“Tell me.” The ebony eyes are too intense to fool.

“Here, see this map. The aerial image of the cenote resembles the pattern of concentric circles found within the Nazca pyramid drawing.”

“My parents came to the same conclusion. They spent months scuba diving inside every cenote, exploring every sinkhole and subterranean cave in the area. The only thing they found were a few skeletons, the sacrificial remains of the dead, but nothing even resembling a passage.”

“Have you checked the cenote since the earthquake?” She cringes as the words escape her mouth.

“Earthquake?” Mick’s face lights up. “The earthquake on the fall equinox struck Chichén Itza? Jesus, Dominique, why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I don’t know—I guess I didn’t realize it was that important. By the time I found out, Foletta had doped you into a vegetable.”

“Tell me about the earthquake. How did it affect the cenote?”

“It was just a blurb in the news. A bunch of tourists claimed they witnessed the well’s waters churning during the seismic disturbance.”

Mick takes off running.

“Wait, where are you going?”

“We’ll need a car. We’ll probably have to spend a day or two in Merida picking up supplies. Eat something. I’ll meet you back here in an hour.”

“Mick, wait—what supplies? What are you talking about?”

“Scuba gear. We need to check out the cenote.”

She watches him jog down the road, heading into town.

Way to go, Sigmund. You weren’t supposed to encourage him.

Annoyed at herself, she leaves the barn and enters the Formas’ home, a five-room stucco dwelling brightly decorated in Mexican motif. She finds a plate of fried bananas and corn bread on the kitchen table and sits down to eat.

Then she notices the telephone.

JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL

JOURNAL OF

JULIUS GABRIEL

It was the summer of 1985, and we were back in Nazca. For the first six months, the three of us commuted daily from a small apartment in Ica, a bustling little city located 90 miles to the north of Nazca. But our dwindling budget soon forced us to relocate, and I moved my family into a sparse, two-room dwelling in the farming village of lngenio.

Having sold our camper, I was able to purchase a small hot-air balloon. Each Monday morning at sunrise, Maria, Michael, and I would soar a thousand feet over the desert pampa, photographing the myriad lines and magnificent animals etched upon the plateau. The remainder of the week would be dedicated to a thorough analysis of the photos, which we hoped would reveal the message that might guide our entrance into the Kukulcan pyramid.