Grave of Hummingbirds

by Jennifer Skutelsky

  Awkwardly, they sat. The second man, Detective Muniz, had hair precisely parted in the center and high, tense shoulders that obscured his neck. He cleared his throat and tapped his pen on his notebook, first the nib, then the cap, then the nib, then the cap . . .

  Gregory put a plate of Isabella’s oatmeal cookies in front of him. Muniz dropped the pen and reached for one.

  Finn and the detectives watched and listened as steaming coffee splashed into the five ceramic mugs on the table.

  Gregory held two out to Finn. “On second thought, go see your mother. And take this for Isabella, will you?”

  Finn didn’t want coffee, definitely not without cream and sugar, but he took the mugs and hurried out of the kitchen.

  After the door had closed behind Finn, Gregory handed coffee to both of the men. “He’s told you everything he knows,” he said. “He’s not about to lie to you. He’s far away from home—a stranger—and I think he’s probably still in shock. I hope he drinks that coffee.”

  “Coffee’s good for shock?” Muniz said. He mumbled into his mug when Detective Alba glared at him.

  “Isn’t it good for everything?” Gregory asked and smiled. “So, how can I help you?” He stirred his own coffee.

  “We have questions for the boy, his mother, and you,” Alba said.

  Gregory considered the man. “You know, I have a feeling you’ll get more information from the crime scene. Finn was with me for most of the day, and when we got back to Colibrí, he went looking for his mother. The rest I’m sure he told you.”

  “Dr. Vásquez Moreno, Rufo Merida Salazar was murdered last night,” Alba said.

  “I know that. I’m sorry about it.”

  “We were told that you had a fight with the governor the same morning. Is that true?” asked Muniz.

  “Well, yes, of course it’s true. At least fifty people saw us. But you have to understand, detectives, Rufo and I had a long history. Now and again, we argued, but we also worked together on many projects. He made me crazy, but I had no reason to kill him. And as I say, I was here with the boy for much of the afternoon.” Gregory scraped a hand though his hair, suddenly dizzy with fatigue, reeling from everything he’d seen and Finn’s claim that Alberto was behind Sophie’s abduction. He knew what would have happened to Sophie if Finn hadn’t found her. The depth of Alberto’s betrayal and deception made fools of both him and Nita, and he still couldn’t assimilate it all.

  “We know who’s responsible for the governor’s death,” Alba said. “We have evidence you need to take a look at. Something we found in his pocket.” He opened his briefcase and pushed a clear Ziploc plastic bag across the table.

  In it was a note, the kind a butcher would write while parceling meat. The paper had been crumpled and smoothed flat inside the bag. Its creases were brown and spotted with blood, the writing small and neat but difficult to decipher.

  “This is Rufo Merida Salazar’s handwriting?” Alba said.

  Gregory peered at the stained paper. “I can’t tell.”

  It was part confession, part last will and testament. The words, written in Spanish, scuttled like spiders over Gregory’s fingers, under the sleeves of his sweater, up his neck, into his nostrils and eyes and ears, to leave indelible tracks on his brain.

  I, Rufo Merida Salazar, Governor of Colibrí, confess my sins before God and whoever will judge me. I know of the cave where the bodies of Penelope Pacheco, Mama Mamani, Grandfather Vilca, Miguel Gorrión, and others are buried. I’ve known for many years but kept it a secret as part of a trade agreement, silence for security and progress. I leave all my possessions to Manco Pacheco, except for my horses, which I give to Dr. Gregory Vásquez Moreno. I apologize to the doctor for my jealousy and disrespect and request that he continue to care for the people and animals of Colibrí the way he has always done.

  Signed RUFO MERIDA SALAZAR, Governor of Colibrí.

  Alba reclaimed the bag, and slowly Gregory raised his eyes.

  “Manco Pacheco’s whereabouts are accounted for. His son’s are not. So can you tell us whose handwriting you think this is?”

  “Rufo would not have written this. No one could have forced him to write it. He was a stubborn son of a bitch. And I don’t believe he knew of the cave.”

  Gregory recognized Alberto’s careful script from the exercise books Nita had brought home from school now and then. She was proud of the sketches Alberto had drawn every few pages, self-portraits and studies of her, Coco, and the birds in the aviaries. Alberto had been younger then, sixteen, but the writing was distinctive. It hadn’t changed much in three years.

  “Someone got him to sign it. If that’s his signature,” Muniz said and drained his cup.

  Alba’s coffee remained untouched.

  Gregory said, “I don’t imagine he was able to read it when or if he signed. It may not be his signature. I’m not an expert on Rufo’s handwriting. It means nothing.”

  “I disagree. It means a great deal. Did you know about this grave?”

  “Of course not.” Gregory shook his head, speaking to himself more than them. “I should have known about it. My God, I’ve been blind.” He fumbled over the spider tracks of memories, for revelations, clues he might have missed, things he could piece together. And they did come, the frail, giveaway signs, like tiny insects, strung up, lifeless, cobwebbed. Useless to him now.

  Colibrí’s missing had been found.

  Alberto had known about the cave. God knows for how long he’d worked on that elaborate gate, welding, installing rails, equipping that hideous grotto. It would have been easy enough for him to collect the metal pieces, and he had access to Manco’s tools and truck. No one ever bothered to keep track of him or his movements.

  Gregory veered away from the plunder of Alberto’s secrets. “You won’t be able to keep this quiet,” he said. “It’ll all come out, now that the bodies have been found. The abductions, the torture, the murders. It’s bigger than all of us. You’ll have your hands full, a lot of explaining to do. This doesn’t end here.”

  Alba surprised him. He nodded. “A good thing, I believe. It’s time, don’t you think?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Alba pondered the question. “Can I be frank with you, Dr. Vásquez Moreno? We’ll do what we’re supposed to do. We’ll investigate, all the way to the top if we have to.”

  “No offense, but you’re homicide detectives. In the end, it won’t be up to you. Are you sure your commanding officer feels the same way?”

  The man sighed. “He’s newly appointed, and he does. At some point it will be out of our hands. But until then, I’m the lead investigator and I intend to do my job. Besides which, there are international implications here—the young man and his mother. In cases like this, where a mass grave has been uncovered . . .”

  “You have many cases like this, I believe.”

  “You know we do. But my point is, we have a crime scene, which we can handle, but the grave . . . the grave is another story altogether.”

  “You’ll need to bring in a forensics team. Those bodies must be identified and returned to their families. This will come to the attention of human rights organizations, and you’ll need help. Will you accept it from the international community?”

  “We won’t have a choice,” Alba said. “I, for one, will be glad if the international community gets involved. And if a few bad apples have to go before the International Court of Justice, so be it. We have an election coming up in six months. Our own Department of Justice will want to be seen to be in control, doing some enthusiastic spring cleaning, so to speak.”

  Muniz had been listening to the exchange with owl-like intensity. He spoke softly but with some umbrage, as though Gregory had offended him in some way. “This goes back a long time. Not all of us are corrupt and bloated thugs.”

  “No, I see that,” Gregory said. But this would have little impact. Two honorable men in a nest of vipers were expendable.

  Alba sat forward
. “There’s another murder we’ve been able to link to Colibrí,” he said, “specifically to Alberto Pacheco Chavez. We believe he killed a colleague of ours, Alejandro Hernandez, ten days ago.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It seems Pacheco Chavez was taken in for questioning a year ago in connection with what came to be known as the Condor Killing. You remember it.” It wasn’t a question. “We found a similar note on Hernandez’s body, same handwriting, a confession of the detective’s crimes, of which there was no shortage. I never liked the man, never approved of his methods, but murder is murder.”

  “Oh, come on! You think Alberto . . . no, it makes no sense. You’ve got it wrong. Why would he wait a year? This isn’t possible.”

  “Why are you protecting him?” Alba snapped.

  It was a question Gregory had no rational answer for. “I’m not. Protecting him.”

  Alba stood up. “We’ll know soon enough. In the meantime, we’ll secure the cave and leave some officers outside the house. Pacheco is still at large.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Gregory said.

  “Thank you, but we’ll do it anyway.” Alba leaned across the table to shake Gregory’s hand again.

  Muniz followed suit, and Gregory saw them to the door.

  As they got to the steps that led down to the driveway, Alba turned back and said, “We’ll need to interview the woman as soon as possible.”

  “Come back tomorrow,” Gregory said. “You’ll be able to talk to her in the morning. Not before then.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Finn stood at the foot of Sophie’s bed, taking in the oxygen mask, sterile plastic bags, and tubes, as well as the drip chamber and clamp that regulated the flow of fluid into her arm. He moved closer to her and drew up a chair.

  Sophie’s facial bones were more prominent than ever, her lashes thick and black against her pale skin. Gregory or Isabella had gathered her hair to one side, and it streamed across the pillow. Finn’s eyes roamed to the ragged, recently cut ends, then slipped back to hers, which were open and watching him.

  She worked an arm out of the blankets to take off the oxygen mask and reach for him, her fingers white against the gray wool but surprisingly strong.

  “Finn,” she said softly. “You’re okay?”

  “I’m fine, Mom. How are you feeling?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Warm, a bit dazed. My head aches and my arm is tender. Hungry.”

  “You’re hungry? That’s great. I’ll go back to the kitchen and get you something to eat.”

  As he got up to leave, she held on to him. “No. Tell me what happened.”

  “Can’t it wait till you’re a bit stronger?”

  She closed her eyes and shook her head.

  Finn had half listened to himself as he’d spoken to the police, and there were many things he couldn’t explain to anyone, things that hardly made sense to him.

  Although her son had drifted away in recent months, the boy who had entranced Sophie ever since she’d brought him home from the hospital nearly eighteen years ago was still there. She’d tried countless times to see through his nut-brown eyes but had never quite succeeded, standing at the door to his inner world, knocking, the way she did on his bamboo room divider, hoping he would let her in.

  Now, with her eyes on his, Sophie held on to Finn’s hand as he led her back through the labyrinth of events that this time, with him as guide, held no terror, only wonder and a pooling sense of sadness, which leaked down her temples.

  Finn’s words, the ones he spoke and those he couldn’t utter, settled around the two of them like snow: the crystal flakes of the bodies she’d recovered in the aftermath of violent conflicts in Africa and Europe, Esmeralda and the condor, Rufo and the ghosts from the village.

  “I’m responsible, Finn,” she said.

  “Responsible for what?” Gregory asked as he stepped through the doorway behind Isabella.

  Sophie tried to hitch herself up against the pillows but fell back with a gasp.

  “Don’t get up,” Gregory said. “You have a concussion and a nasty infection in that arm. I’ve given you a tetanus shot, and we’re flushing out the drugs in your system. You need to rest. Let the antibiotics do their work.”

  “It’s my fault,” she whispered, watching Isabella dismantle the oxygen mask and container.

  Gregory tightened the roller clamp on the IV tube to slow the flow of fluid into her arm.

  Perhaps he hadn’t heard her. Sophie watched him thank Isabella, who promised to return later to help him clean up and prepare something for dinner that night and the following day.

  He protested, but she insisted, then turned to smile at Sophie and said good-bye.

  Finn released Sophie’s hand to stand and thank her for looking after his mother. Isabella told them she’d pack up the room at the school and bring their bags with her when she returned.

  After she had gone, Gregory pulled up a chair beside Finn. Sophie noted the curls that fell onto his forehead, the shadows of fatigue beneath eyes as dark as Alberto’s. She shuddered inwardly.

  “How is it,” Gregory said, “that you believe this is your fault? I think perhaps you’re taking on too much. Blame does no good, and guilt is always wasted.”

  “We shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have let Finn go off like that . . . with . . . him.” Her back and shoulders itched unbearably, and she moved, rubbing against the pillows like a cat on its back.

  “Try to keep still,” he said.

  Isabella had cleaned her injuries and applied a mild antibacterial ointment while Gregory had gone back to the kitchen to deal with the police. Sophie couldn’t see the tattoos; no one wanted to show them to her yet. She knew only that the ink was there to stay, and the illustrations felt inflamed. The wound on her arm was swollen and seeping, but she trusted the double onslaught of intravenous and topical antibiotics to wipe out any infection.

  “We have a lot of things to piece together,” Gregory said, “but now is not the time. All the questions, all this recrimination can wait until you’re on your feet.”

  Sophie shifted her gaze to the body that lay on the table, and Gregory followed her eyes.

  “You were looking after her,” she said. “It was you who pinned her wing.”

  He nodded, and again she noticed how fatigued and gaunt he looked. She wanted to touch him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “We shouldn’t have left her in here. I’ll move her into the next room.” He got up and asked Finn to help him. To Sophie he said, “Do you think you’ll be able to sleep?”

  Her heart jumped. “No, please, please don’t leave. Finn . . .”

  “Sophie, you must rest.” Gregory’s voice, firm and steady, offered some reassurance, but still she resisted him.

  She couldn’t face an empty room. “Did they find him?” she asked, and caught the guarded look Gregory exchanged with Finn. “Wait, he’s still out there? Please don’t tell me . . .”

  “Mom, he won’t come back.” Finn turned to Gregory. “They’ll catch him, won’t they?”

  “I can promise you no one will get past the police. Or me. And Sophie, we’re not going anywhere. We’ll leave the door open, and you’ll see we’ll be just through there, close by.”

  Sophie searched his face. There was something about Gregory—something familiar and at the same time unsettling, something she couldn’t define—that teased her memory.

  She drew the blanket up over her chest.

  It wasn’t that she doubted his word. She just sensed something wild and long buried stirring beneath the bedside manner and soothing speech. She’d seen it at the café when he’d attacked Rufo.

  Gregory nodded as though he’d read her. “Believe it or not, you have nothing to fear from me,” he said, and at last, she closed her eyes.

  Finn hovered until Sophie drifted off, then took one end of the steel table to wheel the condor through the doorway to the next room. “Are you going to do an autop
sy?” he asked as Gregory lifted the sheet away.

  “No,” Gregory said. “I’m going to clean her up and bury her. You don’t have to help me. Why don’t you go back to the house—you could use some sleep yourself. I’ll be here for a while, then when Isabella returns, we’ll move your mother into the house.”

  But Finn wouldn’t hear of it, and together they washed the feathers, broken skin, and bones with warm, soapy water. Raphael had dug a grave near Gregory’s wife, and Finn and Gregory gently placed the condor in the dark soil, her wings carefully arranged to hide the fact that she’d ever been hurt.

  Together they covered her up, the physical exertion good for Finn, distracting him from a pervasive sense of gloom. Gregory kept looking his way, trying to get into his head. Beyond the graves and thick yew trees that dipped over Nita’s tombstone, Alberto had to be lurking.

  As Finn straightened, his breath emerging in puffs, he saw Isabella return. She waved to them and stepped inside the clinic.

  Finn wanted the police to catch Alberto, and he wanted him to go free. That must make him something of a psycho himself. He’d had enough of this haunted place but wouldn’t dream of leaving without seeing things through. Even if they ended badly. He wanted Gregory to rescue the bull that waited in his pen, and he wanted to release the condor they’d captured. He wanted . . .

  “Come, let’s get back to the house,” Gregory said. “Isabella will stay with your mother. We need to talk.” He ran a hand along Nita’s gravestone before they returned to the kitchen.

  Finn watched Gregory slice bread and cheese and set a few plates on the table. He wondered whether he should offer to help.

  “This place will be crawling with police soon,” Gregory said. He cursed under his breath. “You want some tea?”

  Finn nodded. “Yeah, do you want me to make it?”

  “No, sit, it’ll just take a minute.”

  Finn waited quietly. When Gregory joined him, Finn told him what had happened as accurately as he could. “I think Alberto’s crazy,” he said, “but you know, not . . . evil. It was like he thought my mom was someone else. You did, too, at first. Like he was . . . in love with her . . . or something.”