Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [41]
I have no choice but to push these thoughts aside. It’s farfetched, because it would mean that whatever took place in Egypt is somehow linked to my current job, and that is improbable. The more likely explanation is that the man at the door bore a resemblance to the Australian. The colonel’s visit is a more immediate concern, and a warning that we shouldn’t overstay our welcome. Romero, thankfully, has bought us some time, so I determine to enjoy myself. The steak is good, the music upbeat, and my date is the loveliest woman in the room. For the time being, I content myself with these simpler things.
Esperanza runs her hands along the wall carvings, moving from one to the other. There are a total of eleven distinct images or scenes. Among the odder things about them are their stylistic differences. When my team first uncovered the images, it was as if we’d discovered a repository of pictorial samples from several civilizations, and with no similarities save for a single symbol that gives them a thematic link. In each of the eleven carvings, never in the same spot, there’s an oblong disc inset with a squiggle resembling an S, each instance deftly worked into the larger image. I’d thought at the time that if we could identify that piece, everything else would fall into place.
The picture from the book, the crest for Fraternidad de la Tierra, is the first in the line, or the last, depending upon which end one starts. She is at that one now, and she’s smiling as her fingers trace the image. I know what she’s feeling, because I’ve been there. She’s at that point where academic knowledge becomes empirical. Something has jumped off the page and she can touch it, experience it.
What I’m feeling, though, is a sense of futility. I’d been hoping that seeing them would trigger something. Pieces would fall into place and I would be able to make a connection between them—something that would lead us to some course of action.
“Do you recognize any of them?” I ask her.
Esperanza steps away from the wall until she can see all three carvings on it. She spends several seconds focusing on each before turning to the next wall, then the next. After reviewing the last one, the only wall with two images rather than three, she says, “That one there, the one with the deer, it looks familiar. I’m not sure where I’ve seen it, but it rings a bell. And maybe that one.” She points at a circle on the opposite wall—insets that make it look almost like a smiley face, with the ever-present oblong disc serving as an eye.
“That’s all?”
She nods, then starts snapping pictures. Esperanza is the quintessential researcher. Even though she can’t decipher them at the moment, once she gets back to her books and her computer, she stands a better chance of cracking whatever code exists here than anyone on the planet. Still, it doesn’t help me right now and I know the fault is mine. I’m the one who is unequipped to make sense of the meaning behind the carvings. There is something important here, I’m sure of it. And it’s likely tied to the small symbol found in each of the carvings.
“What do we do now?” Espy asks once she’s finished taking pictures.
“Great question. I’m open to suggestions.”
She is silent as we both regard the limestone puzzles. Then I see her eyes travel down the wall, to the floor of the burial chamber.
“Is Mayan architecture always above ground?”
“Almost always.”
She taps the stone with the heel of her boot. “But this is pre-Mayan, right? Not everything here fits the schematic?”
I don’t answer her right away, because what she’s proposing would do irreversible damage to the pyramid. And there is little chance that she’s right. Still, what other choice is there? Right now the only alternative is to return to Caracas, which would be tantamount to throwing in the towel. I’m not prepared to do that. At least Espy’s plan will keep us here for a while, plus give me some time to