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I joined Rodrigo for breakfast at one of the poolside patios. After filling our bellies with huevos rancheros, fresh squeezed orange juice, and toast, we wandered out to the front portico to wait for our ride to the pyramid. But Mrs. Thundermuffin’s promised ride did not materialize, and, by nine, Rodrigo became restless. He wandered over to chat with a group of American hotel guests standing together like a flock of sheep.
A few minutes later, he returned to where I stood by the valet stand. “Hey, that group has a bus taking them out to Chichén Itzá. Why don’t we tag along with them? They said it was eight hundred pesos. How much is that?”
“A little more than forty bucks.” I chewed my lip and considered his suggestion.
It seemed like Mrs. Thundermuffin’s driver was a no show. There could be a million reasons for it. I’d already inquired on prices for a taxi to take us out to the ruins, and it was substantially more than forty dollars. I’d also tried to reach Mrs. Thundermuffin on her cell number. It rang twice, then gave me a busy signal. I didn’t know if there were dead zones in Mexico. Granted, Mrs. T. had been a little squirrelly about the phone number.
A green-and-white bus rolled up the circular driveway, and the sheep shuffled closer to the curb.
Rodrigo looked back and forth between me and the bus. “Karina, what do you want to do?”
It’d gotten to the point where I simply wanted to get rid of the death mask residing in my backpack. I shivered thinking about it—somehow, I doubted carrying around such a grim item did anything for my karma. When you got down to it, a death mask was a creepy thing to have in one’s carryall. “I think it doesn’t matter how we get there. Just that we do get there. Let’s see if we can join the group.”
It turned out the bus driver was very flexible and had a “more the merrier” attitude. Not only did we join the bus, paying our eight hundred pesos, three others climbed on after us. I left word with the valet desk about our change of plans, just in case Mrs. Thundermuffin’s delinquent driver showed. Rodrigo and I found seats halfway back and hunkered in for the two-hour drive out to the Mayan ruins.
The bus arrived at quarter after eleven, dropping us off at the end of a large line of tourists waiting to purchase tickets. Knowing our time was limited, since we’d arrived so much later than expected, Rodrigo and I declined an invitation to join the regular tour with the rest of the American sheeple that exited the bus, and instead got in line to purchase individual tickets. While we waited, I slathered on sunscreen and adjusted my big floppy white hat. That may have been Mrs. T.’s code, but she was right, sunscreen and a hat was a must. Being so far inland, we’d lost our ocean breezes, and the heat of the August day was already upon us, it would only get hotter as the day progressed. We’d both worn sneakers, lightweight T-shirts, and shorts, but I could already feel the sweat pooling between my shoulder blades. An enterprising vendor had set up next to the line and was offering cold sodas and bottles of water. Rodrigo and I each purchased water.
Chichén Itzá is an archeological site of a Mayan civilization dating to between 750 and 1200 A.D. It became a UNESCO world heritage site in 1988. The main attraction is the Castillo, the giant pyramid dedicated to the Kukulkan, or the Plumed Serpent. Much like the Egyptian pyramids of Giza, the Castillo was built with astronomical precision, and every year on the spring and autumnal equinox the sun strikes the side of the building in such a manner that the shadows and light appears as a snake along the steps of the magnificent building. When I came as a child, tourists were still allowed to climb the pyramid and look out upon the vast city from the top temple where ancient sacrifices were made to the gods. In 2005, following a misstep that led to the tragic death of a tourist, the owners of the site stopped allowing visitors to climb the Castillo.
After taking our fill of photos at the pyramid, Rodrigo and I wandered over to the Great Ball Court and the Jaguar temples. At 545 feet in length and 225 feet in width, the Ball Court was quite magnificent. Each end had a raised temple area for the royalty to watch the games. After the Ball Court, we wandered over to the Platform of Venus.
At twelve-thirty, we were back at the base of the Castillo with our eyes peeled for Mrs. T. Even though the place was crowded with tourists, I figured it wouldn’t be that difficult to spot my pink-haired neighbor. By twelve-forty-five, worry set in.
“Phew, it is hot.” Rodrigo took off his straw fedora and began fanning himself. “Do you want to walk around again to see if she’s waiting on the other side?”
“We might as well. I feel like a broiled lobster.” I swiped the sweat from my upper lip and shook off one of the rucksack straps to allow some fresh air on my soaking wet back.
My turquoise sneakers were grimy from the hard-baked dirt, and our shoes left dusty imprints as we walked one more time around the Castillo. We rounded the final corner when I heard my name.
A young man in tan linen slacks and a light blue designer polo, with his long brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail, waved at me. “Excuse me, are you Karina Cardinal?”
“I am. Who are you?”
“I’m Craig, Mildred’s nephew.” He held out his hand and delivered a toothy smile.
He had fine, long fingers, and a sweaty palm. I ended the shake as quickly as possible, surreptitiously wiping the wetness on my shorts as I introduced Rodrigo. “This is my friend Rodrigo.”
“Where is your aunt?” Rodrigo must have noticed my hand wiping because he knuckled up and forced Craig into a fist bump.
“Aunt Mildred did not sleep well last night. Sent me instead. Said you would understand.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Where is she now?” I asked.
“Staying in . . . uh, Campeche . . . with friends.”
Call it women’s intuition—there was something off about this guy. He enunciated every word a little too clearly. Almost as though English was not his native tongue. Also, I could see no resemblance to Mrs. T. That unto itself meant nothing, but she had a mantel full of family photos, and for the life of me, I couldn’t remember seeing this fellow among the framed pictures.
“I assume you have it?” Craig asked, leaning to the side, eyeing my backpack.
“Have what?” I replied, shifting it out of his line of sight.
Those dark brows furrowed over his big doe eyes. “The mask, of course.”
Well, he knew I had a mask at least. “Oh, that. Yes.” I tapped the shoulder strap. “It’s all right and tight.”
The jocular smile returned to his thick lips.
“Mrs. Thundermuffin said there was some place we could eat lunch.” Rodrigo stepped forward, waving his hat faster. “Do you know where that is? I’m getting hungry, and I’m sure we all could use a drink.”
“Ah, yes. There is a restaurant by the front entrance that she suggested. Why don’t we walk that way?”
Rodrigo replaced his hat with a frown. Craig's loping walk fell into step with me, and when his arm brushed mine, I crowded closer to Rodrigo.
Surveying the slender man on my right, I asked, “I was wondering if the cat sitter was able to reach your aunt?”
“Cat sitter?” He looked confused.
“Yes, the woman taking care of her cat, Smokey. She said she had to take the cat to the vet.”
“Oh, Smokey.” He forced a laugh that made me shiver. “I had forgotten about that beast. I do not know if she has spoken to the cat sitter.”
I stopped short. The two men walked a few more steps before turning around. “Mrs. Thundermuffin’s cat isn’t named Smokey,” I said, squint-eyed. “Who are you?”
The jocular smile disappeared, and, in a nanosecond, those long fine fingers gripped the strap on my shoulder and yanked. “Give me the mask!” He growled something else in a foreign language—not Spanish, but I’m fairly sure he cursed me.
The strap got as far as my elbow, which I bent, bringing my hand to my chest to keep him from jerking it off. I stepped back, pulling hard, and yelled, “Security!”
Rodrigo jumped forward, planted a hand against the guy’s shoulder, and shoved. “Get off!”
The man calling himself Craig stumbled but retained an iron grip on the strap, and nearly took me down with him.
Rodrigo grabbed my assailant’s wrist and squeezed while calling, “Policía, policía, ladrón, ladrón!”
I bent my neck forward, got hold of a bony finger and bit down hard. The impersonator shouted and released his grip. We’d garnered attention from other tourists, and I heard a woman yelling, “He’s trying to steal her bag. Thief! Pickpocket!” I faltered backward but managed to stay upright. Rodrigo grabbed the guy’s ponytail and stuck out his foot, tripping him backward. Fake Craig went down in a poof of brown dust. Rodrigo grabbed my hand and we took off.
I did not dare to look back. Instead, I focused only on keeping in step with my swift-footed friend as we fled toward the front entrance.
Two men wearing navy blue uniforms with guns at their hips and batons in hand came jogging toward us. Rodrigo pointed and yelled something in Spanish. The guards’ faces turned fierce and their jog turned into a sprint. We burst out of the entry gates, startling a large group of Asian tourists gathered around a tour guide who was holding up a Japanese flag placard.
I tugged Rodrigo’s hand, and we slowed to a trot. Busses filled the front driveway two-deep, and I glanced over my shoulder to make sure our assailant hadn’t gotten past security. I didn’t see our ponytailed friend, but as my gaze swept the area, it connected with a blond man wearing dirty khaki chinos and a red-checked shirt, exiting the men’s room about thirty yards away. Recognition dawned across his sunburnt features. He opened his mouth; I turned away, yanking on Rodrigo’s hand. One of the busses pulled out and I didn’t hear whatever the blond man called above the noisy engine.
“The taxi stand is across the way. Hurry!” Rodrigo shouted as he hauled me in front of a bus lurching forward. We dodged around it and were met with an angry blare of the horn. I didn’t blame the driver; our little stunt probably gave him a minor heart attack. Gaining the curb of the taxi median, Rodrigo raised his arm and called, “TAXI!”
A white Cadillac slid to a quiet stop in front of us and the passenger window rolled down. I leaned over to look inside.
“Karina Cardinal? Is that you?” The man stretched across the center console.
I began backing away.
“I’m so sorry I missed you at the hotel. I have the letter, here.” He held a folded white paper toward me.
Rodrigo snatched it from his hand and passed it to me. “Hurry up. The last bus is pulling away.”
I skimmed the contents for her secret code.
“He’s coming!” Rodrigo bellowed, whipping open the back door of the Caddy. “Do we get in?”
Sure enough—white hat, sunscreen—listed at the end of the communique and signed, Mildred Thundermuffin. I shoved him, hollering, “Get in, get in.”
We fell across the seat in a tumble of arms and legs with Rodrigo yelling in my ear, “Go, go, go!”