Grave Secrets

by Kathy Reichs

  “¿Qué hay de nuevo?” Slurry.

  “What’s new with you?” I replied.

  “Had one dandy siesta.”

  “I knew we were working you too hard.” Though his words were light, Mateo’s voice was not.

  Molly smiled weakly, pointed to a water glass on the bedside table.

  “Do you mind?”

  I swung the table in front of her and tipped the straw. She closed dry lips around it, drank, and leaned back.

  “Have you met my father?” One hand rose, dropped back to the gray wool blanket.

  Mateo and I swiveled around.

  An old man occupied a chair in the corner of the room. He had white hair, and deep lines chiseled down his cheeks and across his chin and forehead. Though the whites of his eyes had yellowed with age, the blues were as clear as a mountain lake.

  Mateo went to him and held out a hand. “Mateo Reyes. I guess you’d say I’m Molly’s boss down here.”

  “Jack Dayton.”

  They shook.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Dayton,” I said from beside the bed.

  He nodded.

  “Sorry it’s under these circumstances.”

  “Those bein’?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What happened to my girl?”

  “Daddy. Be nice.”

  I placed a hand on Molly’s shoulder.

  “The police are investigating.”

  “Been two weeks.”

  “These things take time,” Mateo said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Are they keeping you informed?” I asked.

  “Nothin’ to inform.”

  “I’m sure they’re working on it.” I wasn’t certain I believed that but wanted to soothe him.

  “Been two weeks.” His eyes dropped to the gnarled fingers laced in his lap.

  True, Jack Dayton. Very true.

  I took Molly’s hand in mine.

  “How are you?”

  “With a little time, I’ll be right as rain.” Another weak smile. “I’ve never understood that expression. Must have been coined by farmers.” She rolled her head to look at her father. “Like Daddy.”

  The old man didn’t move a muscle.

  “I’m forty-two, but my parents still think I’m their little girl.” Molly turned back to me. “They were against my coming to Guatemala.”

  The ice-blue eyes in the corner flicked up.

  “Look what happened.”

  She gave me a conspiratorial smile.

  “I could have been mugged in Mankato, Daddy.”

  “At home we catch lawbreakers and lock ’em up.”

  “You know that’s not always true.”

  “Least the cops’d be talking a language I know.”

  Dayton pushed to his feet and tugged his belt upward.

  “I’ll be back.”

  He shuffled from the room, Nike Cross-Trainers squeaking on the tile.

  “You’ll have to excuse Daddy. He can be ornery.”

  “He loves you, and he’s frightened and angry. It’s his job to be ornery. What are your doctors saying?”

  “Physical therapy, then right as rain. No need to bore you with the details.”

  “I’m so glad. We’ve all been crazy worrying. Someone’s been here almost every day.”

  “I know. How goes Chupan Ya?”

  “We’re moving full-tilt boogey on the skeletal analyses,” Mateo said. “Should have everyone ID’d in a couple of weeks.”

  “Is it as bad as the eyewitness accounts suggest?”

  I nodded. “Lots of gunshot and machete wounds. Mostly women and kids.”

  Molly said nothing.

  I looked at Mateo. He nodded. I swallowed.

  “Carlos—”

  “The cops told me.”

  “Have they questioned you?”

  “Yesterday.”

  She sighed.

  “I couldn’t tell them much. I only remember fragments, like freeze-frames. Headlights in the rear window. A car forcing us off the road. Two men walking on the shoulder. Arguing. Gunshots. A figure circling to my side of the truck. Then nothing.”

  “Do you remember phoning me?”

  She shook her head.

  “Would you recognize the men?”

  “It was dark. I never saw their faces.”

  “Do you remember anything that was said?”

  “Not much. Carlos said something like ‘mota, mota.’”

  I looked at Mateo.

  “Bribe.”

  She crooked an arm across her forehead, pushed back her hair. Her underarm looked pale as a fish belly

  “One man kept telling the other to hurry.”

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  Down the hall, the elevator bonged.

  Molly’s eyes flicked toward the door, back to me. When she resumed speaking, her voice was lower.

  “My Spanish isn’t great, but I think one said something about an inspector. Do you suppose they were cops?”

  Again, she checked the door. I thought of Galiano in the Gucumatz.

  “Or soldiers involved in the Chupan Ya massacre?”

  At that moment Nurse Dragon swept in and locked Mateo in an authoritative stare.

  “This patient must rest.”

  Mateo raised a hand to his mouth and whispered theatrically, “Abort mission. We’ve been discovered.”

  The dragon did not look amused.

  “Five minutes?” I asked, smiling.

  She looked at her watch.

  “Five minutes. I will return.” Her face said she was ready to call in backup.

  Molly watched the dragon leave, then lowered her arm and raised up on her elbows.

  “There was one other thing. I didn’t mention it to the police. I don’t know why. I just didn’t.”

  She looked from Mateo to me.

  “I—” She swallowed. “A name.”

  We waited.

  “I could swear I heard one of the men say Brennan.”

  I felt like I’d been thrown against a wall. Across the room I heard Mateo curse.

  “Are you certain?” I stared at Molly, stunned.

  “Yes. No. Yes. Oh, God, Tempe, I think so. Everything is such a jumble.” She dropped onto the pillows. The arm went back to her forehead, and tears filled her eyes.

  I squeezed her hand.

  “It’s O.K., Molly.” My mouth felt dry, the room suddenly smaller.

  “What if they go after you now?” She was becoming agitated. “What if you’re their next target?”

  I reached out with my free hand and stroked her head.

  “It was dark. You were frightened. Everything was happening so fast. You probably misunderstood.”

  “I couldn’t stand it if anyone else got hurt. Promise me you’ll be careful, Tempe!”

  “Of course I’ll be careful.”

  I smiled, but a sense of trepidation was settling over me.

  * * *

  After leaving the hospital, Mateo and I lunched at a comedor in the Hotel Paisaje, a block uphill from Sololá’s central plaza. We discussed Molly’s story, decided it warranted a report.

  Before heading back to Guatemala City, we dropped in at the police station. The detective in charge of the investigation had nothing new to tell us. He took down our statement, but it was clear he gave little credence to Molly’s recollection of hearing my name. We did not mention her suspicion about the reference to an inspector.

  Throughout our return to Guatemala City, mist fell from a soft gray sky. The fog was so thick in the valleys it swallowed the world outside our Jeep. On the hilltops, it drifted across the road like sea spray.

  As on the drive out, Mateo and I spoke little. Thoughts swirled in my brain, each ending with a question mark.

  Who shot Carlos and Molly? Why? Surely the police were wrong in assuming that robbery was the motive. An American passport is as good as gold. Why wasn’t Molly’s taken? Did the police not want to look beyond robber
y? What were their motives?

  Could Molly be correct? Was the shooting intended to hinder the Chupan Ya investigation? Did someone feel threatened by potential revelations about the massacre?

  Molly was fairly certain her attackers had spoken the name Brennan. I could only think of one Brennan. What was their interest in me? Was I to be their next prey?

  Who was the inspector? Were the police simply reluctant investigators, or participants in the crime?

  Again and again I found myself checking the rearview mirror.

  An hour into the trip, I laid my head against the seat and closed my eyes. I’d been up since five. My brain felt sluggish, my lids weighted.

  The rocking of the Jeep. The wind on my face.

  Despite my anxiety, I began to drift.

  Inspector. What sort of inspector?

  Building inspector. Agricultural inspector. Highway. Automobile emissions. Water. Sewage.

  Sewage.

  Septic system.

  Paraíso.

  I shot upright.

  “What if it wasn’t an inspector at all?”

  Mateo glanced at me, back at the road.

  “What if Molly heard more than one name?”

  “Señor Inspector?”

  It took Mateo a nanosecond.

  “Señor Specter.”

  “Exactly.” I was glad Galiano had told Mateo about Chantale Specter.

  “You think they were talking about André Specter?”

  “Maybe the assault had something to do with the ambassador’s daughter?”

  “Why shoot Carlos and Molly?”

  “Maybe they mistook Molly for me. We’re both Americans, we’re about the same size, we both have brown hair.”

  Jesus. This was sounding all too plausible.

  “Maybe that’s why my name was spoken.”

  “Galiano didn’t bring you into the Paraíso case until a week after Carlos and Molly were shot.”

  “Maybe someone learned his intentions and decided to take me out of the loop.”

  “Who would have that information?”

  Another flash of Galiano in the alcove at the Gucumatz restaurant. I felt a chill.

  Minutes later, “¡Maldición!” Damn!

  Mateo’s eyes were on the rearview mirror. I checked the glass on my side.

  Red pulsated in the mist to our rear. A siren, faint but unmistakable.

  Mateo’s attention shifted between the mirror and the windshield. Mine remained focused on the cruiser behind us.

  The light expanded, became a red whirlpool. The siren grew louder.

  Mateo eased into the slow lane.

  The cruiser rushed toward our bumper. Crimson swirled inside the Jeep. The siren screamed. Mateo kept his eyes straight ahead. I stared at a rust spot on the dashboard.

  The cruiser pulled left, shot past, disappeared into the mist.

  My heart didn’t slow until we were locked inside the gate at FAFG headquarters.

  * * *

  Galiano was not in when I phoned his office but returned my page within minutes. He was tied up until evening, but was eager to know what I’d learned from Molly. He suggested dinner at Las Cien Puertas. Great food. Moderate prices. Good Latin music. He’d sounded like a shareholder.

  I devoted the next three hours to Chupan Ya, returned to my hotel at six-fifteen thoroughly dejected over the agonizingly senseless loss of life. It seemed I would never get away from death.

  As I changed clothes, I forced my mind in another direction. I thought about Galiano.

  Where were his wife and young Alejandro?

  I applied fresh deodorant, dabbed blusher on my cheeks.

  Was I keeping Galiano from his family?

  Ridiculous. Dinner was strictly professional.

  Was it?

  It was a scheduling issue. We were both busy during working hours.

  I dug mascara from the bottom of my makeup kit. Black flakes floated to the sink as I unscrewed the applicator.

  Were these dinners with Galiano justified?

  Strictly business.

  Then why the long lashes?

  I jammed the applicator back in its place and returned the unused tube to my kit.

  Galiano picked me up at seven.

  The restaurant was located in an arcade typical of Zone 1. Though beautiful once, the colonial grandeur and dignity had long ago yielded to peeling paint and crude graffiti.

  But Galiano was right about the food. It was excellent.

  As we ate, I described my visit to Sololá. Galiano agreed with my suspicion that Molly might have been mistaken for me, insisted I take measures to protect myself. No argument there. I assured him I would stay vigilant. He suggested I carry a gun, offered to provide one. I declined, claiming trigger ineptness. I did not tell him that guns frighten me more than the thought of unknown assailants.

  Galiano agreed that obstruction of the Chupan Ya investigation could well have been a motive for the shooting. If so, perhaps no further attacks would occur, since the excavation was complete. Still, he recommended that I not make trips to remote places. Recommended? Insisted.

  Galiano was dubious about my Specter theory. “It could explain why I haven’t been allowed full access to the Paraíso bones.”

  “Why?”

  “Someone’s putting pressure on the DA.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  His skepticism irritated me. Or perhaps it was my inability to provide answers.

  Irrationally, my thoughts turned to the stumbling episode. Was there such a thing as tactile memory? Did my cheek really tingle where it had grazed his chest?

  Of course not.

  I listened in silence as he told me about the investigation of Claudia de la Alda’s murder. Galiano’s English was unaccented, but spoken with a Latin cadence. I liked his voice. I liked his crooked face.

  I liked the way he looked at me. I liked the way he looked.

  Business, Brennan. You’re a scientist, not a schoolgirl.

  When the check arrived I grabbed it, dug out my Am Ex card, and thrust it into the waiter’s hand. Galiano did not object.

  Back in the car, Galiano turned sideways and dropped an elbow over the seatback.

  “What’s bugging you?” A neon sign pulsated blue and yellow slashes across his face.

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re acting like someone who’s just learned that people were trying to kill her.”

  “A penetrating observation.” Though a misdiagnosis.

  “I’m a sensitive guy.”

  “Really.”

  “I read Venus and Mars.”

  “Hm.”

  “Bridges of Madison County.”

  He reached out and ran a thumb around the corner of my mouth. I turned my head sideways.

  “Took notes.”

  “Where is Mrs. Galiano this evening?”

  For a moment, he looked confused. Then he laughed.

  “With her husband, I presume.”

  “You’re divorced?”

  Galiano nodded. He lifted my hair and drew a finger down the side of my neck. It left a smoldering trail.

  “What about Ryan?” he asked.

  “A working relationship.”

  True. We worked together.

  Galiano leaned close. I felt the warm wetness of breath on my cheek. Then his lips slid behind my ear. Onto my neck. My throat.

  Oh, boy.

  Galiano took my face in his hands and kissed me on the lips.

  I smelled male sweat, cotton, something tangy, like citrus. The world kicked into slo-mo.

  Galiano kissed my left eyelid, my right.

  Galiano’s cellular shrieked.

  We flew apart.

  He yanked the phone from his belt and clicked on, one hand lingering in my hair.

  “Galiano.”

  Pause.

  “Ay, Dios.”

  I held
my breath.

  “When?”

  Longer pause.

  “Does the ambassador know?”

  I closed my eyes, felt my fingers curl into fists.

  “Where are they now?”

  Please, God. Not another body.

  “Yeah.”

  Galiano disconnected, ran his hand across my head, and dropped it onto my shoulder. For a moment, he just stared at me, the Guernsey eyes liquid in the darkness of the car.

  “Chantale Specter?” I could hardly get the question out.

  He nodded.

  “Dead?”

  “She was arrested last night in Montreal.”

  14

  SHE’S ALIVE?” I KNEW IT WAS STUPID AS SOON AS I said it.

  “Lucy Gerardi was with her.”

  “No way!”

  “They were nailed shoplifting CDs at the MusiGo at Le Faubourg.”

  “Shoplifting?” I sounded like a moron, but this wasn’t making sense.

  “Cowboy Junkies.”

  “Why?”

  “Guess they’re into folk rock.”

  I rolled my eyes, another pointless response in the dark.

  “What could have brought them to Montreal?”

  “Air Canada.”

  Asshole. This reply I held back.

  Galiano started the engine, pulled out of the lot.

  On the drive back I sat with feet up, knees hugged to my chest. The protective posturing was unnecessary. The news about Chantale Specter had squelched any amorous intentions either of us might have harbored.

  At the hotel, I popped the door before we stopped rolling.

  “Call me as soon as you know anything.”

  “Will do.”

  I flapped a hand in the air between Galiano and me.

  “Will this be a problem?” My face burned.

  Galiano grinned. “None at all.”

  * * *

  Too agitated to sleep, I checked my messages in Montreal and Charlotte. Pierre LaManche had called to say that a mummified head had been found in an attic in Quebec City. Newspaper wrappings suggested it dated to the thirties. The case was not urgent. However, a putrefied human torso had drifted ashore in Lac des Deux-Montagnes, and he wanted me to examine it as soon as possible.

  There were no anthropology cases in North Carolina.

  Pete said both Birdie and Boyd were fine.

  Katy was not in.

  Ryan was not in.

  I ate two doughnuts from a box I’d stashed in the kitchenette, turned on CNN.