“I understand,” Finn said. “I love her, too.”
“Not like me,” Alberto cried. “No one ever loved her like I did. No one took care of her the way I wanted to, and now I can.”
“Maybe not. I think you’re right. I never took care of her the way I should have. Do you think you could show me how? Maybe we can both take care of her now. Together.”
The mask moved forward, floating above a slender body, all in black.
Finn found it too difficult to stand his ground and shuffled back, away from Sophie, toward whatever lay huddled beneath the red blanket.
“It’s too late. Too late. We’re damned, all of us.” The mask nodded toward the blanket behind Finn. “The bird. She’s dead. Last time I thought I could save them both. I thought if I joined them together, if she had wings, then it wouldn’t matter that she couldn’t stay with me. She’d be free. They would fly together, and someday, someday they’d come back for me.”
“What are you talking about?” Finn whispered. “Who is she?”
“Look.”
Finn leaned down and gingerly lifted the blanket. Grief came even before he fully understood what he was seeing: the mangled wing and collapsed head, the body he had held close for a few sacred moments, moments in which he had felt the bigness of her heart, moments when, back in Gregory’s barn, she had shown him, with unimaginable generosity, her view of the land and sky. He stroked her back, wishing she would stir, knowing she wouldn’t.
When Finn looked up, the mask was inches from his face. He started back and fell against the wall. Alberto followed him, tipping ear to shoulder, first the flawless, then the slack side of the mask as the eyes behind it peered into Finn’s soul and beyond.
“Take off the mask, Alberto,” Finn said. “You don’t need it anymore.”
Alberto collapsed against the wall, lifted his hands to loosen the strings, removed the mask, and tossed it aside. He dropped his head back and closed his eyes. “I wore it for her, not for me.”
“What did you give her?” Finn said, fighting to keep his voice calm and complicit.
“The condor? I didn’t give her anything.”
“No, I mean my moth—I mean her.” Finn gestured toward Sophie, who lay where he had left her, the torn gown slipping off her shoulder. It revealed an arm thinner than he remembered, as though she had begun to disappear, the way he had feared she would when he’d stupidly left her alone at the village.
“It doesn’t matter. She’s only sleeping. I wouldn’t hurt her.”
She’s more than sleeping, you fuck. She’s barely alive. What did you give her? What did you do to her?
“I went to Nita’s grave, night after night, because I knew I could bring her back. And then, you know, she did come back. A year later she came back. And I tried so hard, I tried so hard, but I couldn’t keep her. She slipped away again, out of my hands. Now look, here you are, you brought her back to me. And I’m grateful to you, my friend.”
Finn wondered why he had ever imagined them to be of a similar age. He would have to live many lifetimes before he’d be anywhere near as old as Alberto.
“I was her favorite, you know. Without her, I would have had no life. She taught me to speak English, and my English is good, don’t you think?”
Finn nodded weakly. “It’s perfect.”
“Perfect. She would be happy to hear you say that.”
“She was your teacher?”
“She was my teacher. I carried her books for her every day, ever since I can remember.” Alberto became distracted, his movements agitated. “Do you think she’s cold?” He whipped the blanket off the bird and reached across to cover Sophie with it. “There. Better.” He lingered at the mattress to stroke her hair. “Everything I know, everything that’s good in me is because of her.”
Finn’s muscles tensed. It was hard to breathe. He compressed a spring inside himself with all the force he could muster, one that could give way at any moment to release a rash jack-in-the-box, an all-over-the-place, bouncing, ineffectual toy. “What about those bodies?”
“The bodies? They are not just bodies. My mother is there. Just not . . . not how I remember her. They took her away from me and brought that back. You will tell the world about those bodies.”
“Who put them there? The police?”
“I think Mother Mamani is there, too,” Alberto said, suddenly brusque. “And Grandfather Vilca. The Gorrión boy. All Colibrí’s missing.” He picked up a rag that lay beside Sophie and touched it to her forehead.
Finn leaped forward and pushed him aside. Alberto fell back and lurched to his feet as Finn lifted Sophie’s head, which rolled slackly across his arm.
TWENTY-THREE
After Gregory and the search party left the village in search of Finn and Sophie, Manco drove his old pickup truck to Gregory’s house and parked it on the logging road. While the riders gathered and split up into groups to cover as much ground as possible, Gregory saddled Tomás and let Manco have the horse he’d ridden up from the village. Both Manco and Gregory were with the party that found Finn’s tracks.
Manco got off his horse to shine a flashlight on the mountain lion’s paw prints.
“What is it?” Gregory said.
“A puma.”
Gregory jumped down to take a look. Finn would stand no chance against a puma. If the cat was hunting and the boy ran, he might get away, but on uneven terrain, blindly stumbling, Finn would appear injured to the animal, causing it to attack.
God, what he wouldn’t give to have just a few hours back. Gregory could pinpoint it now—the moment when he might have had some impact and prevented all this. He shouldn’t have turned his back on Sophie when she’d followed him. He could have invited her up to the house, her and Finn, and the day would have ended differently. He might not have saved Rufo, but he could surely have kept the woman and her son safe.
“Ahead of him,” Manco said. “Looks like he was following it, not the other way round.”
Gregory studied the tracks. Manco was right. While he didn’t have the man’s skills, even he could see that Finn had been behind the mountain lion, and an image of the boy seated beside the condor in the barn flashed through his mind. So many things he didn’t understand.
They pressed on, tracking Finn’s progress until they got to the cave door, which had been left open. Raphael used a flare to communicate their location to the others.
They left the horses outside and moved cautiously through the opening, spooked by the stench but marveling at the discovery of an ancient Incan entrance to the mountain.
When they found the decomposing bodies at the base of the shaft, Gregory dropped his flashlight. Isabella gasped and covered her mouth to stifle a scream. Each of them stood, silent and still, as the implications of what they had found settled. Slowly Gregory picked up his torch, and its beam caught a matted tumble of dark hair draping over other bodies in the pile. He noted the familiar flowers that Nita had planted as soon as they’d completed the house, roses that had bloomed in all seasons since her death.
The tattoos on the body he’d examined all those months ago had been a map of sorts or perhaps a plea, which might have led him here sooner had he but recognized it.
Looking up, it wasn’t hard to imagine the thwacking blades of a helicopter overhead, hovering as a repressive government agency tossed its grisly cargo. Gregory fought to control a burgeoning darkness and a paralysis brought on by fear, to dismiss the implications and focus on what they’d come here for.
Manco backed away. Raphael—about to go after him—hesitated when Gregory took hold of his arm.
“Let him go,” Gregory said. “We’ve stumbled onto something much bigger than we imagined.”
“You think Alberto’s mother, Penelope . . . ?” Raphael murmured, alarm and dismay in his soft words.
“I don’t know, but I think . . . yes . . . possibly Penelope. Come, don’t touch anything. We must go on.”
Raphael cocked his shotgun
and told Isabella to get behind him. They moved through the tunnel into the long chamber and toward a weak yellow light that radiated from the last grotto.
Gregory called out, “Finn! Sophie, where are you?”
TWENTY-FOUR
The sound of voices and the clatter of something as it hit the floor intruded, bouncing off the walls of the cave. Silence followed the echoes, then footsteps, and Finn heard Gregory call out to him.
“It’s over,” Finn said to Alberto. “Whatever you’ve got going on here, it’s over.”
Alberto looked stricken, and suddenly Finn felt sorry for him. Given what he’d seen when he first stepped into this place, he could just imagine what the police would do to a crazy man. But fear for Sophie overrode his concern, and he yelled, “We’re here! In here . . .” He maneuvered his mother into a sitting position and made sure she was covered.
When he looked up, Alberto had disappeared.
Gregory hurried forward and found Finn seated on the floor beside a mattress with his mother slumped against him. The boy appeared to be in shock, his eyes huge and arms tight around Sophie. Gregory couldn’t get him to release her.
“Finn,” he said, “you need to let go. I’m here now. Let her go.”
The boy shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Listen to me, Finn.” Gregory struggled to keep his voice calm. Even with Raphael at his back, he himself still shook with horror at their discovery and the prickling sense of danger lurking. Part of him was convinced that they’d found Sophie too late. “I’m a doctor. Let me look at her.”
Isabella stepped forward and knelt beside the mattress.
“It’s okay,” she said to Finn, touching his hand. “You can let go now. Come with me.”
He understood the Spanish words and opened his eyes.
Isabella put her arm around him and said, “Let the doctor take care of your mother.”
“She’s not wearing anything . . . under . . .”
Isabella nodded to Raphael and said, “We need the blankets.”
Manco stood at the gate, the lines on his face deep as scars from the shock of finding what might be Penelope’s body.
“Manco.” Gregory sought to distract him. At this point they could be sure of nothing. He took a deep breath and coughed but managed to keep his voice steady. “Marianna has blankets. She’s waiting by the horses. Please.”
Manco left, his flashlight bobbing.
Finn let Isabella draw him away, and Gregory laid Sophie down on the mattress, careful to keep her covered. He noted the tattoo at her neck and found a pulse.
“It was Alberto,” Finn blurted out, his teeth chattering.
Isabella and Gregory froze.
“Alberto? Alberto was here?” Before Gregory could process Finn’s revelation, Manco returned, and after exchanging a pointed look with Gregory, Isabella wrapped Sophie in a blanket.
It was then that Gregory noticed the condor. He stood up and stepped over to examine the pile of feathers and recognized her immediately. While he had never thought of her as his, he felt a rush of possessive concern and sorrow, a familiar contraction inside his chest, a deep flinching and cowering flutter. He would come back for her; he couldn’t ask any of the others to carry her out.
But Raphael surprised him, stepping forward to lift the body and cradle the bird in his arms.
Gregory carried Sophie, who was swathed from head to toe in bright colors, and only once relinquished her, to mount Tomás. Manco followed with Finn and Isabella. As soon as Gregory was in the saddle, he reached for her again, and the horse delicately navigated the path that would lead them back to the logging road.
Finn rode behind Raphael and the bird. Several times the horse was spooked by the brush and rustle of the condor’s wings. Finn was too tired to do anything but cling to the man’s thick waist.
The Búho police had descended on Colibrí in response to the governor’s death, and two police cars were parked on the logging road to one side of the grass verge, behind Manco’s truck. Gregory ignored them and rode round to the back of the house.
The search parties continued on to Colibrí, leaving Isabella, Raphael, and the condor behind.
Gregory handed Sophie down to Finn, who carried her into the clinic and laid her on the examination bed.
“Finn,” Gregory said, “leave her with me. Isabella will help. Please, I need you to take care of the horses. Can you do that?”
“But what are you going to do to her? And what about Alberto? He’s still out there.”
“Alberto knows these mountains better than anyone, but he couldn’t . . . wouldn’t have done this, not on his own. He’s just a—” Gregory broke off. “We’ll talk about it later. Raphael will stand guard outside.” He moved about the clinic, removing intravenous fluids, an oxygen mask, and heat packs from the cupboard while Isabella awaited instruction. There had to be a rational explanation for Alberto’s presence in the cave.
“Go, Finn,” Gregory said. “I need to bring your mother’s body temperature up and flush out whatever’s in her system.”
“She’s freezing. Is she going to die?”
“No, no, of course not.” Gregory pulled a stethoscope from a drawer and, easing Sophie’s arm out from under the blanket, slipped on a blood pressure cuff. “She’s hypothermic, and if it’s a benzodiazepine overdose, we’ll need to keep an eye on her for the next few days, that’s all.”
“She has a bad bump on her head.”
“Yes, I saw that.” Gregory inserted the earpieces and placed the stethoscope bell on the inside of the cuff, tightened the screw, and pumped the rubber valve. He met Finn’s eyes and added, “Trust me. She’s safe now.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Finn left the room with a last long look at all he could see of his mother: her pale, thin arm, delicate and brittle as a bird’s, her wrist jutting at an odd angle against the blanket. As he pulled the door closed, he heard Gregory ask Isabella to empty the humidifier and refill it with a bottle of distilled water that she would find under the sink. He spoke in English, probably for Finn’s benefit.
Finn was the best witness the police had, and huddled in a blanket, he gave his statement to two homicide detectives from Búho, who stood at the table in Gregory’s kitchen.
They asked him the same questions over and over, and when Finn threw up his hands and asked why they couldn’t accept his answers, they said it was a language issue.
“How is it a language issue?” Finn asked. “Your English is way better than my Spanish. But hey, we can try Spanish. The answers are still going to be the same. Why don’t you believe me?”
The lead investigator, a long, bald man whose arms jutted out of his shoulders like knitting needles, said, “But you understand your story seems—what’s the word? Implausible.” He liked his choice of vocabulary and allowed himself a satisfied smile. “Implausible. You say,” he said, bending over the other detective’s notes, “you say that you happened to find your mother. Just like that. You somehow discovered a cave so cleverly hidden and out of the way that no one else has stumbled upon it, not even a stray animal, a lost sheep perhaps, or, I don’t know, a llama.”
“Every animal that lives up there has probably stumbled across it,” Finn said. More softly, he added, “They’re smarter than we are.”
“Hmm. Animals are smarter than we are. An odd thing to say.” The detective’s sharp eyes made Finn squirm. “How did you manage to see in the dark? You’re sure you had no prior knowledge of this place?”
“I’m sure. I had my phone with me.” Finn placed it on the table. “It has a flashlight.”
“And you made all these mathematical and engineering decisions, about how to open the door . . .”
“There was no math or engineering involved. Anyone with half a brain could have figured it out. Go see for yourself.”
“We will.” The lead investigator loomed, and Finn had to look up at him. “And these bodies. You’re sure they were bodies?” He and t
he second man exchanged a look.
“Why don’t you ask the others, if you don’t believe me?”
“We will.” After a pause, the tall detective asked, “And when you got into the cave, who did you find there?”
“My mother.”
“No one else?”
Finn hesitated. “Alberto was there,” he murmured.
“Alberto Pacheco Chavez?”
Finn nodded.
“You’re sure it was him? You’ve only been here a few days. How can you be sure?”
Finn’s voice rose in spite of his fear. “You know what? My mother was abducted, and it’s a miracle I found her, when none of you could have. You have no idea . . . you can’t even imagine what I’ve been through . . . you don’t even care what she’s been through.”
The detective placed his arms on the table and leaned in close, his face inches away from Finn’s. “Now, you listen to me. You’re hiding something, and we’ll get to the bottom of it. An important man was murdered in the last twenty-four hours, and we’re going to find out who did it. Do you understand?”
Finn drew back, his heart pounding. “I’m not hiding anything. And I don’t know anything about a murder. Why should I?”
Just then, Gregory stepped through the door. “Yes, I’d be interested to hear the answer to that myself. Why should he?”
The lead investigator said, “Ah, Dr. Vásquez Moreno. Good of you to join us. How’s your patient?”
Finn got out of his chair and moved over to Gregory, who placed a hand on his shoulder. “Is she awake? Can I go see her?”
“Not yet, Finn. Isabella’s with her. She’ll be fine. She’s sleeping.”
Finn returned to the table, and Gregory shook the detectives’ hands. They flashed their badges at him.
“Detectives Alba and Muniz. Please, sit. I’m sure you gentlemen would like some coffee. It’s very early in the morning. I use arabica beans from Colombia. Slightly sweeter. You’ll catch a hint of berries.” Gregory got busy at the counter preparing a pot. “You’ve been driving and must be exhausted,” he said. “I see you have a new police commissioner. Sit, sit.”
Grave of Hummingbirds Page 14
