"And it's just us?"
"Just us."
"That's what I figured.” He tore a tiny piece from a soft slice of white bread and chewed it, slowly and thoroughly. “You got any ideas how it was done?"
"Well, it's obviously something we ate and nobody else did."
"I agree. Isn't it wonderful to be scientists and come up with such terrific deductions?"
"But I don't think it was
Escherichia coli,
or salmonella, or any of the other
turista
bugs. We're not sick enough."
"Speak for yourself."
"You know what I mean. Everybody seems to be on the mend already—including you—and as far as I know there hasn't been any vomiting or fever. Just some acute diarrhea and a little weakness and cramping; nothing serious."
"Easy for you to say,” Abe grumbled. “But you're right; I'll live. So what do you think, somebody just slipped a laxative in our food?"
"Looks like it."
"To me too.” He handed Gideon the tray to place on a bureau. He had eaten most of the soup and half a slice of bread, and his cheeks had taken on some color. “So the question is, what did we eat yesterday that no one else in the hotel ate? Not breakfast, because we order that individually from the regular menu, and dinner is the same. So that leaves—"
"Lunch, which is prepared at the hotel, boxed, and left in the bar—unattended—for us all to pick up in the morning. Anybody could easily have doctored it."
Abe was shaking his head. “No, Preston and Emma make their own lunches from bee pollen or sunflower sprouts or whatever, and they were sick too.” He glanced sharply up. “So they said."
"If they weren't, they were putting on a pretty good show, right down to the green complexions."
They both did some more thinking, their chins on their chests. They looked up at the same time. “The juice!"
Each morning at nine-thirty a busboy from the Mayaland bicycled to the site with an insulated three-gallon container of cold fruit juice, which was heavily used by the crew and remained all day on a table in the work shed. Unattended.
"So how hard would it have been to slip a few spoons of cathartic into it?” Abe asked rhetorically. “Cascara sagrada, say. You could get it in an over-the-counter laxative and break up the tablets into powder."
"We had unfiltered apple juice yesterday, didn't we?” Gideon asked. “Who'd notice if the cascara made it a little darker?"
Abe blew out his cheeks in a sigh. “Somebody around here certainly has a wonderful sense of humor."
"I can't help wondering if Emma's behind this,” Gideon said. “She's sure getting a lot of mileage out of it. Maybe she's giving her friend Huluc-Canab a little help from the other side of the physical-reality void."
"But you don't think she was the one that attacked you."
"No.” He paused, then added: “Not that I'd swear to it."
"What about the coatimundi?"
"No, that wasn't Emma. That was something different, a joke."
"Maybe it was different, maybe it wasn't. When a lot of funny things are going on together, they got a way of turning out to be related. Goldstein's Theorum of Interconnected Monkey Business."
Gideon smiled. “Could be."
"Of course. Anyway, you're right about one thing.” For the first time a tiny sparkle glimmered in Abe's eyes. “It wasn't Emma who provided the coati. It was someone else."
Gideon leaned over the back of the chair, his chin on his crossed forearms. “Okay, Abe, you know something I don't. Let's hear it."
"Well...” Abe leaned comfortably back against the pillows, his hands behind his neck. “Since I had some time on my hands this morning I did some thinking, and I got to wondering about this coatimundi. What I wondered was, where do you find such a thing?"
"They're native to this area. Julie says they're probably all over the jungle."
"Sure, but how often do you see one? Ever? You think you could walk out in the jungle and catch one if you decided to play a little joke on the rest of us?"
"Well, no. They're wild animals; they—okay, where do you get a coatimundi when you need one?"
"Me, I'd call a pet shop,” Abe said, “which is what I did. It turns out there are two pet stores in Merida, and the first one I called, on Avenida Colon, said it was very funny but he had one for almost two months and nobody wanted it, and now I was the second
norteamericano
this week who wanted one."
Gideon straightened up. “And you found out who the other one was?"
But Abe liked to take his time coming to the punch line. The coati, he told Gideon, was ordered by telephone and delivered to Piste, which as it happened was the nearest village to the Mayaland, about a mile and a half away; a humble, somewhat tacky little crossroads that had become a center for tourists who couldn't afford or didn't want the Mayaland's luxury. The buyer had taken possession of the boxed animal at the bus stop, in front of the Mayan Cave Bar Disco ("English Spooken Here"), from which he left by taxi in the direction of the Mayaland. This was, Gideon should take note, late Tuesday afternoon, the day before the coati was discovered in the work shed.
"And the name,” Gideon murmured, “of this mysterious gringo was..."
"No, Senor Merino didn't get his name, but he could describe him:
'Un hombre con una barba de chivo.’”
Gideon wasn't up to the Spanish. “A man with a what?"
Abe's fingers tapped his chin. “A billy goat's beard."
"Worthy?"
Abe nodded. “You were right in the first place."
The narration had wearied him. He lowered his frail arms and slid down on the pillows, closing his eyes for a few seconds. “Right now I'm a little tired, but in an hour I'll feel better. I'll get dressed and go and have a talk with him and see what's what. And tell him what's what,” he added.
"Like hell you will,” Gideon said firmly. “You're staying in bed today. I'll talk to Worthy."
"No,” Abe said, shaking his head, “I'll take care of it. It's my responsibility, not yours."
"Then how about delegating it? I'll go see him right now. I want you to take it easy and get your strength back. Come on, Abe, be sensible."
"Maybe you're right,” Abe said meekly, and Gideon looked at him with a stab of concern. Docility wasn't exactly his style.
"Abe, I don't think it would be a bad idea to have the hotel doctor take a look at you."
Abe dismissed this with a flap of his hand. “No, no. I'll drink liquids; I'll rest.” He closed his eyes again and settled himself down to sleep. “You'll see. I'll be fine."
"All right,” Gideon said uneasily and stood up. “I'll drop by later and tell you how it goes with Worthy."
"Check up on me, you mean,” Abe said wearily. “All right, thank you."
Gideon had reached the door when Abe called. “Gideon?"
"Yes?"
Abe's hands were clasped tranquilly on his chest. His eyes were still closed. “If you brought another bowl of chicken soup I wouldn't say no."
"Oh, all right,” Worthy said peevishly, “I'm the criminal; I admit it. I put the miserable beast in the work shed. It was just a
joke."
He dabbed his gleaming forehead with a handkerchief. “Couldn't we continue this later? I'm really not feeling my usual self."
"None of us are, Worthy. That's why I'm talking to you."
Worthy eyed him mutely across the table in his room.
"How much does a coati cost?” Gideon asked.
Worthy shrugged. “It was fifty-five dollars American."
"That's a lot of money to spend on a joke.” He smiled in spite of himself. “Not that it wasn't funny."
Worthy seemed gratified by this, and even smiled faintly himself. “Well, I
was
trying to make a point, you know, although it may have been a little too subtle for Emma. Gideon, is there some point to this? You have my confession. What more is there to discuss?"
Gideon sat back and studied him. There was quite a bit more to discuss: Had Worthy been making any other subtle points? Like putting something nasty in the apple juice? (Who, after all, would know more about laxatives?) Digging in the temple when he wasn't supposed to? Slipping death threats under doors? Skulking around Chichen Itza with a pipe wrench?
He decided to lay at least part of it on the line. “I was wondering if you had anything to do with this problem we're all having today."
"If I...why would...” He stared at Gideon.
"You're saying someone did this to us on purpose? Poisoned our food?"
"Well, ‘poison’ is a little strong, but I think so, yes. I wondered if it was another little joke."
"But that's...that's monstrous!” Worthy cried sincerely. The sweat had sprung out on his pale forehead again. Fooling around with the digestive system was no joke to Worthy Partridge. “And you think that
I
...that I would..."
Gideon didn't know whether to believe him or not. Worthy was an intelligent, subtle man; Gideon didn't doubt his ability to dissemble. He had denied the coati incident convincingly enough on the morning it had happened. Still, his outrage seemed like the real thing.
"Gideon, how can you say this?” he cried. “Do you really think I'd do such a thing? I'm as sick as anyone else. My God, sicker, sicker!"
"Everybody's sick, Worthy. Whoever did it is smart enough to realize he'd stick out like a sore thumb if he was the only healthy one."
Worthy twisted his gangling, sandy-haired legs around each other, left knee behind the right, right ankle behind the left; an arrangement most men's pelvic anatomy made impossible.
"No,” he said after a moment, “I wouldn't say that"
"Wouldn't say what?"
"Wouldn't say we're all sick."
They had looked sick enough to Gideon. “What do you mean? Who isn't sick?"
"Stanley Ard,” Worthy said evenly.
"Stanley Ard?"
"The reporter."
"Yes, I know, but why would—” But of course he knew very well why. It just hadn't occurred to him before. As Abe had implied, Ard wasn't the kind of reporter who would have scruples about manufacturing events when it came to improving a story. And if it meant bellyaches for a few others, well, that was a price that just might have to be paid.
"Worthy,” he said, “that's an interesting thought."
"Yes,” Worthy said, and wiped his forehead again. “And now I really think I should lie down."
When Julie awakened at five-thirty she was hungry and cheerful. They ate omelets for dinner (Julie having overcome her reservations about the brown-yolked eggs) and then brought some more soup to a shaven and largely restored Abe. They had talked about Stan Ard, whom Gideon offered to confront, but this time Abe had been adamant. It was his job, and he would talk with Ard the next day about the tainted juice and see where it led. As to the attack on Gideon, it was agreed that Marmolejo was the one to follow up on that.
It was the end of the next workday before Julie, Abe, and Gideon got a chance to talk again at length.
They were on their way back to the hotel along the path. The crew was eighty or ninety feet ahead of them, out of sight and hearing. Behind, the policeman maintained a discreet twenty-foot distance, ambling as casually as a man strolling through a zoo.
Indeed, they might have been in some wildly extravagant walk-through aviary. They moved along a moist green corridor impossibly crowded with gorgeous little birds of blue, red, and orange, which darted by their heads as nimbly as swallows or watched gravely and openly from the branches. Motmots, jacamars, cotingas, manakins, according to Julie. And some she swore were not in her
Birds of Mexico.
"How did it go with Ard?” Gideon asked. “I noticed him around today."
"We had a nice talk. He fervently denied putting anything in the apple juice. He was thoroughly shocked at the idea."
"That's not too surprising,” Julie said.
"You want a surprise?” asked Abe. “How's this: the mysterious digger was at it again. Two more steps excavated."
Julie looked at him open-mouthed. “What happened to the guards you hired?"
"I hired them for night duty. But the site was deserted during the
day
yesterday, and someone took advantage.” He shrugged. “I didn't think of it. I had other things on my mind yesterday.” He retreated gloomily into his own thoughts, walking along, head down, hands clasped behind him.
Gideon shook his head. “What in the hell are they looking for?"
"Well, I hate to repeat myself,” Julie said, “but I keep thinking that no one's actually seen that codex since the cave-in..."
"Impossible. If that codex was down there and anyone knew it—or even thought it—that stairwell would have been dug long ago. Besides—"
"I know,” Julie said, sighing. “I know."
Gideon paused to let a beaded, spiny-backed iguana scuttle across his path and into the foliage. “Julie, you don't suppose that was the point of getting us all sick—so that someone could have the site all to himself?"
She glanced at him. “That just might be. And Stan would have been the only one who was healthy enough to go out there and dig while the rest of us just flopped around at the hotel."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that. I could have done some digging yesterday if I'd had a good enough reason. I wouldn't have wanted to, but I could have. So could most of the others, I imagine."
"Maybe, but Stan makes such a satisfying villain."
Gideon smiled. “I can't argue with you there."
Abe returned from wherever he'd been. “Did you hear Ard's leaving tomorrow night? He says he's got all he needs for his first installment."
"He is?” Julie said. “Shouldn't Marmolejo talk to him first?"
"Don't worry, I'm calling the inspector as soon as we get back.” He laughed suddenly. “I almost forgot. I have some good news for you. Emma buttonholed me this afternoon to tell me now she's established a second-level pretersensory interface with Huluc-Canab."
"Terrific,” Gideon said. “Maybe he'll tell her what we have to do to propitiate the gods."
"He did. He says we have to be more respectful of personality entities from other culturotemporal horizons."