Mountain of the Seven Caves

By Lorna Mattern

Ten-year-old Douglas Gorman witnessed his father’s murder on top of an Aztec ruin in the Mexican jungle. Twenty years later, he’s a tanned, green-eyed woman’s dream and owner of an exotic imports company in New York City. Above all, he’s the tortured son struggling to understand why his father had to die. Bertie Worthington, a flamboyant giant of a woman with mammalian marvels, electric orange hairand bulbous blue eyes, tells Doug that her husband died on top of that same ruin, and urges him to ‘set things straight’.
Armed with new information about a hieroglyph that Bertie’s husband was after, Doug sets out for Mexico. With him is Winston, his godfather and retired World War II flying ace, and Angela B. for ‘Bullseye’ Scott, the only beautiful woman at Gorman Imports who rejects his advances. Turns out she’s a crossbow expert and has a PhD in Pre-Columbian Studies, no easy mark when it comes to Doug’s growing interest in her. Along the way, they pick up Willy, a student of Mexico’s ancient history and a part-time tour guide. Together, the foursome embarks on a long, perilous journey that takes them far beyond the hieroglyph.
Complicating their quest, two lecherous Texans whose drool flows at the sight of Angela pop up in the strangest of places. (“Looky here, Dwaynie Boy,” Burns says, “ain’t that the filly we saw at the airport?”) Bertie, too, appears and reappears, affirming Doug’s suspicions she may know more than she has revealed to him. (“Dirk!” she screams, never getting his name right, and squeezes his cheeks until his lip curls up to his nose. “Did you get the rubbing?”) And then there’s the ever-present threat of Yanco and his Brotherhood, first seen twenty years ago on that galvanizing, fatal day on the ruin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lorna Mattern
• Release date: Dec 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311906519

Lorna Mattern

Lorna Mattern worked for the State of Maryland for thirty years, experiencing a gritty side of life most people only read about. It was dirt floors, pig heads on dinner plates, children hidden in attics, panties on heads, destruction of refrigerators that call you a ‘sonovabitch’, all manner of brutal and poignant human acts. More than once, she had to fend off the amorous advances of maximum security prisoners, the attacks of desperate people wielding knives, shotguns, and handlebars. Later, when she worked in administration, her skills were put to use writing government documents. No adrenaline there, except for times when she stood in front of TV cameras to answer questions about sensational events. She escaped it all on weekends writing fiction for magazines and anthologies. It was then, after a trip to Mexico, ¬Mountain of the Seven Caves was created. Now retired, Lorna writes music and fiction from her homes in Orlando and Key West. She finds that getting to Key West is half the fun, riding the Overseas Highway, and ‘seeing it raw’ from the seat of her motorcycle, “The Kid”.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Jungle East Of San Blas , Mexico––October, 1966

From a mile up, the jungle’s canopy seems nothing more than an infinite carpet of green. Even at lower altitudes, occasional interruptions in the lumpy fabric fail to generate a second thought when seen by the untrained eye. But on this day, October 25th, 1966, a life-changing discovery is about to emerge from the dense foliage.

A few hundred feet above the canopy, condors ride gentle thermals, circling above prospects. The jungle is agitated with howling, clicking, and all manner of animal-speak. Above it all, locusts belt out a deafening chorus that rises and falls in unison.

So there it is, below the condors, an enormous earthen mound breaching the canopy. It is shielded from view by patches of green, thanks to a scattering of grotesquely skewed trees eternally groping for deeper soil. Their roots cascade down all four sides of the mound, giving vague definition to tiers.

Drawing closer to the top, two white flecks transform into the shirts of a man and boy. The man is heartthrob material. The boy is too, but he doesn’t know it yet. They sit cross-legged upon the tangled greenery. Between them, excavation instruments lie scattered among symbols of a freshly exposed hieroglyph one foot by two and a half feet in size.

The man and boy share a congratulatory smile, their green eyes glistening out from the sweat rolling down their deep olive tans. The man draws a worn pencil from his chest pocket and leans over a dog-eared diary. His breathy voice mixes with the scratching of the pencil as he writes, I have found it. Not only that, but my convictions about Bertie’s hysteria were right. There has been no evidence to support her supposition that Roland was murdered here. There is one thing. The site was broken before. But if Bertie’s logic was correct, we certainly would have encountered resistance along the way. There has been none of that. No hostilities, no threats, no . . . . A giant dragonfly lands upon the page. With a chuckle, the man gently brushes it to the side, and continues, . . . no monsters.

As if a switch had been pulled, the locusts end their song, leaving no sound except for the man’s shaky breath mixing with the wind. His hand freezes with the pencil still poised against the gently fluttering page. Alarmed, the boy and man say good-bye with their eyes then jerk their faces upward. They blink through sweat and raging sun to see a brown hand clasping an ornate serpentine hilt of mosaic turquoise, a blade knapped from black obsidian.

Run! the man cries, reaching for his pistol and jockeying to protect the boy. The blade slices down the middle of his disbelieving face and comes to rest deep in his heart. He falls dead, face up, onto the lap of his screaming son.

Father! Father! the boy cries as he is dragged to the side by a posse of brown-skinned men clothed in white with maroon sashes. Swinging wildly at his attackers, he is thrown hard onto his back and pinned down by six of them.

Another man stills his thrashing head with a vice-like grip, while yet another pulls back on his chin to expose his neck for the blade. In these few seconds, the boy has transitioned from joy, fear, horror, grief, and rage. Now, blinded by tears, he closes his eyes and slips into brave resignation.

The tip of the knife presses hard below the boy’s Adam’s apple. When the cries for his father soften and turn to prayer, the knife releases its pressure, as if to reconsider. A spate of agitated whispering erupts among the men, and with a harsh admonishment from the knife bearer, the blade slowly drags across the boy’s neck to just below his left ear, leaving a thin path of blood in its wake.

The boy passes out, never feeling the delicate carving below his ear. When it is done, the men depart as swiftly and silently as they had arrived, leaving no sound except for the whisper of the wind as it turns the pages of the blood-spattered diary.

The hieroglyph remains uncovered, testimony to the killers’ belief that time would, once again, conceal its contents. Upon it are two rows of symbols. The top begins with the figure of the Aztec hummingbird god, Huitzilopochtli. He wears a striped mask. Next, a file of seven Aztecs faces the right, their right feet forward as if on a march. They wear cloaks and loin cloths, and sandals secured at the ankle. In front of them walks a taller man wearing a robe with human skulls hanging from its sash. Above his head is a cogged circle with concentric markings, an image of Mexico’s Stone of the Fifth Sun. Finally, there is a prickly pear cactus. Upon it sits an eagle with a serpent hanging from its beak.

The lower row is similar except Huitzilopochtli wears no mask. The round, cogged object over the robed man is larger and flecked with paint. It stands out, catching your eye. Finally, instead of the cactus, a crouching jaguar faces a mountain with seven caves.

Chapter 2

New York City . Gorman Imports Building––1986

Doug Gorman stepped out of the gilded penthouse elevator and searched the lobby for the red Casablanca hat. He’d been chasing it for weeks, a pursuit that was particularly vexing because he was more accustomed to being chased. This time, he’d carefully calculated his odds. It was five o’clock, the time when a crush of exiting employees would bottleneck at the solitary revolving doors leading to the sidewalk. Surely he’d reach her before she could slip through.

In an instant, he saw it; the telltale red hat gliding through a field of gray. She walked like royalty, a tall, proud beauty with black hair pulled into a bun. She wore a curvaceous red suit and clutched a slender attaché beneath her arm. She rushed on, looking warily over her shoulder as she neared the doors.

Doug lunged into the mix, but made little progress. He’d forgotten to factor in the groupies who would crowd in on him. They’d slip an arm around his, walk backward in front of him just to catch a word or two. Mister Gorman, it’s me, remember? Looking good there, Douglas. Thought I’d hear from you by now . . .

By the time he bounded through the doors, it was too late. He halted in his tracks, frozen by that long beautiful leg as it disappeared behind the closing cab door. It’s magnificent, he whispered, capturing the memory of the gently dimpled calf with the butterfly at the ankle.

It belongs to Ms. Scott, Douglas, the head of your Design Department. But I’d advise you to give it up on this one. The voice, unmistakably British, came from behind Doug. It was Winston Chapman, aka Winnie, Chap, Chappy and Old Man. A robust and ruddy sort with a bountiful shock of white hair, he was in his early sixties and wore traditional doorman’s garb, that is, with the exception of a full chest of faded RAF ribbons.

Did you say something, Winnie? Doug muttered absent-mindedly, craning his neck to watch the cab turn onto Seventh Avenue.

Yes, Douglas, and I wager you’ve ignored me once again, but I’ll say it once more. Give it up on this one.

Give it up? Incredulous, Doug stepped up into Winston’s face, trying to hide a smile. You know, Old Man, I’m not accustomed to giving up on anything. Just because you’re my doorman, not to mention my cherished godfather, it doesn’t mean I’ll listen to you.

She’s trouble, Douglas, Winston insisted, and besides, you can’t go about burying your memories by burying your banger in every bird that passes your way.

Chappy, you’re the second best father I ever had. He turned quickly and headed for the doors. No time to chitchat, he called over his shoulder, I have to find out who she is.

Bloody fidget, Winston grumbled, didn’t hear a word I said.

Doug pushed his way back through the lobby and onto the penthouse express. On the way up, he leaned into his reflection on the polished brass doors, checking for bloodshot in green eyes that had charmed so many. He smoothed his slick hair then raised an eyebrow in adoration of this hunka burnin’ love. Before stepping out, he adjusted his trademark Nehru collar. Over the years, he’d found it best at hiding the scar.

The penthouse was a panoramic, glass enclosed spectacle two hundred feet square and three stories high. The perimeters were filled with the finest Asian carpets, pre-Columbian art, and seating bound in Argentine leathers. On the far left corner, ensconced in a tropical garden and aviary, a mammoth, three-dimensional Birth of Venus recycled a scented waterfall. Its soothing rush echoed with birdsongs to create a surreal escape from the city streets below. The corners nearest the elevators were designed with every conceivable option Doug would need for a white-tie gala. There were massive dumbwaiters to the events kitchen below, staging and sound systems, bathrooms with jungle green marble and gold fixtures, a uniquely long banquet table flanked by Chippendale chairs.

Doug’s executive team had repeatedly pressured him to use the penthouse for high-stakes business. It will impress, they’d insist. But Doug steadfastly reserved it for happier occasions. After all, it was his home.

He’d walled his private fortress in the center of it all. With the exception of an enclosed marbled bath and spa, it was just one luxurious room that opened up to the glass-domed ceiling that covered the entire penthouse. It was equipped with a high-tech global research and communications center, a dumbwaiter, an intimate living area with a fireplace, and a cushy bed that allowed him to drift off to sleep while searching for extraterrestrials among the stars.

As he often did when he stepped out of the elevator into the Celestia, as he called it, Doug pondered his good fortune and wondered when it would ever make him happy.

Chapter 3

"S pence ! . . . Spence! " Doug called, scanning the penthouse for his assistant. He was about to give it up when his sights settled upon a thin, brown tube projecting from behind Venus de Milo’s left knee. He watched incredulously as it inched upward and steadied on a blue macaw bobbing nervously on an overhead perch.

Gasbag! Gasbag! the macaw squawked.

Why that sneaky twerp, Doug muttered. Chuckling, he quietly maneuvered to the back of Venus. He paused, watching as the crouching bushwhacker, a short, spindly, Ichabod Crane of a man, discharged a nasty spitball from his mouth and loaded it into the tube. And as the man raised the tube to his mouth and inhaled mightily, Doug yelled, Yo, Spence! and clapped him hard on the back.

The pasty-faced steward whirled around, gagging on the spitball and whisking the tube behind his back. With his free hand, he pressed his stringy hair into place. Oh, Mr. Gorman, sir, I didn’t hear you come in.

So I see. Got something for me? Doug teased, maneuvering for a glimpse behind Spence’s back.

Oh this? Spence confessed, surrendering the tube. It’s nothing really, just a stick.

Recognizing the instrument, Doug’s eyes flashed. ’Just a stick?’ This ‘stick’ cost me two pigs and a week of jungle fever. He ran a gentle hand down its long, coarse shaft. It’s also the rarest blowgun ever to be recovered from the darkest digs of Papua New Guinea.

Spence winced. And now it’s got Spence spit in it, may God strike me dead. Do you mean to say that pathetic stick is the priceless object Design obtained for the Worthington Estate?

Doug raised the blowgun toward a window and peered up its shaft. They’ve been ravaging the entire fifth floor looking for it.

Oh pish, I’ve blundered the job alright. And I suppose I’ll have to relinquish the best spitball propellant a man ever had. Spence nodded toward a patch of errant wads on Brunhilde’s perch. Another five minutes and I’d have gotten her smack in the beak.

And murder my bird? Doug mocked.

A little sphincter shock at the most, sir.

Doug laughed and wrapped a consoling arm around Spence’s narrow shoulders, leading him away from the crime scene. The problem with you, Spence, is you need a woman.

Ignoring the comment, Spence prattled on, taking two steps for each one of Doug’s. Perhaps I can make amends. Now that we have the stick, what do you say we make a big deal out of it? You know, throw a lollapalooza of a presentation banquet for the old lady Worthington?

Getting no answer, Spence realized he’d pushed Doug’s biggest button, old lady Worthington. He kept on, as he always did, We’ll invite the usual riffraff as well as the Design Department this time.

Okay, Spence, you win, Doug conceded, but forget the Design Department. And set it up for a week from today. Maybe the short notice will create enough turndowns to nix the whole thing.

And if they show up? Spence asked.

Then, under no circumstances are you to seat that woman anywhere near me. Got it? Doug was surprised at his intense reaction. It seemed he’d spent a lifetime avoiding Bertie Worthington without understanding why. Recently, though, Bertie’s calls had escalated, and his uneasiness had ballooned to an unexplained fear. So he switched to the subject that had served him so well over the years. Say, Spence, you seem to have the pulse on everyone and everything around here. Do you remember seeing a woman, an employee maybe, who wears this . . . this big, round, red hat?

That endorphin factory with long, black hair?

None other.

Creamy skin with cheeks that blush a cinnamon rose?

God, yes.

Other-worldly blue eyes that reach down into your soul and turn it to silly putty? A butterfly at the ankle?

Yes, yes, enough! I can hardly stand it.

Oh, I get it, Spence laughed. You’ve got the tingles for Ms. Scott. Ms. Angela B. for Bullseye Scott.

Okay, so I’ve got the tingles. Who does she work for?

Why, you of course! She’s the head of your Design Department!

In that case, my man, wouldn’t it be a great idea if we invited the Design Department to the banquet?

Only a genius would think of that, sir, but be forewarned, she’ll send a representative. She won’t come herself.

Why not? Any other woman would jump at the opportunity.

Yes, I know sir, what with your tingling and all, but she’s not easy.

And how can you be so certain of that?

Reputation, sir. She’s trouble.

Pffft! See that she gets here, Spence, or I’ll restrict your ration of Cheerios!"

Well, that did it, Mr. Gorman, you’ve set me to quaking with fear. I’ll get on it right away.

Spence rambled off then turned suddenly. Oh, beat me with a salami, sir, I forgot to tell you. Mrs. Worthington called again this morning. She’s halfway delirious about Mexico, maps and such. Spence pulled a crinkled note from his pocket and pressed it into Doug’s hand. See here, it says ‘must have the map. Offering a fee that is well worth the trouble.’

When Spence had disappeared behind the elevator doors, Doug collapsed onto the nearest sofa and buried his face into his hands. Mexico. Mexico . . . Why can’t I remember?

Chapter 4

The Celestia shimmered with candlelight , soft songs of violins and tinkling champagne glasses. Yellow-vested waiters carrying trays of salmon and tenderloin bits weaved among the white-tied guests. And Spence, aflutter with his role as master of ceremonies, elbowed through the crowd to greet the queen bee, Bertha Worthington.

She was easy enough to find, standing over six feet with a head of orange, wiry hair that raced from her head, as if to escape. She looks particularly bizarre this evening, Spence thought. It wasn’t just the hair, it was the hyperthyroid eyes with the butterfly eyelashes, the garish red lips, the tight purple gown pressing her ample bosoms up into a mammalian marvel.

You look particularly, uh, electric this evening, Spence said, fiercely regretting his eyes were level with her heaving breasts.

Oh, my dearest Quince, you like my hair! How marvelously perceptive of you.

Spence, the name is Spence, he corrected.

Small matter, Quince, now where was I? Oh yes, Raoul . . . that’s my hairdresser . . . he did it for the little ones too, see?

Spence glanced down at two bug-eyed, porcupine-like Pekinese who, bearing an uncanny likeness to their mistress, skittered nervously around the hem of her gown. Called to duty, he leaned down to pet them then straightened to the cleavage. What are their names? he asked.

I call them bosoms, she giggled, but you can call them Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Mopping sweat from his head, Spence courageously raised his gaze until it rested on Mrs. Worthington’s face. Her watery, blue eyes were beaming with the anticipation of his response. She was holding her breath, waiting for it . . . waiting for it . . . .

No, no, I meant the dogs, I . . . .

Leaning back from the waist, she blasted a scream of delight across the penthouse that stupefied the guests into silence. Tears streamed from her face as she curled forward and hauled in a draft of air that thundered through her nostrils like rampaging boars.

Doug stood, unobserved, in the shadows. Sometimes I detest that woman, he thought. And why is she hanging around my chair? Dammit, he muttered. As was his custom, he’d been sizing up the crowd before making his presence known. And as he searched for Ms. Scott, he wondered why Spence called her Ms. Angela B. for ‘Bull’s-eye’ Scott. I’ll learn soon enough, he reasoned.

As if on cue, Spence made a hasty retreat from Mrs. Worthington’s space the second she was distracted, making a beeline for Doug.

What the hell is Bertie doing near my chair? Doug demanded.

Not to fear, sir, her name plate is conspicuously positioned at the far, far away place at the other end of the table. I’ve already pointed it out to her.

And, if she should try the old switcheroo again? Doug asked.

I’ll simply wrestle her to the floor and drag her away by the hair.

Good plan, Spence, that’s why I hired you. Any word from Ms. Scott? Doug asked, trying to sound casual.

Yes, actually, I’ve stored it right here on the shelf behind you.

And? Doug pressed.

Spence reached onto the shelf and whipped out the RSVP pierced by an arrow. It read, Someone else will have to present the blowgun to Mrs. Worthington Friday evening. And please advise Mr. Gorman for me, if you will, of what he can do with it in the interim.

Spence couldn’t resist. I think you just got the shaft, sir.

She loves me, Doug muttered, and set out for his obligatory bout with Bertie.

Before he could speak, Bertie waved him in. "Oh there you are, you naughty boy! Why haven’t you returned my calls?" She playfully pressed a palm to his chest and gave a hearty push. Doug responded with a stronger shove that sent her arms whirling for balance and her dogs running for safer ground.

Whoa! she gasped, I believe I have finally found my match. All these years and I never realized you were such a stout heart. She tweaked him on the cheek. "From now on, I’d like you to call me ‘Bertie’ and might I call you ‘Dave’?

"I’ve always called you ‘Bertie’, Bertie, and you know my name is ‘Douglas’.

Small matter, you catch my point, don’t you? She slipped her arm around his and gaily led him into the mainstream, cutting through huddled cliques of Design employees. Why haven’t you returned my calls? she insisted, squeezing his arm. Is it because of Mexico?

A pall settled over Doug. It’s been a long time, Bertie, but I still can’t shake it.

Oh my poor boy, Bertie said, pausing and looking at him straight on. Maybe if you went down there you’d get it out of your system. Your father’s death was a shock to us all, don’t you know.

The tinkling of a dinner bell broke through the chatter. We’ll talk about it later, Doug said, and led her down to the far, far away place at the other end of the table.

Chapter 5

Doug looked sadly at the empty seat to his left then pulled himself together to jump into the storytelling. After all, that’s why the guests were there. The more exotic and dangerous the expedition, the more they wanted to hear, the more they were willing to pay for the treasures he would bring them. The blowgun would bring a quarter of a million plus expenses, just pennies for most of the people there.

Losing no time, Doug stood as soon as the salad plates arrived. So here we are again, my friends, he pontificated with a smile, paying homage to our queen of treasures, our most beautiful Bertha Worthington! Throughout the applause, Bertie stood and blew kisses to all. Tonight, she will take custody of this exceptionally rare blowgun, Doug went on, bouncing it in his hands, and all it cost me was two weeks of dengue fever, living among the earth’s most elusive primitives and eating monkey heads. He smiled at the sudden clattering of forks to salad plates.

In an instant, Bertie was by his side, waving and snatching the blowgun to her bosom, then swiftly taking possession of the empty chair next to him.

Bertie, that’s reserved for . . . .

You can’t ignore me any longer, you naughty Dickie, Bertie insisted, and pulled Doug down into the chair next to her.

Doug. It’s naughty Doug, he bristled, leaning into Bertie’s face. And besides, you’re sitting in my date’s chair."

Small matter, Dickie. Now tell me, why can’t we talk about this?

You should know, Bertie, or have you forgotten?

But dearest, it’s been twenty years since your father was killed down there. Don’t you think it’s time you set things straight?

Set things straight? Hell, Bertie, it was just another senseless murder. They came, they saw, they slaughtered.

Bertie pulled a kerchief from her bosom, sobbing into it. Not senseless. Not really. You are just like your father. He didn’t believe me either and that is why he thought it was safe to take you along.

Doug paled. For the first time, Bertie had his full attention. Can’t ignore her any more, he thought, and turned to face her. He didn’t believe you about what, Bertie?

"You were too young and too shaken by the sight of it all to remember. Eight psychiatrists couldn’t get it out of you . . . and I couldn’t tell you until now. I just couldn’t!"

Doug sat frozen in his seat. "What? You couldn’t tell me what?"

Bertie put a hand to Doug’s cheek. Your father was after a hieroglyph, lovey. The same one my dear Roland was looking for.

Doug sat for a long time, trying to absorb the avalanche of information. A glyph? What kind of glyph?

Bertie’s eyes popped. Does this mean you’re going?

"Bertie, listen to me! What made that glyph so special that men would kill for it? Die for it?"

That’s for you to find out now, isn’t it? And seeing Doug’s intense curiosity, she knew she had him on the hook. I’ll keep this all hush-hush, don’t you know. In fact, you couldn’t suck it out of me with a Hoover. Now tell me, dearest, how do you like my hair?

Doug was still absorbing Bertie’s words when the elevator doors opened with a rumble. The room fell silent and all heads turned to see a tightly coiffed Angela B. Scott stepping out. She was sheathed in a clinging, coral gown studded with swirls of pearls, a matching purse gripped beneath her arm.

My God, Doug whispered, captivated by the image before him.

The woman set her bead upon the mesmerized Douglas. She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and began the first measured step in his direction.

Doug slowly rose from his chair, his eyes locked onto hers. And when she stepped to where her seating had once been, she stiffly tossed her purse onto the table and moved into Doug’s face. Douglas Gorman, I presume, she said, her words dripping with contempt.

Doug pondered his options. She was within kissing distance, yet somehow he was paralyzed.

My dearest, you’ve missed it! Bertie exploded, breaking the ice. "Derek, here, has just given me this . . .