Life Blood ---XIX---Page No--63

"It looks brand new."

"Yeah, the whole place is 'Jungle Disneyland' remember? Except this deal ain't about Mickey Mouse, believe me. There's plenty of Army hanging out around here."

Lieutenant Villatoro took us ever lower, gently guiding the
chopper's descent, and now we were only a few feet above the
ground. There certainly was no mistaking what was around us,
even with the blowing rain. The pyramid loomed over one side of
a large plaza, a big paved area that was mostly obscured from the
skies since the swaying trees arched over and covered it from
aerial view.

"Okay, we're about to touch down." Dupre was clawing at his
pocket, yearning for a cigarette. "So if you still want to get out,
move over by the door. I'll disengage the main rotor once we're on
the ground."

As we settled in, the rotor began to cause surface effect,

throwing a spray off the paving stones, which now glistened under
the cold beam of the landing lights. And looming above us, off to
the right, was a stepped pyramid in the classic Mayan style. We
all lapsed into silence as the Bell's skids thumped onto the stones.
The ex-Army pilot, Villatoro, kept glancing over at the pyramid as
though he didn't want to admit even seeing it. Did he know

something Alan and I didn't?

This was the moment I'd been bracing for. I was increasingly convinced somebody wanted me to see this place, whatever it was, but now what should I do?

Well, the first thing was to dip my toe in the water, do a quick
reconnoiter on the ground. If this really was Baalum, Dupre's
Maya Disneyland, could it also be part of Alex Goddard's clinic of
"miracles," the location Sarah called Ninos del Mundo? If I knew
that for sure, then I could start figuring how to find out if she was
here—as I suspected—and get her out of his clutches. Maybe the
see-no-evil embassy might even be prodded into helping an
American citizen for a change.

"I'm getting out, to look around a little, but not till you turn off the engine. I want to be able to use my ears."

"All right, but don't take all day. This kind of weather, I want to keep it warm." He turned to Villatoro and shouted the order. In the sheets of pounding rain, I figured that no one could have heard us come in. That, at least, was positive.

When the rpm's of the engine had died away, I clicked open
the Bell's wide door, slid it back, and looked around. In the glare

of the landing lights I realized at once that the stones were old, weathered, and worn, but the grout that sealed them was white and brand new. The plaza was free of moss, clean as the day it was done—which did not appear to be all that long ago. Above me, the pyramid, continuous recessed tiers of glistening stones,
towered into the dim skyline of trees.

I stepped out onto the pavement, holding my breath. The

plaza was almost football-field in size, reminding me of an Italian
piazza. Around me the rain was lessening slightly, and as my
eyes adjusted . . . my God. There wasn't just a pyramid here;
through the sparkle of raindrops at the edge of the helicopter's
lights I could see what looked like a wide cobblestone walkway
leading into the dense growth just off the edge of the square,
probably toward the south, away from the river, connecting the
plaza with distant groups of small, thatch-roofed houses, set in
clusters. . .

Could Alex Goddard's "miracle" clinic be in some collection of primitive huts? It made no sense.

But I decided to try to get a closer look. I'd walked about thirty feet away from the helicopter, across the slippery paving, when I saw a flash of lightning in the southeast, followed by a boom of thunder that echoed over the square.

At least I thought it was thunder. Or maybe the Army was

holding heavy artillery practice somewhere nearby. Abruptly the rain turned into a renewed torrent, and the next thing I heard was the helicopter's engine start up again. Then I sensed the main rotor engage, a sudden "whoom, whoom, whoom" quickly
spiraling upward in frequency.

Hey! I told him not to—!

When I looked back at the Bell's open door, Dupre was

standing there, frantically searching the dark as he heaved out my tan backback and what looked like a rolled-up sleeping bag, both splashing down onto the rain-soaked paving.

What! For a moment I thought the thunder, or whatever it was, must have completely freaked him. Then what was actually
happening hit me with a horrifying impact.

"Alan, wait!"

I started dashing back, but now the main rotor was creating a
powerful downdraft, throwing the rain into me like a monsoon. By
the time I managed to fight my way through the spray, the rotor
was on full power and Alan Dupre and his Bell were already lifting

off. I reached up, and just managed to brush one greasy skid as
he churned away straight upward into the rainy night.
        "You shit!" I yelled up, but my final farewell was lost in the
whine of the engine. My God, I thought, watching him disappear,
I've just been abandoned hundreds of miles deep in a Central
American rain forest.

Then it all sank in. Whoever had gotten to him was playing a rough game. They didn't want me just to see Baalum, they wanted me delivered here. Probably to secure me in the same place
Sarah was. Colonel Ramos, or whoever had frightened Dupre into bringing me, had wanted us both. So what now? Were we both going to be "disappeared"? Staring around at the pyramid and the empty square, I could feel my heart pounding.

Then I tripped over the rolled sleeping bag and sank to my
knees there in the middle of the rain-swept plaza, soaked to the
skin and so angry I was actually trembling. Up above me, Alan
Dupre, king of two-timers, had switched off his landing lights, and
a few moments later the hum of the Bell was swallowed by the
night sounds of the forest—the high-pitched din of crickets, the

piercing call of night birds, the basso groan of frogs celebrating the storm.

And something else, an eerie sense of the unnatural. I can't explain it. Even the night songs of the birds felt ominous, the
primeval forest reasserting its will. It was haunting, like nature's mockery of my desolation. I pounded the sleeping bag and felt . . . shit, how did I let this happen?

Get a grip. I finally stood up and looked around. Maybe when
God wants to do you up right, She gives you what you want. You
used Alan Dupre just like you intended: He got you here. But
there's more to the plan of whoever's holding his puppet strings.
So the thing now is, don't let yourself be manipulated any more.
Get off your soggy butt and start taking control of the situation. . .
        That was when I sighted a white form at the south, forested
edge of the plaza. What! I ducked down, sure it was somebody
lurking there, waiting to try to beat me to death as they had Sarah.
Did Ramos intend to just murder me immediately?
        But there was no getting away. If I could see them, they surely
could see me. And where would I escape to anyway?
        I dug my yellow plastic flashlight out of my backpack and my
hand shaking, flicked it on. The beam, however, was just
swallowed up in the rain. All right. I strapped on the pack and
taking a deep breath, threw the rolled sleeping bag over my

shoulder and headed across the slippery paving toward the white, which now glistened in the periodic sheets of distant lightning.
        Meet them straight on. Try and bluff.

When I got closer, though, I realized what I was seeing was

actually just the skin of a jaguar, bleached white, the head still on, fearsome teeth bared which had been hung beside the paved
pathway. Thank God.

But then, playing my light over it, I thought, Bad sign. My first encounter at Baalum is with a spooky, dead cat. It felt like a
chilling omen of . . . I wasn't sure what.

I studied it a moment longer with my flashlight, shivering, then turned and headed quickly across the plaza toward the pyramid now barely visible in the rain. If there were jaguars, or God knows what else, around I figured I'd be safer up at the top.

When I reached the base and shined my light up the steps, I
saw they were steeper than I'd thought, but they also looked to be
part of some meticulous restoration and brand-new, probably safe
to climb. And there at the top was a stone hut, complete with what
appeared to be a roof. Good. If there hadn't been anything taller
than it around I think I might have just climbed a tree.

On the way up I began trying to digest what the place really
was. The pyramid was "fake". . . or was it? A hundred years ago
the eccentric Brit archaeologist Sir Arthur Evans whimsically
"reconstructed" the Palace of Minos on Crete with his own money,
and it's still a tourist highlight. So why couldn't somebody do the
same with a reclaimed Mayan pyramid in Central America? Still,
this was different, had the feel of being somebody's crazed
obsession.

As I topped the steps, I realized the building that crowned the pyramid was also a "restoration" like everything else, including a decorated wooden lintel above the door that looked to be newly lacquered. Bizarre.

I moved through the door and unloaded my gear, then

extracted my water bottle, now half-empty, for a pull. Finally I

unrolled Alan Dupre's sleeping bag on the (dry) stone floor,

removed and spread out my wet clothes, peed off the edge, then
took a new pair of underpants, jeans, and shirt out of my
backpack, donned them, and uneasily crawled in. I was
shivering—whether from the soaking rain or from fright, I didn't
know—and my teeth were trying to chatter. Was I hidden away
enough to be safe? I didn't know. All I did know was, I was in
something deeper than I'd ever been in my life, and I had no idea

how I was going to get out. And I was both scared to death and angry as hell.

Sarah was here, though, I was certain. Like a sixth sense, I
could feel her presence, out there somewhere in the rain. For a
moment I was tempted to just plunge into the storm looking for
her, but a split second's reflection told me that was the stupidest
thing I could do. Instead, I should try and get some rest, till the
storm cleared, and keep periodic watch on the plaza in case

somebody showed up. Then, the minute there was light, I'd hit the ground and go find her.

I suppose nothing ever happens the way you plan. My mind

was racing and my nerves were in the red, but I was so exhausted from the teeth-rattling trip in the Bell I couldn't really stay alert very long. In spite of myself, I eventually drifted off into a dreamless doze, a victim of the narcotic song of wind in the giant Cebia trees and the insistent drumming of forest rain on the roof.