Temple

By E. G. Jones

Governments, powerful individuals, even churches all over the world will do absolutely anything, legal or not, to possess the discovery that will rock our culture, our history, our beliefs, the way we look at life. The Cancun vacation Ed Bailey and Diane Quintero began turns into a marathon of the highest stakes ever known to man, to prevent World War III. They have to win this race!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796074635

E. G. Jones

E.G. "Joe" Jones grew up in Palm Springs, California where he started his career in law enforcement a police detective for almost ten years. He then opened his own Private Investigation firm. Not counting the major civil litigations he was involved with, he worked on sixteen murder cases, seven of which involved the death penalty. He is now retired and divides his time between Southern California and Panama.

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Copyright © 2019 by E. G. Jones.

Editor: Betsy Barbeau

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 11/25/2019

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER I

The small fiberglass boat was perfect for navigating the inland waters along the Palencar Reef south of Cancun. He had rented the small craft for one day of fishing complete with rod and reel and a small bucket of bait. Leaving the marina of Cancun, he headed south just outside the reef. The tide was out, so it was easy to spot the jagged elk coral and find an opening four miles along the coast. He was able to make good time in the calm waters inside the reef and within a couple of hour he was idling into a small cove. Sea grass almost touched the boat in these shallows with small fish darting at the approach of the moving shadow. He raised the small outboard motor and stepped out into two feet of water, pulling the boat onto the narrow sandy beach by the bow line. He quickly tethered the boat to a coconut palm, lifted the large backpack which rode comfortably on his back from the front of the boat. Adjusting his wide brimmed hat, he set out through the thick jungle.

Although he was on a well-defined trail, he could have been hundreds of miles from any semblance of civilization. August in the jungle of the Yucatan was the worst time of the year. The air over the canopy above him moved like a gentle whisper but on the floor of the jungle, not even a leaf stirred; the air was perfectly still, stifling. No birds called out; no monkeys were moving. The only sound was the occasional rustle of leaves as iguanas moved away from his approaching steps. His boots were wet with salt water, and he knew he had to be careful. Even the slightest blister could turn into some kind of unknown jungle fungus. Most deaths in the area came not from venomous snakes or jaguars, but from an invasion of the body by some unknown bug. Untreated, they can die in a matter of days. He knew about that all too well when years earlier he had scratched a mosquito bite. Within hours, some kind of fungus had attacked the open bite and he nearly died before he got to a village doctor who had some penicillin. The doctor had dug out the dead tissue, leaving a scar half the size of a baseball.

He took his time along the trail and reached the camp nearly an hour later. Several small campfires were burning which were never allowed to go out. Hammocks were strung between trees and a pot was hanging over one of the small fires. A small, slight-built man in his late forties hurried out of a pile of rubble and raised his arms in greeting.

Morrie, my friend! Welcome to our temple.

The Mayan Indians working at the site were not surprised to see him. For at least ten minutes before he had appeared, they had known this stranger would walk out of the jungle. The Mayans were uncovering a temple their ancestors had built a thousand years earlier. As Morrison looked around, he thought about how most Westerners thought the Mayan civilization had disappeared hundreds of years ago. In fact, there are two and a half million Mayans living in Mexico and Latin America right now. They hadn’t disappeared; they merely quit building temples. Morrison embraced the smaller man like a long lost friend.

I thought I would come and see this for myself. I knew I would have to prepare some kind of strong argument to the Board for continued funding. I figured the best way was to come here and see it for myself, even though you should know I was able to raise another hundred thousand dollars. Now, I can’t wait to see this evidence you are convinced depicts what we’ve found.

The small man wore khakis and a matching short-sleeved shirt that was soaked through due to the humidity. His heavy straw hat was pushed back so he could look up at the taller man through his thick eyeglasses.

This way Morrie. The light is much better inside than you would think. This might be the most remarkable find in the history of modern man. When this temple has been restored for the world to see, it will cause cultures throughout the world to re-examine their origins. This is very exciting for me, although some people might see this as a curse.

The tall man looked into the eyes of the smaller man and asked, What do you mean? while wiping his brow with a handkerchief.

Just come. Come with me and I’ll show you. This will change the lives of millions of people. This temple was not built for any of the Mayan gods or rulers seen before and the paintings inside prove it. The shocking fact is the paintings are over two thousand years old.

Before we go inside, of course you have photographed these paintings.

Of course!

Do you have the digital flashcards?

I actually have four in case one of them didn’t function properly. Now that you’re here, they can be shown to the world.

Morrie began walking to the front steps of the small temple. The smaller man caught up with him and reached to help him off with his backpack. At his touch, the tall man spun quickly and had raised one arm to chest level.

No! Oh, sorry. I thought you might be one of the Indians. I’ll take it with me for now. He slid his backpack off one shoulder and carried it, both shoulder straps in one of his huge hands.

Alex led the way into the dark of the temple from the top of an unusually short, hand-carved stone staircase. The limestone blocks, heavily pockmarked by weather, had been expertly set in place hundreds of years before. Now, half of the balustrade on the left side of the steps was gone. Above the entry he saw two unusual renditions of Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent. Both were just the head of the Mayan god of gods positioned on either side of the opening with the head of a man in their jaws. The carved faces were not of the usual flattened forehead and heavily angled large nose with drooping earlobes adorned with large earrings. This man’s thin, angular face had a thin nose and a beard. This proves nothing, Morrison thought to himself. He had seen many carvings just like them.

Now, you have to be careful. This room is much larger than the usual small room we have seen in other temples. This is a large rectangular room, a meeting room.

The small, sweating man turned on a flashlight to help light the dim room. Morrison stood there in shock. The interior was definitely not small. In fact, the part that was still covered with dirt and jungle on the outside continued unexpectedly at least thirty feet from the entry. The narrow room’s walls leaned toward each other and abruptly peaked with a corbel arch much higher than any he had seen before. At the very back was a stone platform set about four feet above the floor of the main room by several wide steps. Standing in front of that rectangular structure, the taller of the two men slowly turned completely around.

It’s huge. You’re right. It’s a meeting room!

Alex stared at the face of his tall companion in silence. Neither had noticed the old Indian who had followed them into the temple as they stood in front of the stone altar.

This old Indian had not been selected by Alex when he had hired the others in the village. Nevertheless, he had climbed onto the truck with the others. After several days at the camp, Alex noticed the old Indian was always served his food first and every morning the men would not start work without first walking by where the old man sat, touching him gently in some way, usually on the head. The old man was always the last to join the work party. When he paused, the others would stop work instinctively without even looking at him. When he bent to continue work, they did too.

Now, the old man was in the temple with the two white men. He had felt the tall man walking through the jungle towards them, long before he had arrived. When the large man had walked out of the jungle, the old man had seen the dark aura around him and knew that this man had a dark heart. Leaving the two white men, he slipped back out of the temple clicking his tongue softly on the roof of his mouth. The other Mayans gathered around him.

Inside the temple, Alex was breathing heavier now. He controlled his voice trying not to reveal his excitement as he moved to stand directly in front of his tall friend. Yes, Morrie, this is a meeting room, but that is not the remarkable part. It’s there, behind the altar, up there on the wall.

They both turned toward the wall behind the altar. Alex, perspiring heavier now, pointed his flashlight and illuminated a large painted panel on the left side of the wall. The painting was crude and lacked much color, but with some concentration Morrie was able to see what was depicted. He wanted to see more. Sensing it, Alex moved the flashlight to the next panel, the central panel. Morrie stood in the silent room in front of the altar almost shaking and gasped. Slowly, Morrie’s eyes followed the flashlight to the next panel. They looked at each other, then both turned back toward the paintings.

Alex, this is very interesting, but it only proves that when Cortez landed, he built a church in a Mayan temple. What are you trying to say here? These paintings can’t be more than three or four hundred years old. Who really knows when they were done?

When I first found this temple three years ago, I thought the same thing. This room was filled with dirt and rubble, but I was slowly able to empty it. When I learned the dimensions of the interior, I was puzzled. But when I found just the top part of one of the paintings, the one on the left, I scraped off a sample of the paint and sent it off for carbon dating, saying nothing about its source. It took nearly three months. They reported back that the paint sample was approximately two thousand years old. Since then I’ve sent out three more samples to different labs, just to be sure, two from the painted white robe of the central figure. All of them came back the same: two thousand years old. No matter how you try to explain it, there is only one answer.

They stood in silence again; only their heavy breathing audible. The small man was trying to focus on the face of his taller friend through the perspiration that had run onto his glasses. In the dimly lit room, they stared at each other in silence.

Alex, how long have we known each other? Twenty years? I know this is perhaps one of the most important discoveries ever made. I mean, ever; but it has to be handled with the utmost care. A good deal of caution must be exercised to make sure the importance of this find isn’t lost in the furor it will generate. We could, somehow, be proven wrong, but we both know what those murals depict. The central figure in those paintings in a white robe with a beard and European features, surrounded by what are obviously Mayan noblemen? It’s the Atonement. This is hard to take in, to say the very least. You had three separate labs carbon date the paint samples and all agree that they’re two thousand years old? This find will cause a major upheaval of cultures throughout the world. I think the best way to proceed with this is to keep it quiet until we can get some respected colleagues down here to do their own examinations. That has to be done, long before any release of information can be made. I think the best way to get them to come here is to show them the photographs and the carbon dating results. You said the labs that did the testing do not know where the samples came from?

No, no. They haven’t a clue. I first mailed them to my niece with a letter, and she sent them from Los Angeles with her return address. It shouldn’t cause any speculation because I often have samples tested for dating. Even my niece doesn’t know where the samples came from or from what.

Good. Now, if you’ll give me the digital flashcards, I’ll make sure they find a safe home.

The two men man walked to Alex’s rusty Volkswagen Thing. Alex used his handkerchief to dry his glasses, then reached under the rear wheel-well and retrieved a small package wrapped in cloth. He carefully removed the cloth wound around a small metal box. When it was opened, visible was a smaller clear plastic box with the flashcards. He removed the clear container and handed it to Morrie. The tall man immediately looked around to see who was watching and only then noticed they were alone. The fires were still burning; hammocks were still strung in the trees; but the Indians were gone. Morrie and Alex were all alone in the jungle.

Where did they go, for an afternoon swim?

They never go for a swim; it’s too far. In fact, they never leave me alone. This is strange. They’re simply gone. Perhaps they’ve walked to the cenoté.

Where? There’s a cenoté here?

Actually, I found the cenoté before I found the temple. That’s how I found the temple. I flew over the area and saw the cenoté from the air. I made my way back on foot a month later. Searching in expanding circles, I found the temple. It was relatively easy. It wasn’t very far away. Sometimes the Indians walk to the cenoté and sit around in a group for a while and then come back. It seems this old man is kind of a leader to them. I suspect he is simply the oldest and so they follow him. Do you want to see the cenoté?

Yes, of course. Did they use it for religious ceremonies? asked Morrison as he opened his backpack and put the box deep inside.

We have no way of knowing unless it’s dredged, but of all the cenotés in the Yucatan, only two have even been briefly explored. I’m certain this one would reap a good deal of information if we can complete the restoration of the temple and validate what those murals depict. This is by far the oldest structure ever found from the Mayan Civilization.

The small man casually led the way down a fairly wide trail through the jungle which was more like a road in that it was level and raised above the level of the floor of the jungle. Its surface was made of crushed limestone and the light color of the crushed rock reflected the sun back up into the wet faces of the two men as they walked.

Alex casually addressed Morrison, You could have left your backpack at camp.

That’s okay. It isn’t that heavy and I want to photograph everything to present to the Board when I get back. You and I both know how they love photographs. If I can get you in most of them, they can identify the work they are sponsoring more with what you’ve found. Let me get you on the road.

The small man tried to smile as Morrison took two pictures of him standing in the middle of the ancient Mayan road. For some reason, Alex suddenly felt ill at ease around his friend. He had known Dr. Morrison for over twenty years but as he faced Morrie for a picture, he realized he didn’t really know him. Oh, Morrison was an anthropologist too, but wasn’t at all like him. He had always moved in the social circles of the money so badly needed before any anthropologist could do his work. Morrie had been credited with a few important finds, but he never actually got his hands dirty at the site of an excavation. He had a knack for being able to finance digs. Other than that, no one really knew much about him outside of his reputation with the ladies.

When Alex had contacted him initially for this project, he easily produced forty thousand dollars. Along with the money came his insistence that he be the only one to know where the dig was and what was found. Another forty thousand was needed immediately, and he had estimated that the total project as they presently knew it, would cost probably closer to seven-hundred-thousand dollars to restore.

They were nearly to the cenoté now and Alex turned his head to talk to the tall man walking next to him. There is a small platform near the edge of the cenoté which would lead us to believe that it was used for ceremonies. When these Indians come here, they sit around the old man near that platform, and he mumbles to them. He’s the one that got them started on the washing thing.

Washing thing? What are you talking about?

It seems that when I started using them to empty the rubble from the temple, he always had them wash their feet and hands before they would enter the temple to work. The lack of water stopped that little folly, but they were reluctant to enter without it. The old man finally gave in, so now they simply dip their fingers in a bowl of water he puts near the entrance to the temple before entering. My first reaction was to send him packing, but I was afraid the rest would go with him. Actually, he has been a big help, giving them directions for tasks I haven’t been able to explain to them. It seems like sometimes he knows what I want before I do.

As they came to the end of the Mayan road, the tall man gasped as they stood near the edge of a large circular pit half full of dark green water. The perfectly round formation looked as though it had been carved out of the limestone bedrock with precise tools. In fact it had, by the tools of nature. Groundwater carves these round pits out of the limestone over thousands of years. With a lack of support, the top caves in, leaving a perfectly round pit. It was at least one hundred feet across and was one of the largest cenotés, or natural wells, he had ever seen. From where they were standing, they could see that the road led to a platform of smooth limestone carved and positioned to form a small ledge jutting out over the edge of the cenoté about two feet. It was well-worn and very smooth. A close examination of the altar revealed a dark red stain on the flat surface of the stone.

What’s this? The stain looks like blood from some kind of sacrifice and believe me, it isn’t that old. What’s been going on here, Alex?

Now, Morrie, you know these Indians are all Catholic, but they also sacrifice to their ancient gods just to cover all the bases, so to speak. I’m sure that a chicken or iguana is occasionally offered to their gods. Only once have I found what might be considered fresh evidence of any kind of sacrifice, but it is common for these Indians to do this whenever they need rain, a good crop, or an ill family member to get well. The church knows they do it, and doesn’t even bother to try to stop them anymore, as long as they go to Mass. It seems harmless and gives the Indians peace of mind.

Don’t you feel a bit uncomfortable knowing they are doing this way out here in the jungle, and you are alone with them?

These are the most gentle people I’ve ever known. I’ve never heard of one hurting another in any way. They are simply without violence toward their fellow man.

Morrison realized this was as good a time as ever. The Indians were gone and they were alone. It was unfortunate, but he knew what he had to do. He had the all-important digital flashcards. If he just took a couple more pictures of Alex, the trip would almost be complete. This find was just worth too much to share with this pathetic little man. He retrieved his camera once again from his backpack.

Stand over there by the platform. A couple more pictures should do the trick.

After he took two more pictures of the small, perspiring man in the thick glasses, he put the camera in his backpack and discreetly replaced it in his hand with a large survival knife. The little man just stared at him as he walked up and expertly rammed the knife at an upward angle from just under his sternum into Alex’s heart. He then lifted the body up onto the altar, withdrew the knife, and rolled him over, face down. It was less than a minute before he lost consciousness, during which his heart pumped blood sufficient to run off the side of the altar. When Morrison was sure he was dead, he picked up several small rocks and filled the dead man’s shirt and trousers pockets. Finally, he found a larger rock and with some thin vines he quickly cut, tied it to Alex’s feet and rolled him off the edge of the platform. If anyone ever investigated his disappearance, they would find that the Indians left abruptly and his blood would be found on the ancient altar. If they dragged the cenoté, they might find him with a single wound to his heart. The Indians would be blamed for his death. The pictures would prove he had left him in good spirits to attempt to secure more funding for the project. He slipped his backpack over his shoulders and started back toward the temple, unaware of the eyes of the old man peering at him from the edge of the jungle.

The old Indian had watched from the edge of the jungle across the cenoté. He had watched as the tall man thrust the large knife into the small man’s chest, lifting him off the ground. He had stood still at the edge of the jungle as the tall man put rocks on the body of the dead man and rolled him off the edge of the cenoté, his body falling slowly through the air past the shear limestone side of the cenoté until it hit the water. The body separated the surface of the water as if in slow-motion and when the water slammed together again over the body, it sent a plume of the rich green water into the air and a deep loud clap echoed through the silence of the still jungle air. The old man didn’t hide from the white stranger but stood perfectly still in the shadows of the jungle canopy. A three-foot black rattlesnake with a yellow diamond pattern slithered past the old man as though he wasn’t there. As the tall white man disappeared down the ancient road toward the temple, the old man made the soft clicking noise again, and the rest of the Indians appeared from the jungle. They followed him through the thick underbrush on what was an old trail. No machete was needed to clear a path, because this path, like many others, had been used for hundreds of years. These trails led throughout the jungle of the Yucatan from cenoté to cenoté, temple to temple. The Old Ones knew of these trails, but without one of them to show the way, a man would wander hopelessly lost until he simply sat down and died in the jungle.

By nightfall they had walked into their small village. Without saying a word to anyone, they went to their huts and climbed into their hammocks to sleep. They all had the same dream, which was not unusual for them. They saw the temple they had worked to unearth, once again filled with stones and dirt, buried again, as it had been before. This was not just another one of the many temples they knew about in their land. This place was where Quetzalcoatl had appeared as a man. He had talked to them, not as the feathered serpent, but as a man, to show them the ways they must live. They were told that he would come back and teach them more. His promise to them had been that when he came to them again, he would teach all the people The Ways. The Mayans now knew that his temple must once again be hidden from these strangers who destroyed each other and who would destroy them too. They would return in three days when the moon was round and once again bury his temple. It was not yet time for strangers to see The Temple of the Promise.

* * * *

Morrison made his way back to the boat the same way he had come. It was getting late in the day and he had to get the boat back by dark. The tide had come in and the reef wasn’t as easily visible as it had been earlier. After pushing the boat out into the cove, it started easily and he headed up the coast toward Cancun. With much determination, he made good time and it wasn’t long before he was within sight of the marina. He killed the engine and dropped the anchor over the side, watching until it reached the bottom in the crystal-clear water. Several small fish gathered around the line. The bait had sat in the sun all day with no fresh water. He used his knife to cut a chunk of bait and put it on the hook supplied with the rest of the fishing gear. He dropped his line into the water and it was quickly attacked by numerous small fish that quickly scattered as a four-foot barracuda came into view. It was strange watching the fish he was trying to catch. He was almost desperate to catch something, anything to show the man at the boat rental that he had been actually been fishing. The barracuda made several close passes then in a flash, took the bait and ran with it. It took him at least ten minutes, but he managed to get it close to the boat. He gaffed the large predator and pulled it on board. It flopped on the floor of the boat for a while and then it just lay there with one large eye on the side of its streamlined head, staring at him. The fish’s mouth was moving as if to gasp for air, showing its menacing sets of teeth. Morrison started the boat motor and headed for the marina. Within minutes he had pulled up to the dock of the boat rental. The man who helped him tie up was not the same one who rented him the boat that morning but looked like he could be his brother. With a large smile and fairly good English, he asked how the fishing had been.

"I didn’t spend that much time fishing. I found a quiet beach north of here and spent most of the day alone on the beach. I did catch a