Chapter 1

Travis Dillman lay sprawled across the musty cot, sweating profusely, smelling little beyond the stench of pig manure that wafted through the open tent flap to blend with the essence of ever-present mildew and perspiration. Tiny, beaded rivulets of sweat ran through a crusty accretion of dust on his skin, an accumulation that had long since, along with the regional aromas, been succumbed to—but never quite accepted—as an occupational hazard.

The heat wasn't so bad today, he thought. If it weren't for the flies, he could probably get some sleep. But then, if it weren’t for the flies, there'd be nothing to take his mind off the mosquitoes! He slapped wearily—almost as if by habit—at a nonspecific itch on his shoulder, then rolled over onto his side.

Besides the olfactory assault and the minuscule aerial onslaught, there was the noise—the constant drone of heavy machinery and trucks running day and night, supervisors shouting instructions to workers over the omnipresent din.

How was anyone supposed to sleep through all of that?

There was no doubt about it, this was not turning out to be the fun-filled Mexican vacation he had imagined when he had been first approached by Professor Avery to join him on an archaeological dig in the Yucatán.

Oh, to be sure, Avery had never promised him a rose garden; but then he hadn't mentioned chemical warfare and sleep deprivation either!

This was to be adventure! Excitement! Their names were going to go down in history! Well, Avery's name anyway; although he had promised academic acknowledgment to all assistants when he published his findings.

Still, Dillman wasn't here for the glory. He just loved archaeology, and he burned for the thrill of discovery.

As far back as he could remember, he had felt an intense curiosity regarding the Maya. A great percentage of the flame of this enthusiasm had been fanned by the natural interest—if not gleeful excitement—that he had experienced as a child after encountering one of his father's National Geographic magazines that included an article on the meticulously enigmatic stone carvings that dotted the Yucatán Peninsula, as well as portions of Belize, Guatemala, Honduras and El Salvador.

Actually, of course, the world's scientific interest had far preceded this article. Tales of “stone houses” buried deep in the jungles of Mexico and Central America had emerged as early as the mid-18^th Century.

By 1839, a New York lawyer turned travel writer named John Lloyd Stephens, along with his British colleague, artist Frederick Catherwood, were standing in the midst of fantastic ruins at Copan, in Honduras.

Subsequently, after two more arduous expeditions in 1842, Stephens would write, “we have discovered the crumbling remains of forty-four ancient cities... lost, buried and unknown, never before visited by a stranger....”

This was the grist to Dillman's mill. He too longed for that thrill of discovering something “never before visited by a stranger.” He yearned for the prospect of being the first to set foot on soil and stone that had been most recently trod by the ancient Maya themselves.

And, initially at least, it had seemed that Avery shared Dillman's passion. Avery had been certain that this expedition would incontrovertibly prove why the Maya had abandoned their magnificent cities so long ago, and—of even greater interest to Dillman—what would happen in December 2012, the end-date on the incredibly complex Maya calendar.

Dillman had been completely captivated by the charismatic Dr. Avery—buying into the adventure hook, line and sinker—and had readily agreed to join the project.

The addition of Gallagher to the formula had come completely unexpected.

Shortly after their arriving in the Yucatán, Avery's passion, if not his total direction, had suddenly changed. And it had all coincided with a sudden influx of money, funding for his research from an undisclosed source.

There was, of course, rampant speculation in the press that the endowments had come from a particular Texas billionaire, who, after an unsuccessful bid for the presidency, had turned his attentions to more philanthropic endeavors. This was, of course, denied by all parties concerned, and rather heatedly by one party in particular.

One thing was certain, however: someone had suddenly supplied a great deal of money. Dollars flowed into Avery's project that summer like rain-swollen rivers poured over ruptured earthen levees.

The pueblo locals could only watch in amazement as enormous quantities of earth were relocated, a massive scientific facility was constructed, and the most up-to-date equipment was purchased and moved in.

Apparently, it had been some sort of package deal, because she had come down with the first planeload of equipment.

Sarah Louise Gallagher, PhD, was a physicist from Syracuse who, in Dillman's humble opinion, had no conceivable role to play at an archaeological site, no matter how highly decorated. She was into string theory and multiple dimensions, and heady stuff like that. How this in any way dovetailed with the study of ancient stone buildings was completely beyond him.

But then, given the abrupt divergence of the project as a whole, perhaps it was he himself who no longer meshed with whatever this new juggernaut was destined to become.

Additionally, there was the fact that Dr. Gallagher's assignment seemed to encompass a great deal more than strictly scientific support. It was rumored among the construction workers that she had been drafted by the aforementioned anonymous benefactor, and given the task of keeping an eye on Avery's project, if not taking it over completely.

And it was certainly true that, from the moment of her arrival, she had made her presence known. At first suggesting, but ultimately insisting upon certain changes in the facility's construction—and in the direction of Avery's research—until she had insinuated herself into every facet of the project. Whatever the power was that she wielded over Avery, it had become obvious to everyone that it was more than adequate.

The changes, with an ever-diminishing amount of protest, had been made. Equally obvious, at least to Dillman, was the fact that Avery had hated this intrusion.

The breeze shifted slightly, mingling the scent of fresh chicken guano in with the original brew. Too much! And definitely not the discovery Dillman had had in mind. Defeated, he dragged his legs over the side of the cot and sat up. Time for a beer, he thought. Maybe three or four. Sleep will come later. He waved his arm in the general direction of a mosquito and stood, allowing his brain time to catch up with the change in blood flow. Then he ducked under the tent flap and stepped into the russet brightness of the setting sun.

The site was a constant vibration of activity. If they could be seen from the sir, Dillman thought, the workers would look like an enormous colony of ants—some carrying cartons with undisclosed contents, some repositioning larger crates with forklifts, and still others busily engaged in the seemingly unending task of moving dirt from one place to another.

Archaeological dig indeed! This was like no dig Dillman had ever heard of; and he had already participated in several, and read of and studied hundreds more. In a true archaeological dig, great care had to be taken in the removal of dirt, lest anything important be disturbed or broken—or lost!

Here, no such care was being taken. The hole that was being dug at Tz’ibilchaltun had all the markings of a full-scale strip mining operation. No, not what he had envisioned—not at all!

A choking concentration of dust laden with diesel fumes drifted through the atmosphere to mingle with the earlier bouquet, and Dillman remembered his beer. He commandeered a jeep and drove the few miles to the neighboring town of Chicxulub, famed for its association with the meteor that had wiped out the dinosaurs.

Once there, he parked in front of the pueblo's only original taberna and went in. He always used the native term rather than the Americanized “cantina.” It never hurt to be in good with the locals.

“¡Señor Deelman!” the tabernero greeted him as he had been doing for months, not quite getting the name right. “¿Cómo estás?—How are you?”

Dillman responded—as he had been doing for months—telling the bartender that he was thirsty, and requesting a beer. “Tengo sed, Margolito. Una cervesa por favor.”

"¡Bueno! Your español ees getting mucho bueno," Margolito replied.

"Lo hablo mal y nesecito practicar—I speak poorly and need practice," he protested. "Which is why I come here," he added, mostly to himself. Nothing like a few cervesas to get the tongue rolling out the words in Mexican, he thought.

When he had first arrived at the Tz'ibilchaltun site, Dillman had attempted the local tequila—paint thinner with a Cracker Jack surprise curled up at the bottom of the bottle! No thank you! As soon as he had recovered from the incident, he had ceremonially tipped his hat in the general direction of the bottle of Jose Cuervo sitting in the cabinet of his apartment back in Wisconsin, and had vowed to stick to beer for the duration of his visit.

After the site had been infused with hundreds of construction workers and additional "archaeological" assistants, additional drinking establishments had sprung up almost overnight—facilities which offered their patrons the finest in top-shelf liquors. But by then Dillman had become accustomed to Margolito's lowly taberna, up the road in Chicxulub, and so he had chosen to remain a faithful customer—the only one from the project to do so. In the months since their first meeting, customer and proprietor had allowed themselves to develop a cautious friendship.

* * *

In Dillman's case, the friendship had been founded on a very tangible beginning.

The first time he had gone to Chicxulub, he had not opted for the jeep, choosing instead to ride a bicycle, as so many of the native population did. On the way back home from the taberna, he had been stopped dead in his tracks by a looming, gigantic figure blocking the road, partially obscured by the evening fog. He had thought at first that it was a small group of men, and he had remembered all the cautions related to bandits that the State Department briefing had contained before he had left the States. He had begun telling himself that he was about to lose all his money—if not his life.

As it had turned out, however, the shadowy visage had not been banditos at all. It had been a lone bull, escaped from some pasture in the region, now feral. As the animal had begun scraping the dirt with one of its massive hooves, Dillman had abruptly determined that his money was not what he had to worry about.

Just then, a pickup truck had driven up, headlights flashing and horn blaring, startling the bull and causing it to retreat back into the bushes beside the road.

“Señor! Are you alright?” It had been the bartender from the taberna Dillman had left a short while earlier.

Before Dillman recovered enough to comprehend what was going on, the tabernero had hopped out of his vehicle, thrown the bike into the truck bed, and ushered him into the passenger seat. Getting back in behind the steering wheel, he had said with much gravity, “It ees not safe to ride these roads at night with only the bicycle. There are too many wild animals. Toros—bulls, perros—dogs, perhaps even el tígre—the jaguar.”

He had introduced himself as Margolito, using the familiar name usually reserved for family and friends. And, not only because he had undoubtedly saved his life, Dillman had taken an instant liking to this man.

Over time, their relationship had taken on its own life. It had developed its own routine.

* * *

"Well, qué hay de nuevo, Margolito—what's new?" Dillman asked as he was served his beer, anticipating the familiar answer.

"Poca cosa, mi amigo," his host answered as always—"Not much, my friend."

Yeah, he's got that right, thought Dillman, as he brought the bottle to his lips and took a slow drink. There was never anything new around here. Every day—the same. Every night—the same. If monotony could be packaged and sold, Margolito could make a fortune!

"How do you stand it, amigo?" he asked his host. "Poca cosa yesterday, poca cosa today, poca cosa tomorrow! Always poca cosa!"

Margolito shrugged and smiled. So it was going to be one of those nights. "Deelman" was going to get melancholy and drunk. Then he was going to get more melancholy. Then more drunk. Margolito had witnessed the pattern many times. Ironically, this unfortunate man who sat before him drinking cervesa and complaining about the monotony of his life was going to create still more monotony for himself. Finally, as always, Margolito would have to take him home to sleep it off before his next morning's work.

It was always the same.

Margolito brought Dillman his second cervesa, and quietly went back to his other customers. He felt sorry for his friend. Here was a man who was, he was sure, really proficient at his job—extremely knowledgeable in las Mayas. Yet what good was it doing him? Here he was, languishing, deteriorating—his talents atrophying instead of being used and strengthened, as had been promised. He had been recruited for a project which had, seemingly overnight, transformed itself into one which made no visible sense—neither to him nor to any of the citizens of Chicxulub.

They had all been told of the great and importante archaeological study that was to take place here. Permission had been granted by the Mexican government, permits had been issued, and payments—generous ones, it had seemed at the time—had been made to all landowners whose properties would be effected.

Nothing had been given to the local indiginas, of course; but it had been assumed that at least some employment would be offered through such a magnificent project.

At first, everything seemed to be exactly as it had been promised to be—a small team of profesores digging in small sections of the local soil—an occasional package being shipped back to los Estados Unidos—nothing more.

Then, she had come—"La Pelirroja"—"the redhead." After that, things had not been the same. She had been here less than a month when it had already become obvious that she had all but emasculated el doctor Avery. This was something abominable to Margolito—as it was to all the men. It violated their sense of machismo—their manhood. It was she who had brought in the others—the workers—the especialistas.

Specialists! Bah!—thought Margolito. What need did they have of specialists? Were there not enough able-bodied and unemployed men right here?—men who did not need to be called "specialists" to have enough knowledge to be able to dig a hole?

Outside, a gentle rain began to fall. It would settle some of the dust, thought Margolito. The dust. The other fine present that had been brought to their doorstep! The dust had never been so bad before she had come. The first ones, el profesor and "Deelman", had never dug more than a little bit at a time—carefully—like a man shaves his face with a razor—watching out that he doesn't take too much with one stroke. Now, the digging went on all day and all night—the enormity of the project was astounding.

Margolito walked back over to Dillman, bringing him his third beer. "A toast, mi amigo—a toast to La Pelirroja: may she come to appreciate the true meaning of where she is."