Gideon sighed and moved quickly on. The article's ending, given what had now happened, had a poignance it didn't have when Ard had written it.
And now what? Will the fourth covenant really come to pass, as the first three have? Will skulls be crushed and brains be spilt? Or will Huluc-Canab intervene with the mighty Xecotcavach, as Emma Byers says he promised?
Deep in the jungles of Yucatan, the diggers of Tlaloc eye each other nervously and wait. And wonder.
The previous dig was mentioned only in passing, and there was no reference to the codex. That, apparently, was what had been planned for the second installment, for a postscript promised, “Next: The Strange, Tangled Story of Howard Bennett and The Tlaloc Codex."
Julie had been reading the article too. She tapped the postscript with her finger. “Could it be that someone killed him to keep him from writing the next part?"
"I don't know,” Marmolejo said. “Could it?"
"I doubt it,” said Gideon. “The story's been printed a hundred times. There's nothing new to tell."
"What about the rest of the article?” Marmolejo asked. “Is there anything at all that might provide a clue? Perhaps someone meant to keep him from revealing something, not knowing it had already been submitted."
Gideon shook his head and passed the article back to him. “Sorry, Inspector, I don't think so. I can't see anyone committing murder to keep something out of Flak. It's not the kind of newspaper anybody rational pays attention to. And even if someone did pay attention, what is there to get Ard killed? There's nothing here that half the people in the hotel don't already know, thanks to Emma."
The drinks were brought in. Julie and Gideon had the locally bottled Cristal grapefruit soda; Marmolejo had Coca-Cola. The cigar went back in the drawer, none the worse for use. Not only did he fail to smoke the things, he somehow managed to keep the tips dry.
"I have something else to show you,” he said. “Do you recognize this?” He took a small yellow Pen-Tab notebook from a brown paper envelope and held it up.
Julie shook her head.
"It's Ard's,” Gideon said. “He was taking notes in it when he interviewed me."
"Ah, good,” Marmolejo said with satisfaction. “I thought as much, but I'm glad to have you confirm it; it was found under his body.” The notebook too was slid across the desk. Marmolejo was so small and the desk so broad he had to get halfway out of his chair to do it.
There were only about a dozen pages left in the spiral-bound pad, and just one entry, at the top of the first page; “Return to the scene of the crime,” it said, written in ballpoint in Ard's round, uncomplicated hand. The final e disintegrated into a distorted hook that the point of the pen had jabbed through the paper, then became a scrawl that ran crookedly off the page. At the top right-hand corner of the page there was a smear of what appeared to be dried blood.
"I don't suppose you have any idea what it means?” Marmolejo said. “'Return to the scene of the crime?’”
"No,” said Gideon. “A note to himself? Something about the next installment?"
"This-this scrawl,” Julie said, frowning uneasily down at it. “This stain. He must have been-was he writing it when he was killed?” Her hands were in her lap. She wasn't about to have them anywhere near the notebook.
"Yes, it appears so,” Marmolejo said. “The notebook was open to this page, and his pen was under him, with the point in the unretracted position."
"Well…is it possible it was meant as some sort of clue to his killer? You know-I know this sounds silly-a way of telling us who the murderer was?"
"I don't think so, Julie,” Gideon said. “The writing is slow and careful, just the way he usually wrote. No haste, no sign of agitation. That has to mean he didn't know he was about to be killed. It also means there's not much doubt about his killer being somebody he knew, somebody he wasn't afraid of."
The inspector nodded his agreement.
"Whoops,” Julie said. “What did I miss? How does that follow?"
"The wound was a contact wound, as you know,” Marmolejo began.
"No, I didn't know."
Marmolejo looked surprised. “Forgive me. I assumed that Dr. Oliver confided in you-"
"I do confide in her,” Gideon said. “I just spare her some of the messier details."
"Which I appreciate, believe me,” Julie said. “But now I'm interested."
"A contact wound indicates the gun was held against his head,” Gideon said. “So obviously his killer was standing next to him, right in his space. But Ard wasn't bothered enough to stop writing. And he couldn't have had any idea he was about to be shot or he wouldn't have been making those nice, round letters. At least I wouldn't have."
"I see,” Julie said. “But that's a little strange, isn't it? Even if you know somebody, how do you press a gun to his forehead and kill him without his being aware of it until you pull the trigger?"
"Oh, not so difficult, I think,” Marmolejo said. “Here is our Mr. Ard. He is sitting in the chair at the side of the path, writing. He hears someone coming down the path. He looks up, recognizes the person, nods, perhaps says good morning, and returns to his writing. The person casually draws level with the chair, his hand already on the gun in his pocket. At the very moment he comes abreast he quickly pulls it out, presses it to his head, and-well, as you know."
"But why assume it couldn't have been a stranger?” Julie asked. “Why does it have to be someone he knew?"
It was Gideon who replied. “Because he was still writing when he was shot, Julie. Surely if someone he didn't know was getting that close to him-a foot, foot-and-a-half away-it would have made him uneasy; he would have looked up, stopped writing. But an acquaintance strolling by? Nothing to worry about there."
"Yes,” Marmolejo said approvingly. “Exactly as I see it.
"I don't know,” Julie said doubtfully. “Maybe he did look up. Maybe he stopped writing. That doesn't mean he had to lift the pen."
"You're suggesting he was killed by a stranger?” Marmolejo asked.
Julie backed off. “Well, no, not suggesting. Just-” She grinned. “I'm not sure what I'm suggesting. I think I better leave it to the experts."
Marmolejo nodded briskly. That was fine with him. “The bullet's path,” he told them, “is consistent with our little scenario. It passed through his head in a downward direction, entering just below the hairline and emerging from the base of the skull-"
"Which fits in with his sitting in a chair, head tipped forward, while the killer stood,” Gideon agreed. “Did you ever find the slug?"
"Yes, and the cartridge as well; a. 32-caliber rimfire. Probably from a Smith amp; Wesson revolver, an old model, although I don't have a final report yet” He sipped from his glass of Coke. “You wouldn't know if any of the crew members possess such a weapon?"
"No idea,” Gideon said.
"Couldn't you search their rooms?” asked Julie.
"Not without warrants,” Marmolejo said, and smiled. “Requisite as it was, police reform has had its cumbersome aspects.” He set down his glass and looked at his watch. “One-ten. Perhaps you'll join me for lunch, and then I'll be happy to drive you back to the Mayaland."
"Lunch sounds good,” Gideon said, “but we don't mind taking the bus back."
"But I'm going there anyway. There are several people I want to talk to."
He stood up. The cigar was retrieved from the drawer and reinserted in his mouth. “If you like, there'll be time for you to buy a hammock before we leave."
Gideon's hand went to the plastic bag beside his chair. “Now what makes you think we'd want to buy a hammock?"