“Did you forget your key? This is—” Whatever else she was going to say caught in her throat. “Oh, my God,” she exclaimed, as she saw who was standing there in front of her.
She was wearing a nightgown with a light robe thrown over it. Instinctively, she pulled the robe tighter around her body.
“I don't have a key,” he said. “I gave it back, remember?”
She took a half-step back. “I didn't know you were coming. Walt didn't tell me.”
“He doesn't know. I wanted to surprise him.”
She nodded slowly. “I'm sure you will.” She looked at him for a moment longer. “You'd better come inside.”
He followed her in. She closed the door behind them. They walked into the living room. She had her back to him.
“Why did you come out here?” she asked.
“I needed to talk to him, about you.” He paused. “Diane.”
Her knees buckled. She reached out to the couch to brace herself. “I need to sit down,” she said. Her voice was shaking. “You sit, too. Not too close to me. Over there.” She pointed to the other couch.
They sat facing each other in the dim light. She buried her head in her hands for a moment, then looked up.
“When did you find out?”
“A little while ago.”
“Is that why you're here?”
“Partly.” He wasn't nervous anymore—he had the upper hand. “I was in New York. I met your art collector friend Michaelson. He told me about the stealing of an tiquities you and dad were into.”
Her mouth opened in an almost-perfect O. “How in the world did you … oh, well, it doesn't matter how you found him. All that matters is you did.” She gave him a rueful smile. “Good work, Tom. You're a first-class detective. Better than the ones who have been looking for me.”
He stared at her. I know who you are now, he thought, but I don't know you at all. He could feel the longing—it was still there. But it wasn't as strong as it had been, not nearly as strong. She wasn't going to be able to seduce him again.
“That's why you're living here with dad,” he said. “You're on the run from Michaelson because you stiffed him on a quarter of a million dollars he fronted you and dad to steal those artifacts from La Chimenea for him. Which is why you and dad are together. Because you were in it together.”
She shook her head. “That's not how it is, Tom.” She sat up straighter. “I took Michaelson's money, that's true. And I am on the run from him, that's true, too. But your father wasn't part of it. I'm with him because—”
He cut her off. “Because you're madly in love with him? We both know that's a crock. You love him so much you took me to bed the first night you ever met me. That's how you define love, Diane?”
He had to give her credit—she didn't turn away.
“That's not what I was going to say. Yes, it's true. I don't love him. But I respect him, and I needed him. And he was there for me when he didn't have to be. When he shouldn't have been,” she added. “I don't know any other man who would have done what he did for me.” She sighed. “I can understand your being angry with me. I need you, and I deceived you. But you have to separate me from your father.”
“I can't. You two are Siamese twins in this, from the beginning.”
She stood up. “We're not,” she said. “But I can't expect you to think otherwise.” She started to walk toward the bedroom she shared with Walt.
He stood up, too. “Where are you going? We're not finished here.”
She turned back to him. “Maybe you aren't finished, Tom. But I am.”
She was dressed casually, but as usual, elegantly. Her purse was slung over her shoulder. Two small bags were on the floor at her feet.
“A couple of days ago some government lackeys came here to see Walt, to talk to him about what went on down there,” she told him. “I don't know what they talked about—he wouldn't tell me—but it shook him up pretty badly. Your coming here unexpectedly isn't going to make things better.”
“He'll have to deal with it,” Tom told her. “I'm staying here until he comes back.”
“That's up to you. I don't know when that will be,” she told him. “Lately he's been out all hours of the night. I don't know what he does. Drives around, probably. He never comes home drunk.” There was nothing but sadness in her smile. “But he always comes home.”
She opened the front door. “I can't be here when he sees you. It's too dangerous, for all of us.”
They stared at each other. “I'd like to kiss you goodbye,” she said.
The visions of the two of them making love that had been tormenting him for months started to flood back. He shut them off. “No,” he told her. “I can't do that.”
“Yes,” she replied quietly. “You're right. I'm sorry, Tom.” She picked up her bags. “What I said to you that night, about being a beautiful man. I wasn't playing a game with you. I meant it.”
He heard the garage door open, heard the car engine starting. Then he heard her drive out, and the garage door closing.
The sound of a car pulling into the driveway jolted Tom awake: he had fallen asleep on the couch. He rubbed his eyes, stood up, looked at his watch. A quarter to three.
The front door opened. Walt came in. He looked tired. Quietly, he shut the door behind him, and started toward his bedroom.
“Hello, dad.”
Walt spun around so fast he almost lost his balance. “What in the world are you doing here?”
“I came to see you.” Tom was surprised with how calm and easy he felt. “We have to talk.”
“What about?”
“A lot of things. You, mom …”
“For Christsakes!” Walt exploded. “At three in the morning? We've talked that all out, Tom, a million times. There's nothing more to talk about.”
Tom didn't budge. “Yes, dad. There is.”
Walt glanced toward the dark hallway that led to his bedroom. “How did you get in here?” he asked.
“Diane let me in.”
Walt jerked involuntarily, but he recovered nicely, “Diane?” he parried.
Tom stared at him. Damn it, he thought, are you ever going to be honest with me? “Cut the crap, dad. You know who I'm talking about. Let's stop playing these stupid games. It's gone on way too long. Clancy and Will and I know too much now.”
Walt stared at his son for a long, uncomfortable moment. “So you've found out about her.” He started toward his bedroom. “If you're going to bring her into this, I'd better go get her.”
“She isn't here.”
Walt turned back.
“She took off,” Tom said. “She didn't want to be here when you got home.” He took a step toward his father. “We know all about Diane,” he told Walt. “That she's an art smuggler. That you were working with her. That you kicked some student off the trip down there so Diane could come with you and help you smuggle out artifacts.”
“No,” Walt protested. “You don't know what you're talking about.”
“Bullshit! You're lying, dad!”
“I'm not lying,” Walt answered insistently. “Diane and your mother were good friends.”
“Yeah, right,” Tom said bitingly. “That's why she moved in with you and shared your bed, is that it? Because she and mom were such good friends? Why she changed her name and went underground? Jesus, dad, this is your wife we're talking about, our mother. Don't you have any shame, dad?” he pleaded. “Where's your soul?”
His father looked at him with dead eyes. “I lost my soul in the jungle, the night your mother was killed.”
Tom felt the earth breaking open under his feet. “Is that why you're living in this house with the money you got from her insurance? Because you lost your soul? Why you took up with Emma … I mean Diane, damn it … when mom was still warm in the ground?” He could feel tears welling in his eyes, but he fought them off. This was no time for weakness. “Clancy and Will and I know all about the remortgages, dad. About the stocks you bought that went in
the toilet. About the artifacts that were stolen from down there. Which the government down there also knows about, don't they? And our government, too.”
“No!” Walt shot back with unexpected vigor, jumping to his feet. “That is totally untrue!”
“It's why they kicked you out! They cut your legs out from under you, they cut off the most important thing in the world to you. More important than mom, even. Or us. You were always our idol, dad, but you fell off your pedestal a long time ago.”
The two stood nose-to-nose. “You don't know jack-shit!” Walt yelled. “You think you know the truth, but you don't know anything!”
Tom pushed him back down onto the couch. “Stop it! You can't lie to us anymore, dad. It's too late for that.”
Walt shook his head in stubborn rebuttal “You've got it all wrong. You don't know what happened down there. Not a clue.” He slumped back. “My life's been a living hell for over a year, it's going to be a living hell for the rest of my life, and frankly, I'm all tired out.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “Go home, Tommy. I'm sorry you wasted your time and money coming all the way out here to get me to confess my sins, but I ain't gonna, ’cause I've already paid for them, a million times over.”
He looked up at his son. “I'm no angel, but you always knew that. I shouldn't have taken up with Diane, but I was lost, and she rescued me. I mean that literally, I couldn't have survived without her. I knew it wasn't going to last. She's not the type to settle down with any man, let alone one twice her age, with a broken career to boot. But we needed each other. And I'm not going to apologize for that, not one tiny bit.” He stared at Tom. “You think I killed your mother? That's what you and your brothers think?”
Tom didn't answer.
“You going to try to prove it?”
Tom took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said. “We don't have a choice.”
Walt waved his hands in disgust. “You're going to have your hearts broken. For Godsakes!” he cried out in anguish, “hasn't this family suffered enough? Isn't one terrible tragedy enough for a family to bear?”
“Dad….” Tom said, his voice breaking. “You can't …”
“You're right, Tom,” Walt said curtly, cutting him off. “I can't stop you. I can only warn you: don't open this Pandora's box. You don't know what you're going to find. I do, and that's why I don't want you to.” He buried his face in his hands. “Damn it. You're still my sons. I still want to protect you, if I can. Don't do this.”
“We have to, dad. We have to know the truth.”
“So it will set you free?” Walt's laugh was painful. “If you do find out the truth, the real truth, you are going to be more shocked, hurt, and disillusioned than you already are.”
Tom shook his head. “We've already been hit with a ton of shit. We won't feel another shovelful.”
His father nodded in bitter acknowledgment. “Yes, you have. And I dropped most of it on you, by not being honest earlier. But I'm telling you the truth now.” He buried his face in his hands. “Let it go.”
What truth? Tom thought sadly. He hasn't told me anything. Nothing ever changes. “We can't, dad.”
“You're going to keep pursuing this. Even if it kills you. In your heart.”
“Yes, dad,” Tom told him. “Even if it does.”
PART FOUR
CENTRAL AMERICA
Winter came early and hard to the upper Midwest, the cold snap dropping down low into central Iowa and Illinois; Chicago had been hit with almost zero-degree weather and six inches of snow. But at ten in the morning, when Tom and Clancy's plane landed in Santa Margarita, die capital, they stepped out into a virtual steambath: temperature in the high eighties, a humidity reading over ninety. They had anticipated warm weather, but not this hot—they had left one extreme only to arrive at another. They didn't know if that was an omen.
If they had come here under more pleasant circumstances, as they had done in the past with their parents, they could enjoy the benefits of this tropical climate—hit the beaches for snorkeling and scuba-diving, take nature hikes into the mountains, visit archaeological sites, particularly La Chimenea. But they weren't here on vacation. They were on a grim mission, and they didn't anticipate that even an hour of their time would bring them anything remotely resembling pleasure.
Will hadn't been able to come. He was overwhelmed with work. Not being able to accompany his brothers had been anguishing for him. Clancy and Tom promised to keep him abreast of events with e-mails and phone calls, and would fill him completely in when they returned.
“There he is,” Tom said, as the brothers emerged from customs and walked outside. He raised his arm and waved to the small man with strong Indian features who was standing next to a mud-encrusted Isuzu minivan parked at the curb.
Manuel raised his own arm and waved back. He came forward with quick, small steps, his face creased into a broad smile. “Ah, Señores Gaines,” he said in his heavily accented English. “It is good to see you again.”
They had hired Manuel to escort them around the country while they were here. He had been thrilled to help; they'd had to force him to take payment for his services.
“You, too, Manuel,” Clancy told him, reaching out and engulfing his father's former right-hand man in a hug. The top of Manuel's head barely came up to his chin. “Thanks for helping us out like this.”
“It is nothing,” Manuel protested. “It is my privilege to be able to assist you.” The smile left his face, replaced by a solemn resolve. “In any way I can.”
They threw their bags into the minivan and piled in. Manuel pulled away from the curb. There wasn't much traffic, mainly taxicabs and motor scooters.
“So, Manuel,” Tom said, “how're things by you these days? Still working at the dig?”
Manuel shook his head sorrowfully. “I'm working for the National Museum now.”
“You aren't working at the site anymore?” Clancy asked, surprised.
“Not anymore,” Manuel confirmed. “It's different, now that your father is no longer running things.”
“I'm sorry to hear that,” Tom said sympathetically. “That's a waste of talent.”
Manuel ducked the compliment. “There have been many changes.” He hesitated. “We will talk about them at the appropriate time.”
It was obvious to the boys that their father's old friend didn't want to talk about La Chimenea, their parents, or the present situation. Maybe he was afraid he was under surveillance for associating with the sons of Walt Gaines. If he was, they didn't blame him.
After the meeting with their father had blown up in his lace, Tom had called Whiting in New York again and explained his dilemma—they desperately needed to find out, once and for all, who had killed their mother, and whether their father and Diane Montrose were conclusively tied to it. Could Whiting go back to his friend in the customs department and see if he could pry any more inhumation out of him?
Whiting had called back a couple of days later. Yes, he had some fresh intelligence, but it was hearsay—whether or not it was truthful was highly debatable. Supposedly there had been an archaeologist involved in smuggling artifacts, and the killing was somehow connected to him. But exactly how, and who the players were, his friend wouldn't tell him. Whiting suspected the customs people were still trying to figure out whether or not the man in custody was holding back vital information that he could use as a bargaining chip. They also told him there was a woman involved, but again, they wouldn't (or couldn't) say who she was.
Tom and his brothers were going to have to investigate this themselves. Whiting suggested they start with the government minister who was in charge of archaeology for the country. He would have information that could help them. Whether he was willing to cooperate or not, they wouldn't know until they met with him face-to-face.
The following day, Tom and Clancy had gotten their passports and visas in order, been in touch with the minister's office, and booked their flight. And now, here they were.
In less than
fifteen minutes they had left the city behind, and were in open countryside. The terrain was flat and green. Scattered fields were under random cultivation on either side of the potholed two-lane asphalt highway. The houses were small and primitive—paint peeling, leaky tin roofs, pigs and goats foraging in the front yards. Atop some of the dwellings, television antennas and small satellite dishes stood out against the clear morning sky. In between the small plots of farmland, native vegetation grew wild: hibiscus, frangipani, marsh grasses. Beyond that was the jungle, often as close as a hundred yards from the road.
After a few miles, the paved road became a dirt-gravel surface. The minivan bumped its way along. Manuel was skillful as he steered around the deepest potholes. Barefoot women bearing large clay vessels on their heads walked along the edge of the road, carrying water, food, myriad goods. To the right, a slow-moving river at the bottom of the steep embankment meandered a course parallel to the road. Women squatted at the river's edge, washing clothes against rocks, and entire families bathed, the children frolicking in the muddy water. Tom, who had been to India, thought of the Ganges, of the dense crowds of people who bathed amidst turds and garbage. The conditions weren't that unsanitary here, but that was because there wasn't as much population, not from any superior understanding of hygiene.
Along with the human flow there were horses, cattle, sheep, pigs, dogs, wandering along the road. Rickety wooden fences had been built in front of some of the houses to try to keep the stock in, but they were ineffective. The animals were everywhere. Manuel was constantly standing on the brakes to avoid collisions. Kids, too, blithely walked on the road, sometimes right down the center line.
Besides the livestock crissrossing their path, there were dead animals in the road as well. Mostly horses, goats, and dogs. Some of the carrion was on the side in the matted-down grass, others smack-dab in the middle. Vultures squatted next to the rotting carcasses, plucking the meager meat from the bones. As the minivan passed by, the large ugly birds scattered, then flew back to resume their meal.
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