ray of consciousness.
Maybe that girl’s still in there.
Chapter 15
He stood outside the window of the jungle hut. Peering in. His face inches from the mesh. His feet shoulder width apart. Solid. Prepared. As still as a carving of stone. He breathed the hot air. He stared at the sight inside, just beyond the sill. Through the box of netting, bare flesh lay spread across the mattress. Limbs tangled.
The woman from the ruins. A man as well. Her partner.
Breathing heavily. Asleep.
Turning the machete in his hands, he considered. They wore no rings. Unmarried. Like animals, these Americans were. The woman’s flank was exposed, a firm rise, still ruddy from exertion.
The cicadas chirped and the wind blew, and he watched.
Moths fluttered and a mosquito whined, and he watched.
Leaves whispered and bullfrogs sang, and he watched.
The woman stirred, draping a porcelain-white arm across her face. Her bangs sweat-pasted to her forehead.
He flicked the machete’s tip beneath his fingernails to clear the dirt.
Flick. Flick.
A hot coal glowed in his stomach. Not desire, no, but a higher love. He would love to educate them, to let his hand be guided by what was true.
Flick. Flick.
But no. This was the wrong hut and the wrong time, and his mission did not allow for such distractions.
He drifted silently up the bamboo walkway, catching shadows even in the darkness. His sandaled feet chose their spots carefully. Not a creak. Not a crackle of twig underfoot.
He entered the adjacent hut.
There the large man slept. The one who had come to spy on him in the canyon.
He was shirtless, with gym-honed muscles. The most significant physical threat of the group, certainly. A man best caught off guard.
Or asleep.
The door of the tall wardrobe hung open. Inside on a shelf rested the hat. An embroidered S decorated with a compass star. He eased silently across the hut, reached up, lifted the cap. Beneath it, folded pants. A pocket bulged. He pulled the pants from the shelf, unsnapped the tab.
The big man murmured something in his sleep and rolled over, hugging his pillow.
Stop. Freeze. Transform again to a carving of stone. His chest neither rose nor fell. He didn’t blink.
Once the big man’s breathing grew regular again, he tilted the fabric, and something square and hard slid into his palm.
A camera.
Even in the darkness, he read the white label easily: THERESA HAMILTON .
The camera gave a slight whir as it turned on. He clicked swiftly through the pictures until he reached the ones of him in his canyon. Gripping the woman’s arm. And then at night.
His fear confirmed. The man, like Theresa Hamilton, had seen.
So be it.
He lifted the machete, tested the edge with the pad of his thumb. His breathing neither quickened nor slowed. He firmed his grip, used the tempered steel blade to part the mosquito netting.
The man was sprawled out, his neck bared. The angle direct.
His feet picked up a tremble in the floating floorboards. Someone approaching. He took three swift steps backward, vanishing into the dark space between wardrobe and door.
The other man entered. The sexual partner of the woman. Passing through the doorway so close that his shirtsleeve nearly brushed against the intruder’s own shoulder. The man trudged forward, fell through the netting onto the other bed.
The big man shifted, groaned, rubbed at an eye. “Have fun, Will?”
“A gentleman never tells. And yes. ”
Within seconds they were asleep.
But he waited still. He watched them and he breathed and he studied the space between the beds and rehearsed. Backswings. Trajectories. Pivots. Like a dance.
But they were two able-bodied men, and the timing would be better.
A sideways slide and he was gone from the little hut.
As though he had never been there at all.
SUNDAY
Chapter 16
As they parked their mud-dripping quads and stepped into the sloped village of Santa Marta Atlixca, the riot of colors seemed hurled down by a divine hand to
Maybe that girl’s still in there.
Chapter 15
He stood outside the window of the jungle hut. Peering in. His face inches from the mesh. His feet shoulder width apart. Solid. Prepared. As still as a carving of stone. He breathed the hot air. He stared at the sight inside, just beyond the sill. Through the box of netting, bare flesh lay spread across the mattress. Limbs tangled.
The woman from the ruins. A man as well. Her partner.
Breathing heavily. Asleep.
Turning the machete in his hands, he considered. They wore no rings. Unmarried. Like animals, these Americans were. The woman’s flank was exposed, a firm rise, still ruddy from exertion.
The cicadas chirped and the wind blew, and he watched.
Moths fluttered and a mosquito whined, and he watched.
Leaves whispered and bullfrogs sang, and he watched.
The woman stirred, draping a porcelain-white arm across her face. Her bangs sweat-pasted to her forehead.
He flicked the machete’s tip beneath his fingernails to clear the dirt.
Flick. Flick.
A hot coal glowed in his stomach. Not desire, no, but a higher love. He would love to educate them, to let his hand be guided by what was true.
Flick. Flick.
But no. This was the wrong hut and the wrong time, and his mission did not allow for such distractions.
He drifted silently up the bamboo walkway, catching shadows even in the darkness. His sandaled feet chose their spots carefully. Not a creak. Not a crackle of twig underfoot.
He entered the adjacent hut.
There the large man slept. The one who had come to spy on him in the canyon.
He was shirtless, with gym-honed muscles. The most significant physical threat of the group, certainly. A man best caught off guard.
Or asleep.
The door of the tall wardrobe hung open. Inside on a shelf rested the hat. An embroidered S decorated with a compass star. He eased silently across the hut, reached up, lifted the cap. Beneath it, folded pants. A pocket bulged. He pulled the pants from the shelf, unsnapped the tab.
The big man murmured something in his sleep and rolled over, hugging his pillow.
Stop. Freeze. Transform again to a carving of stone. His chest neither rose nor fell. He didn’t blink.
Once the big man’s breathing grew regular again, he tilted the fabric, and something square and hard slid into his palm.
A camera.
Even in the darkness, he read the white label easily: THERESA HAMILTON .
The camera gave a slight whir as it turned on. He clicked swiftly through the pictures until he reached the ones of him in his canyon. Gripping the woman’s arm. And then at night.
His fear confirmed. The man, like Theresa Hamilton, had seen.
So be it.
He lifted the machete, tested the edge with the pad of his thumb. His breathing neither quickened nor slowed. He firmed his grip, used the tempered steel blade to part the mosquito netting.
The man was sprawled out, his neck bared. The angle direct.
His feet picked up a tremble in the floating floorboards. Someone approaching. He took three swift steps backward, vanishing into the dark space between wardrobe and door.
The other man entered. The sexual partner of the woman. Passing through the doorway so close that his shirtsleeve nearly brushed against the intruder’s own shoulder. The man trudged forward, fell through the netting onto the other bed.
The big man shifted, groaned, rubbed at an eye. “Have fun, Will?”
“A gentleman never tells. And yes. ”
Within seconds they were asleep.
But he waited still. He watched them and he breathed and he studied the space between the beds and rehearsed. Backswings. Trajectories. Pivots. Like a dance.
But they were two able-bodied men, and the timing would be better.
A sideways slide and he was gone from the little hut.
As though he had never been there at all.
SUNDAY
Chapter 16
As they parked their mud-dripping quads and stepped into the sloped village of Santa Marta Atlixca, the riot of colors seemed hurled down by a divine hand to
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