Curses!

'Because...” She paused, groping. “...because he wanted you all to think it was gone.” She brightened, taken with the idea. “He didn't want anyone to look for it and find it before he could come back and dig it up himself. And nobody did,” she finished triumphantly. “Did they?'

Gideon lowered his glass to the table and turned to look at her. “No, they didn't, Julie,” he said slowly. “And so you think it's Howard himself who's been digging, trying to get to the codex before we do?'

'Well, he's the only one who'd know it was still there—if it is still there. It makes sense, doesn't it?'

For a moment Gideon almost thought it did. Then he sank back against the chair. “No, I don't think so. Aside from everything else, the timing's all wrong. Why would he wait until now, the very worst possible time, to try to get it? He could have given things a couple of years to blow over, come back to dig it up with no one around, and be long gone by now.'

'True,” Julie admitted after a few seconds. She leaned back in the chair and began rocking again. “Back to the drawing board. Or, on second thought, I think I'll just let you solve it.'

'Ah, come on. Coming up with ideas isn't any fun. I'd rather criticize yours.'

On the veranda a fluid tenor had joined the guitarist; a sweet, soft version of “El Venadito” floated up to them. They reached across to clasp hands and slowly rocked, listening to the old folk song.

Soy un pobre venadito que habita en la serrani-i-i-a. Como no soy tan mansito...

Gideon sighed, took a long, sleepy stretch, and stood up. “Ready for bed?'

'Whew, again? The tropics really agree with you, don't they?'

'I was thinking,” he said, “of going to sleep.” He held out his hand to lift her out of her chair, and pulled her into his arms. She rubbed her forehead against his cheek and slid her hands slowly up and down his back.

'On the other hand,” he said, “I suppose I could be coaxed.'

Julie smiled at him. “Why don't we finish our brandies and then see how we feel? Or if you're still awake.'

'Good thinking.'

Inside the room, they pulled the louvered balcony doors shut behind them, and Gideon crossed to the front door to flick on the light and start the slow ceiling fan they liked to have on when they slept. Not for the breeze, which was nil, but the lazy tropical ambience.

'Is that something you dropped?” Julie said, pointing toward his feet.

He looked down to see a white sheet of paper folded into quarters on the red-tiled floor. “No, someone must have slipped it under the door.'

The brief message was centered on the page.

Gideon Oliver, leave Yucatan or you will die. This is not a joke.

—The Gods of Tlaloc

After he had stared at it for a few seconds Julie took it from his hand and read it. “I don't...is this supposed to be funny?'

'I don't know. Personally, I thought the bloodsucking coatimundi had more going for it.'

'Do you think it's really a threat? A death threat?” Gideon shook his head slowly back and forth. “I just—Christ, what am I thinking of!” He flung the door open and leaped out into the hallway.

But no one was there, of course. The tiled hallway gleamed emptily at them, peaceful and benign, and the potted plants weren't big enough for anyone to hide behind. When he came back into the room, Julie's face was anxious.

'Hey,” he said softly, putting his arms around her again and pulling her close, rocking slowly back and forth with her. “Hey, there isn't anything to worry about, believe me. Really.'

She lifted her head from his shoulder to throw him a mute, skeptical look.

'No, honestly,” he said. “Threatening letters are just so much bluster. No one takes them seriously. I certainly don't, and with all the forensic work I do, I get a lot of these things.'

She looked at him again, this time with surprise. “You do?'

'Sure, all the time.'

Well, twice. Once he'd been scheduled to testify that the skeleton of a Mafia figure found in Lake Michigan showed signs of strangulation. The other time had been when he was going to give evidence on the identification of a dope racketeer whose face and fingerprints had been scraped off before he'd been dumped in the desert near Las Vegas. Both times he'd gotten anonymous letters explaining in repellent detail just what would happen to him if he showed up in court.

'And they never amount to anything?” Julie asked, not looking overly convinced. “Nope, never.'

Well, once. The night after his testimony in the Mafia murder someone had fired two shots through the door of his room in the Holiday Inn, but he hadn't been there at the time. It was only Gideon's second case for the FBI, and he had been thrilled.

'What about the time someone mailed you a letter bomb?” Julie said. “What about the time someone set that monstrous dog on you? On us, rather. How about—'

'We're talking about threatening letters,” he said sensibly. “People who write threatening letters don't follow through. Never.” Or was he laying it on too thick? “Well, almost never.'

She gazed at him doubtfully.

'It's an accepted fact,” he told her. No question about it.'