CHAPTER FOUR
MARCUS
Maybe the helicopter ride was a bit of overkill, but he had access to one, so why not?
He surveyed the Guatemalan countryside below. Lush green jungle swallowed parts of the city. Mist shrouded mountains that circled bodies of water. He’d been to Mexico before, but never to Guatemala. He wondered why Katy Stevens found this place special. He would soon find out, he supposed.
The helicopter moved to descend. He had told the pilot to aim for Plaza Mayor, but he’d only looked at Marcus like he was nuts. “I find a farm to take you to, Señor,” he said.
They landed on a farm, where a cow paused from chewing its cud and regarded the helicopter with curious eyes.
“The cab is there,” the pilot informed him, pointing outside the fence.
“I’ll take it from here.” Marcus nodded, hefting his suitcase and backpack.
He had worn a long-sleeved polo shirt, and now he folded back the sleeves. His slacks clung to his legs slightly. A film of sweat formed on his skin, even though the air felt relatively cool. He guessed the temperatures were hovering in the 60s, but it was more humid than what he was used to.
He exited the field by opening a rustic man-gate. A cab waited for him, indeed, a little sedan with a driver who ran up to him to help with his bags.
After Marcus was settled, they took off with the driver making small talk.
“First time in Antigua, Señor?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
“You will find it beautiful. Especially at Christmas time.”
He doubted it, but he only said, “I hope so.”
The man nodded vigorously. “The rain no scare you. It stop right away. You sleep for siesta.”
“I’m not worried about getting wet,” Marcus assured him.
“Here is hotel.”
Latrell had booked Hotel Gayano for him. It was a small outfit in the middle of town, close to the Plaza Mayor, according to the online map. It stood out among somber façade with its peachy tint.
The hotel employee welcomed him with a reserved smile. She handed him the key and motioned for him to follow her. They climbed rickety stairs that probably wouldn’t pass code in the States. She led him down a shabby hall and opened a door at the end of the hallway. He had to duck to fit his six-foot-tall frame through.
She left him with a little grunt of words he didn’t understand. He set his luggage on the floor and looked around. A small room, certainly nothing lavish like some of the hotels he was used to. He had traveled to third-world countries before, but usually, he had some lead time to research lodging options. Maybe Latrell could transfer him to the best hotel in town in a day or two. He’d endure this until then.
He checked the bathroom. Cramped and stained everywhere. At least the tap water worked. He splashed some water on his face to freshen up. Thankfully, the soap looked unused. He tapped it out of its wrapping, washed and rinsed. Then he looked around for a towel. There was a green one mismatched with a pink one.
Downstairs, he returned to the hotel employee, who eyed him with surprise.
“Can I get some directions please?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No speak English.”
“Plaza Mayor?” he asked.
“Ah, si,” she said. She waddled out to the front door of the hotel and pointed down the street. She said some words in Spanish and then smiled.
He nodded the direction she pointed, saying one of the few words of Spanish he knew. “Gracias.”
Marcus walked the streets, which were narrow and often had no sidewalks. A strange looking conveyance, like a super small hybrid car without side walls and powered by a motorcycle, zipped past him and then stopped. A man poked his head out. He said, “Tuk-tuk,”” to Marcus, pointing to the vehicle he was in, which Marcus interpreted as an offer for a ride.
“No, gracias,” Marcus said.
People selling fruit along the way nodded at him. The women still wore traditional clothing, a colorful blouse and a long skirt. That surprised Marcus. He thought perhaps most countries had caught up to modern fashion. Time seemed to have stopped in Antigua.
Marcus kept walking, a slight worry nagging at him that Katy might no longer be waiting for him. At least he could communicate with her via email. He wondered if she knew Spanish or whatever native language they spoke here.
He was caught flat-footed, not knowing his way around or even being able to communicate. It was a foreign feeling, one that he didn’t relish. It was as though words were stuck in his throat and couldn’t come out. He knew Chinese from some dealings with his business contacts, but that would hardly serve him any useful purpose here.
Soon, he reached a street with more people, more shops, more traffic. He stepped onto the sidewalk and walked to the end of the street, trying to find some indication of where he was.
He was lost.
Surveying the faces of the locals around him, he tried to find a helpful-looking one. A woman selling fruits smiled at him.
He approached her. She was selling strawberries and mangoes. The strawberries looked great. He pointed at one and arched an eyebrow.
“Ocho quetzales,” she said, holding up eight fingers.
He gave her the money, and she bagged a handful for him in a paper sack.
“Plaza Mayor?” he asked.
She pointed left.
He thanked her and ate a strawberry as he made his way to what he hoped was the right direction.
The strawberries were fantastic. Already, he felt better about this trip, if this was any indication of how food would be here.
The street fed into a busier thoroughfare, the Plaza Mayor, he was sure of it. There were a church and fountain and vendor stalls selling Christmas stuff.
Christmas.
A memory weighed his heart down, pressed against his chest so he couldn’t breathe. The tragedy had taken place four Christmases ago, and the holiday still stirred disquieting emotions within.
He pictured his wife’s face as she left the house to help her parents fix the Christmas meal. The officers standing on his porch two hours later to tell him she had been in a fatal accident.
The nightmare of burying his wife and unborn child while the drunk driver that hit them lived.
Bitterness ate at Marcus, like acid corroding metal. He took a step, unseeing, and was startled by the honking of a horn. A tuk-tuk drove around him.
Marcus wiped the perspiration beading on his face and searched the plaza for a sign of Katy Stevens.
There she was, walking toward him from the church.
It was funny, seeing her here. Out of context. She was an American abroad, as he was, and yet she looked as though she belonged. She wore a skirt and blouse, with her hair pulled into a loose ponytail over one shoulder. She was smiling.
Relief washed over him. He was no longer alone in this city of strangers. She could help him understand the lay of the land. Best of all, he could speak in English with another American.
“Hello, Mr. James,” she said, walking up to him. Her eyes were a clear blue, guileless and happy.
“Marcus,” he reminded her. “Thanks for meeting me here, Katy.”
“Of course.” She shook his hand. “It’s nice to see you. You must be busy, and I appreciate you making time to come.”
“No problem. I’m happy to see for myself the situation in Conchilla.”
“Great.” She beamed. “I already anticipated that you’d want to, so I arranged for us to travel there by bus. The next one goes out in five days.”
“How long does this bus ride take?”
“Fifteen hours.”
He raised his eyebrow. “Are you kidding me?”
She frowned. “No. I am serious.”
He gave her a frosty smile. “I can easily rent a helicopter.”
Her smile evaporated. “And how much is this helicopter ride?”
“Oh, only fifteen hundred dollars from Antigua to Tikal.”
Her expression cooled even more. She put her arms across her chest. “And that is if we get there safely. For how much you could spend on a helicopter ride, do you realize how many children you could feed and clothe here?”
Marcus scowled. “I could feed a lot more with a million dollars.”
Katy opened her mouth and then shut it again. She took a step back. “Thank you for coming all the way here. I am sorry for inconveniencing you. This might not be the efficient charity-work-slash-photo-opportunity that you were counting on. Good day.”
She turned on her heel, leaving him gaping at her.
“Now, wait.” He grabbed her arm, and she stared at his hand like he carried a disease. He let her go. “Photo opportunity?” He looked around him, exaggerating his movements. “Do you see any media trailing me?”
“Granted, I don’t, but I doubt very much that your handlers would let this happen without some sort of a post that could go viral. They’re certainly doing a good job with your million-dollar Christmas prize.”
She held up a social media feed that showed his marketing group having people enter a contest by sharing about the prize money.
“Of course, we need to spread the word,” he hedged.
“To make yourselves look good,” she scoffed.
“What other reason is there to put on a Christmas charity contest?”
She gave him a pitying glance. He had a sinking feeling he hadn’t said the right thing. “Do I really have to answer that question, Marcus?”
This time, when she stalked off, he didn’t try to stop her.