The Descent

They  lay  before  him,  his  people.  He  had  viewed  them  in  life  as  fools.  In  death, half-naked,  they  were  pathetic.  Not  foolishly  so.  Just  terribly.  The  smell  of  opened bowels and raw meat was nearly  enough to panic him.

Their  wounds...  Ike  could  not  see  at  first  without  seeing  past  the  horrible  wounds. He focused on their undress. He felt ashamed for these  poor  people  and  for  himself.  It seemed  like  sin  itself  to  see  their  jumble  of  pubic  patches  and  lolling  thighs  and randomly exposed  breasts  and stomachs that could no longer be held in  or  chests  held high.  In  his  shock,  Ike  stood  above  them,  and  the  details  swarmed  up:  here  a  faint tattoo of a rose, there  a cesarean scar, the marks  of surgeries  and  accidents,  the  edges of  a  bikini  tan  scribed  upon  a  Mexican  beach.  Some  of  this  was  meant  to  be  hidden, even  to lovers, some to be revealed.  None of it was meant to be seen this way.

Ike  made  himself  get  on  with  it.  There  were  five  of  them,  one  male,  Bernard.  He started  to  identify  the  women,  but  with  a  rush  of  fatigue  he  suddenly  forgot  their names altogether. At the moment, only one of them mattered  to him,  and  she  was  not here.

The  snapped  ends  of  very  white  bone  stood  from  lawnmower-like  gashes.  Body cavities  gaped  empty.  Some  fingers  were  crooked,  some  missing  at  the  root.  Bitten off?  A  woman's  head  had  been  crushed  to  a  thick,  panlike  sac.  Even  her  hair  was anonymous  with  gore,  but  the  pubis  was  blond.  She  was,  poor  creature,  thank  God, not Kora.

That  familiarity  one  reaches  with  victims  began.  Ike  put  one  hand  to  the  ache behind  his  eyes,  then  started  over  again.  His  light  was  failing.  The  massacre  had  no answer. Whatever  had happened to them could happen to him.

'Stick, Crockett,' he commanded.

First  things  first.  He  counted  on  his  fingers:  six  here,  Cleo  up  the  tunnel,  Kora somewhere. That  left Owen still at large.

Ike  stepped  among  the  bodies,  searching  for  clues.  He  had  little  experience  with such  extremes  of  trauma,  but  there  were  a  few  things  he  could  tell.  Judging  by  the blood trails, it looked like an ambush. And it had been done without a gun.  There  were no bullet  holes.  Ordinary  knives  were  out  of  the  question,  too.  The  lacerations  were much too deep and massed so strangely,  here upon the upper body, there  at the backs of  the  legs,  that  Ike  could  only  imagine  a  pack  of  men  with  machetes.  It  looked  more like  an  attack  by  wild  animals,  especially  the  way  a  thigh  had  been  stripped  to  the bone.

But  what  animal  lived  miles  inside  a  mountain?  What  animal  collected  its  prey  in  a

neat  row?  What  animal  showed  this  kind  of  savagery,  then  conformity?  Such  frenzy, then such method. The  extremes  were  psychotic. All too human.

Maybe  one  man  could  have  done  all  this,  but  Owen?  He  was  smaller  than  most  of these  women.  And  slower.  Yet  these  poor  people  had  all  been  caught  and  mutilated within  a  few  meters  of  one  another.  Ike  tried  to  imagine  himself  as  the  killer,  to conceive the speed and strength  necessary  to commit such an act.

There  were  more  mysteries.  Only  now  did  Ike  notice  the  gold  coins  scattered  like confetti  around  them.  It  looked  almost  like  a  payoff,  he  now  recognized,  an  exchange for  the  theft  of  their  wealth.  For  the  dead  were  missing  rings  and  bracelets  and necklaces  and  watches.  Everything  was  gone.  Wrists,  fingers,  and  throats  were  bare. Earrings had been torn from lobes. Bernard's eyebrow  ring had been plucked away. The  jewelry  had been  little  more  than  baubles  and  crystals  and  cheap  knickknacks; Ike  had specifically instructed the trekkers  to  leave  their  valuables  in  the  States  or  in the hotel safe. But someone  had  gone  to  the  trouble  of  pilfering  the  stuff.  And  then  to pay  for it in gold coins worth a thousand times what had been taken.

It  made  no  sense.  It  made  even  less  sense  to  stand  here  and  try  to  make  it  make sense.  He  was  not  normally  the  type  who  couldn't  think  what  to  do,  and  so  his confusion now was all the  more  intense.  His  code  said Stay , like  a  sea  captain,  stay  to sort  through  the  crime  and  bring  back,  if  not  his  wayfarers,  then  at  least   a  full accounting  of  their  demise.  The  economy  of  fear  said  Run.  Save  what  life  could  be saved.  But  run  which  way  and  save  which  life?  That  was  the  excruciating  choice. Cleopatra  waited  in  one  direction  in  her  lotus  position  and  white  light.  Kora  waited  in the other, perhaps not as surely.  But hadn't he just heard her song?