Maria didn’t hesitate. She fired the gun, hitting him in the head.
The second bandit was still yelling. She heard what he was saying now. It was something about his arm being eaten. She wished she had learned more Spanish. Any Mississippian archaeologist worth her salt should learn Spanish, she thought. Why the heck had she learned German?
She eased past the dead bandit, past the driver’s door toward the rear of the truck. The problem of getting the snake out of the bed of the truck was solved. The anaconda was on the ground, wrapping its gigantic slithering body in a tightening coil around the fallen second bandit.
The strike of the anaconda is lightning fast. They aren’t poisonous, but they have teeth curved back so that when they bite it is like fishhooks locking on and digging into the flesh. The snake’s mouth now held the man’s bare forearm in what could fairly be called a death grip. He no longer held the gun, and his hand was useless.
“Mi brazo,” he mewled over and over again.
Maria looked at him a moment, remembering his expression as he leered at her and Rosetta.
“Ayúdame, por favor, ayúdame,” he cried.
She closed the tailgate of the truck and walked back to the driver’s side. She grabbed the first bandit’s gun off the ground, but she didn’t search him for items they could use. She didn’t have the stomach for it. She climbed in the truck and closed the door.
“Are you all right?” she asked Rosetta, who was climbing into the seat.
Rosetta nodded her head.
“He must not have seen the snake when he jumped in the back of the truck,” said Rosetta. “You already made her mad. He just made her madder.”
“Evidently,” said Maria. “He probably made the mistake of pointing his gun at her.”
She started the truck and sped away as fast as the trail would allow. She didn’t look in the rearview mirror.
“You feel bad?” said Rosetta.
“How many people have I killed? Four?” muttered Maria.
“One. Just that bad man back there. He was going to shoot me. The others were alive when we left them,” said Rosetta.
Maria gave her a grim smile.
She tried to empty her mind of the events. She was doing what had to be done. She was struggling to survive. She had to get Rosetta back to her mother.
After five minutes of driving in silence, rounding a curve she came face-to-face with an abandoned truck not too different from theirs. The hood was up and the engine was steaming. Probably the bandits, she thought. Probably why they were on foot. She drove slowly through the brush around the truck, not stopping.
The trail got better and worse at the same time. The road grew wider, the jungle got thicker. Fronds grew out over the road and brushed the top of the vehicle. Maria worried that it would become too thick and the trail would peter out and disappear and they would have to walk.
She drove on.
Rosetta reached over and touched her arm.
“I did bad things. All I wanted to do was find Mama, so I sometimes did bad things.”
Maria squeezed her hand. “I don’t imagine you did anything too bad,” she said.
“At St. Anne’s when we did bad things we had to do penance. I think Mama is sometimes a Presbyterian. I don’t think they do penance. I hope she’s still a Presbyterian.”
Maria smiled at her. “What kind of penance would you have to do? You were so young.”
“Sister Alice or Father Joe made us work in the garden or help wash dishes. Sometimes Father Joe did penance with us. He said when we did bad things maybe it was his fault for not teaching us better. When Mama was there I never did penance. She just talked to me.”
They had come to a narrow bridge over a creek. Maria slowed down and stopped. She got out of the truck and walked over to examine the bridge. The creek was only ten feet or so wide and it was shallow. The bridge, not large, was built of wood that was worn. It had been patched many times in haphazard ways. Maria got the feeling it had been fixed by whoever had to go over it at the time it was in disrepair.
She walked across it, stamping on the boards. They creaked but appeared strong. There was no railing. The bridge was wide enough for the truck, but just. She turned to go back. Rosetta was watching her from the front window. Maria grinned and waved at her.
“Is it strong enough?” asked Rosetta when Maria climbed in.
“I believe so.” She patted the little girl on the leg. “Don’t worry. Tell me more about the mission where you stayed. It sounds like it was a good place.”
“It was nice. There were always kids to play with. The sisters took care of a lot of people,” Rosetta said. She stretched up in the seat, looking at the bridge. “I’ll wait until we are across the bridge to tell you about them.”
“It won’t take long,” Maria said. “It’s a short ride. Would you like to walk across and wait?”
Rosetta shook her head vigorously. “I’ll stay with you.”
Maria approached the bridge slowly. She told herself that it was at least the width of a parking space. She could make that. The bridge immediately groaned from the weight of the front wheels but she didn’t stop. She listened for sounds of cracking, reminding herself they had to go only a few feet, and if it fell in, the creek was not deep. Of course, they would be without transportation.
She pressed the gas pedal and drove the rest of the way at a quicker clip, exhaling when they were on firm ground. From the rearview mirror she saw that it was still intact. Drama over nothing, she thought.
Rosetta looked relieved as she peered out the back window. “We didn’t make the crocodile mad this time,” she said.
Chapter 22
The body had been pulled up on the bank.
Not a good procedure for an agency with a crime scene unit on-site, thought Diane.
She saw David and two of the groundskeepers standing over the body. They turned toward her as she approached. Diane was still fifteen feet away when she recognized the body—the gray hair, charcoal skirt, and rose blouse. She stopped and put a hand over her heart. Her stomach turned over.
Dear God. It’s Madge Stewart.
David said something to the groundskeepers and walked over to her.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Right now it looks like she fell into the pond. No obvious evidence of foul play. The gardeners found her. They thought she might be alive. That’s why they pulled her out,” he said.
“Of course. How long?” Diane asked, still staring at the body, hoping it wasn’t there, that she was seeing things.
“Not long,” said David. “Perhaps an hour. One of the gardeners saw her drinking a glass of tea on the restaurant patio about an hour and a half before they found her.”
Diane put her hands on her face. She and Madge weren’t the best of friends, but Madge was a member of her board.
“You handle this,” Diane said.
“I thought I would,” said David. “I’m sorry. This is a shocker.”
Diane nodded her head. Poor Madge, thought Diane. She loved her life. Diane heard people approaching. She turned, half expecting gawkers from the museum, but it was the medical examiner, Lynn Webber, and the coroner, Whit Abercrombie. Diane saw Chief Garnett several feet behind them walking at a catch-up pace.
Lynn Webber was several inches shorter than Diane’s five feet nine. She had shiny short black hair that always looked as if she just left the beauty shop. She wore a white lab coat over her clothes, and expensive hiking boots.
Whit Abercrombie, a taxidermist by trade, had been the coroner of Rose County for several years. He had wanted to quit several times, but people always talked him out of it. They, like Diane, appreciated Whit’s apolitical, logical approach to his job. He was a striking-looking man with straight black hair, dark eyes, bright white teeth, and a neatly trimmed Vandyke beard.
The two of them eyed Diane for a moment.
“Is this someone you know?” asked Lynn, frowning.
“It’s Madge Stewart,” Diane said.
“Oh, no,” said Lynn, laying a hand on Diane’s arm. “I’m so sorry. I met her a couple of times. She loved the museum, didn’t she?”
“Oh jeez,” said Garnett. He and Whit shook their heads.
“What happened?” Whit asked.
“On the face of it, it looks as if she slipped in and drowned,” said Diane, and David nodded. “But I don’t know what happened.”
“Was she hiking the nature trail?” asked Whit, with a raised eyebrow.
Diane could see he was looking at the one foot that had a shoe—a dressy, fabric kitten-heel shoe—the inch-and-a-half heel not good for walking the nature trail.
“I don’t know,” said Diane. “I wasn’t aware she was at the museum today. We don’t have a board meeting. But she takes several of the classes and, as Lynn said, she loved the museum.”
Lynn looked at Whit and he nodded his okay. No one touched a body without the coroner’s clearance. Lynn squeezed Diane’s arm and turned toward her task.
Diane watched Lynn and David for a moment as they approached the body. She turned and looked from Whit to Garnett.
“I don’t want Vanessa to hear about this from the media. What can I tell her?”
Whit wrinkled his brow. “Just what you know now. No details. Tell her not to speak with anyone beyond her household about it. I’m sure it will be in the news soon enough.”
Garnett nodded in agreement.
As Diane drove to Vanessa’s, she called her friend,psychiatrist Laura Hillard, and told Laura to meet her at Vanessa’s. She hung up before Laura could question her. Laura was also an old friend of Vanessa and Madge Stewart.
Vanessa’s estate was in the oldest section of Rosewood. The trees that lined her drive were older than the oldest member of Vanessa’s family, which was saying a lot. Vanessa came from a family of centenarians and super centenarians. The large house came into view and Diane parked in the circular drive, got out, and walked to the door.
Vanessa’s housekeeper, Mrs. Hartefeld—called either Hattie or Harte by Vanessa, depending on her mood—answered the door. Hattie Hartefeld preferred simply Harte and had often wondered aloud why a parent would have named an infant Hattie.
“Dr. Fallon,” said Harte, “how nice to see you.” She looked over Diane’s shoulder and saw Laura driving up. “Well, this is a coincidence. Isn’t it?” She looked quizzically at Diane.
“I called her to come, Harte. Can I speak with Vanessa?”
“Of course.” She frowned as she opened the door wide and waited for Laura to approach. She let them into Vanessa’s white gilded sitting room and went to fetch Vanessa.
“What’s all the mystery?” Laura smiled at Diane.
She thinks it’s about the wedding, thought Diane. This is terrible.
Vanessa came in dressed in a peach pantsuit, holding her hands out to greet Diane and Laura.
“What a nice surprise,” she said.
“I’ll bring some tea,” said Harte, and she turned to leave.
“Harte, please stay for a moment,” said Diane.
The three of them stared at her as if just now noticing the stricken look on her face.
“What is it?” said Vanessa.
“Something has happened,” said Laura.
Diane nodded and asked them to sit down. Vanessa, Laura, and Harte sat on the sofa. Diane sat on one of the chairs near the fireplace where Milo Lorenzo’s portrait hung. The museum was Milo’s vision. He had been a professor at Bartrum University and the love of Vanessa’s life. He died of a heart attack before the museum opened. Diane glanced up at him before she spoke.
“We’ve had a tragedy at the museum,” she began.
“Oh dear,” whispered Vanessa, putting a hand to her throat.
“It looks like a drowning,” she said. “I’m so sorry.” Diane felt tears start to sting her eyes. “It was Madge Stewart.”
The three of them gasped. Harte whimpered and put a hand to her face. Diane knew Harte felt as she did. Like Diane, Harte complained about how Vanessa and Laura babied Madge, saying that she would be a much less obnoxious person if they would stop. Diane had expressed the same sentiments, sometimes in harsher words. Now she felt pangs of guilt. She imagined that Harte did too.
“What happened?” said Vanessa.
“I don’t know. Her body was discovered by the grounds crew. They pulled her out of the water in hopes of saving her, but she was gone. Lynn, Garnett, and Whit are there now. I put David in charge of investigating the scene.” The scene. It sounded so harsh and clinical—and sinister.
“Do you expect anything other than an accident?” asked Laura.
“No. But they have to investigate,” said Diane.
“Oh, poor Madge,” whispered Vanessa. “Poor little Madge.” Harte put a hand over Vanessa’s and Vanessa patted it with her other hand. “I’ll handle the funeral. Madge has some cousins, but few other relatives. I can’t believe this,” she said.
“You’ll keep us informed?” said Laura. “We need to know what happened.”
“There is something about it that bothers you,” said Vanessa.
Despite Vanessa’s watery eyes and grieved face, she looked stern. Diane wanted to disappear into the chair.
Diane shook her head. “Please don’t ask me any questions. Whit has instructed that no one outside of this room even be told of the death until he releases a statement. I asked for special permission to come tell you so you wouldn’t hear it on the news. Let’s wait,” she said.
“All right, dear,” said Vanessa.
Diane was glad Vanessa didn’t press.
Something was bothering her. She didn’t like the way Madge was dressed. And she could tell the coroner was bothered by it too.
Chapter 23
Diane found Gregory down in the dungeon where David had left him. He was writing furiously in his notebook but looked up when Diane came into the room. He reached over and pulled up a chair for her.
“Diane, I heard about the tragedy. I’m sorry. Was the person a friend?”
“Yes,” said Diane, but it felt like she was lying. The weight of all the recent events were on her shoulders as she plopped heavily onto the seat. “She was a member of the board here and a good friend to several of the other members.”
Gregory eyed her. “But not a good friend to you?”
Diane slumped and confessed her guilt. “I’m trying to remember the last kind thing I said to her . . . and can’t.”
“It’s very difficult when someone whose bad behavior we’ve called out dies on us and we are left wishing we had ignored their irresponsibility.”
Diane gave him a weak smile. “I could have been kinder,” she said.
“Knowing you, you were,” he said.
“Your sentiment is appreciated,” she said. “How do you like your accommodations?”
“It’s rather terrific down here.” He put his hands on the arms of the office chair as if to point to its astonishing comfort. “It’s good to see that David has been able to turn his paranoia into such remarkable creativity.”
“I think a big part of David’s paranoia is an excuse to play with databases and gadgets,” she said. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he were digging out a new room here in the basement to house a secret supercomputer.”
“He said supercomputers are above his price range,” said Gregory.
“So he’s talked with you about a supercomputer,” said Diane. “I guess I’d better worry.”
“He was going on about a friend in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, with a Cray Jaguar. I thought it was a car,” said Gregory. “I thought perhaps 2.33 petaflops was you Yanks’ word for horsepower.”
Diane smiled and shook her head. “Perhaps I’d better check the subbasement.”
“He said if he needed a large amount of computing power he could use slaves,” said Gregory.
Diane sat up in her chair and looked at Gregory. “What? He’s using hacked botnets?”
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br /> “He said he never used computers in the United States—or Great Britain. But he might have said that for my benefit. My guess would be China.”
Diane put her head in her hands. “You are joking, aren’t you?” she said.
“Actually, no,” said Gregory. He paused as Diane groaned. “But David may have been. It’s hard to tell sometimes, you know.”
Diane looked up and smiled. Gregory grinned back. She looked down at his notebook.
“It looks like you’ve been hard at work,” she said.
Gregory liked to work in a notebook with pen and ink. At a glance, it looked as though he was a serious doodler, but his doodles always meant something. Instead of color-coding concepts, he doodle-coded them. He had started with a list of all the people on the team in South America. He had drawn a line through the deceased members, but that didn’t delete them from his analysis. He had fancy frames around others.
He was doing a network analysis—looking at how each member was connected to the others, correlating each with their World Accord job description, with their current job, with their special talents, personality traits, background, with whom they stayed in contact after the massacre. David would have gladly written an algorithm for him, but Gregory liked to use his own brain for the analysis, continually adding little things to his people map, as he called it, following strings of a web with an unknown pattern until he found the strand that led him to the spider.
The notebook was spread out so that two facing pages were showing. Diane noticed his computer screen was filled with open windows containing various reports from their work in South America. She glanced at what he had so far. His first entries were of the three of them—Diane, David, and Gregory himself—listing the rumors with the annotation “vague” beside them.
“Vague?” said Diane.
“None of the rumors about us have any detail attached to them. God knows, the journalists in London tried to find something.”
“That’s the way lies are,” she said. “You don’t need much substance to make them stick, so long as there are people out there who are convinced that where there is smoke there is fire.”
One Grave Less Page 12
