“Your ten minutes are up.” Tyre kept hold of her wrist
and heat seared up her arm as he rubbed his thumb across her
pulse. She felt the beating of his heart beneath her palm
and pulled back. He was close enough to kiss. Close enough
to feel his warmth, the smell of his soap and the kiss of
Scotch on his breath.
Tyre leaned in another inch and ran his hand along her
arm, both thrilling and terrifying her with his touch. He
looked at her lips.
“I don’t think you want me to leave, Professor Twamley.
I don’t think my ten minutes are up at all. In fact, I think
you’re dying for me to kiss you. What a confused woman you
are. One moment you’re terrified of me, the next…”
“You’re very much mistaken.”
“Am I? I don’t think so, but I’ll let it go for now, as
I’ve more important business to attend to.”
Tyre turned away and reached for a worn leather satchel
lying next to his coat on the couch. He pulled out a package
wrapped in cloth and handed it to her.
Without looking, Troya knew, as if the explorer called
her name across the centuries. Catherwood’s journal.
Rasmussen had it. She sank to the couch and hugged the book
to her chest. As she ran her hand across the fabric that
encased it, the musty smell called to her, called her into
the jungle, amidst the ruins, into the deepest recesses of
her imagination.
“Is it real? You’re sure?” Her hands shook, and to her
horror, she felt tears pool in her eyes.
“As real as I am.”
“Where? How?”
“At Uxmal, in the Northern Quadrant, the only area not
completely explored. It looks like a dump, but I suspect
it’s a small, rather ordinary Post-Classic building,
probably a minor temple.”
“I don’t understand. Why would Catherwood have left his
journal at the site? How did it survive?”
“Encased like a mummy, boxes within boxes, buried
deeply. A few of the pages are burned, as if someone rescued
it from a fire. I wasn’t looking for it, trust me. I have,
at least for a short while longer, a permit to do some
exploratory digging around that building. I decided to go
down rather than wide, check out the stratigraphy first. We
hit on this the first week. Shovel to metal, you could hear
the find across the whole site. Thank God it was early,
before the tourists and the guards started nosing around.”
“And you simply took it out of the country? This isn’t
yours to keep!”
“I’m not an idiot! Damn, how else will you insult me
tonight? Trust me, you’ll understand once you’ve had a
chance to read it. You’d do the same thing, I assure you.”
“But it will deteriorate unless a conservator…” She lost
her train of thought. All of her youthful fantasies of
explorers trudging through deep jungles, of pyramids peeking
out of the greenery, of unknown dangers and fascinating
treasures—all started with one man—Frederick Catherwood. The
artist, who drew and photographed antiquity over a century
earlier, defined the mysterious past for several
generations. His partner Stephens had written the text, but
Catherwood brought it to life. Only a fraction of his work
survived, the rest gone, presumed burned in a fire, or lost
in the shipwreck that tragically took his life.
No one on the planet knew more about Catherwood than
Troya Twamley. Her dissertation on his life and work had
earned her a position at Hopkins and spawned a popular
series of books for the general public on great explorers.
Now Indiana Rasmussen was handing her the Holy Grail.
“May I?” A tear trickled down her cheek. Tyre smiled and
inclined his head slightly.
“I didn’t come all this way for a drink. I won’t let you
read the whole thing tonight. You’ll have to come to Mexico
for that. But you can cop a glance.” He winked and Troya
realized he seemed to truly understand what the treasure
meant to her.
The cloth wrappings of the book released their musty
smell more as she pulled away the layers, exposing a deep
green leather casing, stained black over much of its
surface.
The binding creaked as she opened the cover to expose a
frontispiece sketch of a bearded man, sitting on a camp
chair in the middle of a jungle. Troya caught her breath at
the self-portrait and ran her palm across the page. An
archaic, precise script, the one she knew so well, erased
all doubt. She read aloud, and heard her voice crack. “Being
the daybook of Frederick A. Catherwood, during his travels
in the Yucatan, 1840.”
Troya glanced up at Tyre, who rested his chin in one
palm and stared at her.
“I know of no other confirmed self-portrait of him. And
I’ve looked, God, how I’ve looked.”
He smiled a bit more widely and nodded. Troya lifted the
next leaf and cried out in glee. Her favorite spot in the
world, the Pyramid of the Magician at Uxmal—a quick sketch
only, with a few notes underneath and a date. Subsequent
pages began the journal in earnest, and Troya began reading,
but looked up to find Tyre reaching for the book.
“Your ten minutes are up, Troya.”
“No, please. You don’t understand…”
“I understand perfectly. That’s why I’m here. If you
come to Uxmal, you’ll have all the time in the world to
study it.” He pulled the book out of her hands and rewrapped
it, tucked it into his bag.
“Extortion.”
“Precisely.”
He can’t mean this. It’s everything to me. I could
call the authorities, Colin would know what to do. The
Mexican archaeological service would skin him alive.
Unless…unless SinJin Twaine arranged this somehow.
“What if I told the authorities what you’ve done? What
you have?”
“And give up your chance to examine it before the
Mexican archaeologists? Not likely. This is big, Professor.”
“I can read it here, tell you anything you need to
know.” Just don’t take it away from me tonight.
“What did I ask you at the lecture? If I proved that the
entrance to Xibalba is at Uxmal? It’s in there.”
“Tell me. I’m begging you.”
Tyre arched a brow. “I think I like the sound of you
begging.”
“Knock it off. What’s in there?”
“Sex, torture, demons…the usual stuff.” His eyes flashed
in amusement. He thinks you’re a frigid pill.
“You mean ancient rituals? Are you sure?”
“And a few modern ones. Some traditions evidently didn’t
die out so easily. Catherwood found a little pagan love fest
among the locals.”
“Nonsense.”
“At the place where Earth and Hell meet, he calls it.
The rituals of Xibalba. I plan on finding that place.”
“It’s allegorical, surely you realize that? There’s no
building, no entrance to the Underworld! Entrance to the
Underworld? There’s no Underworld!”
“Are you sure? Your hero believed it existed, in three
dimensions, not simply in sculptures and rituals and
scrolls.”
“Then he was mad.” As mad as you.
“I intend to find out. You must realize how big this is.
Think, Troya.” He sat next to her and grabbed her hand,
chilling her nerves again, turning her breath shallow. “Even
if we only find a tomb, a sculpture, anything to mark the
spot that the Mayans revered as a gateway to hell. Imagine.
I’ll share it with you. But you have to help me decipher
Catherwood’s ramblings. I’ll need you at the site. Sometimes
he’s a bit…”
“Obtuse? Yes, I know. I can’t tell you how many times I
read certain passages, only to abandon them. I think it’s
because some of the landmarks he used are destroyed. Or if
what you say is true, that he thought he found an entrance
to Xibalba, perhaps he was actually mad.” No, it didn’t
make sense. The man was meticulous, steady as a rock.
Perhaps not as precise as his partner, Stephens, when it
came to the written word. But his sketches were
impeccable.
“You’ll come? Tomorrow?” His tone grew urgent again, and
Troya wondered if there was more to his plea than he let on.
“Tomorrow! I’m off to Greece tomorrow. I can’t change
everything…” Oh my God, what the hell should I do?
“I’m booked, have a villa, a manuscript to finish…on
sabbatical…”
“The dig permit runs out in four weeks. You’ll have
nearly an entire year in Greece. You won’t pass this up. You
can’t.”
“You don’t even know me.” But he knows what this
journal means to me. And that’s more than Mike understood
after three years of living with me.
“You’ll come. We’re at the Hacienda Uxmal, across the
road from the site. You know the place, of course.” Tyre
slung his satchel over his shoulder, picked up his coat and
headed for the door.
Panic swept through Troya. Don’t leave! She was
simply desperate to see more of the journal, not the man,
she told herself. But now they seem inexorably linked,
exerting the same irresistible pull. I want more.