“Let me see her.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, señor. She’s very weak.”
“I want to see her.”
Both men turned to see Maricruz struggling to get to her feet. Bourne helped her up.
“I heard what you said,” Maricruz said. “I want to see her.” She turned to Bourne. “No, don’t carry me. I want to be on my feet when I see her. I feel enough like a child right now as it is.”
Manny nodded, relenting. He was about to lead them up the stairs when Bourne said, “I’ll meet you upstairs.”
Bourne went swiftly back to the entry and out the front door. He got the cases out of the Chevy and brought them back inside, leaving them in the entry. Hearing a car pull up outside, he peered out one of the door’s sidelights. A police cruiser had stopped beside the battered Chevy. A pair of uniforms emerged. They seemed inordinately interested in the crumpled front, which no doubt had chips of paint from the truck it had plowed into. The police here might be incompetent, Bourne thought, but they could also be relentless.
Taking out the badge he’d pulled off the detective, Bourne opened the door, trotted down the steps and across the sidewalk.
Holding up the badge, he said with a great deal of officiousness, “Can I help you fellows?”
One of the cops, a whip-thin, swarthy man with the nose of an Olmec, said, “We’ve been looking for a vehicle involved in a collision and shooting in Taxqueña.”
“You’re a long way from there. What are you doing in Polanco?”
“We go where we’re needed.”
This from Whip-thin’s partner, rising up like a wild boar from where he had been examining the Chevy’s crushed front grille. He had a wide face the color of suet, punctuated by little piggy eyes and a bow of a mouth that was almost feminine. He was older than Whip-thin and obviously the senior in rank.
“Doesn’t matter,” Bourne said. “This is my investigation.”
Piggy came around the front of the Chevy, squinted at Bourne’s badge. “What’s your investigation?”
“The homicide.”
Piggy was full of bluster and belligerence. “What d’you know about it?” He’d obviously been fucked over by suits many times before. There was only one way to handle people like him.
Bourne stepped toward him. “I know the victim’s a foreign national. After the mess over the dead Chinese we’re still trying to clean up, this latest shooting has been elevated to the highest level.”
“Which means you, does it, suit?”
“It sure as hell doesn’t mean you, Sergeant. Why don’t you and your niño get the hell out of here before I radio in a report about you.”
“Fuck you, suit.” But Piggy signaled to his partner and the two of them retreated to the cruiser. “We’ve got bigger tacos to fry than this shit.” Piggy slid behind the wheel, his partner got in beside him, and the cruiser took off.
When Bourne was certain they had gone for good, he went back out to get rid of the Chevy.
Manny led Maricruz down the richly patterned, second-floor hallway. The mahogany floorboards gleamed beneath their feet, the walls were hung with expensive artwork by Diego Rivera, Frida Kahlo, and Gabriel Orozco.
Once, when she faltered, Manny turned back, held out a steadying hand. “Are you sure you’re up to this, señorita?”
Maricruz smiled through her acute trepidation. “I’m a married woman, Manny.”
“Perdóneme, señora.”
“It’s all right, Manny. Let’s go.”
He nodded, leading her to a wide olivewood door, the center of which was carved into the shapes of birds sitting in the gently curving branches of a tree. He knocked on the door and called out, “Señora, you have a visitor.”
He opened the door, though Maricruz could not discern whether or not he had received a reply. The master bedroom suite was spacious, though not as large as she had imagined during her early childhood spent in her father’s extravagant villa just across the park. Also, there were no religious icons, no portraits of Jesus. The papered walls were unadorned save for a Mary Cassatt painting of a mother smiling down at an angelic child cradled in her arms, which faced the bed.
Sunlight slanted in through the large window, framed by heavy, theatrical drapes. The room was dominated by an oversize bed, its canopy supported by massive pillars of olivewood, obviously carved by the same artist who had sculpted the door. To one side of the bed was a wheelchair, folded like the wings of a bird, perched and waiting.
However, all this was peripheral. Maricruz’s gaze was entirely focused on the woman sitting up in the center of the bed. Though ravaged by the mysterious disease afflicting her, she was nevertheless the most exquisite woman Maricruz had ever seen. Whatever Manny had seen in her own face that reminded him of this woman Maricruz couldn’t fathom, but then that was often the way with daughters and mothers.
Manny, stepping in front of Maricruz, approached the bed. “Señora,” he said. “May I present your daughter, Maricruz Encarnación.”
Maricruz didn’t bother to correct him.
Constanza Camargo’s deep-set eyes glittered like jewels as they turned toward Maricruz.
“What?” she said in a voice soft as velvet. “Manny, what did you say?”
Manny beckoned Maricruz forward, took her hand, and led her to the foot of the bed. “Your daughter, señora. Your daughter, Maricruz, has returned to you.”
“Maricruz,” Constanza said, “is it you? Is it really you?”
Maricruz could not speak. She felt as if she were choking, as if at any moment her knees would give out and she would fall on the bed, to be gathered up in her mother’s arms like the angelic child in Mary Cassatt’s painting.
“Manny, is this my daughter,” Constanza said, “or am I dreaming?”
“This is no dream, señora. Look at her face. Her face is your face. There can be no doubt.”
For long moments, there was an uncanny silence as Constanza Camargo stared at her long-lost child, her eyes half glazed, her expression still one of shock.
“It’s the painting,” she whispered at last. “I bought the Cassatt to have you close to me, Maricruz, wherever in the world you were.” The tears glittering in her eyes began to spill out onto her cheeks. “Now it has brought you back to me.”
Maricruz felt light-headed. She swayed, as if at any moment she would pass out. She could not believe this was happening. So many times she had thought of her mother, wondering who she was, why she had abandoned her, why her father adamantly refused to talk about her, wondering what she looked like, how she sounded, smelled, how she moved, whether she was dead or alive.
“I know you must hate me, Maricruz. You must, I know you must, but I can’t help that, can I? He took you away from me.” Her mother began to weep in earnest. “I hated him, but I loved him. God help me, I couldn’t stop loving him, and I despised myself for that. He could be so loving, and so cruel. How to explain him? How to explain what happened?”
“No more,” Maricruz begged. She did not want this moment spoiled by resurrecting the specter of her father. She didn’t want to hear any explanation of the event she had spent her entire life believing was unexplainable. She wanted to bury it in the deepest, darkest part of her, never to be examined again. “Please.”
“Will you come here, then?” Constanza held out her arms. “Will you let your mother hold you as she’s ached to do for so long?” She swallowed, though it clearly pained her. “Will you call me Mama?”
Something broke like crystal inside Maricruz, and she found herself climbing onto the bed, crawling across the covers, into her mother’s arms, where she lay with her head on her mother’s breast, listening with the naked wonder of a child to the steady beating of her mother’s heart.
Bourne returned to the house and arrived at Constanza’s bedroom to find Maricruz in her mother’s arms. The two of them spoke to each other so softly, their conversation was nothing more than a murmur.
“Is eve
rything all right?” Manny said with a worried expression.
“For the moment, anyway.”
Manny moved to the doorway. “I think we should leave them for a while.”
Bourne followed him out into the hall and downstairs into the kitchen, where the cook was preparing what looked like an enormous meal.
As in most Mexican houses, the kitchen was large, spacious, and filled with arrays of fired clay plates, bowls, and pots. A central station held a counter and dual sink. Bourne sat at a simple carved wood refectory table while Manny brought food and drink over.
The two men ate while the cook, a heavyset Mexican woman, bustled about, preparing tacos, tamales, and their various fillings.
“Are you expecting company?” Bourne asked around a bite of refried beans.
Manny winced good-naturedly. “Hope springs eternal in Bernarda’s ample breast. At any moment, she expects the señora to come down the stairs with her appetite resurrected. If you ask her, she’s preparing for that moment, for which she prays to the Virgin Mary three times a day.”
Bourne was struck by his expression. “But you don’t believe Constanza will recover.”
Manny shrugged. “The doctor who comes is of no use, but he’s the only one she trusts, God knows why. Each day she seems worse. She has no appetite, as I’ve said, her skin is pale—sometimes, toward noon, it looks blue-gray—and lately, there are moments of confusion, when she thinks Maceo is still alive, still in love with her.”
Behind him, Bernarda, finished with the tacos and tamales, was preparing a tray presumably to take up to her mistress and her daughter.
“Then she knows Maceo Encarnación is dead.”
Manny nodded.
“How did she take it?”
“Difficult to say. She didn’t cry, didn’t even look sad. She just gazed out the window at the treetops in Lincoln Park and said, ‘It all looks the same. Just the same.’”
“She did love him, then.”
“Oh, yes. In her heart of hearts she kept certain memories of him alive, like eternal flames.”
“Even after all the hurt he caused her.”
“Well, you know, señor, humans often carry conflicting feelings at the same time.” He shrugged. “Who among us can say why?”
Bernarda crossed the kitchen with her food- and drink-laden tray, and started down the hall, heading to the stairway.
“It’s a matter of what we want versus what we have.” Bourne looked down at his coffee. Something was bothering him. He looked up. “Manny, you said that at times Constanza’s skin has a bluish tinge?”
Manny nodded. “Odd, yes?”
“Did you tell this to the doctor?”
“Honestly, I can’t remember. It’s a little thing.”
A little thing. Bourne thought about Anunciata, about how her mother had been murdered.
“Manny, how long has Bernarda been Constanza’s cook?”
“Many years, señor. She’s become part of the family.”
“Where did she come from?”
“Her cousin was originally part of Señor Encarnación’s staff.”
Bourne was up and running down the hallway.
41
What an appetite you had, guapa!” Constanza kissed the crown of Maricruz’s head. “You’d grab onto my breast and not let go until every drop was gone. And while you suckled you’d stare up at me with those eyes, and I swore you were talking to me.” Constanza sighed softly. Her breath smelled of chocolate and garlic. “Those were the happiest days of my life.”
“Why did he take me away from you?”
A tear slid down Constanza’s pallid cheek. “Why did he do anything, guapa? Out of fear.”
“Fear?”
“Of course. Maceo Encarnación was riddled with fear. He came from nothing, and to nothing he was certain he’d return. Oh, not dust to dust; that is the fate of every human being, great and humble alike. He was terrified that everything he built—everything he had amassed—would be taken away from him. You were one of those things.”
“He thought you’d take me away from him?”
“Not physically, perhaps. I think he was frightened I’d teach you things he didn’t want you to know.”
“Like what a shit he was.”
“He was one of those people who ruled with absolute power. He no longer understood the world around him. He had lost touch with people.”
“Even those who tried to get close to him?”
“Oh, especially those, guapa. He was afraid they’d betray him, take something precious from him.”
“He was fucking crazy,” Maricruz breathed.
“Guapa, I am so proud of you. You broke away from him. You left and never looked back.”
“Until now.”
Constanza squeezed her. “For which I’m eternally grateful.”
“You won’t feel that way when I tell you why I came.” So Maricruz told her the story of how she had landed in Beijing, how she had ferreted out Ouyang Jidan, seduced him, married him, guided his business with her father. “And now,” she said, in conclusion, “I’ve come back to take care of Maceo’s business with Los Zetas.”
Constanza shook her head, her expression grave. “I’m grateful, because you have been brought back to me, but now you must stop this nonsense. You must sever all ties with this part of his business. Your destiny will take you down another road.”
“But, Mama—”
“No buts, Maricruz. In one way or another, I’ve lived with these criminals all my life. They took the use of my legs from me, they took you from me. I will not see that happen to you. Only tragedy can result if you continue.” She tilted her daughter’s head up so their eyes locked. “You’ve been foolish enough to marry a man too much like your father. That is a tragedy in itself. But think, guapa, what will happen when he impregnates you. He’ll never let that child out of his sight. You’ll be tied to him for the rest of your life.”
Maricruz thought of what Colonel Sun had said about Angél, which had both shocked and infuriated her. She knew her mother was right. She knew Bourne was right. She realized how foolish she had been to follow in her father’s footsteps. For what, for what? She knew what she had to do, what path she needed to follow. All that was required now was for her to summon the courage to change course. She had done it before; she could do it again.
Then, hearing a rustling in the hallway just outside the door, she looked up to see a heavyset woman bustle in with a tray laden with food and drink. She swallowed the feeling of being invaded and put a smile on her face.
Bernarda was already in Constanza’s room when Bourne burst in. Mother and daughter were sitting up in bed, each holding a mug of hot chocolate as Bernarda arranged the plates of food and the cutlery on their laps.
Without a word, Bourne removed the mugs.
“You!” Constanza said. “What are you doing here?”
“He brought me to you,” Maricruz said. “I don’t think I would have had the courage to come without him.”
Bourne sniffed first one mug, then the other.
Manny came up beside him. “Señor, what are you doing?”
Bourne shoved one mug under his nose. “What does this smell like?”
He sniffed. “Why, chocolate, of course.”
“What is this?” Constanza demanded. “Bernarda makes me a hot chocolate twice a day. She makes it so thick and dark, lately it’s the only thing I can get down.”
“She makes it thick and dark for a very good reason.” Bourne addressed Manny. “Chocolate and what else?”
Manny took a deeper inhale from the steaming mug. “I don’t know…” His brow wrinkled. “Garlic?”
Bourne looked at Bernarda. “When heated, arsenic gives off the scent of garlic.”
“Arsenic?” Constanza said. “That’s ridiculous.”
“The first clue was Manny telling me how your skin was turning bluish, then he told me about your bouts of confusion. Constanza, we have to get you to a hospit
al. You’re being slowly poisoned to death.”
Bernarda fell to her knees, her hands clasped before her, as if she were praying in church.
“I loved you. I treated you like one of the family,” Constanza said in a slightly breathless voice. “How could you do this?”
Bernarda, moaning and sobbing uncontrollably, rocked back and forth, seemingly incapable of answering.
“I’ll get it out of her.” Sliding off the bed, Maricruz stepped in front of the kneeling woman and, bending slightly, gripped her throat with such force that Bernarda cried out.
“You’ll confess,” Maricruz said, her flinty edge reappearing with renewed vigor. “You’ll tell us everything or I will end your treacherous life right here.”
Bourne, who had been inclined to intervene should Bernarda try to escape, decided it would be far more informative to watch Maricruz at work. He had already witnessed the soft side of her, now it was time to further study the courageous, iron-willed woman who had crossed continents, isolating herself, to defeat the will of her father.
Manny stepped forward. “Señor, perhaps the police should be called. This isn’t right.”
Bourne held him back. “You know better, Manny. The police have no place here.”
“That was Maceo’s way,” Manny said stiffly.
“In the end, it’s my way, too,” Constanza told him.
The two men watched as Maricruz’s grip on Bernarda turned vicious. Her nails, digging into the sides of the cook’s neck, drew blood. Constanza seemed mesmerized; she crawled to the foot of the bed, where her daughter had the cook pinned to her knees.
“I brought you into this house at your cousin’s request,” Constanza said. Despite her unnatural pallor, her eyes blazed as in the old days when she was a young woman in full flower. The presence of the beloved daughter she had been convinced she’d never see again had reinvigorated her, for the time being rallying her against the pernicious effects of the small amounts of arsenic Bernarda had been stirring into her hot chocolate. “She told me that you had been mistreated, that your stepfather beat you, that he even turned you out of the house when he was sufficiently drunk.”
The Bourne Retribution Page 28