Later, after the ceremony was over, Angélica had followed Quint to the canvas tent they were sharing (thanks to Teodoro’s second trip with the donkeys to and from Calakmul midday). He could still taste the chocolate drink on her lips when she’d shared a long, slow kiss good night.
However, what she didn’t share with him was the truth about her cancelling their vacation, even though at that moment he would’ve been quick to forgive any lies in exchange for a few more spicy kisses.
Unfortunately, her father had joined them too soon with his red, anti-scorpion socks in hand along with another jar of Teodoro’s bug repellent goop to spread around. Three bodies to a tent didn’t allow privacy for kissing, let alone truth telling, so Quint had settled into thetraditional handwoven cotton hammock, which was also brought in by the good ol’ donkey train, and called it a night.
The next day was basically a repeat of the previous, with the only change up being new blisters, cuts, and bites. Thankfully, only the insects left a mark on them, not the four snakes—all deadly and quite put out at the notion of having to relocate—that they’d come across while clearing space for more tents.
Around noon on that day, Teodoro had returned from his daybreak supply run to the Calakmul camp with extra help—Fernando, Angélica’s usual foreman at her dig sites for the last several years. He brought his own machete, along with plenty of hard-earned muscles from forty-plus years of living in the Mexican jungle, and a tolerance for the heat and humidity that Quint would steal, if he could.
Actually, make that just borrow every now and then to impress Angélica, who kept watching Quint when she thought he wasn’t looking. Watching for what, he didn’t know, but if he were to guess, he’d say it probably had to do with checking for cracks in his sweaty, grit-covered armor.
The same went for KuTu—the watching part, not the crack checking. Whenever the Maya guard came near, Quint could feel the weight of his stare, which tended to be narrowed and seemed slightly wary, as if Quint might rush him and start biting at any moment.
In short, there were weird vibes all around.
God, what he wouldn’t do to return to the beach house where life’s footing felt much firmer and the ice was aplenty. Instead, here he sat in a camp chair just out of the sun’s reach, waiting for a helicopter to arrive while discussing the merit of adjectives with Angélica’s father.
“Have you noticed KuTu eyeballing me?” he asked Juan.
“No, but my daughter has been keeping me busy. Yesterday, she pretended that my construction skills were needed to build a few worktables for the mess tent, but I’m no fool. We both know that María can swing a hammer harder than me. That woman could give Popeye a run for his money after all of her hand-grinding work on themetatemaking homemade masa.” Juan swatted at a fly with the palm frond. “Why do you ask? Did you try to say something in Mayan and accidentally insult his mother?”
“No. I haven’t done anything but smile at the guy. Is smiling bad in the Maya culture?”
“No, but maybe we should glue some pretty gemstones to your teeth. It might help you with the ladies, too.”
Quint shook his head. “Didn’t I tell you last week to give up your career aspirations for standup comedy?”
“You did, but my daughter will tell you that I’m old and ornery and march to my own drummer.” He swatted at the fly again, which had meandered back their way. “Maybe KuTu hasn’t seen a ‘big-time photojournalist’ this close before. You’re like a rare bird stopping by on its migration north for the summer.”
“Maybe.” That seemed like a reach, though.
“Certainly not such a pretty bird like yourself who shares a hammock with a Mexican red rump tarantula,” Juan added, chuckling.
Quint lightly whacked the smartass with his notebook. “It’s all fun and games until someone ends up with a scorpion in his hammock.”
Juan pointed the palm at him. “Scorpions are no joke. I don’t know what scared that poor little spider more this morning, you shaking it out of its new home or the high-pitched screaming that followed.”
“I was not screaming. I was shouting orders.”
“You were panicking.”
“And it wasn’t a ‘little’ spider. That sucker could palm a baseball.”
“Spiders don’t have palms.”
“That is certainly not the kind of excitement that I prefer to wake up to in my bed.” Juan’s daughter was much more fun, with fewer legs and eyes, and not so bristly. “Unlike what Raul said about that kind of tarantula at breakfast, it sure didn’t act ‘friendly,’ with the way it went up on its haunches and wiggled those furry spider arms at me.”
Juan laughed and swatted again.
Damned big hairy spider!
Somehow, the red-rumped arachnid had slipped inside their tent overnight, mistaking Quint’s boot for a potential burrow. This morning, when he’d sat up in his hammock, grabbed his boot fromthe floor, and tipped it upside down to check for critters, the tarantula had come crawling out and leapt down onto his bare thigh. His shout of surprise had woken up Juan, who’d watched wide-eyed as Quint tried to shake the spider off his leg. Instead of falling to the floor, the tarantula had bounced off his thigh into the folds of his hammock. Cursing with great gusto, Quint had struggled to hurry out of his hammock only to twist around in it and end up flat on his back on the floor. The spider fell after him, landing on his bare chest, all eight eyes glaring right at him.
He’d shouted several colorful words loud enough to entertain the howler monkeys nearby, who’d joined in with deafening roars that made Quint’s heart pound even faster.
The tarantula took offense at all the ruckus, reared up with a raised head and front legs, and threatened Quint with an impressive set of long, curved fangs.
“Don’t move!” Juan had warned.
