A Book of Bones

by John Connolly

  Hernández seemingly paid them no heed.

  “What about it, José?” said Newton. “Want to tell us why you’re working the gang shit so hard?”

  “He’s no gangster,” said Zaleski. “He’s just small-time. You know what?”

  “What?”

  “I suspect our friend José here is a huachicolero.” She looked at Parker. “Means he steals gasoline. Gets his mouth around a length of pipe and, man, just sucks all that good stuff out.”

  “No!” Newton feigned shock, and grinned at Hernández. “Is that what you are, José? You a gas guzzler? That explains it all.”

  But goading Hernández by impugning his sexuality didn’t work, either, although the dead light in his eyes suggested that some of the barbs had stuck, and if he ever got the chance, he’d make Zaleski and Newton pay for them. But Zaleski had also picked up on Hernández’s interest in Parker.

  “Either he finds you attractive,” said Zaleski, “or he’s aware of who you are.”

  “How good is his English?” said Parker.

  “Better than he’s letting us know.”

  “You mind if I talk to him?”

  “You can try. You want me to translate, just in case?”

  “Sure.”

  Parker moved his chair closer to the table. Hernández chose to ignore his approach.

  “Mr. Hernández,” said Parker. He tapped an index finger on the table, and Hernández gave him his attention. “This is what I think happened. You helped a woman with silver hair dump that body in the junkyard.”

  He gave Zaleski time to translate, but saw that Hernández understood what was being said without help. It would make sense for MS-13 to install someone at the yard who could speak both English and Spanish.

  “She wanted us to believe she was dead, but you’ve just confirmed that she was alive and well when last you saw her,” said Parker. “You shared with us that she walked like she’d been hurt, smelled bad, and kept Lagnier’s dogs at bay while the freezer was moved into position.”

  Hernández’s eyes widened, even before Zaleski began offering the Spanish version.

  “You’ve been really helpful, and we appreciate it,” Parker went on. “You probably saw news vans as we were leaving the yard. Well, those reporters are now waiting outside, and we’re going to let them film you as you’re put in a Border Patrol car bound for Tucson. We’ll let them know that, thanks to you, we believe the body in the yard to be a decoy, designed to derail the search for a woman named Pallida Mors, who is wanted for questioning in connection with multiple homicides. We’ll tell them what a sport you’ve been, and how all you ever wanted was to put your gang days behind you and open a little bodega in the United States before the wall goes up. But times being what they are, and you with your tattoos and your bad rep, we thought it would be best for all concerned if you fulfilled your culinary ambitions closer to home, which is why we’ll be shipping you back across the border, no questions asked, as a reward for your assistance. We may even throw in a ‘Make America Great Again’ cap, just so you don’t forget us.”

  Parker leaned in closer, so he could smell the other man’s sweat.

  “Now you tell me, Mr. Hernández, what do you estimate your life expectancy will be once you’re dropped off in Nogales, maybe with a couple hundred dollars in your pocket so you can celebrate your homecoming with all your buddies?”

  Hernández tested his cuffed hands, as though willing the restraints to break so he could go for Parker’s throat. He even went so far as to give them a single hard yank. If nothing else, Hernández remained an optimist.

  “¿Qué quieres?” he said, once it became clear that no other option was about to present itself.

  “What do you want?” Zaleski translated, and nodded her assent for Parker to continue with the questioning.

  “First, for you to speak English,” said Parker, “since you obviously understand it.”

  Hernández nodded.

  “Where is the woman who hired you, the one with the silver hair?”

  “Gone.”

  “Where?”

  “South.”

  “South, where?”

  “No sé.”

  I don’t know. Parker understood that much.

  “How long ago?”

  Hernández shrugged, then raised his right hand, the fingers spread.

  “Five days?”

  “Sí, mas o menos.”

  More or less.

  “Was she wounded?”

  Another nod.

  “Where?”

  “The side, the leg. Como el cadáver.”

  Like the corpse in the yard.

  “But she’d recovered enough to travel?”

  Nod.

  “Was there an older man with her?”

  “Sí, but before.”

  “How long before?”

  “Dos, tres semanas.”

  Two or three weeks.

  “Did he have a name?”

  “No he oído.”

  He didn’t hear a name.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Nunca lo conocí.”

  I never met him.

  “Where had she been while she recovered from her wounds?”

  “No sé.”

  “Where did you meet her?”

  “Casa Grande.”

  “Where in Casa Grande?”

  “Una parada de descanso.”

  Parker looked to Zaleski for a translation.

  “A rest stop,” said Zaleski.

  Parker turned back to Hernández.

  “When?”

  “When we bring to her la muerta.”

  “What day? Which rest stop?”

  “No recuerdo.”

  “He says he doesn’t remember,” said Zaleski.

  “You don’t remember the day, or the rest stop?”

  Hernández was sweating more profusely now. He’d made an error by opening his mouth to begin with, and knew it, even if he’d been given no choice. Now there was no turning back.

  “No sé. Tal vez el Lunes.”

  “He thinks that maybe it was a Monday,” said Zaleski.

  “And the rest stop?”

  “Tal vez Sacaton.”

  “That’s on Interstate Ten,” said Newton. “There are cameras mounted east- and westbound. We might get something from them.”

  “How did you get there?”

  “En una van.”

  A van.

  “What van?”

  “Robada.”

  Stolen.

  “What type?”

  “No sé. Buick?”

  “Are you asking us or telling us?” said Parker.

  “Buick,” said Hernández, with something like conviction.

  “What color?”

  “Blue.”

  “Light or dark?”

  “Light.”

  “What about the woman? How did she get to the rest stop?”

  “She was waiting for us.”

  “In a car, a van?”

  “Nothing. Just waiting.”

  “Alone?”

  Hernández shrugged again.

  “Creo que alguien estaba mirando.”

  “He says maybe someone was watching,” Zaleski translated.

  “Who?”

  “No sé.”

  “Jesus,” said Newton. “He doesn’t know much, does he? We should just put him on the fucking bus to Nogales right now.”

  “No sé,” Hernández repeated, with more force.

  “What then?” said Parker.

  “I think maybe she want to see el cuerpo.”

  “So you knew there was a body in there when you brought the freezer to her?”

  Hernández shook his head.

  “No lo sabía. El otro, el sabe.”

  Parker understood, even if he didn’t believe.

  “Back to this other man, the one who knew about the body. Tell us about him.”

  “No sé nada de él.”

  I know noth
ing of him.

  “There’s a surprise,” said Ross, speaking for the first time.

  “Right out of left field,” Newton agreed.

  Hernández ignored them. So, for now, did Parker.

  “And why do you think she wanted to examine the corpse?”

  “To be certain. El pelo.”

  Hernández gestured at his own head, even though it was entirely shaven. The hair: Mors wanted to be sure that it looked right.

  “The body had been prepared in advance of the meeting?”

  “Sí.”

  “How long before?”

  Three more fingers, but wavering.

  “Tal vez dos semanas, o un poco mas.”

  Two weeks, maybe, or a little more.

  “Who told him to do this?”

  “El jefe.”

  The boss.

  “Who is he?”

  “No sé.”

  This was accompanied by a vigorous shake of the head. They certainly weren’t going to get that name from Hernández.

  “And the woman was pleased with what had been done with the body?”

  “Sí.”

  “And after that?”

  “Fuimos al depósito de chatarra.”

  Zaleski: “They went to the junkyard.”

  “The woman went with you?”

  Nod.

  “In daylight, or at night?”

  “Night.”

  “How did you get in?”

  “Estaba abierto.”

  Zaleski: “It was unlocked.”

  “Who unlocked it?”

  “Hice una llave.” I made a key.

  “Did the woman take care of the dogs?”

  “Sí.”

  “They didn’t attack her?”

  “No.”

  “And after?”

  “I stay. She go.”

  “South?”

  Nod.

  Parker sat back.

  “Who is the dead woman?”

  “No sé, pero…”

  “What?”

  “Una gringa, tal vez.”

  A white American woman.

  “And who killed her?” asked Parker.

  Hernández looked Parker in the eye, and let him see the lie.

  “No sé.”

  * * *

  THE FOUR MEN CONVENED once more outside the interview room.

  “I hate this guy,” said Newton.

  “There’s not a whole lot about him to like,” Zaleski concurred, before addressing Parker. “You got more out of him than I expected, but most of it you already knew, or guessed.”

  Which was that Mors remained alive, but was probably no longer in the United States, or even in the Americas. If she had been well enough to assist in the disposal of a body, she had also recovered sufficiently to return whence she came, which was presumably the same place as Quayle: England.

  “At least he confirmed it,” said Parker.

  “Assuming even half of what he said was true,” said Newton. “The lying fuck.”

  “You really don’t like him, do you?”

  “Didn’t I mention it? Must have slipped my mind.”

  “He killed the woman in the freezer,” said Parker.

  “Yeah?”

  “I saw it in his eyes. He wanted me to.”

  “So he knows who she is?” said Ross.

  “Maybe,” said Zaleski. “No guarantee. But a young white American woman would be worth something to these guys. They’d have charged a premium to kill her to order—and more if they had to abduct her first, which seems likely if the victim was required to match a particular body profile.”

  “Which means there’s probably a missing person report on her somewhere,” said Newton. “The absence of teeth and hands are a problem. That’ll slow things up.”

  “She deserves a name,” said Parker. “And the people who love her should be able to mourn her.”

  Zaleski looked at Ross and Newton.

  “It’s your call,” she said. “We can charge him and see what sticks, or…”

  She let the option hang.

  “Hard to prove he knew what was in the freezer before it was dumped,” said Ross. “Not impossible, but hard.”

  “And if you charge him, you may not get anything else out of him,” said Zaleski. “He won’t cut a deal once he’s been processed. His life wouldn’t be worth a nickel.”

  “So?” said Newton.

  “He gives us a name,” said Ross, “and Border Patrol sends him back.”

  “No questions asked?”

  “No questions asked.”

  “I got to tell you,” said Newton, “that doesn’t please me.”

  “You have a stake in this,” said Ross. “If you feel strongly enough about it, give us another option.”

  Newton spent a long time staring at his feet. Finally he said, “Get the name. I’ll take an extra Ambien for a couple of nights, until the guilt starts to wear off.”

  “Will Hernández go for it?” Parker asked Zaleski.

  Zaleski shrugged.

  “Let’s ask him.”

  * * *

  HERNÁNDEZ TOOK THE DEAL. He didn’t alter his story, but only added that he might have heard el otro mention a name to the silver-haired woman when they were examining the contents of the freezer—the contents of which he knew nothing about, having been paid only to transport it from Sierra Vista to a junkyard in Gila Bend, a journey of two hundred miles, past any number of equally suitable junkyards, before keeping an eye on it until the time came for the freezer to be discovered.

  But never mind.

  The name? Barbonne, which was unusual enough to be checked easily. It took Newton only minutes to confirm that a missing person report on an Adrienne Barbonne, thirty, had been filed in El Paso just over three weeks earlier. Barbonne was a nurse at the city’s University Medical Center. El Paso was a twenty-minute ride across the border from Ciudad Juarez, where COOL-A freezers were assembled.

  “¿Es verdad?” Hernández asked, once Parker and Zaleski had returned to the interview room.

  “Yes,” said Zaleski, “it’s true.”

  “Siento, pero teníamos un trato.”

  “Like hell you’re sorry, but we’ll keep to the deal. We’ll send you back in the morning.”

  Hernández jangled his cuffs.

  “¡Ahora!”

  “Nobody wants to take you south now. We just want to go home and get your stink off our clothes and skin. Mañana. I hear the food at the Eloy Detention Center has improved a lot. They’ll even give you beans for breakfast.”

  Hernández swore some, but mostly for the sake of appearances. He’d probably been behind bars enough times in his life for Eloy to hold no terrors. They left him in the interview room, and joined Ross and Newton for the final time.

  “Done?” said Newton.

  “Done. We’ll send him back tomorrow.”

  “I’d rather see him gone sooner.”

  “Well,” said Zaleski, “I’d like that, too, but first I want to let all those reporters outside know what a big help he’s been in identifying the victim, so they can be sure to get some good shots of Mr. Hernández, and spell his name right in the newspapers. Then tomorrow I’m going to dump him on the streets of Nogales with a couple hundred dollars in his pocket, and let his friends welcome him home. I’ll also do my best to find him that baseball cap.”

  For the first time since Parker had arrived in Arizona, he saw Newton smile.

  “Man,” said Newton, “I love America.”

  CHAPTER X

  This is what you must understand: the ground is polluted, befouled. We walk on blighted soil. It holds within it the record of blood spilled, of villages and towns that thrived once but exist no longer, of all who have lived and all who have died in those places.

  The earth remembers.

  And just as a dormant seed may be revived by rain, so too older presences, lying in troubled rest among the hollows of the honeycomb world, may be woken from their sleep,
whether deliberately, by the actions of the malicious, or accidentally, by the explorations of the careless and the curious.

  Mostly, all it takes is a little blood.

  CHAPTER XI

  For so long, Christopher Sellars recalled, there had been nothing to this city—well, nothing but pride, pride in the face of poverty and decay. What the Germans started, the natives finished, helped by governments in London that couldn’t see farther than the Orbital—or if they did, cared little for what was revealed to them there. They wanted the north of England to die because there were no votes for them in its great industrial cities. Best to let a generation or two fade away from neglect before starting again with fresh meat.

  Then along came the IRA. Fucking Paddies. As if Manchester didn’t have enough of them already without their relatives taking the ferry over to join them for a few days, and plant a bomb or two while they were about it, all because they couldn’t keep their troubles to themselves and their little patch of bog across the Irish Sea. A Saturday morning in 1996: three thousand pounds and more of Semtex mixed with ammonium nitrate, packed into a Ford van parked on Corporation Street. The bastards had tried before, of course: firebombs in the 1970s, and an attack on the Magistrates’ Court; another attempt in 1992, targeting people just going about their daily lives, women and kids who’d never done any harm to them, never even wished them any harm. Jesus, some of them were even their own kind, or a mixed-breed version of it, Celtic blood running through their veins from way back, English accents bearing Irish names. Not that the IRA cared. He’d tried to explain that to an American once, some loudmouth in a bar who couldn’t have found Ireland on a map if you’d held a gun to his head, talking gibberish about freedom fighters, British oppression, legitimate targets, as though the fucking IRA had gone around tapping pedestrians on their shoulders to ask if they were Catholic or Irish before deciding whether or not to blow them and their children into the next world.

  The ignorance of it all.

  He’d been close to the Arndale that Saturday morning, he and his mum. They always went into town on Saturdays, and she’d buy him an American comic book at WH Smith’s—he loved them—and a bite of lunch later. When he was little, she used to take him to the restaurant in Woolworth’s on Piccadilly, but it went up in flames in 1979 because someone threw a cigarette butt into a pile of sofas, and ten people died of cyanide inhalation when the foam filling inside the furniture ignited. The store reopened nine months later, but he and his mum never went back there. Nobody they knew did, and eventually the Woolworth’s closed forever, which was for the best. It was a hotel now, and he wondered how many of the guests knew what had happened in 1979. Hardly any of them, he supposed, and that was probably for the best, too.