By the summer of ‘85, our frustrations had mounted to the point where we knew a change of venue was necessary simply to preserve what little sanity remained. Our original plan had been to travel to Cambodia to explore the magnificent ruins of Angkor, a doomsday site we believed was linked to both Giza and Teotihuacan. Unfortunately, access into the area was still being denied to all outsiders by the ruling Khmer Rouge.

Maria had other ideas. Surmising our extraterrestrial elders would never have fashioned an entrance into the Kukulcan that could have been stumbled upon by looters, she believed it in our best interests to return to Nazca and attempt to decipher the rest of the ancient message.

As much as I despised the thought of returning to that Peruvian landscape, I could not argue with my wife’s logic. We were clearly getting nowhere in Chichén Itza, despite the fact that we were both convinced the city was destined to be the site of the final battlefield.

Before leaving, there was one final endeavor I had to complete before we embarked on what would prove to be our last, fateful journey together.

Armed with crowbar and mask, I broke into the archaeologist’s trailer late one night—and rescued Kukulcan’s center ball-court marker from its kidnappers.

—Excerpt from the Journal of Professor Julius Gabriel,

Ref. Catalogue 1981-84 pages 08-154.

Photo Journal Floppy Disk 7 & 8: File name: MESO, Photos 223, 328, 344.

Chapter 20

Chapter 20

DECEMBER 9, 2012
CHICHÉN ITZA, MEXICO

1:48 P.M.

The commuter plane bounces twice along the weathered tarmac, taxis briefly, then skids to a halt just before the runway ends in an overgrown field.

The blast of heat hits Dominique square in the face as she steps off the Cessna, plastering the already sweat-soaked tee shirt against her chest. She slings her backpack over one shoulder and follows the other seven passengers through the small terminal, then out to the main road. A sign pointing to the left reads, “Hotel Mayaland,” the one to the right, “Chichén Itza.”

“Taxi, señorita?”

The driver, a slight man in his early fifties, is leaning against a battered, white Volkswagen Beetle. Dominique can see the Mayan lineage in his dark facial features.

“How far to Chichén Itza?”

“Ten minutes.” The driver opens the passenger door.

Dominique climbs in, the exposed foam cushion of the worn vinyl seat giving beneath her weight.

“Have you been to Chichén Itza before, señorita?”

“Not since I was a child.”

“Don’t worry. Not much has changed over the last thousand years.”

They travel through an impoverished village, then onto a freshly paved two-lane toll road. Minutes later, the taxi pulls up to a modernized visitors’ entrance, the parking lot crammed with rental cars and chartered tour buses. Dominique pays the driver, purchases a ticket, and enters the park.