12.21

She went on eBay. Log-in HGDealer popped up, asking for a password.

“Try Ernesto,” Maria said from the doorway.

A list of items appeared on the screen.

1. Authentic Pre-Columbian flint - $1,472.00 - sale completed

2. Mayan sarcophagus section - $1,200.00 - auction expired

3. Authentic Mayan stone planter - $904.00 - sale completed

4. Jade Mayan necklace - $1,895.00 - sale completed

5. Honduran clay jar artifact - $280.00 - auction expired

6. Classic Mayan jaguar bowl - $1,400.00 - sale completed

“It stores sold items for sixty days,” Chel said. “This is what he’s unloaded or tried to unload over the last two months.”

“This is what Gutierrez was selling, right?” Stanton asked. “But he bought the book. Do we have to get into Volcy’s account for that?” Scanning the interface, he asked, “How would Volcy have even known how to use a site like this? Where would he have gotten access?”

“Everyone down there knows how it works,” Chel said. “People will travel for days to get to a computer if they have items to sell. But he wouldn’t have sold a codex on eBay anyway. It would draw too much attention. The most expensive item here costs less than fifteen hundred dollars; there’s a limit to what people are willing to pay for something online. So sellers with high-end items find a way to make contact on eBay, then do their business in person.”

She clicked on a tab at the top and up popped an eBay email window, with an in-box full of nearly a thousand messages. Many of them were exchanges about items Gutierrez had listed here. But there were also messages with places and dates and times he was planning to meet people looking to sell items to him.

“They all use screen names,” Chel said.

“How can we find out which one could be Volcy?”

Stanton looked for Maria, but she had left the room.

“Look,” Chel said. She moved the cursor over a message that had been sent a week ago from screen name Chuyum-thul.

The hawk.

from: Chuyum-thul

sent: Dec. 5, 2012 10:25 a.m.

something very valuable I possess, definitely you will want.

reach phone +52 553 77038

“It looks like it was translated for him by the computer,” said Chel.

“The way he’s writing is basically Mayan syntax.”

“Where is country code fifty-two?”

“Mexico,” Chel said. “And the area code is Mexico city. It’s an antiquities hotbed, and probably Volcy’s best chance south of the border at getting a decent price for the book. If he couldn’t get what he wanted there, then he’d have turned to the States.”

The sound of a child crying came from upstairs. Stanton and Chel exchanged a look of pity, but continued searching. When Chel found an email addressed to Chuyum-thul, the circle started to close:

from: HGDealer

sent: Dec. 6, 2012 2:47 p.m.

Friday, December 7, 2012

AG Flight 224

Depart Mexico City, Mexico (MEX) 6:05 a.m.

Arrive Los Angeles, CA (LAX) 9:12 a.m.

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

AG Flight 126

Depart Los Angeles, CA (LAX) 7:20 a.m.

Arrive Mexico City, Mexico (MEX) 12:05 p.m.

Chel said, “Gutierrez must have bought Volcy this ticket.”

Stanton pieced together the chronology. Volcy got on a plane from Mexico, sold Gutierrez the codex, then holed up in a Super 8, waiting for his flight back. Only that night the cops were called, and they took him to the hospital. He never got on AG 126 back to Mexico City.

“What happened to the money Gutierrez paid him? The cops didn’t find any money in the hotel room.”

Chel said, “He would have known better than to try to fly across the border with that much cash. Probably deposited it into an account of a bank here that has branches in Central America.”

But then Stanton glanced back at Volcy’s itinerary, and suddenly something else struck him: AG flight 126. It was strangely familiar.

Then he realized why. “The return flight crashed yesterday morning.”

Chel looked up. “What are you talking about?”

Stanton pulled out his smartphone and showed her proof of the impossible: Aero Globale 126 was the flight that ended up in the Pacific Ocean.

“Is that some kind of coincidence?” Chel asked.

“They have to be linked somehow.”

“Volcy didn’t even get on that plane.”

“Maybe not,” Stanton said. “But what if he still brought it down?”

“How?”

His mind raced as the logic came into focus. Human error was the suggested cause, they’d said again and again on the news.

“Volcy got on the first flight,” Stanton said. “Pilots fly regular routes back and forth. What if the pilot who crashed also flew the Mexico City-to-L.A. plane Volcy was on? Volcy could have come in contact with him or her on that leg.”

“You think Volcy gave the pilot whatever was contaminated?” Chel asked.

Only now Stanton was already considering another possibility—a vastly more terrifying one. These were the kinds of connections seen in clusters of TB. Or Ebola. If two men Volcy came in casual contact with both became infected in two different places, there was only one epidemiological possibility.

Stanton had a vertiginous feeling. “Volcy gets infected in Guatemala, fl ies from Mexico City, and crosses paths with the pilot. Maybe they shake hands on his way off the plane and the prion passes. Volcy meets up with Gutierrez. They make a deal, go their separate ways. A day later, the pilot gets sick. Then Gutierrez does too. A few days later, the pilot crashes the plane, then the next day Gutierrez crashes his car.”

“But what got them sick?” Chel asked.

“Volcy did,” Stanton said, darting for the door. “Volcy himself.”

The boy was crying again, and now Stanton hurried for the stairs, yelling to Maria not to touch anything in her home.