“Bakta Halik. I’ve brought your jeep,” Russell said. A bad smell hit him as he stepped closer to Mahler. “What happened? Where is everyone?”

“I tried to move the Jaguar. I think something scared my horse. I’m not sure. But it fell on the steps,” Mahler said. A few bats flew out into the twilight past them. Russell saw a colony of them clustered on the ceiling, their upside-down bodies twisting slightly.

“I’ve broken my leg. It’s pretty bad,” Mahler said.

“Can you walk?”

“No. Can you smell it? The leg.”

“Yes,” Russell said.

“Septicemia,” Mahler said. “The bone came through the skin. I managed to shove it back down.” Mahler looked down at his leg, then up at Russell. “But my hands were dirty from all this bat shit. I couldn’t get down the steps to the medical bag.”

Russell could see flies sitting on Mahler’s leg. “You hold the lamp,” Mahler said. “I show you.” Russell took the kerosene lamp and held it over him. Mahler rolled back the bloody slicker. “What do you think? Not so bad?”

He could clearly see where the femur had snapped, leaving a sharp glossy end. The wound looked badly infected, and he could see hideous clusters of fat maggots.

“It’s infected,” Russell said. He didn’t use the word gangrene, but he thought it. Mahler slipped the dirty slicker back over the hole in his leg.

“Bad luck, huh,” Mahler said absently. He looked down towards the camp. The mist had turned to rain, the dusk-colored jungle canopy an ocean of tree tops that went on for as far as the eye could see. “I couldn’t get down the steps. I could see the camp and the medical bag. . . .”

“Yes,” Russell said. “Bad luck.”

“Maybe they were wet. The steps. It was raining pretty hard.”

“Maybe,” Russell said.

“There it is. I told you I’d find it.” Mahler smiled. He grabbed the lamp out of Russell’s hand and held it up. Its yellow light opened a passage in the darkness. Russell could see the Red Jaguar standing in the middle of the temple, the rope Mahler had used to drag it around its neck. “Fucking huge. . . . Can you see it? It’s getting pretty dark.” Mahler turned the lamp back toward Russell. There was nothing he could do for him, Russell thought. Mahler was going to die, and he knew it.

“I remember when I was a boy in Germany, we had a view of the wall. . . . The wall, remember?”

“The Berlin wall?” Russell said.

“Yes. The Wall. We had a garden right on the wall. You could hear the guard dogs barking. . . . My mother hated it. I’d like to call my mother,” Mahler said. “I think she should know I’ve found it. . . . Do you have your phone?”

“Yes,” Russell said. “But from in here, you. . . .”

“I thought maybe if I crawled outside into the open,” Mahler said. His face was very pale, his eyes reflecting the yellow lamplight.

“You shouldn’t, it’s raining pretty hard,” Russell said.

“Could you get me some brandy from the camp, and your phone? I want to call my mother,” Mahler asked, as if he hadn’t heard what Russell had just said.

Russell took the lamp and went and got the brandy and the medical bag from the camp. He passed Mahler’s horse again on the way back.

“No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue. . . .”

Mahler was singing in a soft voice, drinking from a cup Russell had brought him. The metal cup fell from his hand suddenly, but he didn’t seem to notice at first. The sound of the falling cup echoed on the temple’s stone floor. Mahler seemed to be somewhere else. “I could not foresee this thing happening to you. I want to see the sun blotted out from the sky. I see no red doors . . . go ahead and turn them black.” Mahler was singing and rocking a little, maybe because of the pain. His lips were wet. Outside it was pitch black now.

“I’d like more,” Mahler said suddenly. “I can’t hold the cup. Why not?”

Russell didn’t know what to say. It was hard to watch someone die, even someone he didn’t like. He’d cleaned and dressed the wound as best he could.

“What happened to everyone? Where’s Gloria?” Russell asked. He bent down and helped Mahler drink straight from the bottle.

“I killed them,” Mahler said, swallowing weakly. The brandy spilled out of his mouth as he spoke, onto his stomach and bad leg. He drank a lot of brandy and spilled a lot. “It’s a ton at least, isn’t it?” Mahler said when he’d drunk his fill. “Will you put the light on its face? I want to see it again.”

“Sure,” Russell said. “If you want.” Russell picked up the lamp and walked into the darkness. It smelled better away from Mahler’s leg. The yellow lamp light caught the face of the Red Jaguar. Its eyes were gold nuggets; its teeth were white bone. The body was a red jade that looked almost translucent. The face, jewel-encrusted, was frightening. He’d never seen anything like it. Was it a talisman against the Spanish? He reached out and touched its face. If it had been, it had failed them.

“Mayans. They were fucking good, man. Make something like that. Fucking good, man. I just wanted to pull it out of here so I could see it better. I wasn’t going to try and steal it from you,” Mahler said. Russell didn’t believe him, but it didn’t matter now. “The horse slipped . . . on the steps. Or something scared it. Bad luck,” Mahler said again, like he couldn’t believe it had happened.

“Could you move it?” Russell asked, coming back towards him.

“Yes. I moved it. I had to dig it out myself. You won’t have to do that. It took me two days,” Mahler laughed. “That’s why I’m so dirty. It’s filthy in here. Will you give me your phone now? Please. I want to try to call Germany.”

“Sure,” Russell said. Mahler took his cell phone and tried to dial.

“I can’t see,” he said. He was dying, and his eyes were going, Russell thought. He held the lamp over Mahler’s head to help him see the phone.

“Mutti,” Mahler said. “Mutti, why don’t you answer?” He was losing his guts now. “Why can’t I talk to my mother?” Mahler asked. “I’ll go outside. It will work outside. Will you help me? I want to speak to my mother.” He started to crawl towards the door frantically.

Russell tried to help him, but Mahler screamed in pain and they had to stop. There was a frightened look on Mahler’s face now. He started to cry from the pain. Russell suddenly felt sorry for him, because he knew Mahler was going to die like that, in pain and alone. There was no way he could take riding in the jeep.

“Fucking horse,” Mahler said when he could finally speak again.

“I’ve brought your jeep,” Russell said. “I can try and take you out.”

“How? You told me, but I’ve forgotten.”

“I came through Bakta Halik. It took eight hours.”

“Yes. I suppose you could. It will be dangerous on the way back, with the Jaguar.”

“Do you think we can get it out?” Russell asked. He got closer, bending down over Mahler.

“Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe. You could take me to the doctor, maybe, too.”

“I’ll take you. It would be very painful, in the jeep. But if you want I will try.”

“No, I don’t think so. Maybe you could send someone back for me? Maybe that’s better.”

“I’ve killed the President of the republic. So I don’t know if you want to be traveling with me anyway. But I’ll send someone. I promise,” Russell said.

“Fucking hell! Really? Blanco? That tub of shit.”

“Yeah,” Russell said. “And Selva. He’s dead, too.” He picked Mahler up and dragged him back over to the wall so he could sit up.

“You’re crazy,” Mahler said. “I always said so. What happened?”

“I had Selva bring me to Tres Rios in his helicopter.”

Mahler looked at him. “You fucking crazy.”

“I told him we were going to sell him the Jaguar. I also told some people who had a score to settle with Carlos that he’d be there. They killed his pilot and bodyguards, and then they took Carlos away. He’s dead by now,” Russell said. “I’m sure of that.”