Paco snapped his fingers. “Then they might be on their way to the ruins.”
Dominic frowned. “But the entrance is way on the other side of town.”
Paco’s brown eyes glowed with excitement. “There’s an old trail that goes from this end of town out to the ruins. It comes in not far from here. The townspeople know about it. It’s a short cut to the ruins.”
“You think they went there?” asked Dominic. “In this madness?” He gestured to the fury that shook the walls of the rusty old warehouse. Water dripped from holes in the corrugated tin roof, and they couldn’t find a dry spot to stand.
“That or they went back to town. But why would they leave town then go back? Why would they leave here when it is a protected place for them to weather the hurricane?”
It didn’t take Dominic long to figure that one out. “Something not worth waiting out a hurricane is driving them.”
“Yes,” said Paco. “I hate to say this but if and when that guy gets what he wants from them, they’re lives aren’t worth much. Not to someone like him.”
“You have given voice to my greatest fears.”
They jumped back when a fierce gust of wind laden with rain ripped through the opening.
Dominic debated the options. He could wait out the storm here or try to make it back to town. Or try to make it to the ruins in a hurricane. There was no question. If what Paco said were true, Elena and Miguel were battling a hurricane on their way to the ruins. He would follow them whatever the cost.
“I’m going to the ruins, Paco,” he said. “Tell me how to get to that trail.”
“I’ll do one better,” said Paco. “I’ll show you. I’m going with you.”
Eighteen
The only good part about the second half of the hurricane was that it wasn’t as fierce, thought Elena. They must be on the side that didn’t produce as much wind though the rain was relentless, and the river was over its banks and rising. She could see it from where they sat in the shelter of an overhang high above the river bank.
She hurt all over. Her head ached, her eye throbbed, her knee was bloody, her leg on fire. Miguel sat by her side holding her hand, which was a comfort. She looped her arm over his shoulder and pulled him closer. If she didn’t come up with a brilliant idea soon, they would not be alive much longer. As soon as Jorge got what he wanted, he’d get rid of them. But she wouldn’t go without a fight.
She hoped her theory was right about where the hiding place was. The drawing in the director’s book had given her the clue. He had drawn lines projecting at different angles from the eyes of the picture of Smoke Shell, like he was trying to determine a direction in the line of sight. One was highlighted darker than the others. Using that line of projection Elena had calculated what Smoke Shell was gazing upon from his frozen position in the stone stellae.
His gaze was trained on the fifty-second step in the Hieroglyphic Staircase, a number significant in the Mayan calendar which progressed in fifty-two year cycles. Elena was betting that behind the stones on that step was what Jorge and the man he had murdered sought. She wondered what had been hidden that would drive men to murder, and who had hidden it. Had the director hidden whatever they were after?
Jorge reappeared at the overhang. It was a miracle he had allowed them to rest. After Elena had stumbled and fallen at least half a dozen times, Miguel had pleaded with him to stop. With Jorge’s reluctant consent, Miguel had led them to the overhang, one of his hiding places.
“Get up,” Jorge said. “You’ve had time enough to rest.” He pointed the gun at her. “Tell me where this place is.”
“I said I’d show you. It’s difficult to explain.”
She rose unsteadily, knowing that for her impertinence, for her unwillingness to tell him she risked another blow. She steeled herself for that possibility. But it didn’t come.
He stared at her over the gun and smirked. “All right. Have it your way. But later, I will have my way with you.” He winked at her, a hateful wink that Elena wanted to smack right off his face.
His insinuation made her angrier, and her resolve to overcome the abominable man strengthened. She took Miguel’s hand and started toward Smoke Shell’s stela. She was sure her calculations of the trajectory were accurate, but she wanted to visually inspect it. She had been working puzzles a long time, but she wanted to make sure. A lot was riding on this.
The sky was starting to lighten, and, as they slogged along through wet grass and vines, Elena wondered what time it was. It had to be near dawn. She thought back on the first part of the night she’d spent with Dominic and Miguel at the clinic. It was a dream now. This was the nightmare. Would that she’d wake up in her nice cozy bed at doña Carolita’s, and this horror would be gone, just a nightmare, nothing more. She thought of Dominic and wondered if he was okay. She knew he’d never be able to figure out where they were, what had happened to them. It all occurred so fast. Their plight was hopeless.
She shook her head. Elena Palomares was not going to give way to despair. She forced her brain to think of some way out, some way to overpower Jorge, get the gun from him. She looked down at Miguel who hurried along beside her. If they could only talk, between them they might figure some way to escape.
The storm seemed to be waning, growing weaker. Gusts of wind sometimes threatened to push them over, but mostly there was rain, never ending rain. She had never been so wet or so miserable. Think, she had to think of something, but her brain wouldn’t cooperate. She had difficulty thinking at all.
They arrived at the clearing west of the Ball Court, and still Elena hadn’t come up with a brilliant way to escape. Leaves, branches and odd pieces of tin lay scattered across the court that used to be beautifully manicured. In front of her climbed the Hieroglyphic Staircase, the protective tarp blown off and heaved to the side as if someone had wanted to get a better view of the steps. The fifty-second step would be near the top.
“Stop,” said Jorge. “Why have we come here?”
“We’re close now to the hiding place. I can show you.”
He looked at her, as if trying to judge her mettle. How much further could he push her until she’d break? She never would she vowed to herself.
“Give me the kid,” Jorge said. “If you try to pull anything stupid, the kid is dead.” He reached for Miguel while keeping the gun trained on Elena.
Miguel stepped back and clutched her hand harder.
“The child stays with me,” she said. A deadly calm took anchor inside her. “If you shoot me now, you won’t know where the hiding place is. We’ve come all this distance, and you won’t know.”
Her mouth tried to smile but was only halfway successful. She knew she had him. If he hit her again, it really wouldn’t matter. She didn’t care what happened to her. It was Miguel she wanted to protect. Jorge knew he was pushing too far and too hard. She could see it in his ugly face.
She turned without waiting for him to speak and walked on to Smoke Shell’s stela, holding tight to Miguel’s hand. She focused on the head and eyes of the stone face. She kept checking the angle where the eyes were gazing. They looked toward the upper steps of the Staircase.
She smiled to herself. She didn’t need to know the exact step. The Mayan magic number was fifty-two. It was the holy number in their cycle of worlds. Jorge and his ilk would not understand the significance. Only someone who had studied Mayan history would. The director had figured it out, and she liked to think he had left the clue for her. Maybe he had concealed something there.
A fuzzy plan formed in her mind. If she could get Jorge to follow them up to the top of the stairs, she might be able to push him backward somehow. The stairs were extremely narrow, and he had on boots. She had on water logged sandals. Footing normally was precarious. In this wet, windy environment it could be deadly. She was accustomed to the stairs and knew how to walk. He might not. There might be a chance to push him down the stairs. A drop from that height would be enough to knock him out. Even better, it might kill him. That gave her a perverse sense of satisfaction that didn’t bother her conscience in the slightest.