Kathy Reichs - Grave Secrets

“How many chambers?”

“The owner, one Señor Serano, has no idea what’s down there. By the way, Serano’ll never be holding his breath when the Nobels are announced.”

“Noted.”

“Serano and his son, Jorge, remembered workers near the east end last summer, so that’s the lid they lifted. They found the tank nearly full, the jeans jamming the exit drain.”

“The entrance drain will be on the west.”

“That’s what we figured.”

“O.K., gentlemen. We’re going to need a backhoe to lift the concrete lids.”

“All eight?” Xicay spoke for the first time.

“Yes. Since we don’t know what we’re dealing with, we’ll uncap the whole thing. If there are multiple chambers, parts of the skeleton could be anywhere.”

Xicay pulled out his own pad and began making a list.

“A commercial septic service vacuum truck to pump out the scum and liquid layers, and a fire truck to dilute the bottom sediment,” I went on.

Xicay added them to the list.

“There’s going to be a lot of ammonia and methane gas down there, so I want an oxygen pack respiration device.”

Xicay looked a question at me.

“A standard full-face air mask with a single strap over the back O2 tank. The type firemen wear. We should also have a couple of small pressurized spray tanks.”

“The kind used to spray weed killer?”

“Exactly. Fill one with water, the other with a ten-percent bleach solution.”

“Do I want to know?” asked Hernández.

“To spray me when I climb out of the tank.”

Xicay noted the items.

“And quarter-inch mesh screens. Everything else should be standard equipment.”

I stood.

“Seven A.M.?”

“Seven A.M.”

It was to be one of the worst days of my life.

4

THE LAST RED STREAKS WERE YIELDING TO A HAZY, BRONZE DAWNwhen Galiano arrived at my hotel the next day.

“Buenos días.”

“Buenos días,” I mumbled, sliding into the passenger seat. “Nice shades.”

He was wearing aviator lenses blacker than a hole in space.

“Gracias.”

Galiano indicated a paper cup in the central holder, then swung into traffic. Grateful, I reached for the coffee.

We spoke little driving across town then inching our way through Zone 1. I read the city as it slid past the windshield. Though not the highest form of Guatemalteca conversation, the billboards and placards, even the graffiti on service station walls, allowed me to improve my Spanish.

And to block out thoughts of what lay ahead.

Within twenty minutes Galiano pulled up to a pair of police cruisers sealing off a small alley. Beyond the checkpoint the pavement was clogged with squad cars, an ambulance, a fire engine, a septic tank vacuum service truck, and other vehicles I assumed to be official. Gawkers were already gathering.

Galiano showed ID, and a uniformed cop waved us through. He added his car to the others, and we got out and walked up the street.

The Pensión Paraíso squatted at mid-block, opposite an abandoned warehouse. Galiano and I crossed to its side and proceeded past liquor and underwear merchants, a barbershop, and a Chinese takeout, each establishment barred and padlocked. As we walked, I glanced at sun-bleached items in the shop windows. The barber featured big-haired models with dos that hadn’t been stylish since Eisenhower left office. The Long Fu had a menu, a Pepsi ad, a peacock embroidered on glittery fabric.

The Pensión Paraíso was a decrepit two-story bunker made of plaster-covered brick, once white, but long since aged to the color of cigar smoke. Broken roof tiles, dirty windows, off-angle shutters, retractable metal grille on the front door. Paradise.

Another guard. More ID.

The hotel interior was exactly as promised by its exterior. Threadbare carpet with yellowed plastic runner, linoleum-covered counter, wooden grid for keys and letters, cracked plaster walls. The air smelled of mold, dust, and years of cigarette smoke and sweat.

I followed Galiano across a deserted lobby, down a narrow corridor, and out a rear door to a yard that saw little sunlight and even less care. Ceramic pots with withered vegetation. Rusted kitchen chairs with split vinyl seats. Plastic lawn furniture, green with mold. An upended wheelbarrow. Bare earth. A lone tree.

An upholstered sofa missing one leg leaned against the back of the pension, and shards of plaster, fallen bricks, dead leaves, cellophane wrappers, and aluminum pop-tops littered its foundation. The bright yellow backhoe was the only spot of color in the dreary setting. Beside the shovel I could see freshly turned soil, and the concrete lid removed, then hastily replaced by Señor Serano and his son.

I took account of those present. Juan-Carlos Xicay was conversing with a man in a dark blue jumpsuit identical to his own. A driver sat behind the wheel of the backhoe. A uniformed policeman guarded the back entrance to the property. Antonio Díaz hovered alone on its far side, rose-tinted glasses hiding his eyes.

I smiled and raised a hand. The DA did not reply, did not look away.

Happy day.

Pascual Hernández stood with a wiry, rat-faced man wearing sandals, jeans, and a Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt. A sturdy woman flanked the rat, plastic bracelets on her wrists, breasts hanging heavy inside an embroidered black dress.

Galiano and I crossed to his partner, and Hernández introduced the innkeepers. Up close I noticed that Señora Serano had one brown eye and one blue one, giving her face an odd, unbalanced look. When she gazed at me I found it hard to decide into which eye I should look.

I also noticed that Señora Serano’s lower lip was swollen and cracked, and I wondered if the rat had struck her.

“And these folks are going to be as helpful as Scouts at a jamboree.” Hernández drilled the rat with a look. “Even with the hard stuff.”

“I have no secrets.” Serano held his hands palms up, fingers splayed. He was so agitated I could barely follow the Spanish. “I know nothing.”

“You just happen to have a body in your tank.”

“I don’t know how it got there.” Serano’s eyes flicked from face to face.

Galiano turned the shades on Serano.

“What else don’t you know, señor?”

“Nada.” Nothing. The rat eyes darted like a sparrow seeking a safe perch.

Galiano drew a bored breath. “I have no time for games, Señor Serano. But take this to the bank.” He tapped a finger on the big blue “C” in Cowboys. “When we’re finished here, you and I are gonna have a real heart-to-heart.”

Serano shook his head but said nothing.

The Darth Vader lenses shifted to the backhoe.

“All set?” Galiano shouted.

Xicay spoke to the driver, gave a thumbs-up. He pointed to me, then to a jumble of equipment near the uniformed guard. A zipping gesture on his chest indicated that I should suit up. I raised my thumb.

Galiano turned back to the Seranos.

“Your job today is to do nothing,” he said levelly. “You will do it seated there.” He jabbed a finger at the lopsided sofa. “And you will do it without comment.”

Galiano made a circular gesture in the air above his head.

“ Vámonos. ”

I hurried to the equipment locker. Behind me, the backhoe rumbled to life.

As I pulled on a Tyvek jumpsuit and knee-high rubber boots, the driver shifted gears and maneuvered into position. Metal squawked, the bucket dropped with a thunk, scraped the ground, scooped the exposed lid, swung left, and laid it aside. The smell of wet soil drifted on the morning air.

Digging a recorder from my pack, I walked to the edge of the tank.

One look, and my stomach rolled in on itself.