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Dr. Isabella Mumphrey shoved her glasses tighter on the bridge of her nose and pursed her lips. She’d yet to fail at anything she’d set out to do. Grad school at seventeen, doctorate in anthropology at twenty-two. There had to be a way to get more funding. Grant forms, statistical data, and the letter from the dean, stating the funding for her department was going to be cut in half, sprawled across the coffee table.
“Hello! Hello!” her cockatoo caterwauled as her cell phone emitted the thundering beat of Native American drums.
Stretching to relieve the tight muscles in her shoulders, Isabella didn’t hurry to snatch up the phone. The only people who called were from the university or her father. She wasn’t in the mood to speak to her illusive father, and the university would have only one reason to call—to tell her to start making cuts.
“Quiet, Alabaster, I’m getting there.” She glanced at the number and frowned. It wasn’t her father or the university.
“Hello?”
“Isabella, it’s Virgil Martin.”
The excited voice of her family friend and mentor shoved all worries to the side, and she clutched the phone to hear him better.
“Where are you? I didn’t recognize the number.”
“I’m at the Ch’ujuña dig in Guatemala. Get your shots, pack, and get down here. I’ve found something truly remarkable, and I need your knowledge of Cholan to help me decipher a stone tablet.” If his excited tone hadn’t overrode the order, she would have wondered if this was the same man who took such care to show her the world she’d come to love.
“You know I’d come help you if I could. Right now isn’t a good time for me to go anywhere. They’re pulling my funding. I can’t fly off to Guatemala now.” In all her twenty-six years she’d never told Dr. Virgil Martin ‘no’. He was the father her own flesh and blood refused to be. He’d listened and held her when she cried over the treatment she’d received at boarding school. It was hard for a seven-year-old to fit in with thirteen and fourteen-year-olds. When she wanted to throw intellectual tests, he’d talked her out of it. And he was there cheering when she received her doctorate of anthropology.
“This tablet could help you get funding. The information on it could make the anthropology world stand up and take notice of your work. And I have a wealthy man who is willing to pay us half a million to decipher the tablet.”
Isabella clutched the phone tighter to her ear. “Did you say half a million dollars?”
“Yes. He wants to be the benefactor to give the information to the Maya people and is willing to pay us to decipher the tablet. I’ll split the fee with you.” His voice became muffled.
“What were you saying, Virgil?” She strained to hear as her mind spun. Two hundred fifty thousand would buy enough time to finish her research.
“Nothing. A local wanted to use the phone. I need your answer. I can’t do this alone. But we can do it together.”
Virgil had never steered her wrong. If he thought between the two of them they could decipher this tablet, garner more prestige, and make half a million, she had no alternative than to fly to Guatemala.
“Call me back tomorrow night, and I’ll let you know when I arrive.”
*~*
Hot humid air choked Isabella as she stepped through the glass doors of the Mundo Maya airport and into the shaded portico.
After asking for a sabbatical and suffering through the vaccinations, she’d bought a ticket to Guatemala, and following the university’s recommendations regarding packing for the jungle, she’d boarded the plane. Twenty-four hours later, she wanted a shower and a soft bed, knowing after tonight she’d be sleeping on a cot until she and Virgil deciphered the tablet.
Isabella pushed her light-weight glasses higher on her nose and scanned the empty portico. With her box of survival equipment clutched under one arm, she plucked at her clinging cotton tank. The arid Arizona heat back home was more tolerable than gagging on this humidity.
The shaded portico spared her eyes from the bright sunlight beyond the cover. A small man stepped from the shadows of a concrete pillar, blocking her path. His facial features were classic Mesoamerican.
The man barely stood as tall as her shoulder. Her lips started to curve into a welcome smile when sunlight glinted off a large, wide-blade knife he pointed her direction.
The knife grew to the size of a machete in her mind as the man stalked toward her, his face scrunched in an evil sneer. Fear gave way to anger.
She was bigger. She knew martial arts. She could...what? Inhaling deep, she focused on her center and waited. Shamutz! All those years of Taekwondo and in a crisis all I can think to do is scream and run. But her throat constricted and her legs remained rooted to the ground.
Her gaze flicked to the knife point growing closer. Panic tried to squeeze up her dry throat. She would be stabbed and robbed and there wasn’t a thing she could do, if her frozen limbs were any indication to her bravery.
The travel agent and Virgil had warned against traveling alone in rural areas, but she’d assumed the airport would be safe. Swallowing the fear building in her throat, she breathed slowly. Someone had to see what was happening. She craned her neck, stared at the terminal doors, and willed someone to step from the building and frighten the man away. Inside, there’d been guards. Where were they now?
The man and his dark beady eyes stopped within knife striking distance.
“Get me the package.”
“What?” His thickly accented English confused her, however, even in her panic she couldn’t help but notice his eyes peering holes in her cardboard box.
She clutched the box containing her “survival” vest, a vest of many pockets filled with everything needed to get out of any situation, and shook her head. “You can’t have my vest.” She’d die before giving up her security armament. She’d had in her possession a facsimile of this vest since she was ten. The contents had helped her out of several mishaps. With shaking fingers, she dug into the side pocket of her broomstick skirt for the centavos she had at the ready for the taxi. “I’ll give you this.” She held out her hand, palm up, showing him the coins.
Yellow teeth, pointed as a spider monkey’s, punctuated the malice in his smile. “No money. I want package.”
Indignation stirred her blood. The items in the box could mean the difference between life and death in the jungle. She stared at the man and the knife. Are the contents of the box worth losing my life right now? Not finishing her genealogy project would be the same as death. She had to help Virgil and get the money to fund her project.
She weighed the options. Maybe if I show him there’s nothing of value in the box, he’ll take the centavos and leave.
She tipped her package toward the man. “See, ‘Doctor Isabella Mumphrey’. That’s me and this is my box. There’s nothing in it you could possibly want.”
His dark beady eyes peered at the box and back to her. The stare down was getting them nowhere. Twenty-four hours of travel and the rush to get ready beforehand had netted her little sleep and an anxious demeanor. All I want is a hot bath and a bed before I step into the jungle tomorrow. She shifted into her most obstinate glare, allowing irritation to pulse from her eyeballs.
The man’s face darkened with exasperation, and he jerked the knife toward the package. “Get it to me.”
Annoyance overrode exhaustion and fear. “Fine, I’ll show you there’s nothing in here you’d want.” She jerked her free arm out of the backpack strap.
The weight of the pack dropping off her shoulder spun her body and swung the bag. The pack hit her assailant’s hand with force, knocking the knife to the ground and flinging her box to the concrete six feet away.
The tape popped loose, spilling a dozen small blue books across the gray concrete. The word ‘Passport’ caught her eye before the man scrambled about gathering the books into the box.
Passports? How did those get into my box and what happened to my vest and survival items?
“What? How...” By the time she’d raced through all the possible scenarios of how a switch might have occurred along the route, the man ran down the street with her box under his arm.
“Hey! Wait!” With mixed disbelief and horror, she watched the man dive into a four-by-four truck and speed off.
How did my things get switched for passports? Reporting her items missing would throw suspicion on her. And she didn’t have a clue at which layover—Phoenix, Miami, or Guatemala City—the switch took place. Frustration buffeted her temples. “I need my gear if I’m going into the jungle.” Insecurity inched up her backbone. Without her vest, she couldn’t set foot in the jungle. Couldn’t get to Virgil and secure her funding.
Two security guards strode out the airport doors, snapping her attention to the deadly weapon at her feet.
In one quick motion she snatched the assailant’s knife off the ground and slipped her backpack up onto her shoulder. She gripped the knife handle and held the weapon hidden in the folds of her flowing skirt. Being tossed in a Guatemalan jail would hinder her chance to get the tablet deciphered and back to the states in time to save her department. And it darn sure wouldn’t be good for her health.
The guards stopped a respectful distance back.
With herculean effort, she plastered a cordial smile on her face as her whole body shook. She pressed the knife deeper into the folds of her skirt. Her latest encounter proved the knife might come in handy.
“Could you help me get a taxi?” she asked, surprised by her casual tone when urgency pounded at her temples.
The thinner guard raised a hand and like a hallucination in an old B western, a compact car emerged, pulling up to the curb. The faded paint and noticeable dents were a worry. The word “Taxi” painted boldly on the side and the fact security deemed the conveyance trustworthy, eased the coiled tension in her gut.
“Gracias,” Isabella mumbled, when the other guard held the door open for her. If they’d known what she’d brought to their country in her box, they’d escort her to jail. A chill of apprehension sent shivers through her limbs. How had she ended up with passports? She’d had her assistant at the college box up the vest and supplies, marking it with the university’s exempt status. Had Crystal put the passports in? She didn’t believe the girl would have had the time or the knowledge to put together a package of false passports. They had to be false to be worth smuggling. If they caught her with the passports or caught wind she’d smuggled them, it was a good probability she’d be in a Guatemalan jail for a long time.
Forcing her lips into a friendly smile, she worked to cover her nervousness. She slid into the back seat, keeping the knife hidden in her skirt the best she could. Her bottom dropped into an indention in the cushion. The blade of the knife pressed against her thigh. The urge to pull it away from her leg was squelched by the unwavering watchful gaze of the guards.
“Enjoy your stay, seño.” The guard tipped his hat, and the taxi jerked away from the curb.
“Where are you going?” the taxi driver asked. His dark brown eyes stared at her from his rearview mirror aimed at an awkward angle to accommodate his slouched position.
“Hotel Casa Amelia, por favor.”
“That will be ten centavos,” said the driver, reaching a hand over the seat.
She dropped the coins into his upturned hand and allowed her body to wilt against the back seat. Sighing, she leaned her head back and wasn’t surprised at the solid feel of wood rather than upholstery. Weariness seeped into her arms and legs. Terror couldn’t take hold until she was locked in her hotel room. She now believed the warnings she’d read to visitors of this country. Her elation at being able to keep her department fully functional had outshined the warnings.
She’d endure Xib’alb’a, the world beneath the earth ruled by One Death and Seven Death, to keep her department and project alive. She’d worked too long and hard charting the DNA of the Central, North, and South American natives to have things shut down now.
Fear and her nerves subsided. In a few weeks, perhaps even days, she and Virgil would crack the tablet’s code, and she could spend all her time on research instead of chasing down funding.
The excitement in Virgil’s voice when he’d called had sparked her excitement. Not only would this trip help her department, it was her first dig outside the U.S. All her internships had been at North American native digs. Finally, she would add an international dig to her resume.
A stretch of open road gave way to dirt streets winding between houses made of crumbling stone, cardboard, and tin. The buildings were more impoverished than any she’d witnessed on reservations or slums of cities. Growing up, she wasn’t allowed anywhere near this type of living conditions. As an anthropologist she had a need to discover if these people were happier than ones in fancy buildings with running water and mortgages they couldn’t pay.
Even as she wished to learn, her sense of survival drew her away from the window as the occupants sitting in front of the small buildings stared forlornly at the vehicle. I have so much. Isabella dug into her backpack as the taxi rolled to a stop at an intersection. Two young boys pounded on her window.
She reached for the handle.
“Do not lower the window,” the driver cautioned and inched the car away from the sullen faces of the boys.
“I could have spared them a centavo or two.” She craned her neck to peer at the small group of children forming in the street behind them. Not one of them had shoes and their clothing hung like rags on their bodies. Her heart went out to the children. She’d been fortunate to always have everything she needed and to never feel hungry. Never know desperation. Only loneliness.
“If you had offered, they would have surrounded the vehicle.” He glanced at her in the mirror. “You must learn not to show your wealth here or to give. Those who have less will take advantage.”
Those were the same words her travel agent and Virgil had told her. Virgil’s exact words had been, “Don’t let that tender heart of yours get you in trouble before the guide I’m sending shows up.”
“We are here, seño, Hotel Casa Amelia.”
The car stopped in front of a three-story white stucco building with fresh green trim. The inviting open door and lush plants in pots on either side welcomed. This part of town held none of the poverty they’d just traveled through.
The driver draped an arm over the front seat. His good-natured smile was the first sign of welcome she’d witnessed since setting foot in Guatemala.
“Gracias. Since you speak English so well, could I ask you a couple questions?” She raised the hand with the knife, and his eyes widened. “If I keep this will I get in trouble?”
“Where did you get a knife such as this, seño?” His gaze remained riveted on the long, wide blade as she held it up for him to see.
“A man outside the airport.”
“They do not sell those as souvenirs.”
A nervous giggle tickled her throat. “No, they don’t.” She shoved her glasses back up to the bridge of her nose and wiped at the dampness clinging to her neck and chest. “A man wanted my box. I tried to tell him it was mine. My name was clearly written on it, but when it popped opened, my belongings weren’t inside.”
His eyes narrowed. “What was inside? Did you tell this to the security?”
“I was afraid if they saw the knife and then I told them...” She held her tongue. She’d said too much to a stranger already.
Isabella shook her head. “All that matters is my vest and supplies are gone. I have to get more before I continue on to the archeological dig at Ch’ujuña.”
The man stared at her then waved at the knife. “Would you know this man if you saw him again?”
“Yes. Even though at first the only thing I saw was this knife, I’ll not forget his nasty teeth or his dark eyes.” A shudder rippled her skin.
“How did you get the knife?” His dark eyes studied her face.
Her face heated under his scrutiny and her mortification, realizing how close she’d been to possibly losing her life. “I knocked the knife and the box to the ground when my pack slipped and swung.” She hadn’t done anything as daring as her movie idol Indiana Jones. No, clumsiness saved me, not bravery. Her heart hammered realizing what the consequences could have been if her backpack hadn’t become off balance. She had no doubt the man would have hurt her to gain the package.
“You are very lucky.” He exited the car and came to her door.
Lucky? She wrung her shaking hands as he opened the door. She’d never believed in luck, but this was the first time her clumsiness worked for good.
Isabella slid out and stood next to the driver who was a bit shorter than her five-eight height. Her sandals were a small barrier to the heat of the cobblestone street. She dug in the outside pocket of her backpack where she kept a small amount of money for tips and necessities. “If I give you the same amount as the ride here and extra money to wait ten minutes while I write up a list of items for you to get, would you be interested?” She counted out ten coins and what she deemed would pay for the items she’d need.
The driver smiled. “I would be happy to help you, seño.”
“Good, give me about ten minutes to get registered and make a list.”
He nodded and Isabella entered the welcoming doors of the Casa Amelia.