Beyond the Grave

by Muller, Marcia

  Quincannon said, “There was something Luis Cordova's murderer overlooked, something I found in the corpse's hand.”

  Velasquez's head jerked up. “What did you find?”

  “A scrap of paper, torn from a document I believe was written by Tomás Cordova and given to his wife before she and Luis fled the rancho. A document describing the location of the artifacts.”

  “Ah. You found no other part of this document?”

  “No. Just the scrap.”

  “It has words on it, this scrap?”

  “Yes.”

  Quincannon took the torn corner from his pocket, moved over to hand it to his employer. Velasquez studied it eagerly, his brow furrowed in concentration.

  “Más aliá del sepulcro,” he said. “In English—”

  “‘Beyond the grave.’”

  “Sí. ‘Beyond the grave.’”

  “Does the phrase mean anything to you?”

  “No. Except that there is a graveyard behind the church of San Anselmo de las Lomas …”

  “I know, I stopped there briefly on my way here. Who was Maria Alcazar?”

  “My father's first wife. She died in childbirth.”

  “She appears to be the only ‘Maria’ buried there. Which would make her grave the one referred to in Tomás Cordova's document.”

  “Yes,” Velasquez said, “but that fact by itself tells me nothing. What are the other directions? Without the document—”

  “The document can be found.”

  “Can it?” Velasquez seemed to doubt that; there was an undercurrent of despair in his voice. “You have no idea who took it from Cordova's study?”

  “Not yet. One possibility is James Evans. I had an altercation with him the night of the murder; and he knew then of my interest in Cordova and the statue of the Virgin Mary.” Quincannon made a second withdrawal from his pocket, held out the slender piece of metal for the rancher to examine. “I found this near Cordova's body. If it belongs to the murderer, it may help identify him.”

  Velasquez stared at the little hollow cone. “What is it?”

  “I wish I knew. I've seen it before—I know I have—but I can't remember where. It isn't at all familiar to you?”

  “No.”

  Quincannon reclaimed it and the paper scrap and repocketed them. His pipe had gone out; he turned to the fireplace to knock out the dottle. When he turned back again, Velasquez was on his feet.

  “What are your plans, Señor Quincannon? How will you proceed with your investigation?”

  “Then I am still in your employ?”

  “Of course.” Velasquez dismissed the matter with an impatient gesture, as if it had never been open to question.

  Quincannon said in his best Sherlock Holmes manner, “In the absence of definite information I will proceed on the basis of two assumptions. One, that the murderer believes the remaining artifacts are still where your father and Padre Urbano secreted them. Two, that he will come to the pueblo to search for them. I intend to be there when he arrives.”

  “You will maintain a vigil?”

  “A daytime vigil—he won't go to the pueblo at night. There is no moon, and he dare not show a light that might be seen from up here.”

  Velasquez nodded. “You will do this alone?”

  “One man can lie in wait more safely than two or three.”

  “When do you begin?”

  “Tomorrow morning. There is less than an hour of daylight left today; and I saw no indication that our man has yet been to the pueblo. Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

  “Very well.”

  “One thing, Señor Velasquez,” Quincannon said. “I may be here for some time. During my stay I suggest you at least pretend to treat me as an invited guest. It will make matters easier for both of us. Agreed?”

  Purse-lipped, Velasquez said, “Agreed.”

  Quincannon was given accommodations on the lower floor of the house—perhaps not the best guest room the hacienda had to offer but a comfortable one nonetheless. He permitted himself a two-hour nap on its tolerably soft bed, during which he dreamed of Sabina. She called him “dear” twice in the course of the dream and kissed him once, and he awoke refreshed and in much better spirits.

  He washed in a pannikin of water brought by one of the servants and changed into his only clean clothing—a nobby, dressy, all-wool brown-and-gray-mixed cassimere suit with a diagonal Cheviot pattern that made him look (or so Sabina had said, much to his satisfaction) like a gay young blade. He was just knotting his cravat when the servant returned to conduct him upstairs to the dining room.

  Dinner was a somber affair. There were just the three of them; Barnaby O'Hare had left that morning for an overnight visit to the Alvarado ranch, some distance away. Velasquez was moody and had little to say. His wife made polite conversation for the most part, although from time to time she asked probing little questions that told Quincannon her husband had indeed informed her of recent developments in Santa Barbara. The food, at least—a spicy beef stew, tortillas, fresh vegetables—was good enough so that Quincannon indulged in a second helping. It seemed to him that he deserved it.

  He and Velasquez had coffee and cigars in the parlor. The rancher also had several glasses of aguardiente, which only served to deepen his dark mood. Unlike his wife, he had nothing more to say about Luis Cordova's murder or the words on the paper scrap, which suited Quincannon. Constant reiteration and speculation served no useful purpose, only led to a heightening of frustration.

  He was back in his room by nine o'clock, his mood once more as grim as Velasquez's. He did not like the man or his wife, or the style in which they lived, or Rancho Rinconada de los Robles; he longed to be gone from here, to be back among people who lived in the present instead of the long-dead past. If Cordova's murderer did not come soon …

  But he would. He had killed to find out the location of the artifacts; he would not wait long to come after them.

  Quincannon undressed and went to bed. By the light of a coal-oil lamp he tried to read from the volume of poems by Wordsworth; but he had no interest in poetry this evening, took no enjoyment in Wordsworth's bleak, episodic reminiscences of his childhood and his residence at Cambridge. He closed the book finally, put it aside. And in spite of himself, he again took out the conical piece of metal and turned it over in his hand, holding the object so that the lamplight glinted off its shiny surface.

  He knew what it was. Hell and damnation, he was morally certain he knew what it was.

  What was it?

  THREE

  IT WAS ANOTHER cold, gray day that Quincannon awoke to—a worse day than the previous one, in fact, because of a blustery wind and a wet, swirling ground mist. The prospect of spending eight or nine hours out in weather such as this was enough to try the sweet disposition of a saint. And he was no saint, God knew; it made him feel low and irritable and very sorry for himself.

  He dressed as warmly as the contents of his warbag would allow, drew on a pair of wool-lined gloves, and left his room. Haifa dozen men and women moved about the courtyard, performing a variety of early morning tasks; the two guards, Pablo and Emilio, were at their watch posts on the main gate. Out at the corrals the ranch hands were evidently engaged in the branding of calves: he could hear the animals' frightened bawling, smell the faint drifting odors of chaparral fires, hot metal, and singed hair. He entered the kitchen, where he drank several cups of coffee and ate a huge breakfast to build up his strength for the day's ordeal. He also convinced the fat cook to prepare him a meal of tortillas and fried meat that he could take with him.

  In the courtyard again he stopped one of the servants and sent the man to saddle and fetch his horse. There had been no sign of Velasquez this morning, and Quincannon wanted to talk to him again before he left for the pueblo. He approached another servant, sent this one upstairs with a message. When the servant reappeared on the upper gallery, the ranch owner was with him; Velasquez came down alone and crossed to where Quincannon waited by one
of the baking ovens.

  Quincannon had not passed a restful night, but it seemed obvious that Velasquez hadn't slept at all. He appeared haggard and sunken-eyed, moved like a battle-weary soldier from a vanquished army. One look at him answered the question in Quincannon's mind and kept him from asking it aloud. Velasquez had no more idea this morning than he had had last night of the possible whereabouts of Don Esteban's artifacts.

  “You have something to tell me, Señor Quincannon?”

  “No. Just that I'm about to leave for the pueblo.”

  “Then you have not yet identified the piece of metal you showed me?”

  “Not yet. But I will.”

  “I have no doubt of it.” But Velasquez's eyes were bleak, his voice listless. “Where will you make your vigil? You have a place in mind?”

  “Not as yet. I'll find one that commands a clear view of the graveyard.”

  “There is high ground to the south of the creek and the orchard, a knoll topped by two large oaks. All of the pueblo can be seen from there.”

  “Good. I may need a spyglass, though.”

  “I will have one brought for you.”

  “You might also instruct your guards to listen for gunfire,” Quincannon said. “If they hear any, it will mean trouble and they should come pronto.”

  “They will be told.”

  The servant arrived from the stables with Quincannon's claybank. Another brought an old Mexican spyglass in a worn leather case. Velasquez had nothing more to say; he stood hunched and silent as Quincannon mounted his horse. There was an air of resignation about him, as if he felt the mission would ultimately prove futile; as if he retained little hope that his father's artifacts would ever be found.

  Quincannon rode out through the gate, down the hill to where another road branched to the south. He turned there, so as to loop around on the far side of the ruins and approach them through the orchard and along the stream. He had gone perhaps a fifth of a mile and was about to leave the road and strike out across a section of rumpled pastureland, when a rider appeared around a bend a hundred yards ahead. Warily Quincannon slowed the claybank to a walk. He did not wish to be seen riding cross-country toward the pueblo; and he wanted a look at the rider in any case, in the event it was someone other than a local rancher or cowhand.

  And it was: the man astride the approaching chestnut was Barnaby O'Hare.

  O'Hare recognized him at the same time; his moon face registered surprise that modulated into a smile as he drew rein. “Mr. Quincannon,” he said. “Well, this is an unexpected pleasure.”

  “Yes, isn't it?” Quincannon said without enthusiasm.

  “I didn't expect you for another day or two. But you're going the wrong way, you know; the Velasquez hacienda is the one on that hill behind you.”

  “I am aware of that. I've just come from there.”

  “You have? When did you arrive?”

  “Yesterday afternoon.”

  “Really? But I understood you had two or three days' business in Santa Barbara …”

  “My business is here now,” Quincannon said shortly. “Now if you'll excuse me, I'll get on with it.”

  “You wouldn't be riding to the Alvarado rancho, would you? I've just come from there.”

  “No, I wouldn't.”

  “Well… that is where this road leads, you know.”

  Quincannon said nothing, pointedly. He would have liked to lean over and knock O'Hare off his horse. For some reason the man brought out uncharitable feelings in him.

  O'Hare gave him a knowing look. “On the trail of something, eh?” he said. “Detective work for Señor Velasquez?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Well, I won't pry,” O'Hare said. “Won't detain you any longer, either. But I would consider it a personal favor if you'd confide in me later on. Hasta la vista, Mr. Quincannon.”

  And a good day to you, too, you horse's ass, Quincannon thought.

  O'Hare lifted a hand and continued on his way. Quincannon rode on a short way himself, looking back over his shoulder as he went. When O'Hare had passed from sight he swung the claybank off the road, cut back at an angle through a screen of trees to where the rain-swollen creek meandered among a series of low, rolling hillocks.

  He followed the stream until he came in sight of the orchard that marked the pueblo's eastern perimeter. Then he veered away from it to the south, skirted a tangle of wild blackberry bushes and the shoulder of another hillock. Layers of mist undulated above a section of marshy lowland beyond. And beyond that was yet another hillock, this one crowned by a pair of huge black oaks: his reckoning had been correct. He negotiated the bog and rode halfway up the gentle slope of the hill, at which point he picketed the claybank. He went the rest of the way on foot.

  From atop the knoll, as Velasquez had said he would, he had a fine clear view of the pueblo. He could also see portions of the main road to Rancho Rinconada de los Robles, the one he had traveled yesterday; and at an angle behind him, part of the hacienda was likewise visible. All in all, it was a better vantage point than he had hoped for.

  He scanned the ruins with his naked eye, saw nothing out of the ordinary. He scanned them again with the spyglass, paying particular attention to the graveyard behind the ravaged church. There was no sign of disturbance in the area, no indication that anyone had been there since his visit yesterday afternoon.

  Half a dozen large rocks were scattered through the high grass between the oaks. One of these, shielded by low-hanging branches, had a kind of natural bench on its near side. He had brought the claybank's saddle blanket with him, and he spread this out over the bench to insulate his backside from the cold dampness of the stone. When he sat down he found that he could see over the top of the rock with no difficulty. And he was satisfied that no one could see him from down below.

  He settled in to wait. The shape of the rock gave him some protection from the wind, but the cold seeped in through his clothing, his gloves, his boots. As did the damp, even though most of the ground mist was beginning to evaporate. He shifted position constantly, first in an effort to make himself comfortable and then to keep the muscles in his legs and arms from stiffening.

  He had been there an hour and a quarter when he spied movement on the main road beyond the pueblo. He caught up the glass, fitted it to his eye. A light spring wagon had come rolling down the hill from the hacienda and was proceeding westward. He lost sight of it for a time, picked it up again as it emerged from behind a wall of trees, and saw that there were three people on the high seat. Two of them were Velasquez's wife and young daughter, both wrapped in heavy ponchos, the child cradled in her mother's arms. The third person, the one driving the wagon, was Emilio, one of the guards who had been posted at the main gate.

  Quincannon's beard bristled, and his face shaped itself into a piratical glower. The woman and child were probably on their way to visit a neighbor, he thought, and Velasquez had detailed Emilio to protect them. But had he put anyone on the gate in the man's place? What if there was trouble here and this poor half-frozen gringo detective needed more help than Pablo alone could give? Had Velasquez given any thought to that before he permitted his family to go gallivanting through the countryside?

  The wagon disappeared completely between two hills. Quincannon lowered the glass and ducked his head turtle-fashion into the collar of his coat. He was feeling sorry for himself again. What sort of miserable job was this for a detective of his experience and talents? There was no dignity in it, by God. No dignity at all. He decided he would charge Velasquez double the agency's fee—triple the agency's fee if he were forced to spend more than one day out here in the cold, risking a serious case of the grippe on top of everything else. That made him feel a little better. There was a certain warmth in the prospect of a large sum of money. Not that he was the greedy sort, a common money-grubber. Perish the thought. But a man had to be compensated for his sacrifices in some way, didn't he?

  More time passed. The sky began to
darken; the wind gathered strength, and the air took on a moist, metallic smell. To the west, above the Santa Ynez Mountains, gangrenous thunderheads had begun to mass like soldiers assembling for an attack. Two hours, perhaps three, and the heavens would open up and dump forth enough water to drown any man fool enough to still be sitting behind a rock on a knoll, accumulating chilblains and flirting with the grippe.

  Well, he wouldn't still be sitting here when the storm broke. Luis Cordova's murderer was not going to be out digging up buried treasure in a thunderstorm and neither was the man who would eventually bring him to justice. Enough was enough. He would wait one more hour, perhaps an hour and a half if those thunderheads took their time sallying forth for the deluge. Then he would ride back to the hacienda and spend the day in front of a blazing fire, drinking hot coffee and thinking about Sabina.

  Ah, Sabina. He should have been thinking about her all along. Money was a warming thought, a certain consolation, but a woman of Sabina's—

  Something slashed by his head, making noise like a disturbed hornet, and ricocheted off the rock with a hollow ringing whine. Stone chips flew, stinging his cheek as he lunged sideways, propelled by reflex and instinct, and sprawled out face-down in the high grass. The not-so-distant thunder roll of that first shot reached his ears just before the second bullet plowed a furrow in the turf a few inches beyond his outflung left arm.

  He hauled the arm in and scrabbled and rolled forward, downhill toward the creek, tugging frantically at the glove on his right hand. A rock gouged him in the side with such sharpness that for an instant he thought he had been shot; realized he hadn't been when he heard the third bullet, riding the echoes of the second, spang into another rock behind and away from him. He fetched up at a tangle of brush and deadfall limbs and crawled into it, fumbling the Remington out of the holster at his belt. He lay there panting, not moving, trying to pinpoint the location of the shots as the echoes of the third one died away.

  It was quiet for a time—a breathless, electric quiet broken only by the ragged murmur of his breathing. Then he heard sounds, wary shuffling movement in the grass not far off. He listened, turning his head in quadrants, trying to see out through the brush. His assailant—and there was only one, he was certain of that—was invisible to him, but now he knew the man's approximate location: over on the north side of the knoll, moving uphill along its shoulder on a course parallel to where he lay.