R. Jagger - A Way With Murder

Her body was well-conditioned and taut.

Her face-ordinarily sensual and mysterious-was tense and focused.

The temple was located on the Avenue of the Dead, midway between the Pyramid of the Sun and the Pyramid of the Moon, in the middle of the Teotihuacan archeological site twenty-five miles northeast of Mexico City.

No one had ever been inside this particular ruin.

It was nothing special from the outside, just a rectangular stone structure with fifty-foot sides and a ten-foot height. Unremarkable pillars stood upright on the four corners and four midpoints. Hundreds of years ago they supported a wooden canopy. The structure paled against the mystery and grandeur of dozens of larger and more ornate works, not to mention the pyramids of the Sun and the Moon, where most of the archeological efforts had been directed to date and, even at this time, were still in their infancy.

Legend had it that the temple was cursed.

The reason for the curse had been lost to antiquity.

A hole opened up,not a big one, but enough to indicate the beginning of the end. She chipped away at the edges with renewed energy and didn’t stop until the opening was large enough to crawl through.

She took a look around and saw no one.

Okay.

This was it.

She stuck her head close to the opening and took a sniff followed by several deep breaths. The centuries-old air had no detectible odor. No lightheadedness followed, indicating the oxygen hadn’t been eaten away by mold.

She shined a flashlight inside.

The chamber was large and not broken into smaller rooms. As she anticipated, several support pillars for the stone top came into view. There were no snakes, spider webs or sounds. Whatever dust had been there at one time had settled many hundreds of years ago.

She turned the flashlight off, tied a rope around her backpack and slithered backwards through the opening until she was inside.

The air was cooler by several degrees but not damp.

She stood up and turned the flashlight on.

Intricate murals ordained all four walls.

In the middle of the room was a stone box the size of a casket, also with ornate sides.

The top was wooden, elegantly carved and hand painted.

She pulled the backpack through the opening, took out a hammer and chisel and carefully pried the top up, managing to keep it in one piece. She maneuvered it to the side, tilted it over the edge and lowered it carefully to the floor.

Then she shined the flashlight inside.

What she saw she could hardly believe.

A cold chillran up her spine.

Outside a bright arc of lightning flashed, so close and violent that the inside of the chamber lit up.

Thunder snapped.

The flashlight dropped out of her hand.

The bulb exploded with a blue flash.

Then everything in the world turned black. The darkness was so absolute that she couldn’t even tell where the opening was.

She stood there, breathing deep and heavy, hearing nothing but the sound of air moving in and out of her lungs.

Suddenly a noisecame from behind her.

It was a heavy breathing not more than a few steps away.

She backed away, tripped over the side of the casket and fell inside.

Day One

July 21, 1952

Monday Afternoon

When Sean Waterfielddisappeared into a meeting, Waverly wasn’t quite sure what to do. They were supposed to go out to dinner tonight but hadn’t discussed the time or place, no doubt because he planned on her being around the rest of the afternoon. She almost headed for the elevator but instead took a seat at the reception desk.

Ten seconds later the door swung open and an out-of-breath librarian-type walked over.

“I’m Evelyn from the temp agency,” she said. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”

Waverly’s heart sank.

She was busted.

Then she said, “You’re late.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“They didn’t think you were coming. They got me.”

Silence.

“For tomorrow too?”

“For all week, as far as I know.”

“What agency are you with?”

“That’s not important,” Waverly said. “What’s important is that they have more than one temp agency in their phonebook. Be on time next time, that’s my advice.”

The woman left.

The phone rang.

The caller wanted Bobby Baxter.

The phone had transfer buttons 1 to 10 but none were labeled.

“Do you know what extension he is?”

No.

He didn’t.

“Just give me a minute.”

She asked around until she found him, back in a corner with a drafting pad working on some kind of mathematical or engineering calculation. He had a mean, square face and narrow caveman eyes. “Put him through on line 2,” he said. His mouth smiled and his voice was calm, but he scared her. There was something behind his eyes that he didn’t want anyone to see. She didn’t know what it was but it was definitely something.

An hour passed.

People came and had her do things.

One of the men, a young man named Aaron Gull, sat on the corner of the desk and hit on her for ten minutes. In another time and place she might have been interested.

Another hour passed.

Then Sean Waterfield appeared.

He looked batteredbut happy, as if he’d been in a fistfight and won.

“I had a meeting with two of the partners and convinced them to throw away the mold and approach the project from a modern perspective,” he said. “We had a conference call with the client. At first they were reluctant but then they came around. They gave us the go ahead to come up with something fresh and present it to them for consideration. They’re going to pay us for all work done no matter which way they eventually decide to go. Now my job is to come up with something they can’t say no to.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“I don’t have a clue,” he said. “All I know is that I’m excited as all hell. Help me think about it. We’ll discuss it over dinner.”

Okay.

Fine.

He looked at his watch.

“I have to go and I’ll be gone the rest of the day,” he said. “Why don’t we say seven o’clock?”

She nodded.

Perfect.

“Where do I pick you up?”

She hesitated.

Then she told him.

She was staying with a friend in Chinatown. He could pick her up in front of the Green Dragon Oriental Massage. “Have you ever been there?”

He diverted his eyes and was about to deny it. The words that came out of his mouth though were, “Not recently.”

Day One

July 21, 1952

Monday Afternoon

Unless there was somethinghe was missing, River didn’t see January James, the biker woman, as wanting to kill him. She was more like someone who’d been kicked around for a long time and just didn’t want to be kicked anymore. He took her home, showed her where the shower was and threw her clothes in the washer. Then he drove the Indian over to the department store and did a little shopping.

When he got back, the woman was sitting on a rail with a towel wrapped around her.

Gone was the road grime.

Gone were the tangles in her hair.

Gone was the bandana.

Soft hair blew over her face and she didn’t brush it away.

River handed her two May D amp;F bags and said, “I got you some things.”

The words surprised her.

She looked inside, pulled out a pair of shorts and checked the size, which was right. Next came out a pair of jeans, two tank tops, two T-shirts and five button-down blouses. Under all that were a half dozen pair of panties and bras.