Path of the Jaguar (19 page)

"That well has made me an object of laughter," he said quietly. "Soon they'll be calling it 'Hern's Folly'!"

She could feel his great disappointment, his pain. "Oh, Wesley.."

"This wretched venture has made a fool of me. A failure!"

"Your success has never depended on anything outside of yourself," she reminded him gently. Lennea had never envisioned Wesley as a man who would isolate himself over some sense of fallen pride, or that he could ever allow himself to wallow so completely in self-pity. Neither did she understand his being possessed by this great languor, almost a stupor.

When realization did suddenly strike her, she felt stunned, as if she had received an unexpected blow to her stomach. Wesley's eyes, narrowed because of his tilted head, regarded her as if he had just connected with her thoughts.

"Don't look at me like that, Lennea. You know I'm no drug addict." He gave a great, heavy sigh. "I just need a little something—to get me through life's disillusionment. Everybody does."

Lennea laid her rejected offering beside him on the table, stepped back, and scanned the room. The small plastic bag lying on the couch immediately caught her eye. A flash of Joseph lifting this very cosmetic bag from Delores' suitcase at the Mexican airport came to her mind. Her gaze lifted to skirt the room, as if she half-expected Delores to materialize from some dim corner.

So Delores herself had stolen the suitcase from Lennea's room at the Hotel Guerrero. No doubt Delores had recently been in this very room—certainly she was still in the Yucatan and not back home as she had promised Lennea she would be.

That was it. That's what this whole thing was all about! Lennea felt a dizziness, almost a sickness, pass over her. Delores must be carrying drugs to the United States and bringing back money to divide with her Mexican contact, the Mayan who was seeking her. Had Delores double-crossed him? Beads of sweat broke out across Lennea's forehead as she remembered the coldness of the Mayan's eyes, quietly menacing like the eyes of the stone jaguar.

Fearfully, she glanced over at Wesley. How much did he know about this? She wondered to what extent he was involved in Delores' illegal escapade. "Where do you get your supply? From Delores?" she demanded.

He gave a scornful laugh. "Don't be ridiculous! So Delores and I unwind together once in a while. Why, it's no worse than smoking cigarettes! There's no need for you to make us sound so corrupt."

His answer convinced her that he had no knowledge of how heavily Delores was involved in the drug scene. "Wesley, this is much more serious than you think!" Lennea told him about the thousands of dollars she had found in Delores' suitcase. "Now say that it's just nothing! She's dealing in drugs. That's how she supports her fancy lifestyle." Lennea's voice raised in accusation. "Delores is dealing in hard drugs!"

"Impossible!" Wesley said the word without proper emphasis, weakly, apathetically.

Long and tragic silence hung over the room. Then Wesley spoke again, "If anyone's involved in traffic back and forth across the border, it's not drugs they're pushing. They are stealing artifacts. My artifacts!"

A twist of bitterness robbed his finely-cut features of their attractiveness. "Surely you can see what's happened! Somebody got to my well before I did. Someone had already robbed it of its riches. And now those treasures, my treasures, are lost forever!" He shook his head slowly, slowly. "But not Delores. No, if I'm right, then somebody else is the mastermind behind this. If she's involved at all, then somebody must have set her up."

Joseph's image arose. Lennea remembered his proficiency at diving. His going through the motions today was merely a ruse—he had already robbed the pool of its treasures. And Delores would take them back to the United States and sell them at top money to art lovers who swarmed around Wesley. But Lennea couldn't prove any of this. To find answers she would have to find Delores.

Wesley's eyes, narrowed like a cat's, still gazed at her, but his voice seemed to come from far away. " She'll show up. Eventually, she returns. She always...comes back to me."

Lennea took a step backward toward the doorway.

"Wrought in Stone" , Wesley said, and then repeated it. His words had a hollow, haunted sound to them. For the first time in their long relationship Lennea saw him as something besides the man she had placed so far above every other person, so far above all the sullied activities of the world.

"Delores and I, we're two of a kind. Delores and I," he repeated, "we belong together, Lennea. No matter what she is, or what she does. We simply can't let go of each other. Delores will be mine forever. What we feel for each other is Wrought in Stone."

Lennea groped for the doorknob. She wanted desperately to get away from him, to get outside. She didn't want Wesley Hern to see that she was crying.

* * * * *

Chapter Fifteen

Dazed and uprooted by Wesley's words, Lennea drove back to LaTilla's house. She slipped quickly into her room, planning to collapse across the bed and give in to the utter heartbreak of her ruined world.

Her eyes traveled over the entire area of her room, orderly, except for the desk where she had worked gluing the statue. Upon her bed, smooth and neat, as she had left it, lay a sheet of tablet paper, weighted down by a silver charm bracelet. She read the black capitals before she reached the typed note: BRING THE MONEY TO THE WELL OR DELORES WILL DIE.

No time limit, no instructions, only a one-line, ominous threat. Charms tinkled as Lennea grasped the loop of chain and inspected the silver ornaments. Without doubt, this was Delores' bracelet, the one Lennea had purchased for her. Delores had been delighted with each trinket, the star, the tiny sea horse.

Lennea's worst fears for Delores had materialized! Delores—deeply involved with dangerous people— Delores, impulsively mixed up in some easy-money scheme— Delores, if Lennea made the wrong decision—dead!

Distrust of Delores washed over her. Was Delores really in danger, or was this just another of her lies? Had Delores herself written the note, a trick to force Lennea to turn over the money? The scheme possessed Delores' bold flare. But even if it were genuine—Delores had brought it all on herself—could Lennea really be expected to risk her own life delivering the money to the well?

Lennea's fingers clamped over the fragile bracelet. Her eyes fell to the floor, where Goldie had lain covered with blood. If Wesley were right and someone were stealing artifacts and smuggling them across the boarder, then Wesley himself was the one of them certain not to be implicated. She could return to him with the note. But Wesley was in no condition to help her, he would be able to do nothing except involve the police—Carlos Alfonso, and that to Lennea would be a wrong step. Whatever sort of illegal dealing was taking place, anyone could be a part of it, any number of people could be a part of it.

She even thought of trusting Sid. Then she visualized Sid at the well, sharp eyes scrutinizing each new find. Such an elegant man, such a grand display of wealth, but she had heard the stories about his secret financial difficulties. An empty room at the Hotel Guerrero would be an excellent front for concealing stolen artifacts and accepting illegal payment.

Joseph! She glanced at the jaguar ring she had not taken off since he had slipped it on her finger. No, she must go alone.

She stuffed the note and the charm bracelet in her pocket and headed toward the money she had hidden at the ruins. Lennea hesitated for a long time in front of Frank's work shed, staring at the padlocked door, then she moved on, stopping a final time to look back —only the placid hacienda in hazy sunlight.

Not looking around again, she set a rapid pace. Imaginary faces, the Mayan spy, watched from tangles of jungle growth. She kept her eyes locked to the path ahead, afraid if she glanced either right or left, she would lose her nerve.

Sunlight filtered through the thick foliage and spilled a diamond pattern across the bare ground, like the design of some deadly, tropical snake. She listened with intent, but heard only the sounds of her own steps.

At the first glimpse of the ruins, she stopped to slow her ragged breathing. She hadn't been here since the night of her walk with Joseph. Possibly she would find only an empty hiding place.

Lennea cut across the open area toward the jaguar stone. She must finish the task quickly and get the money to the well! She pried on the stone with nervous fingers. The stone loosened and revealed the plastic pillowcase stuffed, as she had left it, with bills. As she worked the case loose from its tight hiding place, the stone jaguar's bared fangs seemed to snarl at her.

Clutching the money, Lennea fled back down the path. Her mind worked with more speed than her steps. Since she had talked to Wesley, she had been going over and over bits of information. Each incident she thought of now led her to the same conclusion. By the time she had arrived at the jeep—Frank always left his keys in the ignition— she was certain she knew who would be waiting for her at the well.

Lennea parked the jeep as near to Wesley's pool as she could, but still a long, hard walk awaited her. Before entering the deep shade, she hesitated, trying to locate some follower in the quiet, emptiness surrounding her.

Drop off the money, and return to the jeep, she told herself. Don't try to catch him, to confront him. That would be suicide! The stifling heat made it impossible to think clearly, impossible to breathe normally.

The note had been left in her room while she was talking to Wesley. The writer of the note would be here now, concealed, waiting to see where she put the money.

Wesley's well was deserted. The diving equipment had been removed; the floating dock taken away. Lennea, holding her breath, drew close to the pool's edge, close enough to glimpse the sheer drop of cliff, the silent, green water.

With haste, she placed the plastic case in plain sight on a rocky ledge, and backed away. With the same speed, she turned back to the path she had taken. Her steps continued quickly until she was out of sight of the well and for a hundred paces beyond that, then she ducked into the trees and slowly, quietly, wound her way back to the well.

She waited in a safe, hidden spot where she could see the bag of money. Intense heat settled over everything, made the image of the pillowcase that her eyes never left appear to blur and shift. Torturous waiting. No one appeared. Her thoughts begin to lose their rigidity. She thought of Joseph and how happy they had been diving into this pool. How handsome he had looked drenched with water, laughing and sharing with her his finds.

She thought of Joseph and she touring Chicken Itza—of Chac, the rain god. She felt layers of sadness, thick, like the heat, a kinship with all the ignorant, misguided souls who had worshipped Chac. What do you do when your gods lay toppled and broken upon the ground? Joseph, her thoughts addressed him, "I've learned more from the Mayas than you think!"

A sudden sound brought back into focus the pool. Her cramped muscles stiffened as she heard someone approaching. Not the person she had expected! Anger mingled with dismay as a familiar figure came into full view. Lennea waited until Delores started to reach for the pillowcase before she stepped out to confront her.

"Delores!"

Startled at the sound of her name, Delores yanked the money from the rock and whirled around. Damp, black hair was pulled back, making her features sharp and long, and adding a dimension of desperation to her face. Her eyes were opaque and dangerously still, like the water of Wesley's pool.

"Why didn't you tell me everything? Why did you make up that lie about Joseph threatening you at the airport?" "Oh, you're so smart. I knew you'd figure it out!"

Delores whirled and started away.

"You're not leaving until you explain what all of this is about!"

"I don't have time to talk to you, Lennea! I never lied to you about one thing: I am in danger! I had to write that note to you! If I don't turn over this money to him, he'll kill me!"

Lennea's lips could not form Joseph's name. Instead, she spoke with great force. "Give me the money! I'm going to take it to the police!"

"This money is mine! I worked hard for it!"

Lennea tried to force the bag from Delores' grasp, but she held on with frantic grip. They struggled. The plastic case stretched and strained.

"Let go! I'll swear, I'll hurt you, like I did Goldie!"

Anger increased Lennea's strength. Delores' hand clawed Lennea's face. Blood trickled down Lennea's cheek to the corner of her mouth, but her hold on the pillowcase became more determined.

Delores released her hold on the bag so quickly that Lennea was almost thrown backward. Now in sole possession of the money, she gaped at Delores in disbelief.