Belmopan Read online

  The ‘doctor’ had been a man they had met and had financial dealings with on a trip to the Yucatan Peninsula previous. Steve and Brian had engaged in a short vacation for two weeks sampling the local cuisine and diving the pristine waters that lay just off the coast of Cozumel. Unexpected, the opportunity to go inland and visit some of the cenotes (large water holes) in the area came along, but misfortune shadowed them and the excursion turned into an exasperating experience for the two. If it had not been for the doctor, they would have ended up deported, incarcerated or shipped back to Canada in cuffs. Still uncertain as to whether they had been set up or not, an opportunity for the doctor to take advantage of the two of them in their ignorance was a possibility yet to be determined. Either way, it had not been profitable for the parties involved. It was this kind doctor that staved off prosecution and who Brian was to meet the following night. He was looking forward to the conversation and discovering the incidental details of their last meeting of almost six years past.

  The clanging of the keys hitting the countertop reverberated throughout the foyer. The desk attendant looked toward several bellhops’ and summoned one to attention with the wave of her hand. Before Brian was able to bend to pick up a piece of luggage, the bellhop had come to his side.

  “Hello, my name is Jose’,” he announced with a smile.

  He was young, barely twenty and had a smile that would warm the heart of any cantankerous old maid. Jose was dressed in a full-length, white shirt with long, dark pants and sandals. His manner was firm and insinuated a confidence beyond his years. He grabbed the keys from the desk, bent over to collect Brian’s remaining luggage to place on a pushcart and forced his way through the glass double-doors at the rear of the foyer. Out into the air, the smell of the green foliage mixed with the chlorine in the pool teased his senses like a mild smelling salts. He awoke to the fact he had finally arrived. Brian, although emotionally subdued, was looking forward to the intrigue of the task ahead.

  The hotel was next to the waterfront with little more than a grass strip and a wooden walkway holding back the tidal encroachment of the sea. Like most hotels in the tropics, the doorways to the rooms were entered from an open balcony that usually spanned the length of the complex; a little odd for northerners at first sight, but considering the need for a refreshing breeze to blow in off the ocean, it made considerable sense. The view from both sides of this complex was pleasant, with the door to Brian’s room overlooking the pool area and palms, and the window looking east, toward the open ocean. Off to the right was a group of wooden buildings lining either side of a wharf jutting out several hundred yards into the bay. A dive flag atop a pole lazily flopped in the gentle, ocean breeze welcoming those who would venture to the ocean’s visual bounty beneath the waves.

  As he placed the luggage in the room, Jose’ turned with a smile, “If there is anything ‘jou’ need or need to know, I am your man.”

  Catching a glint in his eye, Brian had an understanding of his intent and would likely rely on his good nature to help him in the future.

  “Here Jose’,” as he handed him a ten, “I’ll come down and talk to you a little later. There are some things I will need as well as directions to some places. Perhaps you can help me?”

  “Any time,” he responded as he left and closed the door behind.

  Leaning back on the bed headboard with pillows to support him, Brian closed his eyes and let his mind drift to the circumstances that lead him to this place. Vincent had encouraged him, in a way, to investigate the plight of the jade bowl and its courier, but it was Shawna’s dark, mysterious eyes flashing before him along with the fear that constricted his aching heart, that pressed him on in the endeavor. The highlights of the last night they had spent together began to tease him and he found himself trying to block them from his mind as his body responded in like manner. The last few moments of her in his eyesight, along with her father as they stood just beyond the stone circle on the small plateau above Ossette, initiated a chill that ran down his spine. Brian began to recall the starry sky, and, as the herbal tea began to have its drugging effect on him, the humming of machinery as well as the crackling fire increased in intensity.

  There had been a file in Vincent’s office that had alluded to the correlation of time-periods and human sacrifice around the world. The information had been scattered and inconclusive, but compelling. Certain facts brought to light the eradication of the practice of this horrific act in one area of the globe, only to resurface in another far, distant corner, after a relatively short period of time. The thought began to play on his mind as he remembered the dreamtime, embodied as the young, native traveler, and the strange, extenuating circumstance of this traveler’s bones being found deep in a well on the Hopi reserve, the jaguar finger-ring being the only remaining clue to his murder. He could rest no more.

  Getting up from the bed, Brian looked toward the luggage that was piled on the floor and decided it was best to get things started. After unpacking a few things into the drawers, he had a quick shower and within a few short minutes was heading down to the lobby to try and find information on the Mayan ruins and the necessary guides to locate them. Unlike the Upper Peninsula, the jungle here in Belize, was denser and the roads somewhat treacherous and illusive; the need for a guide was a must.

  Getting off the elevator, Brian engaged a housecoat-clad, middle-aged gentleman cutting across his path. With hair slicked back smooth and towel draped over his arm, this man gave the appearance of heading to the pool but instead walked alongside him to the glass doors of the lobby.

  “After you,” I said, opening the door wide and turning slightly to face the pool.

  To Brian’s surprise, staring back at him was a scantily clad, well-built brunette lounging on one of the deck chairs. She gently nudged the large sunglasses perched on her nose and returned to the book that rested on her knees. Sensing she was side-glancing him from behind the dark glasses, he gave her a smile and then continued after the gentlemen he had just let in. The man turned to the lounge just off to the right while Brian proceeded to the desk for an enquiry; a ‘be back in several moments’ sign was perched on the counter. Turning to search the almost empty lobby for help, he noticed a group of inactive of bellhops milling by the door. Jose was not among them.

  The Royal Reef was not a big hotel but should have been busier at this time of the year. Built after the great hurricane of 1931, it was fairly modern having received several facelifts with each new owner that eluded to raise the fortunes of those (stockholders) who financially embraced her. Belize was not as well developed, in the Americanized sense of tourism, as it could have been; some patrons remained happy it remained so. Since the British had left all those decades ago, there had not been the influx of tourist dollars to invest in a much needed newer infrastructure, although, there was foreign investment. It was a chore to keep it in the nation’s best interest and not let development run amuck. Support for the aging waterworks and road-systems, was a slow and seemingly unrewarding task that was aided only by the British, who still had a vested interest in Belize’s prosperity. Initially, economists had sighted the drug smuggling difficulties and the amounts of laundered money sifting into the system that compromised the monetary policies needed to stabilize the economy, but recently the government had gone to great lengths to encourage trade with neighboring countries and loosened the laws on foreign ownership of land. Belize itself is relatively safe and has no more and no less of a drug problem than the other countries in the area, but still remains a geographically-good, stop-off point for producing drug-lords to refuel their planes at private airstrips in the secluded jungles, usually on their way to the wealthy Estados Unidos. Few have been the millionaire made by an early morning stroll along the beach, or jungle path, with the discovery of a washed up payload ditched from a federally, tailed courier plane. Another concern has been the lucrative, illegal trade of real and counterfeit, antique artifacts heading to foreign markets. With the government’s
slow progress in eradicating these ongoing infractions, for whatever reason, the International Banks, save one, were at a standoff with a wait and see attitude. Luckily, the Government had enough assets of their own to support the Belize dollar through the transition period.

  Just off to bellhops’ left was a large, colorful, announcement board. Astounded, as he strolled up, Brian found exactly what he was looking for. There was an empty chair behind a small table covered with flyers and timetables of the ongoing tours. As he leafed through and gathered some of the slips, a different, uniformed, young woman strolled up and slipped in behind the table.

  “May I help you find something?” she asked, her strong, Spanish accent curling the words pleasantly.

  “Thank you. Uhh, are the tours daily or do you have to book regarding availability?”

  “Both,” she replied with a smile. “There are scheduled tours within Belize to Xunantunich and Corazol, and outside to Tikal, Copan and Palenque. They are one, two and three day tours respectively. Within Belize, most are day tours that you can either arrange for yourself, or we can arrange travel and a guide for you.”

  “Oh! And you can set it up a day in advance?

  “Usually,” she replied, twisting her mouth into a smile.

  “Thank you.” Brian turned and exited the front doors.

  Once outside, the heat hit him like a soft pillow; the sun was high in the sky. Dressed lightly in a cotton shirt, long pants and sandals, Brian knew within moments he would be sweating. There was a long stretch of open road to the south just right of the shoreline that seemed to go on forever and within five minutes of walking, a taxi pulled up alongside and offered its services. The driver smiled from ear to ear and with a “where to?” they headed off in a cloud of dust toward the heart of Belize City.

  Crossing the motley, swing-bridge over Haulover Creek to the old part of the city and the market, Brian couldn’t help but take notice of the smell. It was not all that repugnant, but it couldn’t be escaped; the odor emanating from the waters below. The flotilla of open skiffs and speedboats lay huddled close to the docks waiting for the remainder of their cargos of colorful produce, boxes and people to be on-loaded and whisked away before the ebb tide had ceased. The majority of the motley flotilla was on its way to islands and cayes just an hour off the coast to the east. Children played precariously close to the traffic in the streets as the two drove past. Women in colorful dresses, sporting bags of goods in their hands and on their heads, gave them side-glances as they meandered through the maze of pedestrian traffic.

  Brian had come down town to try and locate the little restaurant that he had agreed to meet the Doctor at. Although, somewhat wild at night, this was a quaint area with narrow streets and close buildings that towered two and three stories above. There was an odd blending of old and new architecture as a result of Hurricane Hattie that devastated the area some years back, killing hundreds of people. Like most port towns, it had a colorful and sordid blend of residents and drifters, and an underbelly that, for the most part, was better left unexposed.

  Turning on to Regent Street, located on the map as a scratch, Brian finally came across the hanging sign above the door of ‘el Hostal de Fraudulento Abogado’ (the Inn of the Fraudulent Lawyer). It was a bright, quaint, adobe-style restaurant with a fenced-in open, eating court. Looking through the high, wrought- ironfence, he could see the small, plaid, cloth-covered tables adorned with flowers and vases waiting for expectant patrons. The back wall was covered with flowering vines and small multi-colored lanterns that would light the courtyard at night. As he entered in through the front doorway of the kitchen area, he heard the familiar, “Buenos tardes senor.”

  “Buenos tardes.”

  “May I help you?” came a pleasant voice from behind the bar counter. The attendant put his cleaning cloth down to be more formal.

  “Yes, I would like to make reservations for tomorrow night. There will be three of us.”

  “Si, senor,” he replied without writing the request down.

  “About eight-o’clock”

  He nodded in return.

  Brian smiled back at him and hesitatingly left assuming he would write something down. He waved, and Brian returned the gesture then retreated outside into the sun and the waiting cab.

  “Thanks for your time,” Brian saluted to the driver through the passenger’s side window. “I will walk back to the hotel from here.”

  “Are you sure amigo?” he asked reaching for the bill in Brian’s outstretched hand, “Gracias.”

  Brian watched as he slowly drove down the street and turned the corner out of sight. The narrow, side street had little auto traffic and the few pedestrians that graced the street were oblivious to his being there. It was nice to be in the warm climate, away from the cool, dampness of British Columbia. He had not presumed to take the time to do the tourist thing, but was intrigued by the colorful streets and the collage of people and ethnic races that crowded the main streets. He walked slowly through on his way back to the hotel; the diversion was appreciated.

  The time was four-o’clock when Brian passed by a poster depicting a Mayan Figurine and clay, wash basin, attached to an iron wrought-fence. Deciding too drop in at the quaint, historic museum, he passed through the front gates and by the wooden enclosure that had been the original guard-station. It was a modest, two-story, stone building of colonial architecture, housing the historical archives of the city, and to my surprise, a small but wonderful collection of artifacts; a separate walkway led to the entrance to the historical prison. The entire complex had been newly renovated over the last twenty years, but still held its heir of British colonialism.

  Once inside, he approached the reception area to the left just inside the front door and was greeted by the women behind the counter.

  “Buenos tardes Senor,” she chimed. “Buenos tardes Senorita,” Brian returned with a smile, and continued, “Mayan exhibit?”

  She Pointed down the hall to a stairway as a lead to where he was going, but was given a curt ‘uh hum’ as she directed him to the cash register where he was to purchase a ticket. Passing the small, bookstore area just behind a set of glass doors, he knew full well he would have to venture upstairs to find the Mayan exhibit. Slightly overwhelmed by the caliber of the artwork along the stairwell, he took a deep breath and entered the upper, exhibit hall and was stunned by the small, but impressive, collection of photographs and clay figurines. To his delight, in the center of the main, exhibit room, beneath a glass cabinet, was a replica of the famed Jade Skull of Altun Ha. It was small; barely the size of a woman’s fist; the original was of similar, crystalline formation as the Olmec, jade bowl. Brian stood for some time and gazed at its impressive style and formation, wondering as to the whereabouts of the original, older counterpart.

  Continuing down the hall of white, stucco archways and murals, the sound of his flat sandals resounded on the marble, tile floor and echoed loudly through the corridors; it was impossible for subtlety. Brian walked to the rear of the final exhibit and read a sign on the wooden, mahogany door, ‘Keep Shut’; a poster of butterflies and beetles adorned the upper-half, alluding to the exhibit within. From the outside, he could hear laughter and the shuffling of boxes. Grabbing some paper and an empty file folder that lay close by and placing them beneath his arm, he entered the room to find a couple, obviously employees of the museum, in passionate embrace.

  Taken back by the sight, Brian bowed his head with an, “Excuse me.”

  “Oh!” came the cry of the women as she straightened her skirt and came directly in front of him. “Forgive me, may help you with something.”

  “Well, yes,” Brian replied, with an embarrassed, half grin. “I am Dr. Alexander, from Canada, and your name would be?”

  “Delacruz, Maria Delacruz.” The name on her tag confirmed.

  “Well, Ms. Delacruz, I was sent down to Belize to get in touch with a colleague who is working at one of the archaeological digs close by. I am actually lo
oking for someone who may be able to help me in locating her, and perhaps take me to the site.”

  Saying nothing, she looked at Brian searching his eyes and straightening her skirt further. “I may be able to help you,” she replied, looking back sheepishly into the room and closing the door slightly.

  “Her name is Ms. Brook, Shawna Brook. Would you happen to know where she is working?”

  “Well, Doctor, it would depend on the project site she is at and the team she is working with, they do move around a little bit,” she noted with a grin.

  “Yes, I realize that, but I had to leave in such a hurry, I left my papers at home and my secretary has just left on holiday, so I can’t get in touch. But I think she was either at Caracol, or Xunantunich.”

  Brian glanced back to the young man in a crisp, white, security-uniform shirt and blue trousers, just inside the door packing several boxes; he did not seem bothered by the intrusion. She looked uneasy at my scrutiny and raised an eyebrow.