Aaron Elkins - Curses!

"Good thinking."

Inside the room, they pulled the louvered balcony doors shut behind them, and Gideon crossed to the front door to flick on the light and start the slow ceiling fan they liked to have on when they slept. Not for the breeze, which was nil, but the lazy tropical ambience.

"Is that something you dropped?” Julie said, pointing toward his feet.

He looked down to see a white sheet of paper folded into quarters on the red-tiled floor. “No, someone must have slipped it under the door."

The brief message was centered on the page.

Gideon Oliver, leave Yucatan or you will die. This is not a joke.

– The Gods of Tlaloc

After he had stared at it for a few seconds Julie took it from his hand and read it. “I don't…is this supposed to be funny?"

"I don't know. Personally, I thought the bloodsucking coatimundi had more going for it."

"Do you think it's really a threat? A death threat?” Gideon shook his head slowly back and forth. “I just-Christ, what am I thinking of!” He flung the door open and leaped out into the hallway.

But no one was there, of course. The tiled hallway gleamed emptily at them, peaceful and benign, and the potted plants weren't big enough for anyone to hide behind. When he came back into the room, Julie's face was anxious.

"Hey,” he said softly, putting his arms around her again and pulling her close, rocking slowly back and forth with her. “Hey, there isn't anything to worry about, believe me. Really."

She lifted her head from his shoulder to throw him a mute, skeptical look.

"No, honestly,” he said. “Threatening letters are just so much bluster. No one takes them seriously. I certainly don't, and with all the forensic work I do, I get a lot of these things."

She looked at him again, this time with surprise. “You do?"

"Sure, all the time."

Well, twice. Once he'd been scheduled to testify that the skeleton of a Mafia figure found in Lake Michigan showed signs of strangulation. The other time had been when he was going to give evidence on the identification of a dope racketeer whose face and fingerprints had been scraped off before he'd been dumped in the desert near Las Vegas. Both times he'd gotten anonymous letters explaining in repellent detail just what would happen to him if he showed up in court.

"And they never amount to anything?” Julie asked, not looking overly convinced. “Nope, never."

Well, once. The night after his testimony in the Mafia murder someone had fired two shots through the door of his room in the Holiday Inn, but he hadn't been there at the time. It was only Gideon's second case for the FBI, and he had been thrilled.

"What about the time someone mailed you a letter bomb?” Julie said. “What about the time someone set that monstrous dog on you? On us, rather. How about-"

"We're talking about threatening letters,” he said sensibly. “People who write threatening letters don't follow through. Never.” Or was he laying it on too thick? “Well, almost never."

She gazed at him doubtfully.

"It's an accepted fact,” he told her. No question about it."

It wasn't that he was feeling especially brave, but how could anyone get very excited about this silly note? The two he'd received in the past had been poisonous; explicit enough to bring on a sweat just from the reading. This one was so…quaint, so juvenile. This is not a joke. The Gods of Tlaloc. Almost certainly a joke was just what it was, probably by the same person who had put the coat in the work shed.

Besides, what he had told Julie was true. People who wanted to kill you, killed you. They didn't write you letters about it.

He grinned at her. “Come on, Julie. Would I lie?"

She was not reassured. “Why,” she wondered, addressing a window over his shoulder, “do these things happen to him? They don't happen to other people. They only happen when he's around. Curses, death threats…"

"It didn't used to happen to me. I don't do it on purpose."

"I know,” she said and managed a wry smile. “It's some kind of gift. My theory is that you give off some kind of electrical field that attracts weirdness. Oh, Gideon!…"

She hugged him tightly, then stepped back. “What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. I suppose the police ought to be told. I'll do it tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" She looked at him disbelievingly.

"Julie, we're in the middle of nowhere. The nearest cops who know what they're doing are the state police in Merida. Anyhow, there isn't any hurry. The note says to leave Yucatan or I'll die, right? Obviously, it can't mean for me to leave right now, this minute. How could I? I'm sure I've got a few days. It's only logical."

"Yes, but I don't think you can assume whoever wrote this is logical."

There he agreed with her. “Tell you what. Let's wait until the morning anyway. We'll talk to Abe about it at breakfast and take it from there."

She started to disagree, then nodded and began to take off her watch. “Okay, you're right. I'm probably making a mountain out of a molehill."

"Note?” Abe said, his eyebrows sliding up.

He reached for it over his breakfast plate of frutas frescas -sliced papaya, pineapple, and watermelon, along with an unpeeled little banana; and of course a few lime wedges. He patted first one pocket of his shirt, then the other, then his hip pockets.

"They're hanging around your neck,” Gideon offered delicately.

"I know, I know.” He propped his reading glasses on the end of his nose. “Of course around my neck. Where else should they be?"

He studied the sheet for a long time. “I don't like it,” he said at last.

"I'm not too wild about it myself,” Gideon said.

Abe began to unpeel the banana. “I'll tell you what. I have to go into Merida this afternoon anyway, to the university library. I'll stop at the state police and give them this. We'll see what they have to say."

That was fine with Gideon, who began to attend to his scrambled eggs and ham.

Julie, who hadn't gotten used to the muddy brown eggs of Yucatan ("It's because of what they feed the chickens,” Worthy had told her darkly), was toying with her toast and coffee. “Abe, it has to be somebody from the crew, doesn't it?"

"I'm sorry to say so, but it looks like it. Who else even knows Gideon is here? Who else knows about the curse?"

"It was in the papers,” Gideon pointed out. “Garrison was on her way to a press conference in Mexico City, remember?"

"Yesterday morning. You think somebody read about it in the newspapers and came running to Yucatan the same day to slip a note under your door? No, I'm afraid Julie's right."

Gideon sighed and slid his plate away. “I suppose so.” He glanced at a table across the room where a few of the staff sat. Harvey gave him a cheerful wave. Preston smiled and nodded his leonine, empty head. “Which doesn't make me terrifically happy. But I still think it's just another dumb joke. Like the coati."

"And the digging that was going on? That was also a joke, you think?"

Gideon shook his head. He didn't know.

"What do you think, Abe?” Julie asked.

"Mm,” Abe said. He was looking carefully at the note again. “'Gideon Oliver, leave Yucatan or you will die,'” he read aloud slowly. “'This is not a joke. The Gods of Tlaloc.'” He looked sharply up at them. “Does this seem familiar to anybody else, or just to me?"

"Not to me,” Julie said.

But Gideon hesitated. When he'd first read it there had been a momentary glimmer of recognition, a feeling that he'd seen it before. He'd discounted it as a random association; it was not the world's most original death threat.

"I don't think so, Abe,” he said.

"Yeah,” Abe said after another moment of peering at it. “I'm probably imagining it.” He put a hand on Gideon's forearm. “Listen, Gideon, I'm sure you're right, it's just a joke, but all the same you'll be careful, yes? Why take chances?"