One Grave Too Many (21 page)

“Mistakes?” Diane watched him and took a sip of water.

“I’ve heard,” he started uneasily, “that there was some mistake that led to a tragedy, and you lost your job. Whatever happened made it difficult to find another one for almost a year.”

Diane’s heart was still pounding from the dream. “You heard that from your friend Izzy?”

“He heard things. I think he just wanted to give me some kind of heads up.”

“I saw him the other day. We had a break-in at the museum. I felt then that he had some issue with me.”

“He just wanted me to know everything.”

Diane shook her head. A smile that felt more like anger than humor played around her lips. “That couldn’t be true. If he really wanted you to know everything, he would have checked his information. It’s what I would have done for a friend. And you believed him. Is that why you kept asking me if I was sure about my calculations?”

“If I had any serious doubts about you, I would have never asked for your help. I told him he probably didn’t have the whole story.”

Diane looked at Frank for several seconds, his mussed hair, sleepy eyes. Last night was the first really happy moment she’d had in a year. Maybe Gregory was right; she should at least confide in Frank.

“He didn’t have any part of the story right. There was a tragedy last year—a massacre at a mission across the easternmost border from Puerto Barquis in Brazil, in the Amazon. It happened not because I made a mistake, but because I did my job too well. A job I didn’t lose, but resigned. Wait here a moment.”

She went to her nightstand in the bedroom and opened the drawer. It contained only photographs, some in frames, others loose. She brought them back to the living room and curled up at the end of the couch, holding the pictures to her chest.

“Puerto Barquis is a country not many here are familiar with. Early in its history the border started on the west coast and stretched eastward into the Amazon jungle. The coastal port has since been claimed by another country, so it’s now landlocked. The population is composed of Spanish, Portuguese, Germans, Native Indians and various mixtures. It’s been ruled in recent history by a series of strong men, the latest one, Ivan Santos.”

His name felt like a sharp rock in her mouth and didn’t slip easily from her tongue.

“During his rule he massacred thousands of the native population, along with hundreds more who either disagreed with him or were in the way. I won’t go into the whole history, but he was deposed and Barquis had its first free election, watched over by the United Nations. Xavier Valdividia became the first legally elected president, and he had a very good chance of holding on to power. But Santos and his henchmen and his spies inside the government were waiting and plotting for any opportunity to retake control.”

Frank sat silently on the couch facing Diane, listening to what she was saying, a deep crease between his eyebrows. He took a sip of the water she’d left on the coffee table and passed it over to her. She took a long drink.

“I worked for World Accord International. My team collected evidence—we excavated mass graves, interviewed witnesses, discovered and photographed and examined secret torture rooms. We amassed a mountain of evidence about atrocities that Ivan Santos was claiming never occurred, and we were connecting it to him. World Accord was hoping he would be tried and imprisoned so he would no longer be a threat to the elected government of Barquis.

“While I worked there we often stayed at a mission just across the border in Brazil. Our World Accord team shared food, blankets and medicine with them in exchange for their hospitality. Over the years the mission had taken in countless refugees from Puerto Barquis.”

Diane stopped talking. Her eyes filled up with tears. Frank reached for her hand and squeezed it, but didn’t speak. That was a trait Diane admired in him; he knew when not to speak, when to just be there. She took a framed photograph, looked at it a moment and handed it to Frank.

“That’s me and my daughter, Ariel.”

Frank looked at the photograph and back at Diane. He opened his mouth to speak, stopped and looked back at the photograph.

“I didn’t know you had a daughter,” he said. “Where? . . .” he started to ask, but stopped. Diane could see the confusion in his eyes.

“I have to tell you about Ariel—then you will understand.”

It was several moments before Diane could continue her story, Ariel’s story. She stared out the window at the dark tree line. Beyond, she could see the glow of the city lights—not bright, but enough to know something was there.

“Let me make us some coffee,” said Frank. “We could both use some.” Diane nodded.

She listened to him in the kitchen—pouring the water, opening the cabinets, turning on the coffeemaker. It started to rain. Diane hadn’t remembered rain in the forecast. The drops spattered against the window, blurring the bright moon. The sound on the roof drowned out the few road noises present at that time of night.

Frank came into the living room carrying two cups of coffee. He’d added cocoa to hers, and it tasted rich and sweet. She took several sips, not thinking about anything but the taste of the chocolate-spiked coffee.

“About four years ago—this was after we were together . . .” She started to say
after we broke up,
but they’d never really broken up. She went to her job in the jungle, and he stayed at his in the city. When they parted it could have been for a weekend or forever. Neither of them said any of the things people were supposed to say to each other when they were parting. They’d had an odd relationship. No, not odd. Purely sexual? Not exactly that either, but Diane smiled inwardly at the thought.

“We used the mission as an unofficial base,” she said. “I was there making plans for our investigations. There were several possible mass grave sites that I wanted to look at in Barquis. Outside the compound one day, I came upon this little three-year-old girl on the edge of the forest. She was dirty and crying. That wasn’t a particularly unusual occurrence. God knows there were too many orphans, but she was different. When she looked at me, she smiled the biggest smile you’ve ever seen and had the prettiest velvet black eyes. I picked her up and carried her into the mission. The sisters tried to find parents or relatives, but no one came forward. I spent all my free time with her, and as time passed and they were still unable to find her parents, I decided to adopt her.”

Tears welled up in Diane’s eyes and spilled onto her cheeks. “I should have just taken her out, smuggled her to the United States or somewhere safe. I had the connections, I should have done that. But I was going to do everything legally. That’s what we did—follow the rule of law. We were so self-righteous. If I’d been a good mother, I’d have gotten her out.” Diane collapsed in tears, spilling the photographs onto the couch and floor.

Frank picked them up and put them on the coffee table then sat closer, pulling Diane to him.

“Diane, I’m so sorry. These past few days must have been a nightmare. If I’d known . . .” He was silent for several minutes. “Please . . . can you tell me about her?” he said at last.

After a moment, Diane straightened up and reached for her coffee. It was lukewarm and tasted sweet mixed with her salty tears. The photographs lay on the table and she picked them up, shuffling through them, pulling some out to show Frank.

“She was the sweetest little girl and very smart. The nuns named her Anna, but when she was four she told me she wanted to be named Ariel, you know, after the Little Mermaid. She said she wanted a brand-new name—Ariel Fallon.

“I kept her with me when I wasn’t going to dangerous places. I took her for a short trip down the Amazon River.” Diane cast a glance at her stereo. “Ariel loved music. I bought her this CD player.” She smiled, remembering the steady supply of batteries. “Batteries don’t do well in the jungle and it was hard keeping her in batteries. I burned a CD of her favorites. She liked ‘The Mighty Quinn,’ ‘The Lion Sleeps Tonight,’ the one by the Tokens—she was very specific in her musical tastes. But her favorite was ‘In the Hall of the Mountain King.’ She’d turn up the volume so loud you could hear it all over the compound and into the jungle.

“I watched her grow, watched her little personality blossom. We’d made these plans. I told her all about the United States, about snow and Disney World, the Grand Canyon, the Smoky Mountains. I ordered these mother-daughter dresses. It took so long for them to arrive, I thought she’d be too big when they came. But hers fit perfectly. We’re wearing them in the photograph.” She showed him the silver-framed photograph of the two of them, hugging, smiling in identical dresses.

“At the time, I was corresponding with Milo and agreed to accept his offer to come to the museum. I thought it would be the most wonderful place to raise her. During that time, I didn’t visit the U.S. When I came back, it was going to be with her.”

“What happened?” asked Frank.

“What happened.” Diane sighed and rubbed her eyes and pressed her forehead with her fingertips. “We’d been there three years, and my team and I had made a lot of headway collecting damning evidence against Santos. We thought President Valdividia would arrest him. We overestimated the president’s power. He was afraid. We were coming back from the capital, and about three miles from the mission we heard gunfire. There’s no going fast on those roads. As we grew closer we heard ‘The Hall of the Mountain King’ wafting through the jungle.”

Diane stopped, unable to speak for several moments. “When we finally got to the compound, Santos had . . . he had . . . had killed everyone in the compound, including . . . There was blood everywhere. He had already taken most of the bodies. That’s the way he liked to do things—bury his atrocities in hidden mass graves. We found Ariel’s CD player in the middle of the compound, set on repeat so that it played ‘In the Hall of the Mountain King’ over and over. He’d left her . . .” Diane’s mouth quivered and fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. “He’d left her bloody little shoes with the CD player. She must have been so scared, and I wasn’t there for her.”

Diane curled up in a ball, clenched her fists, trying to breathe through the sobs. Frank pulled her against him again and stroked her back. It was several more minutes before she could speak again, several minutes of trying to breathe deeply, trying to stop the flow of tears. When she began again, her voice was a tremor. “All that death was aimed at me because I’d nailed his lies—but I hadn’t counted on his vengeance. I thought maybe Ariel had run and hidden in the jungle. There were often survivors from his massacres. That’s how we found eyewitnesses. I ran through the bush yelling for her, looking everywhere until they—my friends—dragged me away.”

Again they sat in silence. Frank rested his chin on the top of her head as they sat intertwined on the couch. Diane listened to the rain’s steady drive on the roof.

“I said some insensitive things about how I’d go crazy if I lost Kevin, especially like George lost Jay. I’m so sorry—I had no idea.”

“You didn’t know. Very few people here do.”

Diane shifted and lay her head on his shoulder and looked through the photographs of Ariel. Besides grief, the worse feeling was the regret at not just taking her and leaving. Why did she wait for the damn paperwork? Ariel could be here, right now, with her.

“Gregory—he was my boss—changed out teams. My objectivity was compromised along with everyone else’s on my team. I took a leave of absence for a year.”

“What did you do?”

“For a while, nothing. I came back to the United States and hid out in my apartment, taking benzodiazepine to try to deaden the pain, until some of my caving friends talked me into exploring a few caves. Caves are very peaceful places—like being in a womb, I suppose. Caving helped. Milo asked me to come here. I almost said no, but I spent a few months learning about museums in general and RiverTrail in particular.”

“Why didn’t you call?”

“I wasn’t really fit company for anyone. I was very bitter, angry at the drop of a hat. I had to work my way through a lot of stuff before I wanted to see anyone.”

“I would have understood.”

“I didn’t want anyone’s understanding. I didn’t want to feel good for a long time. I didn’t deserve to feel good.” Diane fought back the tears. She was so tired of crying. Her head hurt and her eyes were sore and swollen.

“The museum has been good for me,” she said, “even with all its little problems with the board.” The rain increased and lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the tree line for a second. The crack of thunder rattled the windows. “Ariel wasn’t afraid of the thunder and lightning. She thought it was a great show, and she was really into loud noises. I worried about her little ears. I wouldn’t let her have earphones, no matter how much the nuns begged me.”

“ ‘In the Hall of the Mountain King’ was written on the note you gave me to analyze.”

“Yes. Someone, I don’t know who, left the note for the musicians to put it on the playlist.”

Frank pushed away and stared at Diane. “A coincidence?”

“Perhaps.” Diane told him about her conversations with Gregory and about the possibility of one of Santos’ associates being in the United States.

“Diane, why didn’t you tell me? This is serious.”

“It’s also a long shot. He’s run the president out of Barquis. I doubt it’d be worth the effort to come after me. These days the U.S. is in no mood for terrorists. I’m sure Santos is aware of that. I’ve suspected that it has something to do with Mark Grayson trying to get me to sell the museum property.”

“That would be a cruel thing to have done. Is he that mean?” asked Frank.

“I believe he, like a lot of dictators, wants what he wants.”

“Have you confronted him?”

“I have no proof whatsoever. But I’m getting pressure from all sides.” She told him about the unpleasant visit from the mayor. “So I’ve heard that rumor about me before.”