Dozens of houses and shanties lined both sides of the single-lane road, which seemed to pass through without so much as a whisper, disappearing north into another dense canopy of the overhead jungle. On either side, the houses were shabby at best. Poorly painted, if at all, and most resting beneath red, rusted metal roofs made of corrugated sheet metal.
Scattered along the road, in front of several dwellings, were cars or small trucks. Most parked haphazardly along a thin strip of open dirt, hugging each side of the road’s asphalt.
What struck Angela more than anything else, though, was the lack of even a single person in sight.
“This may not take long.”
She ignored him and leaned forward, peering through the windshield. “There’s supposed to be a town center around here.”
With a hand still on the wheel, Rickards flicked his finger forward at a large outline as it appeared around a turn, standing alone past the houses.
“Looks new.”
She nodded. “It is, judging from some satellite images.”
He slowed the car and rolled it into the empty dirt lot in front of the building—two-storied, moderately built, and painted in a light tan color. There were two doors on the bottom and two more at the top of the stairs, though only the bottom offices appeared to be utilized so far. Both had large, hand-painted signs overhead. The first read Oficina Postal. The second ELP.
“I can guess the first one. Any idea what ELP is?” Rickards asked.
“I think it’s the local utility company.”
Rickards turned and peered around, checking his side mirrors before looking back over his shoulder. “Kind of dead. What do people in Peru do for fun on a Tuesday evening?”
“I’ve never been here before.” She shrugged. “But generally speaking, pretty much what any developed culture does. Work, come home, eat dinner.”
He grinned at her hint of reciprocated sarcasm and moved back to the building. “Well, they obviously don’t sit around writing and mailing letters.”
Angela laughed. “Like I said. Not that different.”
Fischer knew he was getting close when the speaker next to him finally came back to life, picking up their transmitted voices again.
He slowed his car and pulled to the side of the road, edging just around a bend until he spotted the other car in the distance. It was parked in front of a two-story building.
He shifted into reverse and backed up by several feet until he could no longer see them. And they could no longer see him.
***
After trying both doors and finding them locked, Rickards turned around. “Any ideas?”
“I’m not sure.” Angela scanned the area, the tiny town bordered entirely by distant green trees, before turning back across the road, where her eyes suddenly stopped on someone standing on the opposite side.
“Joe.”
“Yeah?” He followed her gaze and spotted the girl standing between two rundown houses. Her dark head was shaved and she stood tall, wearing what appeared to be a faded pink dress. Angela couldn’t make out what the spots on her clothing were. Maybe flowers.
The girl was gripping a walking stick in her left hand and a basket in her right. Unmoving, staring back at them.
Angela wasted no time. She immediately smiled and whispered to Joe.
“Stay here.”
The girl did not move. Instead, she watched the white woman gently approach from the opposite side. After reaching the edge of the pavement, the woman stopped …and waved. A small, friendly gesture.
After a curious pause, the young girl waved back.
Angela kept her hand up as a neutral, non-threatening sign while she crossed over the asphalt. Stopping on the opposite side, she waved again.
The girl, now less than fifty feet away, took longer this time, but still repeated the gesture.
Angela remained still and grinned. “Buenos dias.”
The girl nodded. The spots on her dress were indeed flowers.
“Soy un visitante. Me puedes ayudar?”
The girl remained still, her eyes flicking briefly back across the street to Rickards, who was leaning calmly against the small car.
“Estoy buscando un amigo. Desde hace mucho tiempo,” Angela said.
The girl ambled forward a few steps. “Quien?”
“Un hombre blanco.”
The girl came a little closer, just moments before a door squeaked open, and they both glanced at the house, where a woman appeared on the porch. In her late thirties or early forties, she had dark, smooth skin that glistened from the evening humidity. Attractive brown eyes examined Angela curiously. Angela waved again from the road, sheepishly.
The woman, clearly the girl’s mother, studied her for a long moment, listening while her daughter repeated what Angela had said.
When the girl finished, the mother became quiet, leaving all three in a tense and uncomfortable silence dotted only by the chirping of scattered crickets beginning their evening ritual.
After a full minute of stillness, the woman finally moved forward, stepping off her ramshackle porch, over two weather-worn steps and onto the grass, where she motioned to her daughter.
The girl trotted to her and wrapped an arm around her mother’s waist.
“De donde eres?”
“Los Estados Unidos,” Angela answered.
The woman nodded with a tilt of her head. “You American?”
“Yes. I am.”
The mother glanced at Joe, still waiting across the road near the car. “Why you here?”
“You speak English.” Angela grinned. “Uh…we came to look for someone.”
“You look?” the woman replied but tried the sentence again. “Who you look?”
“A friend. From a long time ago. Many years.”
The woman blinked.
“Is Spanish easier?” asked Angela. “Español?”
“Engleesh,” the woman replied. “I—”
She looked at her daughter, who grinned and said, “Practice.”
“I practeece.”
Angela grinned. “Of course.”
“Me…Elena,” she said.
Angela gently touched her chest. “Angela.”
Looking across the street, Elena eyed Rickards again. “He American?”
“Yes. We both are. American. And looking for a friend, who was also American. Many years ago.”
“How…long?”
“Before you and I were born. Maybe sixty years?”
“What call you friend?” The woman looked down when her daughter began whispering something. “What name?”
“Roger Reed,” Angela said. “I have a picture.”
She inched forward while reaching into her back pocket, withdrawing a few pieces of paper. One she removed and held out to the woman.
Elena stepped forward and took it, not noticing the slight trembling in Angela’s hand. She examined the old black-and-white photo until, grinning, she handed it back. “Me too young.”
“I understand.” Angela glanced up and down along the empty road. “Is there anyone else who might know?”
Again, the girl whispered up to her mother.
“Why you look him?”
“He disappeared. A long time ago. We want to know what happened to him.”
“Why?”
Angela shrugged. “We think he may have left something.”
The girl’s mother looked up at the fading light, the cool color of the evening becoming dark blue with scattered wisps of pink clouds. The sun was already well below the jungled mountain behind them. She motioned back across the road to Rickards. “Call you friend.”
Angela turned and waved Rickards over. She waited as he calmly walked across the asphalt and stopped next to her, allowing Elena to look him up and down.
“Who you name?”
“Joe,” he replied. “Rickards.”
Elena studied him, ending with a batted eyelash. “Why you come?”
“I haven’t the slig
htest idea,” he said and looked at Angela sarcastically.
The woman didn’t understand the words but seemed to understand the look he gave her and grinned, revealing an attractive set of white teeth between her two full lips. She turned to Angela, then once again to Rickards, before motioning them to follow.
Rickards guessed that the town was not more than a mile in circumference, making for a relatively short trek through and between several shanty homes before they reached one farther back from the road. This one was smaller and in seemingly worse condition than Elena’s, if that were possible, leaving Rickards to duck beneath a sagging plywood awning before stepping up onto a very old porch step. Thick, waist-high bushes surrounded the entire structure as if the jungle were attempting to slowly reclaim its spot.
He felt the boards bow under his weight and stepped off again, back beside Angela.
Several feet in front of them, Elena reached out and knocked loudly against the front door, darkened from a thin film of gray mold. It was promptly opened by a young man barely in his twenties, with darker skin and dressed in shorts and a tank top, immediately smiling.
“Elena!”
The woman accepted a hug and motioned to the two Americans while speaking rapidly in a dialect Angela did not recognize.
The young man listened patiently, maintaining his smile and peering curiously at her, then Rickards. His expression became excited at the word American, causing him to smile even wider.
“You are American?” he asked.
“Yes. Do you speak English?”
“I speak English!” the young man said excitedly. “Me name Saturnin.” He made a surfing gesture with his hands. “I love America! Brady Bunch! Chips!”
Rickards squinted and leaned to the side, where he spotted the corner of a television screen inside the tiny living room.
The young man looked back and forth between them and raised both thumbs. “Fonzie! Ayyyy.”
“Great,” Rickards mumbled.
“This is a good sign,” whispered Angela, before extending a hand to shake Saturnin’s as he rushed forward.
“Friends!”
“Is he talking about the show or the noun?”
“Quiet,” she said and nodded with a big smile. “Yes, friends!”
“Why you here?”
“We’re looking for someone.”
He pointed to himself proudly. “Saturnin knows everyone!”
“Oh good. We—”
“Mayor!”
Angela stopped. “Excuse me?”
“I am mayor. Of Alerta!”
“You’re the mayor?”
He grinned again, showing a wide set of teeth with one missing. “Yes. Saturnin is mayor and knows everyone!”
Rickards was becoming amused. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-one. Youthest mayor in Alerta!”
“Great.” With that, Rickards motioned as if passing the conversation to Angela.
“Saturnin,” she said and put a hand on his arm. “Um, congratulations! We…need help. Finding someone. From a long time ago.”
The young mayor raised his dark eyebrows inquisitively. “Who you looking for?”
“Someone who was here a very long time ago. Sixty years.”
His eyes opened wide. “Sixty?”
“About.”
Saturnin turned and spoke again to Elena, this time in a longer exchange. Then he turned back to Angela. “You have picture?”
“Yes.” She reached back and retrieved it again. Allowing Rickards to notice the shaking in her hand.
Saturnin studied the small photo and pursed his lips. He looked up and studied both of them again before handing it back. “Come,” he said. “Come with Saturnin.”
The three Peruvians led the way into the darkness, toward another group of porch lights. Rickards followed, but paused when Angela didn’t join him. “You coming?”
She stared at him, biting her lip.
“You okay?”
“Um.” She turned and looked around. “Do you…know where we are? I mean, like where the car is?”
“I think so.”
Angela nodded and, with a hint of reluctance, took a step forward, then another, until reaching Rickards. She took a breath and grabbed his shirt sleeve. “Let’s go.”
They caught up three houses later, where Elena and her daughter were waiting outside. The front door was open, allowing the interior light to shine out onto an even smaller porch.
Elena motioned them inside, prompting Rickards to take the lead, ducking as he stepped into a small, poorly lit room. Angela was close behind him, followed by Elena and her daughter.
From a small hallway, Saturnin emerged, moving slowly and leading a figure out from the back room. They watched as an old man, small and frail, shuffled forward while grasping Saturnin’s left arm. Together, they moved into the cramped front room, where Saturnin lowered the old man into a torn, padded chair that looked just as old. Next to the chair was a small wooden table, marred and stained from years of use. A matching chair rested on the opposite side. A lamp in the corner tenuously leaned against the plywood wall and projected shadows over magazines and clothing stacked in small piles on the floor. A rusted, bent walker stood nearby, which Elena grabbed and pulled close.
“It’s his grandfather,” the young girl whispered, standing next to Angela.
Angela glanced down with surprise. “Saturnin’s grandfather?”
The girl nodded. “My mother and Saturnin like you. More than the German.”
“German?”
They were interrupted by Saturnin taking Angela’s hand and motioning her to the open chair. “Talking is hard,” the young mayor said, “but he hears good.”
Angela lowered herself down nervously and glanced up at Rickards. She then smiled gently at the old man, who, with one clouded eye, appeared to be staring at her.
“Does he understand English?”
“Little much.”
“Ah, okay.” Angela scooted in and leaned forward, raising her voice. “H-hello there. Thank you for seeing us.”
The old man barely moved.
She glanced back at Joe. “We are trying to find someone. Or something about someone. Who was here many years ago.”
Angela turned and looked up at Rickards with an expression that said help.
The old man grunted and tried to speak but delivered something unintelligible. Saturnin moved in and spoke quietly in his grandfather’s ear, using the same dialect he had with Elena.
The old man squinted and focused on Angela. With a slight waver, he studied her through his good eye and mumbled, his hand shaking in an attempt to motion something.
“What your friend’s name?”
“Roger Reed. We think he was here in the fifties.”
Saturnin repeated the words while Angela again retrieved her photograph. She placed it on the table in front of the old man and watched while Saturnin picked it up and inserted it between his grandfather’s crooked fingers, helping him hold it still.
His grandfather stared at the picture with a leathery expression that never changed. After a long silence, he turned and spoke to Saturnin in a low, garbled tone.
“Why your friend was here?”
“We don’t know.”
Saturnin repeated the message.
The man continued staring at the picture gripped between his dark, wrinkled fingers. His one good eye moved back and forth between the photo and Angela before he mumbled something else.
“My grandfather says he remembers you friend.”
“Really?!” Angela looked at Rickards excitedly, just as his phone rang inside his pocket. He fumbled momentarily and pulled it out, examining the screen. He frowned apologetically to Angela and briskly exited the small room, moving out and down the porch, back onto the grass outside.
Inside, Angela turned back around. “He remembers him?”
Saturnin nodded and listened to his grandfather again. “He says he knew of him. A kind man.”
After listening more, he grinned at Angela. “He also says you look like him.”
“He was my great-uncle.”
In the darkness outside, Rickards quickly raised the phone to his ear, surprised it was even connecting. “Hello?”
“Joe? It’s Ken Stives.”
“Who?”
“Ken Stives. Can you hear me?”
“Yes, I can hear you.”
“Can you hear me, Joe?”
“Yes! Can you hear me?”
“Barely, where are you?”
“In South America,” Rickards answered.
“South America?”
“It’s a long story. What’s up?”
“Sorry, you’re fading in and out.”
“That’s because I’m in the middle of nowhere.” Rickards looked around and moved away from the small shanties. “That better?”
“A little.”
“What’s up, Ken?”
“I’m not really sure. But I think something weird is going on.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean with that letter of yours.”
“What about it?”
There was a brief shuffling on the other end. “Remember when I told you I talked to the mail carrier who delivered it? To your friend’s grandfather?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, now I can’t find him. Or even get a hold of him. And he hasn’t shown up for work in three days.”
“What?”
“No one can find him, man. They’ve tried calling him, and I’ve even gone to his house. He’s nowhere to be found.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not kidding. The guy has vanished. His wife is freaking out. Apparently, someone called in to a local branch saying they were new and asked who their new mail carrier was. But that’s it. The police are now involved and are interviewing people.”
Rickards’ expression grew still. He slowly raised his arm and looked at the date on his watch. “What day did he go missing?”
“Saturday. None of us can find him, so I wanted to see if you’d talked to him.”
“How would I talk to him? I don’t even know his name.”
“Oh, I thought maybe I told you.”
“You didn’t.”
The Last Monument Page 14