Kathy Reichs - Grave Secrets

He nodded.

“Sorry it’s under these circumstances.”

“Those bein’?”

“Excuse me?”

“What happened to my girl?”

“Daddy. Be nice.”

I placed a hand on Molly’s shoulder.

“The police are investigating.”

“Been two weeks.”

“These things take time,” Mateo said.

“Yeah.”

“Are they keeping you informed?” I asked.

“Nothin’ to inform.”

“I’m sure they’re working on it.” I wasn’t certain I believed that but wanted to soothe him.

“Been two weeks.” His eyes dropped to the gnarled fingers laced in his lap.

True, Jack Dayton. Very true.

I took Molly’s hand in mine.

“How are you?”

“With a little time, I’ll be right as rain.” Another weak smile. “I’ve never understood that expression. Must have been coined by farmers.” She rolled her head to look at her father. “Like Daddy.”

The old man didn’t move a muscle.

“I’m forty-two, but my parents still think I’m their little girl.” Molly turned back to me. “They were against my coming to Guatemala.”

The ice-blue eyes in the corner flicked up.

“Look what happened.”

She gave me a conspiratorial smile.

“I could have been mugged in Mankato, Daddy.”

“At home we catch lawbreakers and lock ’em up.”

“You know that’s not always true.”

“Least the cops’d be talking a language I know.”

Dayton pushed to his feet and tugged his belt upward.

“I’ll be back.”

He shuffled from the room, Nike Cross-Trainers squeaking on the tile.

“You’ll have to excuse Daddy. He can be ornery.”

“He loves you, and he’s frightened and angry. It’s his job to be ornery. What are your doctors saying?”

“Physical therapy, then right as rain. No need to bore you with the details.”

“I’m so glad. We’ve all been crazy worrying. Someone’s been here almost every day.”

“I know. How goes Chupan Ya?”

“We’re moving full-tilt boogey on the skeletal analyses,” Mateo said. “Should have everyone ID’d in a couple of weeks.”

“Is it as bad as the eyewitness accounts suggest?”

I nodded. “Lots of gunshot and machete wounds. Mostly women and kids.”

Molly said nothing.

I looked at Mateo. He nodded. I swallowed.

“Carlos—”

“The cops told me.”

“Have they questioned you?”

“Yesterday.”

She sighed.

“I couldn’t tell them much. I only remember fragments, like freeze-frames. Headlights in the rear window. A car forcing us off the road. Two men walking on the shoulder. Arguing. Gunshots. A figure circling to my side of the truck. Then nothing.”

“Do you remember phoning me?”

She shook her head.

“Would you recognize the men?”

“It was dark. I never saw their faces.”

“Do you remember anything that was said?”

“Not much. Carlos said something like ‘mota, mota. ’”

I looked at Mateo.

“Bribe.”

She crooked an arm across her forehead, pushed back her hair. Her underarm looked pale as a fish belly

“One man kept telling the other to hurry.”

“Anything else?” I asked.

Down the hall, the elevator bonged.

Molly’s eyes flicked toward the door, back to me. When she resumed speaking, her voice was lower.

“My Spanish isn’t great, but I think one said something about an inspector. Do you suppose they were cops?”

Again, she checked the door. I thought of Galiano in the Gucumatz.

“Or soldiers involved in the Chupan Ya massacre?”

At that moment Nurse Dragon swept in and locked Mateo in an authoritative stare.

“This patient must rest.”

Mateo raised a hand to his mouth and whispered theatrically,

“Abort mission. We’ve been discovered.”

The dragon did not look amused.

“Five minutes?” I asked, smiling.

She looked at her watch.

“Five minutes. I will return.” Her face said she was ready to call in backup.

Molly watched the dragon leave, then lowered her arm and raised up on her elbows.

“There was one other thing. I didn’t mention it to the police. I don’t know why. I just didn’t.”

She looked from Mateo to me.

“I—” She swallowed. “A name.”

We waited.

“I could swear I heard one of the men say Brennan.”

I felt like I’d been thrown against a wall. Across the room I heard Mateo curse.

“Are you certain?” I stared at Molly, stunned.

“Yes. No. Yes. Oh, God, Tempe, I think so. Everything is such a jumble.” She dropped onto the pillows. The arm went back to her forehead, and tears filled her eyes.

I squeezed her hand.

“It’s O.K., Molly.” My mouth felt dry, the room suddenly smaller.

“What if they go after you now?” She was becoming agitated. “What if you’re their next target?”

I reached out with my free hand and stroked her head.

“It was dark. You were frightened. Everything was happening so fast. You probably misunderstood.”

“I couldn’t stand it if anyone else got hurt. Promise me you’ll be careful, Tempe!”

“Of course I’ll be careful.”

I smiled, but a sense of trepidation was settling over me.

After leaving the hospital, Mateo and I lunched at a comedor in the Hotel Paisaje, a block uphill from Sololá’s central plaza. We discussed Molly’s story, decided it warranted a report.

Before heading back to Guatemala City, we dropped in at the police station. The detective in charge of the investigation had nothing new to tell us. He took down our statement, but it was clear he gave little credence to Molly’s recollection of hearing my name. We did not mention her suspicion about the reference to an inspector.

Throughout our return to Guatemala City, mist fell from a soft gray sky. The fog was so thick in the valleys it swallowed the world outside our Jeep. On the hilltops, it drifted across the road like sea spray.

As on the drive out, Mateo and I spoke little. Thoughts swirled in my brain, each ending with a question mark.

Who shot Carlos and Molly? Why? Surely the police were wrong in assuming that robbery was the motive. An American passport is as good as gold. Why wasn’t Molly’s taken? Did the police not want to look beyond robbery? What were their motives?

Could Molly be correct? Was the shooting intended to hinder the Chupan Ya investigation? Did someone feel threatened by potential revelations about the massacre?

Molly was fairly certain her attackers had spoken the name Brennan. I could only think of one Brennan. What was their interest in me? Was I to be their next prey?

Who was the inspector? Were the police simply reluctant investigators, or participants in the crime?

Again and again I found myself checking the rearview mirror.

An hour into the trip, I laid my head against the seat and closed my eyes. I’d been up since five. My brain felt sluggish, my lids weighted.

The rocking of the Jeep. The wind on my face.

Despite my anxiety, I began to drift.

Inspector. What sort of inspector?

Building inspector. Agricultural inspector. Highway. Automobile emissions. Water. Sewage.

Sewage.

Septic system.

Paraíso.

I shot upright.

“What if it wasn’t an inspector at all?”

Mateo glanced at me, back at the road.

“What if Molly heard more than one name?”

“Señor Inspector?”

It took Mateo a nanosecond.

“Señor Specter.”

“Exactly.” I was glad Galiano had told Mateo about Chantale Specter.

“You think they were talking about André Specter?”

“Maybe the assault had something to do with the ambassador’s daughter?”