The next night’s trial is the Cold House, with freezing drafts and falling hail. With their powers, they simply shut out the cold.
Next is the Jaguar House, where ferocious animals are diverted by a pile of bones the twins give them to fight over.
The last, and worst of all, is Bat House, where monstrous snatch bats are sent to kill them. They survive by sleeping inside their blowguns. Hunahpu, however, sticks his head out a little too soon, and loses it to a nasty bat, his body still inside the blowgun. This will call for real ingenuity on the part of his brother, Xbalanque, but once again our twins win the day.
The test the twins never had to endure was trial by media.
Major Martinez’s face was much in evidence on the front page of every newspaper and relentlessly, every hour, it seemed, on television.
The way Martinez told it, Alejandro Ortiz and Ricardo Vallespino were key members of a terrorist group that stole works of art to support its nefarious activities. This group had its headquarters at the university, a place, Martinez noted often, that was always known for its subversive activities.
Three professors had also been arrested and charged as ringleaders of the terrorist group. The bewildered expressions on their faces, as they were shown being herded into police vans, spoke volumes.
Luis Vallespino, apparently, had also been one of the terrorists, but he had broken from the group and had tried to warn Dr. Hernan Castillo that “he had been marked for death”, Martinez said, because Don Hernan had, through his connections in the art community, figured out who the robbers were. Luis had been intercepted at the museo and had been murdered, possibly by his own brother, his body left on the roof.
The terrorists had then waited in ambush for Dr. Castillo and had murdered him, too. More arrests, Martinez hinted, were imminent.
It was all very neat, except for the fact that Don Hernan—as I knew and Eulalia Gonzalez could confirm—had not been murdered in the museo. I tried calling her at the morgue, but was told she had asked for, and been granted, an extended leave of absence from her job. I wondered if she had done this voluntarily and if she was okay.
Equally outrageous was the media coverage of the event. This was big news. The Children of the Talking Cross had captured the imagination of the public immediately following the theft of Itzamna from the bar. Many local pundits had voiced their opinions on the subject, many of them supporting the cause, if not the theft itself.
With the latest developments in the case—the allegations of murder of the young Luis Vallespino and one of Merida’s most distinguished citizens—these champions of the downtrodden were distancing themselves very quickly from their former proteges.
To ensure maximum coverage of the event, the local television station had set up a mobile unit right outside the Casa de las Buganvillas, the van, the satellite dish, and the cables making it almost impossible for vehicular traffic to get down the little street.
Every time anyone was audacious enough to leave or enter the hotel, the lights came on and cameras rolled. Not to be outdone, the local newspapers and radio stations also had reporters on the spot. Food carts moved in to supply them.
No effort was spared to plumb the depths of human misfortune. Reporters, in the absence of any real facts, desperately sought out details of Ortiz family life. Santiago’s diplomatic career was dissected, as was Isa’s business. Shots of her little factory in Merida were prominently featured.
Neighbors willing to parade themselves in front of the cameras were asked about the hotel, the Ortiz family, and most particularly Alejandro. One neighbor, a blousy woman by the name of Carmelita Chavez, was shown saying she had known Alejandro would come to no good ever since he had stolen an orange off a tree in her garden when he was eight.
The absolute depths were reached, I thought, when a prominent local psychologist was interviewed on a daytime talk show. Alejandro, he said, was suffering the effects of being the youngest son of a very successful man. He was probably the victim of paternal neglect, since his father was undoubtedly never home and therefore never gave his son the discipline and care he needed.
It was appalling.
We held a council of war about noon. Jean Pierre, Isa’s partner, flew down from Mexico City to be with the family. I called Jonathan. Both men ran the gauntlet of reporters and curious passersby to get into the inn.
Acting on the assumption that action was better than waiting, we assigned ourselves tasks. First we hired a security company to maintain order outside the inn, and to keep the reporters off the property. There was nothing we could do to keep them off the street.
Next we polled all the guests at the hotel to ascertain their wishes. For the temporary guests we found accommodation at nearby hotels. Some of the permanent residents chose to stay; others were able to lodge with relatives and friends. By late afternoon, all who wished to leave had done so.
Santiago’s condition, always exacerbated by stress, worsened. A doctor was called, but there was little he could do except tell him to rest.
Jonathan, I have to admit, was terrific in this situation. It was he, along with Jean Pierre, who got us all mobilized, and he was tireless in carrying guests’ bags to the end of the street, since it was almost impossible for taxis to make their way down the little street to the inn.
At one point in the afternoon, he pulled me into the empty drawing room for a hug and a little conference.
“Look, Lara,” he said. “We have to do something here. You must know more about all this than you are telling me. Why did Don Hernan call you down here anyway?”
“I really don’t know for sure, Jonathan,” I replied. “I’ve been trying to piece it all together myself, but really, he never told me anything, except that he was seeking what the rabbit writes.”
Jonathan looked at me as if I had lost my senses, of course.
“As I’ve been able to piece it together so far, I think what the rabbit writes must be a hieroglyphic codex, but where it is, I have absolutely no idea.”
“Interesting idea. Maybe Dona Josefina knows,” he said.
“I don’t think so. I’ve been to see her, and we’ve tried to communicate by a sign language of sorts.”
“Have you indeed?”
“Yes. She was able to confirm it is a codex Don Hernan was looking for, but not where it is located. I don’t even know if Don Hernan knew where it is.”
“Interesting,” was all he said.
Twilight arrived soon enough, and with it the relief I felt every day now when the sun went down. During the brightest hours of the day I found myself seeking out the shade and the darkened rooms of the inn, just waiting for the darkness.
Jonathan left after a light supper, and we all retired early, exhausted from the ordeal. Francesca, I knew, would not sleep until Alejandro was back at home, but she was persuaded to try to get some rest.
I had hidden Don Hernan’s diary in a plastic bag behind a panel in the bathroom that allowed access to the pipes. I took it out now and, climbing into bed, started to read through it.
Other than several references to meetings with Gomez Arias, the most recent a week before my arrival in the Yucatan and Don Hernan’s subsequent disappearance, there was little of any note. He’d missed a dentist appointment and a meeting with his banker. My arrival date was also noted. Nothing very unusual here.
Don Hernan was a doodler, and the margins of every page were covered with his scratchings. Most were just geometric designs, the kind lots of people do while sitting in boring meetings or talking on the telephone. On the last page, however, Don Hernan had made three very detailed and intricate drawings.
One was of a woman in a mantilla holding a child. The second was of a Maya warrior wearing a costume complete with feather tail and a large ballooning headdress topped by a bird with elaborate tail feathers. The warrior carried a spearthrower and a club. Above the warrior was a Mayan hieroglyph that I took to be the warrior’s name.