His appearance shocked her. His hair, normally slicked back, fell over his forehead. He wore a ripped T-shirt and tan shorts, the kind with pockets on the legs. They were torn and dirty, like he had been rolling in the dirt, uncharacteristic of his normally fastidious exterior. He was in a state of great agitation, flipping through a large stack of papers on his otherwise immaculate desk.
She cleared her throat, and his head jerked up. He seemed surprised that anyone should interrupt his frenzy.
“I gave you the day off,” he said with a scowl. “What are you doing here?”
He remained in a half-crouched pose over the papers, his head in an upraised twist.
“Excuse me, director, but I assumed I would report to work this morning after I visited the morgue to identify the body. I tried to come early this morning to help the workmen get started on the Staircase, but I overslept. I’m sorry. I plan to work longer this evening.”
She hoped she sounded sufficiently contrite. On the other hand maybe she sounded too subservient. She never seemed to be able to strike the right balance with this man.
He straightened slowly and smoothed back the hair that had fallen in his red-rimmed eyes. He must not have slept well either.
“I see,” he said. “It is better you didn’t come early.” He stopped like he was unable to continue or had started a line of thought he no longer wanted to pursue. “I’ve been doing some investigative work myself, you see.” His hand swept his untidy person.
Elena nodded, still perplexed over his changed demeanor and his state of agitation.
He set about tidying the stack of papers, trying to bring them back to order. He looked at her.
“You don’t have to watch me, doctora, I am perfectly capable of arranging things. Please, take the rest of the day off. I think it will be best for you. This is nasty business, and you do not look well.”
She could almost feel him give her a patronizing pat on the head. She struggled to keep the lid on her temper. In her best neutral voice she said, “No, director, I like to keep busy. I need to get back to work. It will help me sleep better, I assure you.”
She turned to leave before she said anything to regret.
“No,” he said and hobbled toward her. “You will not go to the Staircase today.” He looked around the room as if searching for the reason why she shouldn’t go. “It is too dangerous.”
“Too dangerous? Surely you don’t think the murderer is still lurking around here?”
His eyebrows struggled to convey his meaning. “We do not know, do we? Until the police come to some conclusion about what happened and until we solve who is taking the hieroglyphs, I am shutting down the project you work on. Talk to your department head in the United States about working somewhere else.”
“Shut down the project? But I have invested so much time and effort in this, and the workmen, who will pay them? They depend upon this work for their livelihood.”
He ignored their plight, her work, her future. “Do not trouble yourself about the workmen. I will shift them to another project. Now contact your university, advise them of the problem, and make arrangements to leave. Yes, that will be the best course of action.” He spoke as if he had just come up with the whole scheme and had convinced himself of its merit.
“But….” said Elena.
He waved her quiet. “No, listen to me. It is too dangerous to continue with the study of the hieroglyphs. You must leave for your own safety. We do not know the motivations of this madman who has killed or stolen the hieroglyphs or,” and his eyes got bigger and whiter, “there may be more than one, maybe a gang of thieves and murderers. You must go.”
Elena couldn’t figure the guy out. He was not making sense. But she relented. “I’ll call Dr. Roulade to inform her of the circumstances. I did email her but I haven’t heard back. I’ll try to phone her.”
“Yes, do that. Now if you will excuse me, I have much to do.” He stood guard over his stack of papers, and Elena had no recourse but to leave.
Outside the Museum she did not turn toward town. Rather she walked toward the pyramids. She wanted to visit the Hieroglyphic Staircase to see if it would yield any more secrets. She wanted to do a little investigating of her own.
Five
Dominic pulled the Jeep to the side of the road onto a turnaround just before the bridge. He was on a mission to find Flaco. He awakened that morning with the boy on his mind. After a shower and a quick cup of coffee, he hopped in the Jeep and headed for the bridge. Maybe at this early hour he might find the boys there.
He parked and slid down a grassy slope to the creek that flowed in fits and starts around islands of mud and debris. The early morning breeze carried the odor of garbage and stale urine. Under the bridge close to the cement supports lay pieces of cardboard carton that the boys slept on. Bits of broken toys dotted the ground. A solitary boy lay on a piece of cardboard, clutching his stomach, eyes mere slits as he watched Dominic approach.
“Hola, muchacho,” said Dominic, “have you seen Flaco?”
“No, señor,” said the boy in a weak voice. He was about six or seven, maybe older. “I haven’t seen him. He did not sleep here last night.”
“Does he usually?”
“Sí, señor.”
“Are you sick?”
“Just a tummy upset,” said the boy.
Dominic crouched beside him and felt his head. He was hot with fever. These children ate anything they could find and drank water from the stream.
“What is your name?” asked Dominic.
“They call me Gordo,” said the boy whose face and body were anything but fat.
“Will you come with me to the clinic so we can help you with your tummy upset?”
The child shook his head. “I will be all right. I just rest when this happens. The others will bring me food later. Right now I don’t feel like eating.”
Dominic knew these boys distrusted people in general. They had little schooling, and their world was limited to what blew into their young lives.
“Tell you what,” said Dominic. “If you come with me, I’ll take you to see our new medical clinic. The nice lady there can give you a teeny, tiny pill for your tummy upset, and a little hot tea that will settle it. Then maybe you can help me look for Flaco. I am concerned no one has seen him.”
The child looked at Dominic, the whites of his eyes were yellow and the lids drooped. He was in worse shape than he let on. He seemed to be weighing the pros and cons of trusting a big, white man who spoke Spanish with an Anglo accent.
“Okay,” he said. “But I can’t walk so good.”
“No problem,” said Dominic. He lifted him from the dirty cardboard before the child could change his mind and almost choked on the smell. The boy had been laying in his own filth. Dominic placed Gordo on the back seat of the Jeep on a sheet of canvas he kept there.
Lord God Almighty, why children? They are the innocents. What had this child done to deserve a life like this? The Catholic parish helped these youngsters. The Evangelists, who were relatively new on the scene, had an outreach center, the Episcopalians had a mission. But in a country as poor as Honduras, there were so many children like Gordo, it was hard to keep up. They appeared out of nowhere and disappeared into the same place. Maybe that had happened to Flaco, maybe he had just disappeared. But the disturbing fact was he had disappeared the same day a murder had occurred at Copan.