laced the lanterns on the rock hedge, leaned over the waist-high barrier, and tossed a flashlight into the pit. The light hit the water with a tiny splash, disappeared, and then floated to the surface. It flickered below, casting a murky haze across the pool and making visible the sludge growing on top of the water.

Ian stepped away from the ledge.

Javan laughed. “Did you really think I’d make you jump?” He pulled the stone ring from its box. It was still attached to David’s chain. “Dettorio, I need the rope.”

D
ettorio set his pack on the ground.

Ian tightened his grip on the obsidian
stone. He slammed it against Dettorio’s forehead.

Dettorio toppled on
to the path. Blood coursed down his face.

Ian pushed Javan against the hedge and pulled the gun from
his holster. He pressed the weapon against Javan’s head and pinched the trigger.

To his surprise, Javan was laughing.

Dettorio stood, holding his head. There was a large gash over one eye. Brushing blood off his eyes, he pulled his gun from the backpack and aimed at Ian.

“Drop it!” Ian yelled.

“Go ahead,” Javan taunted.

Ian
pointed the gun at Dettorio instead. “Put it down!”

“Dettorio is expendable
, Ian,” Javan said. “Meaningless.”

It was like the Chancellor was walking him through this.
“Shut up!” Ian’s voice cracked. His words sounded more like a plea.

“Go ahead
! Shoot him!”

Ian fought
back tears of frustration. Every muscle was tense, but he could not pull the trigger. Trembling, he moved the gun back to Javan’s head. “Who killed my father?”

“You ask all the wrong questions.” Javan clicked his tongue.

A bruise had already formed on Javan’s temple where Ian pressed the barrel of the gun.

“I’m offering you unimaginable power,” Javan said. “There are forces far more evil than me on this earth, and the seals must be protected. Brenton knew that. He was
murdered trying to protect you.”

Ian’s mind circled
around the narrow platform. The ground dropped out from under his feet. He bit open his lip.

“Just do one thing for me. Go to the edge of the platform and look over—not at the water, but at the Holy of Holies.”

“The Holy of Holies?” The world stopped spinning.

Ian pulled Javan across the platform. He looked down into the pit.

“Below us is another precipice, an outcropping of yellow rock. Do you see it?”

Halfway between the platform and the bottom of the pit, a narrow finger of rock pr
otruded outward from the wall. Ian squinted, noticing the tip of the ledge.

“
It’s just like the Rabbi said, all you have to do is place the ring on the altar,” Javan insisted. “I will take care of your father’s killer, Ian. I will give you justice.”

Ian’
s breath caught in his throat.

“Let me help you
.”

Ian looked at Dettorio. “I keep the gun. He gets rid of his
gun and goes down before me.”

Javan nodded in compliance.

Dettorio threw his gun into the brush. He pulled the rope and a harness from his pack. He pulled on the harness, attached one end of the rope to the base of the platform, and connected the rope to a karabiner at his waist. In a matter of seconds, he dropped over the precipice and rappelled to the base of the pit.

“Give me your gloves.” Ian p
ulled the ring on the chain over his neck and tucked the gun into his belt.

Javan obliged, and Ian pulled the
gloves over his hands. He found another harness and tightened it around his waist. He clipped his karabiner to the rope and slowly climbed over the stone barrier. Taking in a deep breath, he emptied his mind, replacing his thoughts with a single goal. Place the ring on the altar.

Before Ian
had descended below the hedge, his arms were already burning. He slid down the line, foot by foot. His gloves clawed at the nylon rope as he tried to control his downward speed. It was hard not to go quickly. Too much momentum and he wouldn’t be able to stop. A rush of adrenaline sustained him. Reaching the crook of rock, he steadied himself and lifted the ring off his neck. He couldn’t feel his legs anymore. Strapped tightly in the harness, they had gone numb. He reached, his hand trembling, and placed the ring against the ledge.

Javan leaned over the ledge. “Put the ring on the altar!”

“I did!” Ian’s arms shook. He wouldn’t be able to maintain this position much longer.

This was the Holy of Holies?
What was supposed to happen?

He couldn’t help but
feel disappointed. He slid the ring across the granite, searching for some magical position, something that would make the Holy of Holies activate or come alive.

With an exasperated gasp, he
yelled up at Javan. “It didn’t work!”

A sudden wind swept across Chichén Itzà. Rushing
from the ruins, it burst over the precipice above and circled inside the cavity. Ian let go of the ring. It settled on his chest. He grabbed the rope with both hands as the noise gained momentum. Displaced whispers, like echoes from the pyramids, reverberated off the walls. The sacrificial pit generated cascading sound upon cascading sound. In the dimness, he could see air fluctuating and moving like a heat wave. Atoms surrounding him split into chaos.

Above,
Ian could see Javan turn and face the ruins, his back to the ledge. He was looking at something, watching something approach. He shrank away from the platform, out of view.