Marjorie Thelen - The Hieroglyphic Staircase

One baby step in. Halt. Her gaze swept the desk with not a scrap of paper on top, the wood polished to a shine. The shelves behind were still lined with books. The single phone sat on the desk. The floor was spotless. She said a simple prayer of thanks to all the Mayan gods that she didn’t have to clean up.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open wide. She glanced toward the lavatory door. Closed. The stain on the floor gone. The police must have finished their investigation quickly. She breathed easier, walked around the desk and took a seat on the chair. After all she was the acting director.

She studied the pictures on the walls. One held the director’s diploma from the National University in Tegucigalpa. On another wall was the photo of a soccer team. She rose to read the label at the bottom. It was the Honduran team from a long time ago. Maybe he had played on the team. She studied each face individually but she couldn’t make out one that resembled him, even in youth. So he was a soccer fan. She had never noticed the photo before. But then each time she had come here, things were so tense she hadn’t lingered.

The bookshelf behind the desk groaned with books. She had never taken time to read the titles before. Honduran Archeology, Life in Mesoamerica — the First Thousand Years, Copan Art and Drawings , and so on. Each had something to do with Honduran archaeology or the Mayans or Mesoamerican history and archaeology. Most of the books appeared brand new. One, though, had a frayed spine and looked like it had seen prodigious usage. The title was The Mayan Rulers . She took it down. Leafing through the dog-eared pages, she came to a bookmarked page. On it was a drawing of the head stela of Smoke Shell, the one who built the Hieroglyphic Staircase. She had never seen this drawing before, and she took time to study it.

The artist’s style was reminiscent of Frederick Catherwood, who originally explored Copan with John Lloyd Stephens in 1839. She had studied his drawings many times and thought she knew them all. But this one she had never seen. Catherwood made accurate and elegant drawings of what he had seen. She looked for a credit for the drawing but there was none. She started reading and got lost in the text, oblivious to time and place.

A noise from the entrance way interrupted her study. She thought she heard footsteps.

Who could that be?

She faced the door, but the angle of the door blocked her view. She looked around the room for anything that would serve as a weapon. Of course, nothing cluttered the desktop. She stealthily pulled open the top drawer of the desk. Pens, paper clips, pencils. The next drawer was locked. The third held a stack of file folders which looked intriguing but for which she had no time under the circumstances.

The footsteps stopped.

Where was something, anything heavy that she could use to hurl at or clobber the owner of the footsteps?

Nothing. There was nothing.

Heart pounding so hard she was sure it echoed through the Museum, she stood and inched her way toward the open door to see who the intruder was. With one eye she peeked around the edge of the doorway.

The figure of a man turned this way and that like he was searching for something … or someone. The light from the open skylight reflected on soft brown hair, and she recognized that perfect profile. Dominic. Praise all the Mayan gods.

“Dominic,” she called to him and waved. “I’m back here in the director’s office.”

He turned, saw her and waved back. She hurried from the office to meet him.

“You okay? I came out on lunch break to make sure you were all right.”

“Is it lunch time already?” she said. “It hardly seems possible.”

“I worried that you might run into problems. The tourists in town can’t leave fast enough. The bus station is jammed, and they’ve brought in two special charter buses. You’d think we were expecting a nuclear explosion.”

“Goodness, I didn’t think the reaction would be that bad. I had problems with the keys, and Diego, the guy in the gift shop, helped me. I’ve been checking around and was studying a drawing in a book in the director’s collection.”

She led the way back to the office. “Look. Someone, I’m assuming it was the director, bookmarked the page of this drawing of Smoke Shell.”

When he looked at her with a question in his eyes, she said, “He’s the one who built the Hieroglyphic Staircase.”

“I see,” he said and took time to study the drawing. “What do you make of it?”

“I’m not sure yet. It may be a clue to what’s been happening here. I don’t know. But someone has drawn pencil lines projecting from the eyes at different angles. Isn’t that curious?”

“Yes, do you know what that means?”

“Not yet. I’ll have to think about it.”

“You haven’t been bothered by any ghosts, have you?” The smile in his eyes made her laugh.

“No, as far as I know it’s just me. But you had me scared for a few moments.”

“I’m sorry, but I had to see if you were okay. Don’t expect any visitors today. The guards have the Park entrance blocked. I had to talk my way in. It seems that the new inspector, who’s expected soon, has forbidden entrance to anyone.”

“Then I wonder why the minister wanted me to start this morning. The situation is confusing. Luckily, the news people weren’t around when I left the house.”

“They won’t make it past the guards. But they’re all over town, photographing the tourists leaving, making a big deal about all this.”

“I’m glad you came. It’s creepy here.”

“I’m glad I came, too.” He smiled. “How’s your mother? I enjoyed dinner with her.”

“I spoke to her this morning. She wants me to leave now.”

“Of course, she wouldn’t want her daughter in any kind of danger.”

“But I’m not in danger.” She paused. “At least I don’t think I am.”

“I don’t like this set up.”

“And I don’t like the feeling I have. Not like I’m in danger, but just, well, just creepy, is the only way I know to describe it, edgy, looking over my shoulder.”

“Have you seen the boys?”

“No, have you?”

He shook his head. “I checked under the bridge, but no sign.”

“ Doña Carolita will have lunch ready. Let’s go back. We can check the bridge again.”

Getting out of the Archaeological Park was no problem but getting into town was. The crowd at the bus station spilled over into the main street into town. People stood in lines in the heat, mopping their faces, their luggage clustered around them.

“They don’t look happy,” Elena said, as they inched by.

“What a mess,” said Dominic. “The media is fanning this into a huge wildfire.”

They drove a few short blocks and turned onto doña Carolita’s street. A news van was parked outside the house.

“Oh dear,” said Elena. “This doesn’t look good. We should turn around. We could park on the next street over and walk into the back of her house. Let’s try that.”

Dominic swung a tight U-turn.

“I don’t think they saw us,” she said, looking back over her shoulder. “Turn at the next street and see if the coast is clear.”

No news vehicle was in sight on the next street. Dominic slowed, found a space and parked parallel. Elena pointed to an opening between two houses. “A private walkway goes to the back of doña Carolita’s house.”

He helped her out of the Jeep and followed her through the narrow path, just big enough for one person to walk. Elena stopped by the rear gate to doña Carolita’s house. It was locked. A tiny patio adjoined the open kitchen door.