Even before he opened his eyes, he knew that day was long arrived. The light penetrated the simple cloth curtains of his room and warmed his eyelids. Outside he could clearly hear birds chattering with the news of a fresh day and the tapping that awakened him held no other significance than a polite request for entry. With a groan, Brandon threw back his sheet and placed his feet on the still-cool ceramic tiles of the floor.
“Mr. Highsmith, we missed you at breakfast this morning... are you all right? Last night’s fish agreed with you, I hope?” Señor Fuentes’s voice held a note of urgency. “Mr. Highsmith... Brandon?”
“Yes,” Brandon answered, inexplicably feeling like a man with a hangover in spite of the fact that he had drunk nothing alcoholic the night before. “I’m fine, Hernando... thank you.” He staggered to the door in his underwear and pulled it open; Fuentes almost fell into the room. “Good morning,” Brandon mumbled around his swollen tongue.
“Oh good... yes, I can see now that you are well... good.” He stood awkwardly at the threshold feeding his hat brim through his fingers. Brandon could smell the brandy that Fuentes seemed to wear like cologne. “Yes, okay... so you are well, then.” He appeared genuinely relieved.
“Noises,” Fuentes repeated, glancing around the room uncomfortably. “I see. Perhaps a change of rooms is desirable, no?” He smiled weakly at Brandon while nibbling at a yellowed fingernail.
It suddenly occurred to Brandon that Fuentes, and probably Paige as well, was concerned for him for reasons that had nothing to do with last night’s dinner — they were afraid for what he might learn, and what that might do to their plans for the resort. “No,” Brandon assured Fuentes in what he felt was a calm, resolute voice. “I’m fine here. After all, you and Claudell have assured me that all is well, so why should I be concerned with someone knocking on my door in the middle of the night?”
Fuentes’s veined eyes slid over him and away and he cleared his throat. “Quite so... quite right, my friend... Claudell runs a tight ship, as they say... but, sadly, not all is controllable in this world... only the very young believe that.” He studied Brandon’s stubbled face for a moment and appeared to come to a conclusion. “Pests,” he announced almost happily. “Perhaps your problem here is pest-related... a rat in the thatching... a visitation of monkeys — they can be very inquisitive, you know, and very persistent in their attentions; even a lizard, in my experience, a damned gecko.” He looked hopeful.
Brandon recalled the forceful, insistent knocking of the two previous nights. “I don’t know what you and Paige are playing at, Mr. Fuentes, but someone came to my door last night and the night before, too. The same thing happened to Julia... she wrote me about it. All I want to know is what happened to her, what’s going on here.”
Fuentes sputtered almost angrily, “I am not aware that I am playing at anything, Señor Highsmith, but I cannot account for all things in this world; you should know that. I assure you that Claudell and I are not at playing; we have a business to run,” he concluded huffily. He studied Brandon for a moment, then added, “Will you not come out with me, young friend? I had hoped to show you the Mayan temples today; they are quite spectacular, very popular with our guests. It will do you good to get out.”
Brandon thought of Julia’s trip through the mountains, the ghost in the road, and said, “Give me a few moments to get ready. I’ll meet you in the dining room.” Fuentes skipped away, delighted.
Their trip over the mountains was uneventful and they encountered no traffic jams as the result of apparitions. The driver, the same yellowish man who had driven Brandon from Dangriga, admitted to having heard of the haunted curve, but laughed at the tale as proof of the backward, superstitious ways of mountain people. Fuentes woke up long enough to heartily agree, then returned to his snoring.
As they wound their way upwards, the grey clouds that appeared to rise up from the wet carpet of jungle condensed and grew trailing beards. Moments later they showered a thick warm rain on the battered Land Rover and obscured the sheet metal and plywood shacks that clung to the roadside slopes along their way. By the time they reached the ruins, the sky had cleared and the sun beat down with renewed force, as if to reclaim every drop of moisture given.
After parking their vehicle and before ascending the slope to the temples, Fuentes excused himself for a trip to the men’s room. Brandon suspected that he wanted a pull on the flask of brandy that was ill-concealed in the rear pocket of his trousers. He made use of his time to wander through the small army of vendors who had set up their wares near the park entrance. Most of the tables were manned by Indios, Mayan, he assumed, and their wares ran the gamut from ashtrays to necklaces, carved masks to paintings. But even to his untrained eye, most of the objects appeared amateurish and cheaply imitative of their ancestors’ craftsmanship, and he wandered listlessly from stall to stall. The heat and humidity was draining his small reserve of energy and soaking his clothes in sweat.
He turned irritably to scan the area for Fuentes when his eyes alighted on an object carved from some dark wood on one of the makeshift tables. At first, he mistook it for some type of walking stick, then realized it was far too short for such a purpose unless it was designed for a dwarf. He sauntered over to where it was displayed, attempting to appear disinterested. The vendor, a powerfully built young man, had spotted him, however, and gauged his customer from long experience. He seized the very object in question and held it up for Brandon’s inspection, his black eyes sharp and bright with pride. “Forty dollars,” he said by way of greeting. “It is an authentic war club of the Mayan peoples, worth much more.”
Brandon thought it certainly looked authentic in the capable-looking hands that wielded it. Up close, he saw that the shaft was the body of a snake, smoothly scaled and slightly curved, the tail tightly wound to a small knot, presumably to prevent its wielder’s hand from slipping off the end. At the top of the shaft perched not the expected serpent’s head but some creature more birdlike, its beak curved and cruel. When he took it into his hands, the wood felt as hard as an iron bar. He had to force himself not to swing it around like a little boy playing Indian. He paid the forty without dickering and hurried away with his prize. He felt silly walking about with a souvenir war club, but for the first time since his arrival he felt a sense of security.
When Fuentes found him, he blanched slightly, but managed to say, “I hope that you have paid no more than seven dollars for that... Always haggle with the vendors, my friend; it’s in everyone’s best interest.”
Brandon enjoyed the tour of the ancient temples even as he found himself the object of curious stares. Standing at the top of one pyramid, he lofted the club above his head and shook it, warriorlike, at the tiny figure of Fuentes standing in the grassy courtyard far below and laughed. He could not see the older man’s expression, only that Fuentes looked quickly side to side as if scanning for witnesses or a way to escape.
When they returned to the resort, darkness was already creeping out from the jungle and Fuentes made a hasty farewell, pleading his wife’s intolerance for his long hours. Brandon suspected that he was overdue at the bar, as evidenced by the tremor that had started in his mottled hands.
After securing his purchase in his room, Brandon had a quick meal in the perennially empty dining area. The heat of the day was being gently swept away by a breeze off the ocean and when he returned to his bungalow he opened all his windows to allow it in. After a cool shower and after having made a few notes about his observations for Resorts Investments, he lay down on his bed. Within minutes he fell asleep to the soft wash of the waves against the grainy beach, while nearby, he could hear the steady sweep of a worker’s rake being drawn slowly and carefully over the coarse sands in the fading light of the long day.