Speaking of, Mateo could use a little sleep. It had been a long and restless twenty-four hours of making plans, gathering supplies and supplicantly praying to the Mirrored One. But other than a brief spat over price, everything had come together smoothly, and now it was time to give thanks.
He knelt before the night stand separating the bed from the far wall. The hotel lamp and alarm clock had been removed to another corner, and in the shadow of their place sat none other than the Mirrored One himself.
The god’s manifestation into human form could have never personified inspiration as effectively as the mosaic skull smiling back at him. Turquoise and obsidian inlay banded the skull, drawing attention to the idol’s iridescent eye inserts and the spare lower teeth of the mandible. The effect was horrifically gorgeous, just as awe-inspiring as it was the day he’d stolen it from the
British
Museum
. The idol was as equally mesmerizing as the jade and turquoise effigy watching him from atop the television set, snarling in its captivity.
The black jaguar box rested on the bed between them, completing the trinity of catastrophic energy. Mateo could feel the forces of friction as he bowed down to the Mirrored One. There was conflict generating between the grisly aura of the idol and the energy radiating from the effigy. The closer the two came together, the more powerful their opposing forces became, like two magnets repulsing each other. In fact, Mateo was forced to keep the idol and the effigy across the room from each other, fearing their energy might combust.
The world couldn’t handle the dueling forces enthroned together. With the Mirrored One awakened, the effigy must return to anonymity. Better yet, to rid the world of the unease it generated, the effigy had to be destroyed.
Mateo turned his attention to the idol’s reflection in the smoking mirror lying before it. An absolute doubling of power. The god’s very breath cut upon the mirror and had manifested into a white powder—a gift. Mateo gratefully huffed it. He savored the sensation of the Mirrored One’s spirit seeping into his lungs, becoming his breath, his strength, his guidance. Waves of electricity pulsated through his brain and, after a blissful moment of hallowed silence, he reverently stood and backed away from the idol. There was work yet to be done.
He took the jaguar box from the corner of the bed and tapped his fingers atop the lid, taunting a beat to the silent heart inside. He stared into the dark obsidian pupil of the effigy, trying to stare down its soul. The world had gotten along fine under the Mirrored One’s reign, and it would continue to do so once the effigy’s opposing forces were destroyed. The responsibility weighed heavily upon Mateo’s shoulders.
He set the jaguar box containing the old man’s heart next to the effigy atop the television. The spirit and the power. How fitting to sacrifice them together. He smiled at the thought.
“Enjoy your final hours together,” he said.
His rallying moment was brief, however. He returned to the bed and found his drill, complete with a hole-saw bit. He tested the trigger and the tool buzzed into action. He turned around, eyed the effigy, stopped at the jaguar box. Within hours, he would be heralding the earth’s preservation and the renewal of the Mirrored One’s rightful reign. For now, there were some final preparations to complete.
Before he could continue with the drill, he had to attend to one minor inconvenience. He set the drill back down and retrieved his cell phone. He turned it on and began to dial. If there was anyone who could help him with this final, last-minute preparation, it was the regional director of the AFI.
Smoking Mirrors
Diego sat patiently in his car as it idled in a parking lot angled away from the Pyramid of the Moon. It was the very lot they’d found Juan Joaquin Gaspar’s stolen pickup, the lot that gave him a narrow view of the great Pyramid of the Sun, behind which his suspects had parked in the lot beyond.
Now what are we doing back here?
Diego was convinced he’d found the Transit Killers. Nobody mourning the loss of their father would bother to take a site-seeing tour of the
Museo Nacional de Antropología
, let alone
Teotihuacan
. These five
misterios
were up to something. Could it be they were making plans for another sacrifice?
A blast of radio static threatened to disrupt his concentration so he reached for the volume and turned it down. The call was unimportant anyway. Just another officer posted in
Tula
reporting back to the dispatcher. There was no sighting of Gaspar’s heart. Nothing suspicious.
Poor bastards. If there was one thing Diego could be thankful for it was that he wasn’t sitting in
Tula
staring at that ugly chacmool. At least his prey was warm-blooded and less predictable than a stone statue. The only problem was, the
Americanos
had split up.
Curiously, Derek Riesling was ascending the Pyramid of the Sun with the man who’d chased him down at the airport. They climbed slowly, slower than the ant-like procession of people more determined to scale the entire sixty-five meters to the summit. Despite the scene at the airport, the two men now appeared to be working together, cooperatively searching for something.
Meanwhile, the other three suspects had left the pyramid and were more or less headed in Diego’s direction. He reached for the gear selector and put the car into drive. If he didn’t get into better position, he’d lose sight of Eva and her companions among the crowds of meandering
turistas
. They too appeared to be searching for something.
What could they possibly be looking for? He wondered.
Diego picked up his transceiver and returned the volume as he made his call. The dispatcher answered and passed him on to Escaban, who immediately picked up.
“Dispatch the squad in
Tula
,” Diego said. “Tell them I need backup in
Teotihuacan
.”
“What’s happened?” Escaban asked.
“They’re at the Pyramid of the Sun.”
“Don’t make any moves unless you see them doing something suspicious,” Escaban warned.
Diego slammed the transceiver back into its harness. The suspects were already doing something suspicious.
Just what in the hell’s so important in Teotihuacan
?
* * * *
Captain Escaban marched back to his office. He wasn’t having a good day. With Diego back on the case, he couldn’t predict what would happen next, and now his agent’s latest contact had his imagination running wild. What business would those Americans have in
Teotihuacan
when they had a man to bury?
Dammit!
If he wasn’t careful, Diego would get him into international trouble. They were watching foreign travelers, not local drug cartels. If Diego arrested them there’d be hell to pay, particularly if they turned out to be innocent of Gaspar’s murder.
There was a knock on his door and when Escaban looked up, a dispatcher slipped into the office like a timid pup.
“Who do we have in
Tula
?” Escaban barked.
“Gomez and his partner. And there’s two
municipios
from Tula de Allende assisting with the watch.”
“Those idiots from Tula de Allende wouldn’t know a snake if it bit them in the ass. Tell Gomez we need that heart!”
“Yes, sir. But there’s something that needs your immediate attention.”
Escaban felt like exploding. There was always something that needed his immediate attention. “What?”
The dispatcher glanced down at the phone on his desk. Escaban looked too and noticed a line blinking on hold.
“That call’s for you,” the dispatcher said. “I get the feeling it’s someone who knows something about the Gaspar case.”
“Are you tracing the call?”
“As soon as you pick up the line.”
Escaban nodded and the dispatcher left for the desk outside the office. He’d left the office door open. Escaban scooted his chair closer to the phone, waited, and when the dispatcher had his headset on he nodded again and picked up the receiver.
“Escaban speaking.”
A muffled, husky voice came over the line. “Have you found that old man’s heart yet?”
Escaban held his breath and shot a look at the dispatcher. The young man was too busy with his headset to notice.
“No,” Escaban said slowly. “I have not.”
“Don’t worry. You will.”
The caller had a slight accent, like a well-versed American who hadn’t shrugged the English dialect from his voice.
“Do you know where it is?” Escaban asked, hoping to God that the dispatcher was hooked into the call.
“It’s still ticking,” the caller said.
“Where?”
“Your men are so close. They must hear it ticking. If they stick around, they’ll see it blow.”
“Where is it ticking?”
“Pyramid B. It’s ticking as we speak.”
“Exactly where?”
The line broke. Escaban was near panic.
“Did you get the trace?” he yelled as he jumped out of his chair.
The dispatcher punched his controls, and shook his head. “No, sir. He was too fast.”
“Contact Gomez,” Escaban bellowed as he snagged his hat from the hook on the back of his door. “Send him back to
Teotihuacan
. Get the whole damn squad out there.”
The dispatcher jumped like he’d been kicked. “What about the chacmool, sir?”
“Those idiots from Tula de Allende can sit on it for a while. I want my men in
Teotihuacan
now!”
Escaban stormed toward the door, trying to remember where he’d last parked his car. “And call Diego!” he ordered over his shoulder. “Tell him they’re planting a bomb!”
The Serpent’s Mouth
When Lori extracted her arm from the serpent’s mouth, Eva and Dr. Friedman were eyeing her closed fist with as much anticipation as children on Christmas morning. Her fingers slowly unfolded and they all eagerly gazed at the small object in her hand.
Lori was instantly disappointed.
“A matchbook?” Eva asked in a slighted tone.
Lori flipped the plain white matchbook over in her palm. The front cover was embossed in blue-gray lettering that read
“AGAVE AZUL.”
“That’s our hotel,” Lori pointed out as she popped the flap open. There was writing on the inside cover.
“That looks like my father’s handwriting,” Eva said, nearly toppling Dr. Friedman as she leaned in for a closer look.
Dr. Friedman caught himself. “What does it say?” he asked, righting the straw hat upon his head.