possibility,” Abe said agreeably.
It didn't to Gideon. He could think of two reasonable possibilities, and neither of them was the one Julie had suggested. When he had taken a look at the spade he had found that the clumps of dirt sticking to the blade were just that: dirt. No fungi, no webby tufts of mold. So it was highly improbable that it had been lying untouched for very long in this dark, moist dungeon of a room. Even the heaps of dirt and rubble looked fresh, although a few of them were starting to turn a woolly gray here and there.
Assuming that these moldy piles were the earliest, he estimated that the digging had begun—not ended—about a week ago, or even less. And to all intents and purposes it was still going on.
That meant, he told the others, that someone had been burrowing away in here since the dig had reopened. So either some very careful looters had been managing to evade Abe, the crew, and the guards, or...
Or one of the crew had been jumping the gun and excavating the temple on his own.
"Or her own,” Julie corrected.
"Or their own,” Abe said, “but let's not jump the gun ourselves. Why the crew? Let's stick with outsiders. Maybe they worked at night when nobody was around. What's so impossible about that?"
"But then where are their lamps?” Julie asked. “If they left their other tools, why not their lights?"
"Because if they came and went at night, they'd need them to get back to wherever they were going.” Abe folded his arms and studied the gouged-out stairwell, squeezing his lower lip between his fingers. “If these are all the tools they had, then there's maybe...say, ten, twelve hours digging they did here. Eight if they had two people instead of one. Gideon, you would agree?"
Gideon agreed. ‘
"So, that's what, two nights’ work at most? Not so hard for some robbers to wait until we locked up and then come in and do their dirty work for a couple nights."
"I agree they probably did it at night,” Gideon said, “but I still don't think it was outsiders. Outsiders have had a deserted site to dig in at their leisure since 1982. Why wait till it's crawling with people? No, if this has really been done in the last week, and I'm betting it has, then I'm also betting somebody on the crew's responsible."
"But that just doesn't add up,” Julie said. “If anybody would know that those steps have already been excavated, they would. They were here."
"That's true,” Gideon admitted. “It doesn't add up, whatever way you look at it."
Unexpectedly, Abe laughed brightly. “A puzzle,” he said. “Come on, it's dinner time, and then we got our curse to hear about.” He nudged a pile of rubble with his toe. “This we can talk about later."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 7
* * * *
Bernadette Rose Garrison, Professor of Pre-Columbian Languages at Tulane's Middle-American Research Institute, did not fit the layman's idea of a leading scholar of ancient Mayan. Or Gideon's either. A severe, dowdy black woman in her fifties, with her hair pulled back into a bun, she sported the only set of pince-nez Gideon had ever seen on a live person. She might have made a perfect office manager, diligent and prim, or maybe a supervising social worker, or a sternly uncompromising loan officer. Her manner was unceremonious—"call me Bernie,” she had said when they were introduced at dinner—but imposing enough so that only the most self-confident (Abe, for instance) had taken her up on it. Gideon, easier to intimidate, stuck with “Dr. Garrison,” which she seemed to find entirely suitable.
She sat at the head of a huge, grim table of sixteenth-century Spanish design, her neatly typed notes before her. Surrounding the table were ten massive chairs of mahogany and dark, stiffened Leather, presumably also meant to evoke the Spanish past, but looking like nothing so much as 1930s-style electric chairs. All were filled, one by Dr. Garrison, eight by the members of the Tlaloc crew,
It didn't to Gideon. He could think of two reasonable possibilities, and neither of them was the one Julie had suggested. When he had taken a look at the spade he had found that the clumps of dirt sticking to the blade were just that: dirt. No fungi, no webby tufts of mold. So it was highly improbable that it had been lying untouched for very long in this dark, moist dungeon of a room. Even the heaps of dirt and rubble looked fresh, although a few of them were starting to turn a woolly gray here and there.
Assuming that these moldy piles were the earliest, he estimated that the digging had begun—not ended—about a week ago, or even less. And to all intents and purposes it was still going on.
That meant, he told the others, that someone had been burrowing away in here since the dig had reopened. So either some very careful looters had been managing to evade Abe, the crew, and the guards, or...
Or one of the crew had been jumping the gun and excavating the temple on his own.
"Or her own,” Julie corrected.
"Or their own,” Abe said, “but let's not jump the gun ourselves. Why the crew? Let's stick with outsiders. Maybe they worked at night when nobody was around. What's so impossible about that?"
"But then where are their lamps?” Julie asked. “If they left their other tools, why not their lights?"
"Because if they came and went at night, they'd need them to get back to wherever they were going.” Abe folded his arms and studied the gouged-out stairwell, squeezing his lower lip between his fingers. “If these are all the tools they had, then there's maybe...say, ten, twelve hours digging they did here. Eight if they had two people instead of one. Gideon, you would agree?"
Gideon agreed. ‘
"So, that's what, two nights’ work at most? Not so hard for some robbers to wait until we locked up and then come in and do their dirty work for a couple nights."
"I agree they probably did it at night,” Gideon said, “but I still don't think it was outsiders. Outsiders have had a deserted site to dig in at their leisure since 1982. Why wait till it's crawling with people? No, if this has really been done in the last week, and I'm betting it has, then I'm also betting somebody on the crew's responsible."
"But that just doesn't add up,” Julie said. “If anybody would know that those steps have already been excavated, they would. They were here."
"That's true,” Gideon admitted. “It doesn't add up, whatever way you look at it."
Unexpectedly, Abe laughed brightly. “A puzzle,” he said. “Come on, it's dinner time, and then we got our curse to hear about.” He nudged a pile of rubble with his toe. “This we can talk about later."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 7
* * * *
Bernadette Rose Garrison, Professor of Pre-Columbian Languages at Tulane's Middle-American Research Institute, did not fit the layman's idea of a leading scholar of ancient Mayan. Or Gideon's either. A severe, dowdy black woman in her fifties, with her hair pulled back into a bun, she sported the only set of pince-nez Gideon had ever seen on a live person. She might have made a perfect office manager, diligent and prim, or maybe a supervising social worker, or a sternly uncompromising loan officer. Her manner was unceremonious—"call me Bernie,” she had said when they were introduced at dinner—but imposing enough so that only the most self-confident (Abe, for instance) had taken her up on it. Gideon, easier to intimidate, stuck with “Dr. Garrison,” which she seemed to find entirely suitable.
She sat at the head of a huge, grim table of sixteenth-century Spanish design, her neatly typed notes before her. Surrounding the table were ten massive chairs of mahogany and dark, stiffened Leather, presumably also meant to evoke the Spanish past, but looking like nothing so much as 1930s-style electric chairs. All were filled, one by Dr. Garrison, eight by the members of the Tlaloc crew,
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