Aaron Elkins - Curses!

"Hi,” he said brightly. He blew out his cheeks, rolled his eyes, and grinned at Gideon.

"Leo here was lucky to escape with his life when the ceiling gave way,” Gideon said. “It not only stopped his watch at 4:12, it almost took his arm off. There was blood all over the place.” It was but a small exaggeration for the greater good. Leo's wrist had, after all, been scratched, if Gideon remembered correctly.

Leo was more than happy to go along. “There sure was,” he agreed. “There was blood everywhere."

This obviously appealed to Ard, and Gideon pressed on. “Leo, Stan is doing a story on Tlaloc for Flak. He was thinking you'd be a good person to talk to."

"Flak!" Leo was clearly impressed. “You work for Flak?"

"No, I'm a free-lancer. I work out of L.A."

"L.A.!” Leo was even more impressed. “L.A. is a great place to live. Wonderful. You're only a hundred and fifty miles from the Salton Sea, did you know that?” He slid a chair next to Ard's. “Stan,” he said, bulking sincerely at his side, “have you ever thought about the benefits of time-share ownership of a waterfront hacienda in the desert?"

He was reaching for a soggy brochure when Gideon made a discreet exit, and the last he heard from them, as he headed up the stairs, was a brayed "bueno-bueno." Leo was calling for another round.

Later that evening Julie and Gideon were on their balcony, about as relaxed as people can get without being asleep. After Gideon's abbreviated interview, they had showered and changed, then gone in to dinner by themselves. They'd had sea bass in pesto sauce, with a more-than-decent bottle of Frascati. Later, they'd spent a highly satisfactory interlude in their cool and darkened room, marred only by their working up another sweat. They had showered for the third time that day, and now they were sitting in the wrought-iron rocking chairs, snifters of brandy beside them. Above them the tops of the trees were hidden by the night, but the gardens and pathways were lit with a mellow amber glow from ornate, fern-shrouded lanterns.

"Ah…” said Julie.

"I know,” Gideon said. “The raw, primitive-"

"No,” she said, smiling, “just ah. This is lovely."

"Mmm."

"Gideon, I've been doing some more thinking about whoever's been digging in the temple."

They had talked about it several times with Abe and arrived at no useful conclusions. The site was now patrolled at night but there had been no sign of the diggers, and Abe had decided to go ahead with the legitimate excavation, or re-excavation, of the stairwell the next day. Four Mayan laborers had been brought on for the heavy work, and Abe had asked Leo, as the only one of the crew who knew something about shoring, to supervise them, at least to begin with. Another crew member, assigned on a daily rotation basis, would be stationed at the foot of the pyramid to sift the fill that would be brought down in buckets on a clothesline arrangement. After that it would be trucked away.

The crew had expressed surprise when they were told about the surreptitious excavating, but little interest. They were more concerned with griping about having to sift the rubble even though the stairwell had already been excavated once before. As always, the screening table was the most unpopular of dig assignments. But Abe was firm, as he should have been. No fill or dirt would leave Tlaloc without sifting.

"What I was wondering,” Julie went on, “was whether the codex might not still be down there."

Gideon looked at her, surprised. “That's impossible. Howard's been trying to peddle it for years. That's what the committee was all about."

"Has he? Have you ever actually seen it again? Since that first look you had at it, I mean?"

"No, but there have been reports from all over the world-"

"Reliable reports?"

"Well-"

"That you can vouch for?"

"Well, no, not personally-"

"Has anybody produced any photographs? Or detailed descriptions that you could check for accuracy?"

"Well…no, not that I know of, but-"

"Gideon, there are reports from all over the world on flying saucers, and Adolf Hitler, and…well, all kinds of things. Even photographs, but that doesn't prove they're really out there."

"No, of course it doesn't, but why would Howard have left it behind? And are you saying he took the codex out of the chest, threw it down the steps to the bottom, collapsed the tunnel on top of it, and then just walked away from it? What would be the point? How could-"

"I don't know, I don't know,” she said, laughing and exasperated both. “I'm trying to be creative. Look, maybe Howard didn't cave in the stairwell. That is, not on purpose. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe he-now wait, just hear me out-you said that one of the supports had already been knocked out accidentally, right? Well, maybe they weakened some more when he was smashing the lid to get at the codex, and maybe they just collapsed by themselves. Isn't that possible? Maybe…maybe he dropped it and it fell down the stairs, and then the wall caved in on it and he had to leave it because he had no choice."

"Then why not just stick it out and say he had nothing to do with it? Why run off?"

"Well…hmm. I'll have to work on that."

"It's creative, all right, I'll say that.” Gideon lifted his snifter to his face, inhaled, and thought about it. “If you accept the premises, it even has a certain bizarre logic."

She laughed. “I love it when you get carried away."

"No,” he said, smiling back, “I think you have a point. Except-"

"I knew it."

"-why would Howard write a letter to Horizon bragging about stealing the codex, when he didn't?"

"Because…” She paused, groping. “…because he wanted you all to think it was gone.” She brightened, taken with the idea. “He didn't want anyone to look for it and find it before he could come back and dig it up himself. And nobody did,” she finished triumphantly. “Did they?"

Gideon lowered his glass to the table and turned to look at her. “No, they didn't, Julie,” he said slowly. “And so you think it's Howard himself who's been digging, trying to get to the codex before we do?"

"Well, he's the only one who'd know it was still there-if it is still there. It makes sense, doesn't it?"

For a moment Gideon almost thought it did. Then he sank back against the chair. “No, I don't think so. Aside from everything else, the timing's all wrong. Why would he wait until now, the very worst possible time, to try to get it? He could have given things a couple of years to blow over, come back to dig it up with no one around, and be long gone by now."

"True,” Julie admitted after a few seconds. She leaned back in the chair and began rocking again. “Back to the drawing board. Or, on second thought, I think I'll just let you solve it."

"Ah, come on. Coming up with ideas isn't any fun. I'd rather criticize yours."

On the veranda a fluid tenor had joined the guitarist; a sweet, soft version of “El Venadito” floated up to them. They reached across to clasp hands and slowly rocked, listening to the old folk song.

Soy un pobre venadito que habita en la serrani-i-i-a. Como no soy tan mansito…

Gideon sighed, took a long, sleepy stretch, and stood up. “Ready for bed?"

"Whew, again? The tropics really agree with you, don't they?"

"I was thinking,” he said, “of going to sleep.” He held out his hand to lift her out of her chair, and pulled her into his arms. She rubbed her forehead against his cheek and slid her hands slowly up and down his back.

"On the other hand,” he said, “I suppose I could be coaxed."

Julie smiled at him. “Why don't we finish our brandies and then see how we feel? Or if you're still awake."