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    Artifact
    Artifact
    Artifact
    Ebook276 pages3 hours

    Artifact

    By Scott Skipper

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    About this ebook

    Vicki never dreamed that she would turn to a life of crime. Neither did she dream that she would be running through the jungles of southern Mexico dodging a disparate group who variously want to rob her, kill her, and arrest her. She is, however, a resourceful and determined woman who weaves a web of lies and red herrings from Mexico’s southern border to its northern one. Along the way, a new man slips into her life. Can she trust him? Can he trust her?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherScott Skipper
    Release dateJan 5, 2018
    ISBN9781370825615
    Artifact
    Author

    Scott Skipper

    Scott Skipper is a California fiction writer with a broad range of interests, including history, genealogy, travel, science and current events. His wry outlook on life infects his novels with biting sarcasm. Prisoners are never taken. Political correctness is taboo. His work includes historical fiction, alternative history, novelized biography, science fiction and political satire. He is a voracious reader and habitual and highly opinionated reviewer.

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      Book preview

      Artifact - Scott Skipper

      Chapter 1

      Probably a real estate agent, she thought as Vicki peeked at the strange car in the driveway and the strange woman exiting the driver’s seat. The woman carried a brown paper package that was considerably tattered. Vicki went to the door and waited for the doorbell. She swung the door inward and studied, through the screen, the black-haired, blue-eyed woman who wasn’t smiling.

      Mrs. Vicki Rice? she asked with a trace of British accent.

      Yes, Vicki replied tentatively.

      My name is Martine Durand. I have something for you from your husband.

      Are you a process server?

      No, nothing like that. This is some kind of message. It’s not my business, but I think he may be in some sort of trouble.

      Oh, God. What are you saying?

      I met him only briefly—in México. He gave me this and asked me to mail it. I sensed that it was too important to trust to the mail.

      Vicki was stunned. Please come in and explain all this.

      The stranger smiled for the first time. She had a crooked, if engaging smile that Vicki thought would appeal to Robert. Thank you. I won’t take much of your time.

      Please sit here. May I offer you something?

      Just some water would be nice.

      Vicki quickly returned from the kitchen with a tumbler of ice water and iced tea for herself. So, you met Robert in México, and he gave you that? She gestured at the battered package. It was about the size of half a ream of paper and was tied with sisal twine.

      Oh, yes, here. Martine gave it to her. It was at the airport at Cancún. I had just arrived on holiday and somehow got into the departure lanes while looking for a taxi. Robert was dropping off his friend. I must have looked hopelessly confused, so he offered me a lift to the hotel.

      Sounds like him.

      Yes, well, he was quite gallant about it. When we got to the hotel, an enormous tour bus had just arrived, full of Japanese tourists. There were so many, and they were so rude, that there was literally no room to stand in the reception. To repay Robert for his kindness, I offered to buy him a drink, since I had to wait to check in anyway.

      He wouldn’t turn that down.

      No, he didn’t. Well, you know, we just had a casual conversation about what we were doing there. I was meeting a girlfriend for two weeks at the beach, and he said he had just spent a week in the jungle with the friend who he dropped at the airport.

      That would be Carl.

      That’s right. So, a week in the jungle sounded pretty adventurous to me. I wanted to know more about it. That’s when he got sort of mysterious—said he had something to do now that his friend had left. I didn’t press it.

      Vicki sipped her tea while trying to read the truth in what this woman was saying. He said he had to do something that Carl couldn’t see?

      Like I said, I didn’t press it. Here was someone I just met telling me about something that sounded clandestine. At that point, I thought I might not want to know.

      So, what happened next?

      That was it. We had a nice conversation over another drink. He tried to pick up the tab, but I insisted, then I went to check in, and he disappeared into the jungle.

      He didn’t try to hit on you?

      No, he was a perfect gentleman.

      Maybe you’ve got the wrong Robert Rice.

      Martine smiled her one-sided smile.

      When did you get this? Vicki raised the still sealed package.

      Hmm, that was a couple of days before I was due to go home. My girlfriend had already left, but I had some more time to work on a tan—I burn easily. Anyway, Robert showed up at the hotel and rang my room. He invited me to dinner at a place called the Sunset Bar. I was happy to accept. The place was lovely—

      I know it.

      Oh, well, then you know how lovely it is. We had a great time. He talked me into trying conch ceviche—good but a bit rubbery. Then he pulls this already ratty package from a backpack he was carrying and asks if I would mind mailing it when I got back to the states. When I saw the addressee, it was the first time I knew he was married.

      In your defense, we’re separated.

      Yes, he told me. Then he told me a very strange story.

      And what was that?

      I don’t think that I am the one you should hear it from. I believe it’s all in there. Martine pointed at the parcel she had brought.

      Vicki felt a prick of irritation with this woman who had seemingly dropped out of the sky and stirred memories she was trying to stifle. I suppose you two were…

      Intimate? No, not at all. Just one chaste kiss goodbye when he dropped me at the airport.

      You said you had a couple more days before you had to go to the airport.

      Yes, I did spend more time with him. Like the complete twit that I am, I thought all there was to do was lay on the sand and take windsurfing lessons. Sure, I’d heard of Chichen Itzá, but I had no idea what it was, and it seemed a bother to spend most of the day on a bus to go see it. Robert offered to give me tours of some places he said were better. He showed me two beautiful spots called—

      Tulum and Cobá, Vicki interrupted.

      Why, yes. He took you there as well then.

      Oh, yes. Our special places.

      Sorry, I couldn’t have known.

      No, and it’s all right. I’m moving on.

      I see. Well, when Robert wasn’t in his tour guide mode, I thought he seemed sad. Later I thought that he was missing you.

      I doubt that.

      Still, it concerned me. Little things he said gave me to think he needed looking after.

      What do you mean?

      He sounded sort of hopeless. Frankly, I wondered why he wasn’t making, you know, suggestions.

      Yeah, that’s not like him.

      Then he said something that convinced me I should deliver his parcel, what I figure is a very long letter, to you in person.

      What did he say?

      He said in it was the key to your future wellbeing.

      That struck Vicki mute. She fondled the string binding the sheets and felt tempted to open it, but she couldn’t read it in front of this woman. Is that all he said?

      Yes, but his demeanor made me think that after you read it, you will have to make a trip to México.

      I doubt that, but thank you for going out of your way to bring this to me.

      It was no bother. I hope things work out for you, and that Robert is all right.

      Do you mind leaving a number where I can reach you in case I have questions?

      I’d really rather not.

      Martine showed herself to the door as Vicki slid the twine from the brown paper package.

      Dear Vicki,

      By the time you read this…

      It was dark when she finished the handwritten missive. She was trembling slightly, and she knew that she was going to have to go to México to recover the body of her estranged husband, and perhaps something else.

      Chapter 2

      In the morning, Vicki called the Méxican embassy in West Los Angeles to ask if they could verify Robert’s death and the whereabouts of his body. The man who helped her said he would have to call back. While she waited, she opened a photo album and looked sadly at pictures of her, and Robert, and sometimes both of them, in front of the massive stone buildings scattered across the Yucatán peninsula. The memories were bittersweet. Those trips, at happier times, had been some of the highlights of their marriage. Robert had been obsessed with the place, and she wasn’t surprised that he would flee to there in his post separation despair. In part of his often-maudlin letter he rambled about Mayan mysticism, including visitations by someone, or something, called Ahau.

      He must have been losing it. Was it suicide? Should I call his family? Not now. I don’t need the recriminations. Maybe the police will do it. Crap. What am I going to do?

      The phone broke her musings.

      Mrs. Rice? This is Miguel Hidalgo from the Méxican embassy.

      Yes.

      I’m sorry to tell you it is true that your husband has died while travelling in México.

      She gasped in spite of herself. How did he die?

      That information I do not have. I only know that his body is at the morgue in Chetumal, Quintana Roo.

      What should I do?

      The best would be for you to go to Chetumal to recover the remains. There are many details that would be difficult by phone. Do you speak Spanish?

      No.

      Then I would strongly recommend that you go. You do not want to have problems in a matter as fragile as this.

      I can do that. Thank you for your help. She ended the call and could not repress a tear. You bastard, what were you up to?

      It didn’t take much to get her affairs in order. She trusted her listings to another agent in the office. The call to her mother was intense, but Vicki was adamant that it had to be done. Her aging parent couldn’t see the point.

      Vicki had two reasons to depart from Tijuana instead of Los Angeles. For one, it was cheaper. She booked a flight with an open return date. The last minute ticketing cost her a small fortune, and they refused to offer any compassionate relief, but just possibly, if Robert were telling the truth, she might come out ahead.

      The following morning, she rose early, made coffee, and showered. While doing her makeup, she contemplated her image in the mirror. An obvious gringa with dishwater blond hair, gray eyes, fair skin, and barely a shred of Spanish, was going to navigate a country, that could be challenging, completely on her own—car trouble in the middle of nowhere, getting lost on jungle roads, having no place to stay when night fell. México was the Third World. Fortunately, most of the people were enormously accommodating, but according to the news, things were becoming increasingly dangerous. She questioned whether she could really do this, then she gave herself a mental shake, and brushed her teeth.

      The prospect of leaving her car in the long-term lot at the Tijuana airport gave Vicki chills, so she called a cab to take her to the Metrolink. When she reached Union Station, the Amtrak ticket agent said, The next train to San Diego is full.

      What do you mean it’s full? When a train’s full, you add on another car, she said exasperated. I’ve got a flight to catch.

      We don’t do that. You’ll have to take the eleven-thirty train.

      That’s making my connection really tight.

      Not my problem. Do you want a ticket for eleven-thirty or not?

      How about if I stand on the nine-thirty train?

      Not allowed.

      All right. Give me an eleven-thirty ticket.

      She put the ticket in her purse, and stomped through the cavernous waiting hall, then out the front entrance, and crossed to Olvera Street where she had breakfast at Las Anitas. While sipping her coffee, she reflected on how different Méxican restaurants were going to be starting tomorrow.

      The train did not depart at eleven-thirty. Twenty minutes later, she asked a passing conductor, Why aren’t we leaving?

      He smiled as he replied, We’re adding another car. We’ll leave in a few minutes.

      Vicki ground her teeth.

      The train left Los Angeles shortly after noon only to sit on a siding near Oceanside for an eternity while a northbound freight passed. Checking the flight status with her phone—‘on time’—she resigned herself to missing it. When the train finally crawled into San Diego, she was at the door with her bag. Her relief was overwhelming to see the trolley waiting there at the end of the line. No sooner had she lugged the bag into the car, than it departed. South of National City, the shop signs were increasingly Spanish, the houses painted garish pastels, and the people nearly all Hispanic. Vicki’s anxiety grew inversely to the distance from the border. México had been fun and exciting with Robert. Alone, it seemed intimidating.

      At the end of the line, she dashed from the trolley, and jogged the hundred yards or so to the turnstile. It was awkward negotiating it with her bag. Once through it, her eyes darted for a taxi. There was a line of them. She continued at her pace to the one in the front.

      Airport, she told the driver as he put her bag into the trunk of the old Chevrolet.

      "Aeropuerto, sí."

      "¿Cuánto?"

      "Doce dólares."

      She didn’t understand, but she nodded and got into the back. The ride around the port of entry and back to the border fence was a little hair-raising. She checked her phone again when she had a signal, within feet of the frontier, and found the flight still supposedly on time. Shit. It’s departing now.

      "¿Cuál aerolínea?"

      Huh? What?

      Which airline?

      Aero México.

      He braked hard at the loading zone.

      She handed him a twenty. Is this enough?

      "Sí, señora, twelve dollars."

      Keep the change.

      "No, señora, do not tip taxi drivers in México." He began to peel dollars from a wad of cash.

      She was shaking while it took him forever to pass her eight crumpled ones, then he left the cab, and sauntered to the trunk. She grabbed the bag, extended the handle, and turned. Thanks, she said leaving him abruptly.

      At the check-in counter, she only had to wait behind one family, but they had stacks of luggage, some of it corrugated boxes bound with twine. Finally, she reached the Aero México agent. Have I missed my flight?

      The woman examined her boarding pass and passport. No, it has been delayed. You should be fine.

      Oh, thank God.

      The ticket agent smiled at her. God does not delay Aero México flights, but you should thank him anyway. Most of Vicki’s tension evaporated as she watched the woman affix the barcode tag to the handle of her bag, then she stamped the boarding pass and wrote on it. Gate nine. Security is that way. She pointed to the right. Que buen viaje.

      Thank you. Vicki berated herself for always letting Robert handle the Spanish, the smattering she had in high school had mostly evaporated.

      She had no difficulty with security. The flight was still boarding when she arrived at the gate. She stowed her backpack overhead, and pushed her purse under the seat, then fumbled for the seatbelt while nodding a greeting to the Méxican woman by the window.

      Where are you going? the woman asked in faultless English.

      Oh, Chetumal.

      The woman reacted with surprise. Most Americans vacation at Cancún.

      I’m afraid I’m not on vacation. I’m going on kind of an errand.

      Ah, then on business?

      Well, it’s personal business.

      I don’t mean to pry.

      It’s all right. I’m Vicki, by the way.

      Maria. Do you know Chetumal?

      I’ve been there twice. It’s a beautiful place.

      I don’t know it. Did you go there as a tourist before?

      Yes, my husband loved the Mayan culture. He was fascinated and always wanted to visit more ruins.

      "They are beautiful. You say your husband was fascinated."

      He died somewhere near Chetumal. I’m going to recover his body. She let it out in a rush and stifled a sob.

      How terrible. Maria laid her hand on Vicki’s shoulder. Please forgive me. I did not mean to upset you.

      Vicki drew a deep breath. No, it’s okay. We were getting divorced. He went off by himself, to get away from me, I suppose. Something happened. I don’t know what. I just wanted a divorce. I didn’t want him dead.

      Of course not, you poor dear. What a terrible thing for you.

      The flight attendants interrupted with their ready for departure spiel. The noise level rose making conversation difficult. Soon the engines throttled back, and the attendants began the beverage service. Vicki thought she deserved a Bloody Mary. Maria asked for a glass of wine.

      The woman raised her cup toward Vicki. Salud.

      Vicki touched plastic cups. Cheers.

      How is your Spanish? Maria asked.

      About a dozen words. She sipped and savored the spicy drink.

      "Then I suggest you hire an auxilio."

      What does that mean?

      "A helper. Someone who can guide you through the trámites."

      "¿Trámites?"

      How do you say it in the US? Uh, red tape.

      I suppose there will be a lot of that. Vicki laughed gently.

      In my country it is our most important product.

      Vicki laughed again. I’ve noticed. You’re really into rubber stamps too.

      "Ah, sí, we could not do business without them. Maria smiled warmly. You have a very sad task ahead of you. Buena suerte."

      Good luck?

      Exactly. See, soon you will be sounding like a native.

      I doubt it, but I did bring a phrase book.

      May I ask? Was your husband in an automobile accident?

      Vicki bit her lip and hesitated. I think he may have killed himself.

      How insensitive of me. I’m so sorry.

      No, I wasn’t surprised to hear it. In fact, I didn’t hear it. He wrote me a long letter. He sounded very depressed—feeling sorry for himself and angry with me.

      You must not blame yourself.

      She sat back and thought about the letter and how she felt about it. No, I don’t. Really I don’t.

      Chapter 3

      Vicki had to change planes in México City. She bid Maria goodbye and checked a monitor for her next gate. The place looked familiar—a man with a broad face in a starched white shirt with tiny pleats was selling drinks from a cart, a kiosk hawking newspapers and lottery tickets, and a young boy shining shoes. She smiled at the memories and sat in a chair that was a sling made of heavy leather. The floor was onyx. There was a sort of plaque by the gate bearing the Aero México logo across the ubiquitous Aztec calendar stone. Robert said it wasn’t a calendar at all. That that was a misconception, and nobody really knew what its purpose had been. For a moment she missed him.

      On the next leg, she sat by an old woman who snored. Vicki studied her phrase book. At Mérida, she changed planes again. She descended stairs to the tarmac and was greeted by the scent of México—smoky and fetid. It triggered sweet memories that brought a constriction to her throat. The air felt thick and damp. She had to concentrate on breathing to wring enough oxygen from it.

      The small terminal was too bright. The onyx floors and the leather seats were the same as at the capital and so was the little man with the bar cart. Twilight was falling, and she regretted not making a hotel reservation at Chetumal. Am I really up for this?

      The plane that flew the final leg across and down the length of the peninsula was small and cramped, nearly claustrophobic. The air was rough, and lightning flashes lit

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