Clive Cussler - The Mayan Secrets

He put a hand on Sam’s shoulder and the other on Remi’s and began to walk them toward the trail to town.

“Stop.” They stopped and slowly turned. It was Señor Lopez again. “Maybe you’re right and these people should be freed. But we need time to decide what to do.”

The townspeople responded with a roar composed equally of approval and relief that they didn’t have to make such a momentous decision right then. The people swarmed around Dr. Huerta and the Fargos and swept them along the trail, down from the stronghold, and into the town.

When they reached the main street, the crowd ushered Sam and Remi into an old adobe building. There was an outer room, with a table and chairs and a big, heavy wooden door. On the other side of the door was a row of three cells with thick iron bars and padlocks. The crowd pushed Sam and Remi into one of the cells, and someone locked the door and took the key. Then the people trickled back outside.

After a minute, Father Gomez entered the cellblock. “Sam, Remi, I’m terribly embarrassed by this. I apologize for them. They’re good people, and they’ll come to their senses very soon.”

“I hope so,” said Sam. “Could you make sure our backpacks don’t disappear?”

“They’re already in the outer office. If you need anything from them, Señora Velasquez will be here to get it out for you.”

“Thank you,” said Remi.

“And one more thing,” said Father Gomez. He held out both hands, pushing them through the bars.

Sam and Remi took their guns out from under their shirts and handed them to the priest. He put them into his coat pockets. As he left, he said, “Thank you. I’ll keep them safe for you in the church.”

A minute later, Señora Velasquez opened the big wooden door, propped it open, and returned with a tray with soft drinks and glasses on it. She slid it through the feeding slot at the bottom of the bars.

“Gracias, Señora Velasquez,” said Remi.

“I’ll bring your dinner in an hour, and I’ll be outside the door all night,” said Señora Velasquez. “Just shout if you need anything.”

“You don’t need to stay,” said Sam.

“Yes I do,” she said. She reached into her apron and held up an old but well-oiled long-barreled .38 revolver that could have been from the 1930s. “If you try to escape, someone has to be here to shoot you.” She put it back in her apron, took her tray, and disappeared through the doorway. After a second, the heavy wooden door swung shut.

At dawn, the sun shone into the jail through a ventilation shaft, impeded only by the motionless blades of a fan. At some point in the night, Sam and Remi had fallen asleep on the two bunks, which each consisted of a shelf like a door on hinges folded against the wall during the day and lowered at night on a pair of chains that held it horizontal.

Sam woke to find Remi sitting on her bunk and swinging her legs. “Good morning,” he said. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I was thinking how cute you are when you’re lying there in your bunk,” she said. “Too bad I don’t have my phone to take your picture. You could be Cellmate of the Month in women’s prison.”

Sam sat up and pulled on his shirt, then began to button it. “I’m flattered, I think.”

“It’s just an observation, and I don’t have much to look at,” she said. “It doesn’t look as though they use this jail much. No graffiti, not much wear and tear, since the last paint job.”

“Have you seen anybody yet?”

“No, but I’ve heard the front door close a couple of times, so we’re still under guard.”

A moment later, there was a loud knock on the wooden plank door at the end of the cellblock. Remi smiled, and called, “Come in.”

Señora Velasquez opened the door and came in, bearing a tray with two covered plates, some glasses of orange juice, and other good things.

“It was nice of you to knock,” said Remi.

“Nobody said you can’t have any privacy,” said Señora Velasquez. “You just can’t leave yet.”

“Yet?”

“People have been listening to what Father Gomez and Dr. Huerta say about you. I think we’ll all meet in the afternoon, and you can be on your way after that.”

“That’s a relief,” said Sam. “But I’m glad they didn’t let us out before breakfast. That food smells so good.”

“Yes it does,” said Remi. “You’re very kind to us.”

Señora Velasquez slid the tray under the bars, and Sam picked it up and set it on the shelf that served as his bunk. “I wish we had chairs and things,” said Señora Velasquez. “We weren’t expecting anyone like you.”

“Thank you for what you’ve done.”

As Señora Velasquez went out the door, there was no mistaking the sound of a big bolt being slid into place.

Just as they finished their breakfast, they heard the morning silence of the little town broken by the sound of a truck laboring up the long hill to the main street. They could hear the transmission whining, the engine’s revolutions speeding up on the last hundred yards, and then the engine idling in the street in front of the church. After a moment, there was a man shouting, and then other men jumping from the truck to the pavement, and then running footsteps.

Sam and Remi looked at each other. Sam stepped to the space below the tiny, high window in the wall, bent his knees, and knitted together the fingers of both his hands to make a step for Remi. She put her foot in his hands and he lifted her up. She grasped the bars of the little window and looked out.

Men in a mixture of camouflaged fatigues, T-shirts, khakis and blue jeans ran from the truck and entered buildings along the main street. They kicked in doors and shouted at people to come out to the street. “They’re rounding up the townspeople,” she said.

Men, women, and children came outside, looking confused and worried. They joined their friends and neighbors, adding to the growing crowd. Groups of armed men ran up the side streets and brought back more people. “They’re gathering the whole town.”

The cab of the truck opened and two men got out. “It’s the two men!” Remi whispered.

“What two men?”

“The ones who tried to kill us for Sarah Allersby. The ones from Spain. The one you painted blue.”

“How does he look?”

“He looks sunburned but still has a trace of a blue tinge, like a dead man.”

“I can’t wait to see him.”

Outside, Russell and Ruiz stepped to the bed of the truck, climbed up, and used it for a stage. Russell took out a thick sheaf of legal documents and handed it to Ruiz, picked up a bullhorn, and spoke. “Testing.” The word was loud, echoing from the hills. He held it for Ruiz, who read the Spanish text.

“Citizens of Santa Maria de los Montañas,” he said. “Your town is situated in the middle of a tract of land that has been set aside as an archaeological preserve. In five days, you will be removed and taken to a new town a few miles from here. You will be provided with a place to live and given employment in exchange for your cooperation.”

An old man stepped out of the crowd. He wore an ill-fitting blue sport coat and an old pair of khaki pants. He stood near the truck and spoke in a loud voice. “I am Carlos Padilla, mayor of Santa Maria.” He turned to his people. “These men want to move us to the Estancia Guerrero. The work they offer is growing marijuana, and we would live in the barracks they built years ago when the gangsters moved in. They’ll charge us more for rent than they pay us for the work, so we will always owe them money and can never leave. The land we’re on has been ours for twenty centuries. Don’t give it up to be slaves.”