Chapter Eight
Bad Thoughts from a Good Demon
Hunting treasure …
Whether ancient gold coins or sparkly gemstones, an answer to an age-old mystery, a miraculous cure for a deadly virus, or even the long-buried historical secrets of an ancient civilization—do not dare come between the hunter and the treasure.
But where is the line between curiosity and obsession?
And at what point does obsession turn into madness?
It all starts when a seed of curiosity is planted, then watered with further questions, and eventually prompted to sprout by the early rays of clue-spurred discoveries.
At best, the seed becomes a flowering tree that later delivers intellectually delicious fruits of knowledge.
At worst, it grows into a carnivorous plant with bewitching blossoms that trigger allergens of madness. This madness multiplies into a disease that festers and grows into
and spreads to
and annihilates
Shit, where is this going?
(Note—Maybe think of a better metaphor here than seeds.)
Anyway, Dr. Clifford Fernel appears to be traveling down the path to madness. What dangers lie ahead as his treasure hunting disease festers? Death of his reputation? His career? His mental health? His life, period? Or something even worse?
Actually, what’s worse than madness and death?
This damned jungle is worse, that’s what.
And don’t even get me started on that article I read about a botfly larva infestation some guy got in his scrotum during a …
Quint paused his penciled ramblings to scratch the side of his neck.
Christ! He needed to focus, but the damned gnats kept swarming, fixated on the salt in his sweat. The little bastards needed to go practice running their kamikaze raids on some other flesh monkey. There were plenty of others here inside the wall of Site 5 to pick on.
Hell, maybe he was the one sliding into madness, with the jungle chewing up his sanity, one bug bite at a time.
His tail bone beginning to ache, he shifted on the lichen-coated chunk of limestone he was using for a seat.
It was that or the ground, and after Bronko reiterated the dangers hiding in the grass around these parts, the rock won.
There were plenty of other potential block seats that were left over from Mother Nature’s leisurely assault on the tumbledown structure behind him, but they all looked equally hard and uncomfortable.
Quint tapped his pencil on his paper, staring at the vista of greenery spread out before him while trying to organize his thoughts. But his mind kept taking side roads.
Everyone had made it safely over the wall, so apparently the Maya gods were okay with trespassers this morning. Make that everyone except for Teodoro and María, who’d stayed behind at the camp to keep watch in between trips to haul water from a nearby spring.
Pedro wasn’t joining them today at the site either. The lucky dog had the excuse of being able to fly a helicopter. He’d flown off after breakfast to bring back more camp necessities—and plenty of beer, according to Juan, who’d handwritten his addition on Angélica’s supply list.
Bronko and KuTu were the first to scale the wall, using the ladder built a few days back from leather and saplings. No snakes awaited them up on top today, much to everyone’s relief.
Raul held the ladder steady as Angélica and Dr. Fernel climbed up next. KuTu stayed on top of the wall to help, while Bronko waited at the base of the makeshift ladder they’d set up days ago down the other side, holding it steady.
Quint had to hand it to the three assigned guards, who were taking their roles of keeping everyone alive quite seriously, even though Quint doubted this level of help had been part of the job description.
Next over the wall were Fernando and Daisy, in that order. Quint had stayed behind with Raul to help make sure Juan with his bum leg had made it up and over, and then down and through the rubble on the other side without a hiccup, which he did, much to his daughter’s obvious relief.
As soon as the whole crew had their feet safely on the ground, KuTu and Bronko began searching the surrounding vegetation for any potential dangers, especially the slithering kind.
Swish swish swish. They’d plowed along with their machetes swinging in ever-widening arcs.
Raul had lay down the law earlier at breakfast—snake gaiters were required to be worn by everyone at all times while at Site 5 due to what was likely a lack of human disturbance at this site for so long.
According to Raul, the jungle often had a fun time surprising even the best-prepared ranger traipsing through the tall weeds and thick brush.
He’d witnessed snakes divebombing from the trees and lizards biting wannabe herpetoculturists, adding that there was even a small chance the venomous Mexican beaded lizard may now live in the habitat after years of on-and-off droughts triggering a change in the biosphere’s fauna.
Although if Teodoro and KuTu were right about Quint’s Maya Underworld status, then he shouldn’t have to worry about any snakes. Demon or not, he wasn’t about to go testing their theories.
A good demon … sent to protect.
Hmm. At the last dig, Quint had been called a different name by someone he hadn’t been able to protect in the end.
Der Beschworer, he wrote the German word in his notes.
And there was a different task to go with this title.
The Summoner, he scribbled next on the page. One who calls for those who need to be executed.
He’d looked up the name after returning to Cancun, scouring the internet for any truth he could find behind the story he’d been told about a caste war that had raged centuries ago between rogue demons and their guardians.
There was nothing to be found on such a war, but he did find mentions of Der Beschworer on videogame world-building websites, along with some cool graphic art of overly muscled, leather-clad Summoners.
He scoffed. Imagine wearing all of that hot, tight leather in this jungle. He’d sweat to death within hours, melting at Angélica’s feet before the bad demons could work their nightmarish magic.
Good demon or Summoner, he wasn’t going anywhere without Angélica, not after what he’d experienced at the last dig.
If she stayed, he stayed, no matter how many worried looks she sent his way when she thought he wasn’t looking.
Besides, if Teodoro was right about him being sent from the Underworld to protect, then it was even more imperative he stick around to fulfill his calling.
A yellow and black butterfly flitted in front of him, circling twice before landing on the eraser end of his pencil.
It was a two-tailed swallowtail—Arizona’s state butterfly, a fact he’d learned years ago while on a job to write a piece about the history of train robberies in the American Southwest.
“Hello little guy,” he said quietly, holding still. “Word on the street is you find me utterly irresistible. Did I summon you with some help from Aunt Zoe’s ring or are you just stopping by on your way north?”
The large butterfly flexed its stripe-patterned wings up and down several times, giving Quint a nice view of shimmering blue and orange dots near its tail.
Then the beauty took flight. It circled his head once before meandering toward the trees, which had done a damned good job filling up the interior area of Site 5 without bothersome human interruption for centuries.
Before disappearing under the shadow-filled tree canopy, the butterfly detoured slightly, fluttering around the trio of archaeologists—Angélica, Juan, and Fernel, who were supposedly trying to make sense of the vegetation-covered mounds in front of them.
For the last fifteen minutes, Quint had watched each of them take a turn with the slick, new-fangled computer tablet the geoarchaeologist had brought along for today’s ground-truthing adventure.
One after the other would stare at the tablet’s screen, circling slowly.
They would stop mid-spin to point at something on the screen and then peer over the top at the actual landform in front of them.
Meanwhile, off to Quint’s left, Fernando and Raul were having a subdued discussion in Spanish.
Quint was able to understand enough of their conversation to figure out that Fernando was explaining to Raul how they would likely go about cataloguing and then clearing the rubble from the crumbling structure abutting the wall over the next few days—if that was what Angélica wanted.
A shadow fell over Quint and his notebook. The familiar scent of lemon eucalyptus oil gave away the identity of his visitor before she spoke.
“ ‘Bad Thoughts from a Good Demon,’ ” Daisy Walker read aloud from his notes. She sat down on the next stone over. “Sounds like the name of a funny book.”
Quint casually closed his notebook and set it aside, hoping she hadn’t read anything else.
The theory on Fernel’s degree of madness was his alone at this point.
It was based mostly on a couple of short conversations with the guy at supper and this morning during breakfast where it was obvious he was hyper-focused on Site 5’s hidden bits, followed by a covert observation near the shower last night when Quint stumbled upon the geoarchaeologist pacing back and forth while having an animated exchange with nobody—at least not a living person that he could see.
Quint didn’t kick aside the idea of Fernel being haunted—again, his own past experiences opened up a lot of possibilities both natural and supernatural.
He still couldn’t place where he’d seen Fernel before. It would probably come to him when it didn’t matter anymore.
“What do you think of Site 5 so far, Daisy?”
“It’s groovy, baby!” Her blue eyes were bright, but her smile was even sunnier.