"Most of them (but not all) were followers of the new Mayan religion. These ruins were their place of worship. They thought that the virus was a sign to return to the old ways; they didn't think of themselves as victims. The gods had twisted their bodies and rendered them different and holy. "Their religion was a throwback to a violent past. And because they were so different, they were feared. The locals of Spanish and European descent hated them. There was gossip concerning animal and even human sacrifice,. of blood rites. It didn't matter if any of it was actually true; it never does. They were different. Their own neighbors banded together to rid themselves of this passive threat. They were dragged screaming from the surrounding villages.
"Bound, pleading for mercy, the jokers of Chicken Itza were laid here. Their throats were slit in brutal parody of Mayan rites splashing blood stained the carved serpents red. Their bodies were cast into the ball court below. Another atrocity, another `nat vs. joker' incident. Old prejudices amplifying the new."
"Still, what happened here--though horrible--is no worse than what has happened, is happening, to jokers at home. You who are reading this: You or someone you know has probably been guilty of the same prejudice that caused this massacre. We're no less susceptible to the fear of the different." Sara switched off the cassette recorder and laid it atop the serpent's head. Squinting into the brilliant sun, she could see the main group of delegates near the Temple of the Bearded Man; behind, the pyramid of Kukulcan threw a long shadow over the grass.
"A woman of such obvious compassion would keep an open mind, wouldn't she?"
Panic crawled her spine. Sara whirled about to see Senator Hartmann regarding her. It took a long moment to recover her composure. "You startled me, Senator. Where's the rest of the entourage?"
Hartmann smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry for sneaking up on you, Ms. Morgenstern. Scaring you wasn't my intention, believe me. As for the others-I told Hiram that I had private business to discuss with you. He's a good friend and helped me escape." He grinned softly as if at some inner amusement. " I couldn't quite get away from everyone. Billy Ray's down below, being the dutiful bodyguard."
Sara frowned into that smile. She picked up her recorder, placed it in her purse. "I don't think you and I have any `private business,' Senator. If you'll excuse me. . ."
She started to move past him toward the temple's entrance. She thought for a moment that he might make some move to detain her; she tensed, but he stepped aside politely.
"I meant what I said about compassion," he commented just before she reached the stairs. " I know why you dislike me. I know why you look so familiar. Andrea was your sister."
The words battered Sara like fists. She gasped at the pain.
"I also believe you're a fair person," Hartmann continued, and each word was another blow. " I think that if you were finally told the truth, you'd understand."
Sara gave a cry that was half-sob, unable to hold it back. She placed a hand on cool, rough stone and turned. The sympathy she saw in Hartmann's eyes frightened her.
"Just leave me alone, Senator."
"We're stuck together on this trip, Ms. Morgenstern. There's no sense in our being enemies, not when there isn't any reason."
His voice was gentle and persuasive. He sounded kind. It would have been easier if he'd been accusatory, if he'd tried, to bribe her or threaten her. Then she could have fought back easily, could have reveled in her fury. But Hartmann stood there, his hands at his sides, looking, of all things, sad. She'd imagined Hartmann many ways, but never like this. "How..." she began, and found her voice choked. "When did you find out about Andrea?"
"After our conversation at the press reception, I had my aide Amy run a background check. She found that you'd been born in Cincinnati, that your family name was Whitman. You lived two streets over from me, on Thornview. Andrea was what, seven or eight years older than you? You look a lot like her, like she might have grown up to be." He steepled his hands to his face, rubbing at the corners of his eyes with his forefingers. "I'm not very comfortable with lying or evasion, Ms. Morgenstern. That's not my style. I don't think you are either, not from the blunt articles you've written.