Sanibel Flats

to the foundation the whole damn civilization was built on. The Maya were fanatics about numbers. It was their religion. Take away the religion, you've got a lot of lost souls. ' Tomlinson was beginning to sound a little angry, but he was still squinting at the glyphs, trying to read them. 'And you say once you've got the book, you're not going to let me see it—'

'I said we may not have time.'

'It's just that I think you could be a little more willing.' He abruptly folded his papers, slapped his notebook shut, and plopped down on the bench beside Ford. 'No offense, Doc, but I personally think you've been an asshole when it comes to that book. If you don't care about academics, you ought to at least think about these people.'

Ford was smiling. 'Getting a little frustrated trying to figure out those glyphs, Tomlinson?'

'Damn right. Cross-eyed and crazy. Almost over-fucking-whelming. I mean, people have worked on this stuff for years and still don't understand it.'

'Have a beer. We'll have a long talk about the book—but later.'

'That's another thing. You're always giving me beer. You never drink more than three a day, but you act like I've got no willpower at all.' Tomlinson had already taken one of the liter bottles from the paper sack beside the bench, and now he took a long drink. 'Hey, why are all those people wearing costumes?' As if he'd just returned to earth and opened ^is eyes.

The dance had already begun. The actors wearing the grotesque masks were alone before the onlookers, doing a slow, strange shuffle, weaving like reeds in the wind. Through the nature of the choreography, the dancers gradually seemed less and less to depict the ancestral Maya than forms of essential, malevolent spirits. They jumped and shouted, shaking their rattles. Small children who watched put their hands over their faces and slid behind their mothers, frightened.

As Ford shared with Tomlinson what little he knew about the dance, the conquistadors broke through the crowd—and that was the way to describe it, for they brushed the onlookers aside in a sort of abbreviated trot, as if on horseback while the Maya in their grotesque masks threw their hands up, writhing, terrified. Then began a series of choreographed assaults by the conquistadors. The battle lasted for a long time and it seemed as if the conquistadors were exorcising demons rather than defeating a people, and once again Ford had the impression of self-flagellation, of the Maya punishing themselves for an event that had occurred on this very ground four hundred years before.

Then the conquistadors danced alone, thrusting their cherubic masks forward, which seemed to emphasize the leering smiles as they slowly, slowly adopted the shuffling, weaving step of the demons they had just vanquished, then quickened the cadence until they were twirling around in a frenzy like a people gone mad.

Abruptly the drums and rattles were quieted and the dancers filed off again.

The villagers did not applaud.

'I'll be damned,' whispered Tomlinson. 'That dance made the Spaniards look like the good guys . . . but in a weird sort of way.'

'I know what you mean,' Ford said. 'But I can't put my finger on it either. Their ancestors are portrayed as demons but the conquistadors, in some subtle, backhanded way come off as being even more demonic.'

'Maybe it's those masks. Those masks with their painted blond hair and those weird expressions give even me the creeps.'

Thinking of the men lying drunk in the gutter and of the wandering stray dogs, Ford said, 'Maybe it's the masks. But maybe it's something else, too.'

Tomlinson said he wasn't sleepy; said he wanted to go out and have one more beer and maybe have another look at the glyphs.

Ford told him not to stay up late, they'd be leaving at four, an hour before sunrise. Like a camp counselor talking to a kid. He also told him to be careful.

Tomlinson said, 'I specialize in being innocuous, man.'

And Ford replied, 'Don't kid yourself. Everyone in town knows we're here. Just stay out of trouble.'

The best hotel in Utatlan was the only hotel, a two-story roadhouse built for the field hands of some long- gone coffee plantation. The outside walls were adobe, the rooms whitewashed. There was one shower stall and the toilet was downstairs, a cement slab with a hole augered through. Ford sat outside the hotel for a while watching huge Central American moths beat themselves against the lighted windows. He remembered a story he'd heard in the Amazonia region of Peru. On one night of each year, the story went, jungle moths would gather and fly toward the light of the full moon.

At 8 P.M. he showered then went upstairs. His bed was military issue and the springs sagged beneath his weight. The last time he checked his watch before falling asleep, it was 8:45 and Tomlinson still wasn't back.

He was involved with a dream when he heard the noise; a clattering, thunking noise, like a bunch of kids running up steps. The noise slid into his dream, then became a part of the dream. He was dreaming of sharks—the big bull sharks he kept penned off his lab on Sanibel. It was not unusual for him to dream of the species he happened to be studying, and to Ford it was a sign his subconscious was at work on conscious problems—the only significance he would ever ascribe to dreaming.

But the sounds didn't fit properly with the dream. The only way the bull sharks could be making that kind of thunking noise would be if they were banging into the pen, but the pen was built of plastic-coated wire, not wood, plus that sort of behavior was inconsistent with what Ford knew about sharks in captivity.

Then he was sitting up in the darkness, his pulse thudding, aware that someone was banging against the door. Not knocking—banging—someone throwing his shoulder against it. He swung out of bed, found his bag, and began to fish around in the darkness, looking for the pistol. But then the door crashed open and the silhouettes of three men stood in the wedge of light, two of them holding short-barreled shotguns.

The middle figure, the one not holding a weapon, said in English, 'Don't do anything stupid. You come with us. You resist, we kill you here.' A nervous voice, uncomfortable with the language.

Ford said, 'What the hell's this all about? You can't come barging in here! I'll contact the American Embassy in Masagua City—'

'We are not dumb Indians, Senor. We know what you are and what you are not. You will not contact anyone unless you dress quickly. You come with us! Now!'

The light came on, a bare overhead bulb on the ceiling, and Ford stood before the three men. Two of them wore green military fatigues; young, stocky men with dust-colored skin and blank expressions, holding weapons. They addressed the third man, the one doing the talking, as Colonel Suarez. Suarez wore civilian clothing, dark slacks and a loose dark shirt. He was shorter than the others, but bigger through the chest and arms; older with hairy hands and huge forearms. The shotguns were pointed at Ford's legs, then lifted toward his chest as Suarez approached him. 'Did you hear me, Senor? I told you to get dressed.' Ford said nothing, just stood there in his underwear as Suarez, almost as if in slow motion, cocked his fist back and hit him hard in the face, knocking him to the floor. 'When I tell you to do something, Senor, do it immediately. Is clear?'

Ford's sat up and touched his jaw, his cheek. There was no bleeding and he wondered why it hurt so badly. He had been hit before and it had never hurt like that, but then he realized it was probably because the punch had come as such a surprise. There was no adrenaline in him to dull the pain. He got slowly to his feet, trying to keep his distance from Suarez. He said through the pain, 'It's suddenly very clear.'

'Good,' said Suarez. 'You will now get dressed while my men search your bags—if you do not object, of course.' The man smiled slightly, a little nervous, but showing a set of very white teeth as Ford pawed the nightstand looking for his glasses.

They paid little attention to the cloth sack containing the jade, but they took Ford's pistol, knife, their passports, Tomlinson's notebooks, and his sheaf of traveler's checks. They also took the money from Ford's pants, but they didn't check his belt where most of his cash was hidden. The men put everything but the pistol and the money back in the bags, then secured them.

Tomlinson. Glancing at his watch, Ford wondered what had happened to Tomlinson. It was 2:35 A.M. and Tomlinson should have been back long since. Maybe they had him, too. But why?

When he was dressed, Suarez pushed him roughly into the hall, hurrying him along. The two men carried both his backpack and Tomlinson's. Obviously, he wouldn't be coming back to this room. It was as if they were cleaning