she
began closing in on him fast.
“Dr.
Webb?” she called. “Are you Dr. Webb?”
“I
have no doctorate,” he snarled, listening to her feet frantically chase after
him over the graveled path.
“Are
you Dr. Webb, the archaeologist?”
Chac
spotted a suspicious group of tourists huddled tightly together within the
border of trees along the main path, their heads just visible over the brush
and undergrowth in what might have appeared as a childish game of
duck-duck-goose.
“Look,”
he barked to the young lady as he irritably stepped around a blanket vendor
hawking bogus crystals. “I’m an independent researcher. An
amateur archaeologist. I have no doctorate.”
The
girl was persistent. “How may I address you then?”
Chac
zeroed in on the huddled group ahead. The girl stayed with him like a fly he
couldn’t swat away. “What is it that you want?”
“I’m
Lori Dewson. Dr. John Friedman referred me to you.”
He
stopped and finally turned back to the young woman who bounced off his chest in
surprise. “Dewson?” he said. “The American that found the Effigy
of Quetzalcoatl?”
The
girl smiled. “You know about that?”
“Who
in this hemisphere doesn’t?”
“Of
course, I’m sure Dr. Friedman told you all about it. Like I said on the phone,
I’m excited to see the Quetzalcoatl fresco you found. I know I’m a week late
but—”
“You’ve
got the wrong guy.” Chac turned back to the tourists. They were close enough to
smell the pot passing between them. “You need to talk to Matt about that.”
Lori
Dewson stepped in beside him, matching him stride for stride over the vines and
dead branches obstructing their course. “I’m sorry. I thought—”
“I’m
not Webb.”
“Do
you know where I might find him?”
They
were close enough now for Chac to reach into the ring of tourists and intercept
the joint from the next recipient. He crushed it between his fingers. “Take
your smoke out of the park,” he growled in disgust.
With
little more than a few low grumblings, the potheads rose to their feet and
grudgingly disbursed. Chac flicked the joint to the ground and smeared it into
the undergrowth with his heel.
“Would
you listen to that,” he said irritably, his attention immediately drawn to the
chanting and singing that echoed through the trees blocking his view of the
sacred path just beyond. He knew the group. They called themselves The Itzas,
borrowing the name from the ancient Maya priests who once ruled Chichen Itza. In reality,
the chanters were nothing more than a collection of showmen who’d arrived six
months ago, looking to wow the crowds out of a few pesos with their “authentic”
Mayan sacrifices.
“This
place has become a free-for-all,” Chac lamented. “It’s a regular Mickey Mouse
show. I can’t wait for 2013 to roll around.”
“So
you don’t believe the world is about to end then either,” Lori observed dryly.
Chac
looked at her—really looked at her—for the first time. He sensed intelligence
behind those emerald eyes, a refreshing quality after a long year spent
observing the disrespectful profit-makers leeching a living off of ignorant,
ogling tourists.
“The
world is always on the verge of destruction according to somebody,” he said. “Once
everyone realizes that the earth doesn’t revolve around the Mayan calendar,
they’ll find another way to count down Armageddon.”
“I’m
not as interested in the end of the world as I am in finding Dr. Webb,” Lori
admitted. “Do you know where he is?”
It
was certainly hard to knock this one off track.
“Your
guess is as good as mine,” Chac finally admitted. “He took off five days ago.”
“He
didn’t tell you where he was going?”
“Not
a word.”
Lori
looked disappointed. She’d come a long way for nothing, he guessed. Personally,
Chac appreciated the break offered through Matt’s leaving. With Matt gone, he
could finally concentrate on his own work without
began closing in on him fast.
“Dr.
Webb?” she called. “Are you Dr. Webb?”
“I
have no doctorate,” he snarled, listening to her feet frantically chase after
him over the graveled path.
“Are
you Dr. Webb, the archaeologist?”
Chac
spotted a suspicious group of tourists huddled tightly together within the
border of trees along the main path, their heads just visible over the brush
and undergrowth in what might have appeared as a childish game of
duck-duck-goose.
“Look,”
he barked to the young lady as he irritably stepped around a blanket vendor
hawking bogus crystals. “I’m an independent researcher. An
amateur archaeologist. I have no doctorate.”
The
girl was persistent. “How may I address you then?”
Chac
zeroed in on the huddled group ahead. The girl stayed with him like a fly he
couldn’t swat away. “What is it that you want?”
“I’m
Lori Dewson. Dr. John Friedman referred me to you.”
He
stopped and finally turned back to the young woman who bounced off his chest in
surprise. “Dewson?” he said. “The American that found the Effigy
of Quetzalcoatl?”
The
girl smiled. “You know about that?”
“Who
in this hemisphere doesn’t?”
“Of
course, I’m sure Dr. Friedman told you all about it. Like I said on the phone,
I’m excited to see the Quetzalcoatl fresco you found. I know I’m a week late
but—”
“You’ve
got the wrong guy.” Chac turned back to the tourists. They were close enough to
smell the pot passing between them. “You need to talk to Matt about that.”
Lori
Dewson stepped in beside him, matching him stride for stride over the vines and
dead branches obstructing their course. “I’m sorry. I thought—”
“I’m
not Webb.”
“Do
you know where I might find him?”
They
were close enough now for Chac to reach into the ring of tourists and intercept
the joint from the next recipient. He crushed it between his fingers. “Take
your smoke out of the park,” he growled in disgust.
With
little more than a few low grumblings, the potheads rose to their feet and
grudgingly disbursed. Chac flicked the joint to the ground and smeared it into
the undergrowth with his heel.
“Would
you listen to that,” he said irritably, his attention immediately drawn to the
chanting and singing that echoed through the trees blocking his view of the
sacred path just beyond. He knew the group. They called themselves The Itzas,
borrowing the name from the ancient Maya priests who once ruled Chichen Itza. In reality,
the chanters were nothing more than a collection of showmen who’d arrived six
months ago, looking to wow the crowds out of a few pesos with their “authentic”
Mayan sacrifices.
“This
place has become a free-for-all,” Chac lamented. “It’s a regular Mickey Mouse
show. I can’t wait for 2013 to roll around.”
“So
you don’t believe the world is about to end then either,” Lori observed dryly.
Chac
looked at her—really looked at her—for the first time. He sensed intelligence
behind those emerald eyes, a refreshing quality after a long year spent
observing the disrespectful profit-makers leeching a living off of ignorant,
ogling tourists.
“The
world is always on the verge of destruction according to somebody,” he said. “Once
everyone realizes that the earth doesn’t revolve around the Mayan calendar,
they’ll find another way to count down Armageddon.”
“I’m
not as interested in the end of the world as I am in finding Dr. Webb,” Lori
admitted. “Do you know where he is?”
It
was certainly hard to knock this one off track.
“Your
guess is as good as mine,” Chac finally admitted. “He took off five days ago.”
“He
didn’t tell you where he was going?”
“Not
a word.”
Lori
looked disappointed. She’d come a long way for nothing, he guessed. Personally,
Chac appreciated the break offered through Matt’s leaving. With Matt gone, he
could finally concentrate on his own work without
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