Quintana Roo (9 page)

Capt. Luis Delgado of the Campeche Policía was a self-important man with a belly that threatened to explode the buttons off his brown uniform shirt. He sat on the cushioned swivel chair in his office and sternly regarded the three gringos seated across from him. Hooker, Heinemann, and Connie Braithwaite perched on their hard wooden chairs and waited.

Gradually, Delgado allowed his heavy features to relax into a smile of creamy benevolence.

“I am pleased to say there will be no charges filed in the unfortunate incident last night regarding the late José Chacón.”

“That is good news, captain,” Heinemann said.

Hooker glanced up at the flyspecked face of the clock on the office wall. It was three in the afternoon. The message must have finally come through from the Banco de Mexico that Mrs. Nolan Braithwaite’s draft was valid. It was remarkable how swiftly criminal charges could vanish there if the
mordida
were generous enough.

“The Chacón person had a long history as a lawbreaker,” Delgado continued. “Even now he is being sought by the Federales to answer a charge of murder. A thoroughly bad man. Mexican.”

Delgado, like his fellow Yucatecans, considered themselves separate from the rest of the country. There were, in fact, considerable differences. Where Mexico, at least in the larger cities, was striving to be modern, Yucatan clung to nineteenth-century ways. The revolutionary fervor that burned throughout Mexico was not evident on the peninsula. There life was slow and relaxed. The people felt a closer bond to Old World Europe than they did to modern Mexico City.

“Can we go?” Hooker said. He was anxious to get out of the stuffy office and away from the oily police captain.

Delgado’s eyes narrowed, but his smile stayed in place. “Of course. There is no reason for me to hold you now…. Is there?”

• • •

He allowed the question to hang for a moment, then shifted his gaze across Heinemann to Connie Braithwaite. “Allow me to wish you a pleasant stay in our city.” After a moment, he added, “May I ask how long that stay will be?”

“Not long,” Connie said. “We have other business.”

The captain’s smile faded. “Ah, yes, your planned expedition into Quintana Roo. For your sake, I hope you stay in your airplane. The jungle from above has a certain beauty, but below, Quintana Roo is a savage land, untouched by our civilization.”

“The maps show cities there,” Connie said. “And roads.”

“The maps lie,” Delgado said. “Most of those roads and cities do not exist except in the mind of the appointed governor. He has to show some form of progress to justify the federal money he spends while never leaving his mansion in Puerto Morelos.”

“There must be trails,” Hooker said, “leading in from the state of Campeche.”

“Yes, there are trails used by the Mayas. But be warned that the Mayas of Quintana Roo are not the same peaceful Indians you see here in Campeche. We call them
Indios sublevados
. They are rebellious. Untamed. You will meet dangers there you cannot imagine.”

“Not the
muerateros
again,” Hooker said.

Delgado looked at him. “Superstition, you would say. Maybe. Me, I would not take the chance.”

“We appreciate your concern,” Connie said, “but our plans are made.”

“I cannot discourage you?”

“Not after we’ve come this far.”

“Then may God go with you. You will have need of Him.”

When they were standing on the street outside the Spanish colonial city hall, Hooker glowered up at the darkening sky. “At least it isn’t raining yet,” he said, “but we’ve lost the whole day.”

“We might have lost much more for killing a Mexican citizen,” Heinemann reminded him.

“If you carry enough bribe money, you can kill anybody you want to in Mexico.”

“Nevertheless, I am grateful to be here on the street rather than in the local
calabozo
. And I can use the time to make doubly sure the airplane is ready for our flight. Why don’t you two see some of the local sights?”

“That sounds like fun,” Connie said. “How about it, Hooker?”

It sounded like a pain in the ass to Hooker, but the woman was paying for it, so he said, “Sure, why not.”

They hailed a
calecha
, one of the horse-drawn carriages that took the place of taxis in the cities of Yucatan. They were tall, narrow boxes with the driver perched above. As transportation, the
calechas
were slow, uncomfortable, and to Hooker’s mind, completely without charm. Connie was delighted with them.

“Just take us around the town,” Hooker told the driver. “Show us whatever passes for the sights.”

Encouraged by the prospect of a huge tip from the rich gringos, the driver spurred his ancient horse into a sort of shambling trot. He volunteered descriptions in a bad mix of Spanish and English while Connie asked questions and Hooker looked bored.

As in all Mexican cities and villages, the centerpiece of Campeche was the church. Here it was a brooding monster of Spanish Renaissance stone that towered over the plaza. The rest of the commercial city was low buildings of no particular distinction. The driver took them out along the coast, where at least there was a breeze. The Gulf was only occasionally visible between the slapped-together shacks of the fishermen. They turned back inland and followed the fringe of the city where there were clusters of the tall oval huts of the Mayas. The staked walls and palm-thatched roofs gave the huts an African look.

Little as he cared about local color, Hooker found himself enjoying Connie’s enthusiasm. When she asked the driver to stop and follow while they walked through an Indian neighborhood, he did not protest.

The Mayas were a small people with skin the color of a good European sun tan. Their bright black eyes followed the two strangers along the hard-packed dirt road. Unlike the cities of central Mexico where the children swarmed all over tourists begging for money, the Mayan children watched shyly from behind the skirts of their mothers. The Mayan men, dressed uniformly in white pants cut above the ankle, were wary and aloof.

Connie was charmed by the whole experience, and even Hooker couldn’t help grinning back at a little girl who escaped her mother long enough to wave at him.

By the time they got back to the hotel, he was in good spirits in spite of himself.

Heinemann had not returned from the airfield, so Hooker and Connie went into the hotel bar for dinner. From a kitchen somewhere, the bartender brought them steaming bowls of
zarzuela
, a mixture of sea food from the day’s catch prepared in a spicy sauce. They ate it with hot tortillas and washed it down with glasses of dark Yucatan beer.

After dinner, they sat up at the bar. Connie had some Portuguese brandy, Hooker his usual tequila. The bartender cranked up an old phonograph and played the only two American records he had: Bing Crosby singing “Please” and Bunny Berigan’s “Can’t Get Started.” After that he put on some maudlin Mexican ballads that Hooker was amazed to find sounded romantic as hell. He knew then that he was getting a little drunk.

“Why are Mexican songs always so sad?” Connie asked.

“The people have a sad history,” Hooker said. “First they were exploited by the Spanish, then the French, now by their own politicians.”

“You care about the people, don’t you, Hooker?”

“Some of them.”

“Like the girl in your apartment?”

“Like her.”

They were silent for a moment. The bartender cranked up his machine and put Bing Crosby on again.

“You know something, Hooker,” Connie said, “I was jealous as hell of that girl.”

Hooker started a flip reply, but he saw the beginning of tears in Connie’s eyes and bit it off. “Connie, you’re a beautiful woman. You’re young and healthy, and you’ve got all the money you’ll ever need. You don’t have to be jealous of anybody.”

“You’re right,” she said quickly. “It must be the brandy and that schmaltzy music. I’d better go up to my room before I fall into a crying jag.”

“I’ll walk up with you,” Hooker said.

They went upstairs together, and Hooker inspected the new heavy lock they’d had installed on Connie’s door. When he was satisfied the room was secure, he turned to tell Connie good night. She walked into his arms. He held her and kissed her. Her mouth was hungry.

“I don’t want you to leave me tonight,” she said. “Stay with me.”

“It wouldn’t be smart.”

She took a step back. Her hand traveled down over his chest to his belt and below. “I’m tired of being smart. And I’m tired of following your rules. Don’t you ever break one of them?”

“Sometimes.”

“Like now?” Her fingers worked persuasively.

“Yeah,” he said slowly, “like now.”

• • •

Much later, as Connie Braithwaite slept naked by his side, Hooker eased out of bed, pulled on his clothes in the dark, and went downstairs. He hoped the bar was still open.

They were all excessively polite the next morning. Connie was up early, ready to go as promised. Heinemann maintained an attitude of cool cordiality. Hooker was all business. After a breakfast of
huevos rancheros
, ham, and tortillas, the three of them went outside to where Heinemann had left Gonzales’s pickup truck.

The morning air was hot and soggy, and their spirits sagged during the short drive to the airfield. Hooker was intensely aware of the heat of Connie’s thigh next to his as they sat three abreast in the cramped cab. He found it hard to keep his mind on business.

At the field, Heinemann had a short conversation with Gonzales. He returned frowning.

“The weather report is not good. There is heavy rain to the west and the south of us. We will almost certainly fly into it.”

“What will that mean as far as our search goes?” Connie asked.

“It will cut our visibility to practically zero,” Heinemann said.

“We have the location of the wreckage marked on the map,” Connie said.

“What we have is an
approximate
location set down from memory by frightened people on a map that was none too good to begin with.”

“What do you think we ought to do?” Her question was addressed to both men.

“If it were up to me, I’d call it off,” Hooker said. “But you’re the one paying for the show, so you ought to make the decision.”

She turned to Heinemann. The German silently nodded his agreement with Hooker.

“What are chances the weather will improve in the next few days?”

“It is impossible to say,” the pilot told her. “Weather forecasting is uncertain at best in this part of the world. Tomorrow may be a beautiful day, or it may rain for a month.”

Connie chewed on her lower lip for a moment. “Then I say let’s go. It looks bad, but at least it isn’t raining right now. I’d hate to give up after coming this far.”

“You’re the boss,” Heinemann said.

He climbed into the cabin of the Stinson and, with Hooker cranking the propeller, started the powerful Wright radial engine. When they were all aboard and the engine temperature was at the proper level, Heinemann taxied the plane to the end of the strip and turned to head into the breeze coming off the Gulf.

The plane lunged forward and bounced over the stubble as Heinemann shoved the throttle ahead. The tail lifted; they bounced one last time and were airborne. Heinemann circled the field and dipped a wing to Gonzales, who stood below waving happily. They headed east into heavy clouds.

As they flew inland, the strip of tropical coast below them gave way to flat, scrubby land. The only relief from the dull landscape was an occasional Indian village. They were never more than a dozen huts clustered around a crude windmill that marked the communal well. Connie was the first to point out a dark strip on the horizon. It grew as they approached until it resembled a swelling sea of green.

“Welcome to Quintana Roo,” said Heinemann.

“It’s … beautiful, in a way,” Connie said.

“I think you will see more than enough of it,” Heinemann said. “We have seventy-five miles of this from here to the coast of the Caribbean.” He throttled down to just above stalling speed and leveled off at three-thousand feet. “We
might
as well start looking.”

While Heinemann gave his attention to the map and the instruments, Hooker scanned the forbidding mass of green below them. He looked around to see if Connie was getting the same discouraging message he was. At that moment, they hit the rain.

It was as though someone had turned a firehose on the Stinson from directly in front. Heinemann switched on the automobile-type windshield wipers, but they were of little use against the slashing rain.

The plane was bumped and jostled by puffs of wind. Raindrops rattled against the aluminum skin like handfuls of thrown gravel. Heinemann’s attention was given over completely to keeping the Stinson aloft, while Hooker and Connie peered down into the swirling mist below them.

After fifteen minutes of battling the storm, Connie said, “All right, I made the wrong decision. There’s no chance of seeing anything in this. Let’s go back.”

As Heinemann climbed and banked the plane back around toward Campeche, Hooker realized how tense his muscles had grown in the past quarter of an hour. With a conscious effort, he relaxed little by little.

The storm had preceded them to Campeche, and the wheels of the Stinson threw up sheets of muddy water as Heinemann brought them in for a landing. They made sure the plane was secure, then drove back to the hotel in gloomy silence. The rain spattered in on them through gaps around the doors of the pickup.

They had dinner at the Azteca, where the bartender proudly served up what he called “steaks.” They were tough, overdone chunks of beef that Hooker said must have been sliced from some wild cow too old to run.

Conversation at the table was minimal as the rain continued to pound against the windows. Outside, the tropical plants thrashed around like tormented souls. After one glass of brandy, Heinemann excused himself, saying he wanted to go up and study the charts.

“He thinks we want to be alone,” Connie said when Heinemann had gone.

“Yeah. For a German, he’s very romantic.”

Connie took a deep breath. “Let’s get something straight, Hooker. Last night was good for me. Better than good. We had some laughs together; we went to bed. I needed it, and I appreciate it. I just want you to know that it doesn’t commit you to anything. Our relationship is no different than it was before. Okay?”

The speech was delivered rapidly and a little too brightly, as though she had rehearsed it in her head.

“I wasn’t doing you a favor, lady,” Hooker said slowly. “In case you didn’t notice, I sort of enjoyed it myself.”

“Well, I’m relieved to hear
that
.” She laughed a little, then sobered as the rain slashed the windows with renewed fury. “It’s hopeless, isn’t it. Finding Nolan’s plane, I mean.”

“In this weather, I don’t think we could find the Empire State Building. Not if King Kong was standing on top waving at us.”

“We gave it a try, anyway.”

“Sure.”

“If it’s this bad tomorrow, let’s call it quits.”

“Is that what you want?”

“It’s the only sensible thing to do. Klaus said this weather could go on for months. I’ll go out of my mind a lot sooner than that. If it looks bad again tomorrow, we’ll head back to Veracruz. Naturally, you’ll collect your full fee.”

“Fair enough,” Hooker said.

They walked upstairs together, and Hooker left Connie at her door.

Heinemann looked up from the book he was reading when Hooker entered their room, but he said nothing.

“Connie wants to call it off if the weather’s still bad tomorrow,” Hooker said.

“I think that is a wise decision.”

“Amen.” Hooker stretched out full length on his bed, hands clasped behind his head. “For once in my life, I can enjoy listening to it rain.”

Right after midnight, it stopped. The following day dawned clear and beautiful, with a fresh wind blowing in from the north.

Hooker rolled over in bed and looked out at the bright blue sky.

“Oh, shit,” he said.

For flying that day, Heinemann wore dark tinted glasses against the brilliance of the sun. Connie and Hooker had to shade their eyes with their hands as they scanned the brilliant green of the Quintana Roo jungle. It seemed to have grown even thicker overnight, as though nourished by the rain.

With the map propped beside him, Heinemann took a course from the western edge of the jungle east toward Ascensión Bay on the Caribbean coast.

“This should take us over the spot marked on the map by the missionaries. Whether or not there is anything down there is another matter.”

“Let’s hope there is,” Connie said. “I don’t want to spend a lot of time flying over it.”

Amen to that, Hooker thought. That day’s bright sunlight only revealed how thick was the rain forest below them. He could see nothing but the thick green tops of the trees.

They reached the east coast of Quintana Roo without spotting anything in the jungle below that was not growing there. Heinemann swung the plane north and circled over the spectacular ruins that were the ancient Mayan city of Tulum. Clear evidence remained of some forty stone buildings and a wall that had bordered the city on three sides. On the fourth side, fifty-foot cliffs dropped away to the sea.

“It was the largest city of the Mayan civilization,” Heinemann said. “The sight of it from the sea so impressed the Spaniards that they never did land in Quintana Roo.”

“What happened to it?” Connie asked.

“Like all other Mayan cities, it was abandoned by its people for reasons we do not know. Plague, perhaps. War. Or if you believe the old legends, something even worse.”

Heinemann brought the Stinson around, and they began their sweep back in the other direction. They were well into the auxiliary fuel tank when Hooker saw a flash in the jungle well off to their right.

“What’s that?” He leaned forward, pointing at the section of jungle where he’d seen it. The flare of light came again.

“Something there is reflecting the sun.” Heinemann checked the map. “It is about ten miles north of the spot marked on the map.”

“Nothing that grows in the jungle reflects light that way,” Hooker said. “Let’s take a look.”

Following the flash, which repeated at irregular intervals, Heinemann steered the plane to the north of their course. He dropped down as close as he dared to the tops of the tall mahogany trees.

As they flew over the spot where the flashes came from, all three of them saw it — a curved piece of metal that looked like burnished aluminum. It was wedged in the topmost branches of a tree. As they passed overhead, the reflecting surface shifted, dazzling them for a moment.

“What the hell is it?” Hooker said.

“I can’t be sure,” Heinemann said, “but it just might be part of an engine cowling.”

“Nolan’s plane?” Connie said.

“There is no way of knowing. It seems most unlikely that a piece of wreckage would remain balanced on a treetop in the jungle for more than a year.”

“It moved,” Hooker said. “What made it do that?”

“The wind,” Heinemann suggested. “Or some animal in the tree. I would not get our hopes up.”

The plane circled, and the piece of aluminum shifted again.

“Our fuel is running low,” Heinemann said.

“Is there any way we can mark the spot so we can find it from the ground?” Connie asked.

Heinemann showed a thin smile. “Do you mean like dropping a smoke bomb or something? I am afraid you have seen too much cinema.”

“Can’t we work it with the map and a compass if we calculate the distance?” Hooker asked.

“It is possible, but I cannot recommend it. Things will look much different down there on the ground than they do from three thousand feet.”

“Nobody said it was going to be easy.” Hooker turned around in the seat. “It’s up to you, Connie. Do we go in?”

“We go in,” she said without hesitation. “The sooner the better.”

“I’ll need tomorrow to work out the details,” Hooker said. “If all goes well, we can leave the next day.”

Connie looked back across the green sea of jungle toward the spot where they had seen the reflector. “Do you think anybody’s alive down there?”

“I wouldn’t want to guess,” Hooker said, “but I think it’s worth going in to find out.”

Heinemann shook his head sadly, like a healthy man in the presence of the hopelessly ill. He pointed the nose of the Stinson toward Campeche and gunned the throttle.