Bones of the Sun God Read online

  The crowd went silent as one by one, the black-robed sacrifices moved to the edge of the pool. The screaming and yelling began again, but it had changed. The crowd clapped wildly as the four figures stepped up onto the ledge and out of the pool. Clearly exhausted, they stumbled to their original places by the poles, their robes dripping water onto the stones. The white-robed leader climbed out last and then signaled to his followers. They picked up their drums and walked toward the tunnel.

  “Sacrifice is the key to rebirth,” the announcer declared. “You have just witnessed the power of Kinich Ahau, god of the underworld.” The clapping got louder. “Now is your chance to meet the followers of Kinich Ahau and pay your respects.” Then the announcer added, “Please make gratuities in US dollars only.”

  The crowd rose quickly; everyone was eager to meet the freaks that had cheated death. Sam kept his head down, wary of the man in the red hat, but he soon heard him screeching through his loudspeaker about US dollars. Sam had been so distracted by the performance he’d forgotten the reason he had come to Xibalba, but now he was focused on his mission again and he knew he needed to get down by the pool as fast as he could. He hadn’t seen the face of the man in the white robe, and he didn’t even know what Superintendent Ramos looked like, but he was sure they were the same person.

  Movement along Sam’s row slowed to a few shuffling inches at a time, so he took a shortcut by stepping over a seat and down into the next row. He repeated the move four more times until he was in an empty row, then cut along to the stairs and joined the line heading for the bottom.

  Sam could see the four crocodile attack survivors lined up along the inside of the tunnel in their soaking robes. Their hoods were draped back over their heads, but they hung like wet towels. And they were holding their empty drum containers out in front of them like strangely dressed beggars. A traffic jam of tourists had formed at the entrance to the tunnel and people tossed dollar bills into the drums as they squeezed in for photos with the death-defying monks.

  The white-robed leader wasn’t with his disciples, and Sam pushed around the edge of the crowd, looking for the door the group had come out of. The frame had been painted to blend in with the stone, but as Sam grabbed the door handle he realized the whole wall was plaster, made to look like stone. He turned the handle and pulled the door open to look down another long corridor. At the far end, Sam caught a glimpse of the man in white, but the door was suddenly slammed shut in his face. Standing next to him was the woman who had tried to escape from the pool. Sam saw her looking at him from under her hood. She pointed to the door and shook her head, then stepped back into line beside her colleagues.

  “I just want to see Mr. Ramos,” Sam said, loud enough to be heard over the excited chatter of the tourists. The woman ignored him, and Sam was about to say something else when the hood of the monk at the far end of the line shook. Drops of water splashed onto an elderly lady who had backed up to the monk for a picture. The hood moved as the head inside turned toward Sam. He saw an eye under the wet cloth, then the second, and beside it an ugly red line.

  Sam stared back at the Scar-Faced Man. The man sneered and stepped forward, but the woman was in his way. She turned, thinking he was giving her a hug. The man pushed her to one side, and in those few seconds, Sam acted. He dropped to his feet and crawled like a speeding toddler, hidden from the Scar-Faced Man. But he didn’t head away; he aimed for the tunnel.

  Sam had no idea if there was a back way out, but he did know where the entrance was. His only advantage was the mass of people. He crawled forward, over feet and between legs. The curses and yelps of surprise were lost in the chaos of over a hundred people struggling to take photos and buy souvenirs.

  The tunnel was about ten feet wide; the four robed people were lined up against one side. Sam’s course took him as close to the other wall as he could get. The tunnel widened as he got into the gift shop, and he rose to a crouch and ran across the shopping space, around the corner and into the narrower section that led to the entrance. As the space around Sam darkened, he risked a glance back.

  At first all Sam saw were tourists loaded down with purchases, and then he spotted the Scar-Faced Man pushing through the crowd. Eager fans reached out to touch him and ask for photos, undeterred by his angry face. He ignored them and spun around, looking for a glimpse of his quarry. Finally, he looked up the tunnel and began moving toward the entrance. Sam ran on, swerving left and right to avoid the glow of the boxes containing the crocodile heads.

  A crack of light running along the bottom of the two big wooden doors signaled the end of the tunnel. Sam tried the handle—locked. He looked back the way he had come and saw the outlines of bodies moving toward him. A camera flash went off, and for a fraction of a second the front group was illuminated. In the middle of them, moving fast, was the Scar-Faced Man.

  Sam dropped to his knees and shuffled into the corner. There was no way he had been spotted, he told himself, but that would change once the man got to the doors. Sam pushed them again. They were heavy and bolted firmly. He hit them in frustration and was shocked to be rewarded with a click. He pushed again, and one of the doors swung outward. Sam’s confusion faded as he stumbled into a surprised man wearing blue overalls and a Xibalba cap. The light streaming in made Sam an easy target. Shouts erupted from the other end of the tunnel. He slipped past the man in the doorway and ran into the parking lot.

  Sam had seconds to get away, but where? The football field–sized lot was less than half full. The big white bus was still parked in the middle, and beyond it was the gate. Sam’s only hope was to use the bus for cover as he ran for the only exit. Once he was out, he knew he could hide in the fields. Sam sprinted for the bus, but with every step he braced for the yell of the Scar-Faced Man.

  THE SCAR-FACED MAN BARKED ORDERS at the men gathering around him while the tourists, oblivious to the drama, chatted happily to each other as they boarded their bus. The engine started, and the vehicle moved toward the exit, but an urgent cry brought it to a jarring stop. The hydraulics hissed as the door opened, and boots thumped up the stairs. The engine idled, and the passengers continued to talk. There were more heavy footsteps, and then the door hissed shut. As the bus moved off, the Scar-Faced Man yelled to his men to search the rest of the parking lot.

  XIBALBA CROCODILE PARK

  GUARDIANS OF THE UNDERWORLD

  Xibalba (Place of Fear) is the name of the Maya underworld and is ruled by the Maya death gods and their helpers. It is believed that the entrance to Xibalba is a cave in Belize. The Maya believed that when you died you entered the underworld through a cave.

  Kinich Ahau (He of the Sun / Face of the Sun)—In the daytime, he is the Sun God on his daily trip through the thirteen levels of the sky. After sunset, he is god of the underworld, lord of night, as he descends to the underworld (Xibalba). Kinich Ahau is a personification of the number four.

  Crocodiles—The relationship of the crocodile with the underworld, home of the dead, may be suggested for different reasons. Crocodiles live in caves, and caves are viewed as entrance points to the underworld. Crocodiles also spend much of their time underwater, and water is a feature of the underworld and one of the component parts of Xibalba.

  The bus rolled back into Orange Walk, heading downtown. At the first set of lights, no one on board heard the click of the baggage compartment door as it opened and was then shut again. As the bus drove off, Sam stood up and crossed the road onto a small side street.

  6

  LOST AND FOUND

  THE CONFRONTATION WITH THE SCAR-Faced Man had thrown Sam. His getaway had been down to luck. And a basic knowledge of bus loading.

  The idea hit him as he ran past it. A flash back to a rowing trip and helping to load the team bus. Sam remembered the huge baggage compartment. Thankfully, this one hadn’t been locked. That, Sam soon discovered, was because it was empty. He slid in with a sense of dread, positive it would be the first place they would search.

  It wa
s the second. But the fact that it was empty had saved Sam.

  If there had been any bags, it would have triggered a closer inspection. Whoever checked the compartment only looked long enough to see that apart from the spare tire, it was empty. If they had known anything about the baggage compartments in modern buses or had to pack them on team trips, they would have known that the spare tire was usually tucked away in a locker. A space just big enough for a thirteen-year-old boy.

  Running through the backstreets of Orange Walk, Sam went over his options. He knew he shouldn’t return to his hotel, but he had no choice. He called Mary, but there was no answer. On her way to Switzerland, he figured. He had to return to the hotel because he’d left his passport and extra money in his room. It was a rookie mistake, and he promised himself he would keep his passport and cash with his notebook in his backpack from now on.

  When he reached the hotel, Sam waited across the road in the doorway of an apartment building. He watched the main entrance for the Scar-Faced Man and his helpers. After thirty minutes, there had been no sign of anyone. Did that mean he was safe? The Scar-Faced Man had his name, and he worked for Felix Ramos; surely he could find where he was staying.

  He gave it another ten minutes and then, using his best young-exchange-student-out-for-a-walk look, he sauntered in past reception and headed for the elevators. Sam wasn’t sure if he was sauntering, but he’d read the word in a book and thought it meant “walking casually.”

  There were no guests in the hotel lobby, and on Sam’s floor the only evidence of other people was a big room service cart. Judging by the number of plates, Sam could tell the people in the room next to him had enjoyed a real feast, and he felt a pang of hunger.

  The room was how he’d left it. The first thing Sam did was go to the window and check the street; it was still empty. He pulled the curtains and turned on the light. Ignoring the temptation to call Mary, he dug a local directory out of the bottom drawer and turned to Accommodations. He needed to check in somewhere else under a different name. He found an ad for a cheap-looking motel a few blocks away and was about to ring the number when his phone beeped. He dug it out of his backpack, relieved that Mary had finally made contact. But then he saw the screen.

  From: Jasper Force [email protected]

  Date: Saturday, Sep 19, 2015

  To: Sam Force [email protected]

  Sam,

  I KNOW YOU ARE IN BELIZE.

  I have been contacted by someone. He, or she, won’t tell me who they are, but they go by the name TF—does that mean anything? TF told me you had left St. Albans and gone in search of your parents. Sam, I can’t tell you how much this concerns me. We both know there are powerful people involved in this hunt for the Ark. I know you want to find out what happened to your parents, as do I, my boy. But please consider putting off your search until I can extract myself from Cairo and help you. You could leave Belize now and return to school. I could contact St. Albans with a cover story. Is that something you would consider?

  Alas, I fear, knowing you as I do, that the answer is no. If you have shown the initiative to get yourself to Belize, then I imagine my pleading will not alter your determination. Therefore, I will pass on the information that TF asked me to convey to you.

  I was asked to tell you that your parents used the name Sobek while they were in Belize. Sobek, by the way, was the Egyptian crocodile god. I don’t know if this will be of any use and if I am contacted again I will pass on any information I receive. TF has also insisted you do not mention any of this to Mary. They do not want her involved.

  So there you have it. Please do consider my suggestion to leave. Your parents would not think any less of you, and it would help this old man sleep much easier. If you cannot bring yourself to heed my wishes, then please stay safe, my boy. I hope some of my lessons will stand you in good stead. If you need anything, anything at all, contact me immediately.

  xxx  Jasper

  Sam had no idea who TF was. The fact so many people seemed to know he was in Belize was a worry. First the bearded man and now the mysterious TF. At least he wanted to help. That should have been welcome news, but Jasper’s words weighed heavily on Sam. He was embarrassed by his uncle’s faith in his abilities. After being so eager to get to Belize, now he felt an overwhelming urge to run away.

  Sam had been there less than a day, and things were already getting out of control. Should he move to another hotel? Or head for the airport? His mind wrestled with the question as he fidgeted with the directory. He opened the battered book again and looked up Airport Transfers. He found the listing and picked up the phone next to the bed to call for an outside line, but just as he dialed he turned back to the page with the ad for the cheap motel.

  “Hello, reception,” said the woman from downstairs.

  “Hi. This is Chester Billington from room three oh seven. I need to make a local call.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line.

  “Mr. Billington, I was just about to ring you. I have a man here asking for you. I told him I couldn’t give out your room number.” The woman stopped talking, and Sam pressed his ear to the phone, straining to hear what was going on. She was talking to someone, then shouting. The words were faint, and Sam only made the last few out, but they were enough—You can’t go up.

  Sam dropped the phone, grabbed his backpack, and sprinted to the wardrobe. He threw back the doors and jabbed at the numbers on the small safe. An age passed between the four beeps of the buttons and the click of the door unlocking. He scooped up his passport and cash and ran from the room.

  A solitary ping echoed along the corridor. The elevators were at one end around a corner. The other exit, the fire escape, was roughly the same distance in the opposite direction. Sam knew he’d never make it.

  THE SCAR-FACED MAN WAS ALONE. He’d changed from his soggy black robe into jeans and a black jacket. He walked quickly to Sam’s room and knocked on the door softly, then harder. He checked up and down the corridor, then dropped to his knees and inserted two pieces of wire into the lock. There was a dull click, and he rose and slipped into the room.

  A few seconds later, he was back in the corridor with his phone to his ear. As he spoke angrily in Spanish, the ping of the elevator announced another arrival on the third floor. A young man in a crisp white jacket rounded the corner and walked toward the Scar-Faced Man. He nodded respectfully when their eyes met and then moved behind the room service cart and pushed it back toward the elevator. The waiter didn’t notice the extra weight, and Sam was wheeled away, crouching under the table on wheels. Through a gap in the tablecloth, he watched the Scar-Faced Man continue his conversation in the doorway of Sam’s old room.

  WHEN THE ELEVATOR STOPPED, SAM felt the trolley being rolled out onto a concrete floor. He could hear the clanging of pots and instructions being shouted in Spanish. His plan—and it didn’t deserve the title—was to leap out, apologize, and run. But he didn’t need to. Someone yelled, “Pedro,” which must have been the name of the waiter, because the cart came to an abrupt stop, and he rushed off toward the sound of the pots and yelling people.

  Sam pulled back the tablecloth. He was in another long corridor, but not nearly as fancy as the one he’d come from. Guests were never meant to see this part of the hotel. Plain white walls and a concrete floor. Sam rolled out and headed away from the kitchen, toward a glowing EXIT sign at the far end of the corridor. He’d almost made it when another door opened in front of him. Sam just had time to open the door of the room he was passing and dive in.

  It was pitch-black inside. Sam took one step forward and kicked a bucket, sending it skidding across the floor. The noise was horrendous. He froze, listening for a sign that he had been busted. The squeaking wheels of another room service cart drifted past, and the corridor outside fell silent. Sam put his hands out, feeling for the door and then the wall beside it. He found the light switch, and a single bulb flickered to life above him.

  He was in a small, window
less room. There was a desk beside the door. The rest of the space was filled with rows of floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with all kinds of stuff. Sam put on his backpack and turned to leave the room. As he reached for the door handle, a large book on the desk caught his eye. Written on the cover were the words Lost Property. Inside were pages of neatly written dates and names. The first entry was October 2007. Sam flicked through it; the same neat handwriting filled every line. Whoever was in charge of lost property at the Orange Walk Excelsior took their job seriously, and they had been busy. 2008 took up three whole pages. 2009 was five. In early 2010, someone had even left a microwave oven in their room. Who took an appliance to a hotel? Sam wondered. A few lines below that entry, Sam spotted the name he’d been looking for. It seemed Mary had picked the right hotel. Next to the name Sobek, it said Coat 414.

  There were no noises coming from the corridor, but there was no way to know how long it would stay like that. Sam knew the Scar-Faced Man could be searching the place for him. He had to get moving, but a potential clue was too important to pass up. He checked the book one more time and looked at the rows of shelves. Numbers on small cards were taped to the end of each unit. Sam moved toward the back of the room until he saw a card with 400–520 on it. Halfway along the bottom shelf of that row he spotted the microwave. Each shelf had numbers along it, and it didn’t take Sam long to find 414. Folded neatly above it was an old brown trench coat. Sam knew it well; it was his father’s. He picked it up and headed for the door.

  That’s when the alarm went off.

  7

  FIRE ESCAPE

  OVER THE CLANGING BELL, SAM heard footsteps thundering down the corridor. They stopped outside, and he leapt into the corner as the door swung open. Three men spoke urgently in Spanish as a drawer in the desk was pulled open. There were more shuffling footsteps, and the door was slammed shut. They hadn’t even noticed the light was on. The voices and footsteps faded away.