Bill Pronzini: Beyond the Grave

The search was more difficult than I'd anticipated, however, because the broken brick floor was overgrown not only with weeds but with a carpet of that kind of wild grass that sends out a mass of tough, interlocking runners. I yanked at one plant, cutting my fingers and pulling it up, roots and all. To the left of the altar area, I got down on my knees, bracing my feet behind me, and tugged on a large runner. More of the shallowly rooted plants popped out from the cracks in the bricks, and I repeated the process until I had exposed a substantial amount of flooring and had found the edge of what appeared to be the grave marker.

My excitment returned as I crawled forward and removed more weeds and debris from the stone. When I was done, it was still covered by soil, and I shoveled it out of the way with my bare hands, until I could read the inscription. It was as Quincannon had described, an elaborate carving that had been made shallow and indistinct by more than a century of exposure to the elements. But the words were still decipherable: FRAY JULIO DEL PRADO, 1751–1826, HOMBRE DE DIOS.

Once again-in spite of my best intentions-I was there in the past with John Quincannon, looking down at that stone. The pull of those long-ago times was stronger than ever now. As strong as if someone were trying to tell me something….

I stood, my eyes still on the grave. Then I glanced up at where the altar had once been. And then at the apse, the one to my left, where the wall was still intact.

Mas alia del sepulcro … donde Maria …

Maria!

I drew in my breath and stood very still. Then I released it in a rush as my heart started beating faster. I stepped around the padre's grave and hurried over to the apse. Its floor was littered with trash: paper bags and beer cans and wine bottles. Over by the stones that were piled against the wall, someone had made a charcoal fire, taking advantage of the shelter from the wind.

Stones?

I stared down at them, sidetracked from my purpose. What on earth were they doing here? I wondered. They were quite large and of the same type as those on the knoll where Quincannon had been ambushed. Someone had taken a great deal of trouble to move them all that distance and pile them here in the apse.

Because this was nothing like what I'd expected to find, I was momentarily disconcerted. Then I got down on my hands and knees and began to try to move the stones. They were cumbersome and didn't budge easily, both because of their weight and the way they'd been wedged together. How long had they been here? I thought. Not a great deal of time. There was nothing growing over them, and grass and weeds took hold quickly during the winter and spring rains.

A few of the peripheral stones had yielded. I grasped a big, jagged chunk of rock and pulled. It moved an inch or so, and a shower of smaller pieces rained down, one striking my knee. I paused to rub the place where it hurt, then grasped the rock more firmly. Leaning back against my heels, I pulled as hard as I could. The rock moved a few more inches.

At first I didn't recognize what was behind it. It looked like a polished piece of wood. Then I saw it was striated: brown alternating with lighter brown, and above it a curve of dark leather. It was the stacked heel of a woman's boot.

My heart began to pound as I leaned forward and looked closer. Above the shoe part of the boot was blue fabric. Denim. The leg of a pair of jeans.

A vague odor rose to my nostrils now, a kind of dusty decay. I pulled back convulsively. For a moment there was a ringing in my ears, a blurring of my vision. And then my senses cleared. I saw the boot and blue-jeaned leg with awful sharpness. Felt the prickling cold that was creeping over my skin. Tasted the metallic dryness in my mouth.

And heard the footfall behind me.

I swiveled around, wrenching my back, stones digging into one knee. Then I tried to stand but found my limbs had gone weak. Above me loomed the menacing figure of Gray Hollis.

Gray's face was an almost translucent white, the skin drawn taut over his cheekbones. His lips curled back like those of an animal about to attack. It was his eyes that frightened me the most: black holes in which pinpoints of fury glittered.

I got to my feet slowly, pain biting into the small of my back where I had twisted it. Gray stepped forward, and I smelled the sharp odor of bourbon. The liquor had not affected his control, however: he was steady on his feet, poised to spring at me, and the bunching of his fists at his sides suggested a brute strength.

He said, “Doing a little treasure hunting, lady?”

I said, “Yes, but there's nothing here.”

“Nothing here.” He laughed, a sound that abruptly cut off before it reached its crescendo. Goose bumps rose over my whole body, and I thought: This is the way it was when he killed her .

Gray said, “Nothing here but Georgia.”

Involuntarily I glanced back at the cairn of rocks.

He smiled, but the feral set of his face turned it into a snarl. He said, “I see you've already met my wife.”

The goose bumps rippled again, icy cold. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear its thrum in my ears. I took a step backward.

“Wha's the matter-don't you like my joke?” Gray lunged at me, but I sidestepped, and he staggered, then fell to one knee.

I turned and ran toward the other side of the ruins.

“Come back here, you goddamn bitch!”

I glanced over my shoulder. He had regained his feet and was running after me. Looking down at the ground, I saw a chunk of red tile. I scooped it up, and when he was within a couple of yards of me, I threw it hard. It missed his head but smacked into his left shoulder. He jerked his right hand up, clutched the place where it had hit, and the motion put his balance off. I jumped over the foundation and ran into the graveyard.

Something-a tangle of weeds, one of the low gravestones-caught my foot, and I fell heavily. For a moment I was stunned, face pressed into the grass. Then I heard Gray rush at me, overshooting the spot where I lay. I pushed up on both elbows and saw him stop, disoriented, midway between the graveyard and the grove of oak trees. As I got up, he whirled and saw me.

I expected him to run at me again, but instead he stood, fists clenched, feet spread wide apart. “Come on, bitch,” he said, “what're you going to do now?”

I glanced around frantically, uncertain which way to go. Gray was blocking my path to the road-and the safety of my car.

He said, “Face it, bitch, you're caught. Thought you could run out on me, didn't you? Clean out the bank account and take off for Peru. Never come back.”

Madre de Dios! I thought. He's lost his mind. He thinks I'm his wife.

“We'll see about that,” Gray said. “Now we'll see.”

As he started back toward me I turned and ran, not caring where. Pain stabbed at my back as I skirted the high headstone of Don Esteban Velasquez. At the edge of the cemetery my foot caught in a tangle of vines, and I stumbled almost to my knees but kept on going. Behind me Gray had also begun to run; his breath came in grunts and wheezes.

My own breath came hard, and I heard myself sob. The pain in my back was worse now, a fiery searing that brought tears to my eyes. I ignored it and raced across the field of wildflowers. Ahead was the stone lavanderia . Perhaps there I would find some sort of weapon….

Gray was gaining on me, only about ten yards away. I rounded the old well and looked inside. Nothing but stones and beer cans, and they were too far down to reach. Sobbing again, this time in frustration, I changed my course, running for the knoll where Quincannon had been ambushed. There were rocks up there. I could throw them at Gray-if I could run that distance….