Primed for Murder (13 page)

Mac dropped folders and papers carelessly onto moss-colored wall-to-wall carpet, clearing the table. He took a bulging, oversized accordion file, worked the elastic loose and lifted the flap. He withdrew an inch-thick stack of 8″ x 10″ color photos and laid them out one by one until the glass surface was completely covered. “Look at them, Toby.” Mac’s voice was lush with excitement. “Aren’t they magnificent?”

Toby walked around the table to stand beside the professor. Marta circled the other way to take her place at the old man’s other elbow. All three stared down at the pictures for a long moment.

This is what the fuss is all about? As a kid, Toby could draw better with his eyes closed. The pictures showed what Mr. Puterbaugh had described, though his words were inadequate. Individual codex pages had been photographed against a dark background. Each photo had, as part of the shot, a black-and-white ruler at the bottom to show scale and a number indicating page order in the upper right-hand corner. Toby had to admit the colors were more vivid than he had imagined, the images more lively. Pages were crowded with figures, rendered in incredible detail with a sure hand, all in profile with no perspective. They had a certain crude charm that grabbed the eye and held it.

Here, on number 26, gangs of outlandishly garbed men stood stiffly facing one another. They wore huge headdresses incorporating flowers and feathers, jewelry in noses and ears, fantastically decorated armor, and open-toed, high-topped sandals. Most figures held objects that could have been weapons, gifts or early prototypes of small kitchen appliances. Some men were painted brick red, while others were done in black, brown, yellow, white, or stripes. Over, under and between the subjects were rows of strange symbols: skulls, snarling creatures and seashells.

There, number 17, showed a spotted cat-creature with a spear sticking in its back, its jaws wide in agony, tongue protruding.

In number 4, an Indian with headgear by Carmen Miranda knelt over a wan faced man dressed in black, cutting a hole in his chest with a knife. To the left, another bronze man appeared to be giving somebody the finger as he squatted to take a dump.

Number 22 featured a warrior smoking a pipe.

Number 30 showed a man piercing his own tongue with a thorn.

The pictures in the photos were all different, like snowflakes. Yet, like truckloads of snowflakes, there was a sameness about them that bored the eye after a time.

Mac stared at Toby, anticipation written all over his face, his glasses glinting in the light. Toby searched his vocabulary for an appropriate expression. “Fabulous!”

By Mac’s expression, it wasn’t a good enough word. “It’s a work of genius.” He waved his hands. “The brilliantly conceived composition of every page, the inspired use of colors, the imaginative treatment of subject matter—are extraordinary.”

All three studied the photos in silence for a full two minutes more. “What’s it all mean?” Toby finally asked.

“You’re not just here to see the paintings?”

“You’re doing a translation, right?”

Mac’s eyes seemed to light up. “I’m honored an artist like you is interested in my humble work.” He made a small bow. “Would you like to read it?”

Did he really have a choice? “Sure.”

Mac put away the photos and rummaged among papers. Marta helped, straightening leaning towers here, chasing down loose scraps there. The professor eventually produced two fat files and laid them side-by-side on the table. “Here, Toby.” He shoved the left-hand file forward. “Look over my word-for-word transliteration.” His right hand rested on the other file. “I’m still working on the prose narrative version. It’s too rough to show anyone yet.”

The woman leaned close to the old man and rattled off words in some language other than English. “No, Marta.” Mac smiled tenderly at her. “You can’t see it, either.”

Marta yanked the file from under the professor’s hand and ran off giggling.

“I’ll get you,” the professor yelped, “you little vixen!” Mac tore off after Marta at a good clip. The old boy was quite spry. Maybe this was how he exercised daily to keep healthy. The duo galloped down the hall, ran through the kitchen, and charged left through a distant dining room. Toby lost sight of them but followed their progress by the girl’s excited squeals, the professor’s shouts, thumping feet, slamming doors.

They were upstairs now. Just one set of footsteps audible.

Was she hiding?

She was. He found her. She shrieked in mock terror. There was a patter of rapid footsteps, then nothing. Five silent minutes passed, ten.

What are they doing up there? Toby wondered. On second thought, he didn’t want to know.

He opened the file the professor had left. Apparently, Mac hadn’t heard of computers, or even typewriters. Pages were lined like a child’s penmanship practice pad. Block-letter words written in pencil were triple-spaced, leaving room between lines for comments and notations to be inserted. Many words had been erased or crossed out and rewritten time and again. Blank spaces and question marks were sprinkled throughout.

Except for the names—Lady White-Blossom Parrot, Lord 2-Stick Tortoise and Chief Chocolate Mug-3 Hawk—the Xaxpak Codex overall reminded Toby of the Bible. In his early teens, he’d had to read the Holy Book cover to cover to be confirmed in the church, in accordance with his mother’s wishes.

“Your father would be so proud of you, Toby,” she’d said over and over, tongue-lashing him on towards salvation.

He knew it wasn’t true—Dad had been indifferent to religion, other than as subject matter for a booklet—but Toby had gamely gone through the ritual to please Mom. Having fulfilled this phantom obligation to his late father, he’d stopped going to church: he hadn’t attended services in twenty years. He hadn’t picked up the Bible again, either, after reaching the final “Amen” following Revelation. He never prayed.

But some things from those long-ago days must have stuck, because he saw similarities now. Both books dealt with larger-than-life people in tales of derring-do. The ancient pagan stories were no more far-fetched than the legends Christians accepted as Gospel: Methuselah lived to be almost a thousand years old, Lot’s wife turned into a pillar of salt, Samson’s miraculous strength, Jonah and the whale, Daniel in the lion’s den, the fiery furnace, burning bushes, walking on water, and rising from the dead.

The Mayan book, like the Bible, began with the story of creation. In this version, there were many gods who lent a hand, not just one. A pair of squabbling divine brothers caused the sun and moon to shine. A wife’s tears formed lakes and rivers as she cried for her husband trapped in the underworld. A father lusted after his own daughter and was turned to dust, doomed to wander the world at the whim of the wind. Throughout, there was treachery and betrayal and murder, just like in the Bible. It wasn’t easy to read, because names were strange with clots of Q’s and X’s to confuse pronunciation. Parts of many passages were missing, awaiting translation or interpretation. Worse, the syntax was all mixed up. A sentence might read: “He mountain seven days climbed,” or “Brother her killed.” Who killed whom?

It really seemed like the Bible when Toby arrived at a long genealogy of Xaxpak’s rulers—wives they took, children they bore, battles they fought, prisoners they captured and sacrificed, rites they underwent—all recorded by specific dates duly translated by the professor into corresponding Christian-era months and years. Stories were colorful, if clumsy. But after the umpteenth battle, the bazillionth sacrifice, Toby grew tired of it, and skipped ahead.

Part of the codex, according to Mac’s voluminous notes, concerned phases of Venus, eclipses of sun and moon, and other astronomical data. This covered centuries of observation.

The final portion dealt with past catastrophes and future predictions. There were fractured accounts of earthquakes, erupting volcanoes, droughts and plagues. Many, according to the professor’s notations, had indeed come true hundreds of years after the Mayans had ceased to exist as an organized civilization.

One cataclysmic event was yet to come. Toby wondered where he’d be—if the Mayans were correct—when time came to an end on December 21, 2012.

Chapter 11

Toby closed the file on the Xaxpak Codex. It was interesting stuff, if you enjoyed that sort of thing. There was probably enough material here to keep people like McFarland and Puterbaugh at a fever pitch for years. But was it worth killing for? A Mayan manuscript was worth millions. It now appeared that Mr. G—Giambi?—obtained one of these rarities by dubious means, with the Puterbaughs’ help. A man had been murdered in the process.

Would there be more killing? The Puterbaughs were definitely in danger. The professor and Marta might be at risk, too—or anybody else who knew about the manuscript. Including Toby. Would he end up a victim, too?

“Not if I can help it.”

Mac and Marta still hadn’t returned from wherever they’d run off to.

It was nearly six o’clock and getting light outside. Toby, punchy from his long night, grew increasingly antsy. He was supposed to meet with Mrs. Colangelo later that morning and discuss her project. He could beg off, but if she was eager to get started, she might hire somebody else, and he’d lose out on a profitable job. So he’d keep the appointment. He’d need to be sharp for negotiations. That called for shower, shave, and breakfast with strong coffee. He had plenty to think about, including the best way to save his own skin.

He fleetingly considered making off with the photos and translation while Mac and Marta were otherwise occupied—with the papers in his stove, it would make quite a package. How much would the whole bundle be worth to Mrs. Puterbaugh? Or Mr. G?

No, it would be criminal to abscond with the old man’s hard work.

Time was wasting. Toby was aware of every passing second. Still, he didn’t feel right about leaving before he’d said good-bye and dropped a warning on the hospitable, if odd, couple. He’d handled the first part of the interview badly, falling into their leisurely rhythms, succumbing to the snail pace of their lives before they went weird and took off. Things needed shaking up.

He clicked on the television, found a noisy horse opera and turned up the sound as high as it would go, until windows rattled from recorded gunfire interspersed with the blare of dramatic music.

That did the trick. Toby heard someone stirring overhead. A toilet flushed. Water ran. When footsteps sounded on the stairs, he shut the TV off and sat quietly, slurping cold coffee.

Mac and Marta came into the room together a moment later, each with an arm about the other’s waist. Mac smiled sheepishly at Toby; the girl’s grin was brilliant. The professor had changed clothes: blue-and-white seersucker pants elongated his legs and a short-sleeved blue shirt showed too much of the old man’s pale, loose skin. The young woman was dressed now, too, in a knee-length orange skirt that showcased her slim brown legs. A simple white blouse with brightly embroidered flowers enhanced her smooth arms. Her hair was now undone and fell in loose waves almost to her waist.

Mac sat in the free armchair. Marta crossed behind the old man, bending over to rest her chin on his head and her wrists on his shoulders. “Sorry to leave you so abruptly,” the professor said, “though I didn’t think you’d miss us once you began reading.”

He was waiting for a reaction to his work, so Toby obliged. “Fascinating stuff. Couldn’t put it down.”

The professor beamed, pleased with the critique. “You probably wondered what became of us.” He warmed the smile and shifted it to the woman, who mirrored the look. “Marta here loves to play games and I sometimes get caught up in them. If I don’t join in when she’s ready to play, she sulks for days afterward.”

Over Mac’s head, Marta mimed sulking, making her eyes droop and curling her lower lip. She broke herself up and giggled into her hands.

“She’s just a child, really, and she makes me act like one.” Mac looked up fondly at her. “We eventually tired from our horseplay and napped. That’s why we were gone so long.”

Whatever. “Where are her parents?” Why was he prolonging this ordeal?

“
Muerte
,” Marta whispered.

Toby understood what that meant before the professor translated. “They’re both dead.” The old man’s eyes focused on some distant spot. “Taken during an epidemic of killer fever that swept through their village in the Yucatan. The village is near Mayan ruins. I led excavations there many years ago. Marta’s grandfather worked the site with me, and he was so proficient, I made him foreman of the crew. He was struck down by a second wave of fever after Marta’s parents perished but hung on long enough to contact me.” Marta stared raptly at the top of Mac’s skull, like a child waiting for the storyteller to reach the thrilling conclusion of “Little Red Riding Hood.”

“I flew down immediately,” Mac said. “I spoke to the grandfather on his deathbed. He had made arrangements for her four young brothers and sisters to be placed with caring foster families in the area, but Marta was a problem.”

At twelve, Mac said, Marta was too young to work at anything—outside of prostitution—which would contribute significantly to a family’s fortunes. At the same time, she was too old to be molded to new rules, customs and attitudes by a fresh set of surrogate parents. She was mature enough to bear children but too immature to be a good wife. Nobody wanted a girl who would be nothing but another hungry mouth to feed, who would be rebellious, who would want new clothes every year. Without someone to watch over her, her grandfather thought she’d be lucky to survive long enough to turn tricks at tourist traps dotting the coast where nothing but jungle used to be. “He was correct in his assessment of Marta’s chances,” Mac concluded. “So I promised I’d take her, in consideration of our long and warm friendship.”

“You adopted her?”

“Not exactly.” Mac’s bony fingers rose to comb through Marta’s shiny black hair, which cascaded in a solid flood and flowed on either side of the professor’s head, making him look like the world’s oldest hippie. “She was a beautiful child when she arrived in the States in the back of a moving van five years ago.”