Grave of Hummingbirds (16 page)

“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

F
inn 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 autopsy?” 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.”

For a time, Gregory didn’t speak. He stared into his tea, touching the hot mug lightly, picking it up and replacing it without taking a sip.

Finn tried to figure out what he was thinking. “Do you believe me, that it’s Alberto?”

“I must,” Gregory said. “Yes.” He shifted in his chair and, leaning his elbows on the table, dropped his head into his hands. Then he looked up and took a deep breath. “I want to try and explain about Alberto. He lost his mother when he was very young, under violent circumstances, and when Nita started teaching at the school, she singled him out. They were close. It’s why, when the police took him into custody after he found the body a year ago, I made sure they released him.”

Rosita, the woman from the hotel, had spoken of a strange murder in the village. “The police had him in custody for a murder, and you got him out?”

“They tortured him, Finn.”

“But how could you not know how crazy he is?”

“He seemed so vulnerable. Gentle. I couldn’t believe he was capable of such a thing.” Now he took a sip of his tea. “A year ago he told the governor he’d found an angel, and I think in some ways he believed that. But everyone underestimated him. It didn’t occur to anyone that he was a killer. That level of deception . . .”

“I don’t know what that means. He found an angel. That’s ridiculous.”

“Exactly what some people thought. But when I saw the body, I understood.” Gregory got up. “Wait here.” He left the room and returned moments later with a framed photograph that he placed on the table in front of Finn.

Finn reached for it. “No way,” he said. “This is . . .”

“Nita.”

“But she’s . . . she’s just . . . she’s like my mom.” He stared. If an eraser were to soften Sophie’s blazing eyes and features, his mother would emerge an identical tracing of the woman who held her arms open to the camera.

“The first victim resembled her, too. It’s why Alberto took her. And in the end, when he couldn’t save her, he used a condor’s wings to fly her to the gods. I think—” He broke off.

Finn’s mind filled with the horror of it. “Couldn’t save her from what?”

Gregory shook his head. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“What about the bird? Your bird. Was he the one who shot her? You told me she was shot.”

Gregory stared blankly back at him.

“You must have really believed in him,” Finn said, “because when you start piecing everything together, it’s hard to miss. Why do you keep making excuses for him?”

Gregory stood up. “The police asked me the same thing. I don’t know. I can’t explain. But he’s out there somewhere. I have to find him before the police do, or search parties from the village. People are angry.”

“What’ll you do?”

“I’ll bring him in. Perhaps I’ll be able to protect him, keep him safe until I can get him a lawyer and a fair trial.”

“You think you’ll be able to?”

“I’ll try. There will be very little I can do but focus as much media attention on the case as possible, in the hope that a glaring spotlight will protect him. And there are much bigger issues at stake now.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No, Finn. I need you to stay here with your mother. I can cover more ground on my own, and we don’t know, he may come back for her.”

Finn helped Gregory saddle up Tomás and watched him canter off. He carried no gun or any other discernible weapon, and as Finn returned to check on Sophie, he wondered whether he’d ever see the doctor again.