by Hy Conrad
The Furies, including Gabriela, headed for the vegetable garden. Edgar and Todd brought out their cameras, began with the mosaics, and worked their way up, discussing lighting and setups and possible captions. Nicolas said he was fascinated by the medieval kitchen.
Amy left her mother with Alicia, the two of them still marveling over the crypt mosaics, and wandered back up to the chapel. She expected it to be empty. The monks would return soon enough, and her fellow travelers, even the Furies, didn’t seem the type given to acts of meditation. But Jorge O’Bannion was there in a side pew, on his knees. Amy stood in the back, not wanting to disturb him. He must have sensed her presence, because he turned almost as soon as she walked in. The Chilean gentleman leaned on the pew in front and pushed himself to his feet, a little shamefaced, as if he’d been caught doing something ridiculous.
“Prayer is good,” he whispered, then made a space in his pew and motioned for her to join him.
They sat down, side by side, both of them staring at the white and gold of the altar. “It never hurts to pray. I think that’s a proven fact.”
“It can only help,” he agreed. “The explosion, Lola’s death, this disaster with the chimney . . . as if heaven itself is against me.”
It was sad to see this naturally optimistic man looking so beaten down. “I hope you’ll continue with the Patagonian Express,” she said. “There’s a real market for it.”
“That’s kind of you to say. And yes, I will continue. We have reservations for March and April, still a soft opening. When the bad weather comes, we’ll shut down, like everyone, and make improvements. Then in the spring, with all the good publicity from my friends . . .” He shot her a sly smile. “We will go on, full steam ahead. That is the phrase, yes?”
“Full steam. It sounds right.”
“We have the money until then, thanks to my dear old friend.”
Amy meditated on the strangeness of the past week, her mind settling on last night, with the sight of Nicolas driving off in the direction of the train station. “Do you know anyone who would want to destroy your business?”
O’Bannion considered this, perhaps not for the first time. “I’m not the kind to have enemies, but . . . the Pisano family, her niece and nephew in Buenos Aires, they were against me from the start. To my face they called me a gigolo. It was the inheritance from their father that she was spending. But the money was already invested, so they would be stupid to want to hurt our chances.”
“If they knew, yes.” Amy’s shoulders straightened. Perhaps the chapel was acting as an inspiration. She voiced her new theory, right or wrong, just as it came into her head. “The money was invested at the last minute, right before Lola died.”
“Some of it was, yes. The day before. Your mother was our witness. I suppose the timing for me was lucky, if losing a beloved friend can ever be lucky.”
“Forgive me for saying this.” She stopped herself, then tried to phrase it as gently as possible. “If the Pisanos didn’t know she had already signed the papers . . . if they thought she would continue to give you money time after time, good after bad, they would want to stop that. They would want to do things to discourage Lola, like cause accidents. If that didn’t work, they might even want their aunt dead.”
“Dead?” O’Bannion faced her, and his lower lip quivered. “Her death was an accident. Are you saying it wasn’t?”
“I’m sorry, Jorge. I’m just thinking out loud. Did you ever meet Lola’s niece and nephew? Could her nephew be someone like Nicolas?”
“Nicolas? The useless guide?” O’Bannion’s soft laugh echoed up to the rafters. “Yes, I have met the niece and nephew. Many times. And no, neither one of them is Nicolas.”
Amy’s face turned a bright red. But she went on, with a revised version of her theory. “I apologize if it sounds stupid. But his job became available as a result of the explosion. That’s how Nicolas came to you. And he’s from Buenos Aires, even though he says he’s Chilean. And last night he borrowed a car and drove off right before the chimney collapsed.”
“The chimney? Do you think that was an unnatural act? Like sabotage?”
“I’m just saying his behavior is suspicious.”
O’Bannion considered this. “His accent does sound porteño,” he agreed. “And it was lucky to find him so nearby and free. But the rest makes no sense. How, for example, could he kill Lola? And why would he destroy my poor carriage? It serves no purpose.”
“You’re right.” Amy pushed herself up from the pew and exhaled. “Dumb idea.”
O’Bannion joined her as they sidled out into the chapel’s side aisle. He linked his arm through hers. “Not dumb. I like that you take my problems seriously. Just like TrippyGirl, yes? I’ve been reading how you do things. Fascinating. In India and Siberia when you ask questions and follow people.”
“Not so much in Siberia.”
“I am honored that you want to help.”
As they approached a stone alcove, O’Bannion unlinked his arm. Reaching into the breast pocket of his wool blazer, he pulled out a plain gold band, then focused on the statue filling the alcove. To Amy’s eye, it seemed a typical porcelain depiction of the Virgin Mary, on a cloud and holding the baby Jesus on display for all to see, although it varied in one important aspect. The entire statue was festooned with trinkets. Trinkets might not be the right word. Offerings? Among other things, there were gold coins, paper money, miniature framed photos, amulets, and rings. Hundreds of them. Jesus and Mary held as many as they could, clasping them in every crevice of their porcelain anatomy. The remaining offerings spilled over into the rest of the alcove.
Jorge O’Bannion moved a dusty pocket watch over a few inches to make room. Then he placed the ring in the empty space, took a deep breath, and made the sign of the cross. Amy didn’t ask him to explain, but he did. “Our Lady of Monte Carmelo. My cousin told me, you put an offering here, something that represents the past, something you want to free yourself from. The Virgin will intercede with Jesus to help change your life.”
“That was your wedding ring?”
“My late wife’s ring. I had intended for Lola to wear it as my bride. That’s why I came to the chapel now, to ask God to help me be at peace.”
“Oh, I interrupted a private moment. I’m so sorry.”
“Not at all. I was glad for the company.”
Amy couldn’t help thinking of her own past. What would she be willing to place in Our Lady’s alcove? Would it be a tiny mirror like this one, representing vanity? A gold coin for greed? The photo of a loved one, symbolizing the rejection of physical love? “Before a brother takes his vows, it is a ritual for him to place a token here with the Virgin.”
Every token had a story, Amy mused. She tried to imagine what the stories might be. This huge gold ring in the Virgin’s outstretched hand, for example. Obviously expensive, if somewhat tacky. It was the head of a roaring lion with red eyes. Garnets or tiny rubies. She couldn’t tell in this light. As Amy leaned in for a closer look, her heart grew cold. There was something so familiar about the ring. Familiar and evil. Why was she thinking evil?
“Excuse me, Jorge.” Amy stepped a few feet away to where the dappled sunlight was streaming through an arched stained-glass window. Taking her phone from her skirt pocket, she scrolled to her camera icon and tapped the screen a few times. On their first day in Buenos Aires, what did they do? In what order? Was it before the opera house? Was it after the Evita balcony? It was during their visit to La Boca; that much she remembered. Yes, here it was. The angry mural of the “disappeared ones.”
She had taken six photos: of the menacing blue soldiers, the desperate citizens soon to be among the disappeared, the dungeons, the chaos, and in the far left of the mural, the orange general with his wet blob of a tongue and the gold, roaring lion on one of his fat fingers. It was the same ring. And the face? Oh, my God! It was the same face she’d seen last night on the back of the cocktail menu: the bulbous nose, the heavy lids, done in
the same cartoonish style. The anonymous artist of La Boca wasn’t anonymous anymore, not to Amy.
She turned from her phone back to O’Bannion, ignoring his disapproving stare. “How did you find Nicolas? He says he originally applied for the job, but you gave it to Pablo.”
“That’s true. Our engineer is Nicolas’s uncle. But Pablo was more qualified. Are you unhappy with Nicolas?”
“The engineer and Nicolas are related? The engineer who was injured?”
“Not so badly injured.” O’Bannion looked distressed. “Pablo will be on our next tour, my dear friend. This was an emergency.”
“Nicolas really wanted this job, didn’t he?”
“He was very eager, yes. He called himself a nature expert. But that didn’t seem to be the case.”
The monastery bell began to ring, a soft, resonant dong that gained momentum and volume as the rope in the bell tower was pulled.
“The brothers will be here for afternoon prayers,” said O’Bannion. “We should return to the gate. I promised my cousin.”
“I . . .” Amy didn’t know what to do. Her mind was still processing. “I will join you in a minute.” And she rushed from the chapel out into the cloistered courtyard. O’Bannion came out seconds later, looking for her, but by then she was half hidden behind one of the chapel’s open doors.
The bell continued to toll as O’Bannion walked away, across the grassy center of the cloister. Monks in their brown robes were emerging from every corner of the complex and making a slow processional toward the chapel. Their heads were bowed and their hoods were down, giving Amy a chance to see a few faces. Some she dismissed instantly. Too young or too old. Too tall or too thin. The abbot himself, who was certainly not the man she was looking for. Would she even be able to recognize him? Only after the fact did she think about counting the brothers. According to the abbot, there would be twenty-two. But was that twenty-two including the abbot or not? If they were all present, that would be easy. The man would be one of them. And he would be safe. The last brother entered the chapel just as the bell stopped tolling.
From behind the door, Amy watched Fanny and Alicia come up the basement steps and follow O’Bannion across an edge of the cloister, toward the main courtyard. The three Furies met them halfway, crossing from another direction. When the cloister was once again empty, Amy eased out from behind her door. A chorus of male voices was starting to sing a dirge-like chant in unison and in Latin.
Amy assumed from the chapel’s layout that the abbot and the monks would be facing the altar. That gave her the confidence she needed to poke her head around the edge and begin to count their heads. They were indeed all facing the altar, but she still counted fast. Then she counted again. Twenty-one, including the abbot, all of them unaware or unconcerned that one of their own was missing. She counted a third time with the same result.
Where the hell could he be? she wondered. He could be anywhere in the complex, a man who had long ago repented of his past, unaware that it had just caught up with him. Of course, Nicolas might not be here for revenge at all. He might just want to talk to the man. Or maybe the general wasn’t here. Maybe there were a lot of golden lion rings with red eyes and this was just a coincidence. Or maybe . . . Oh, who was she kidding!
Where the hell could they be? Would they be in the crypt, among the mosaics, out of earshot of everyone? Or in the kitchen, with all its medieval-cooking utensils? There were dozens of hermit cells, some occupied, some not. A brotherhood of unsuspecting monks might not find him for hours or days. Think, Amy. Think. You can’t look everywhere. Pick some place. Do something. Don’t just stand here, doing nothing.
But she did nothing. What could she do? Even if she found him in time, even if she succeeded in warning him . . . was it her responsibility to put her life on the line? For a man who had probably done unconscionable things? Who was she to stand in the way of . . . whatever? Justice? She really didn’t want to think about it. Better just to join the others and act surprised.
Then again, there was Fanny. How could she tell Fanny that she had known the truth as it was happening but had decided to ignore it? Whatever this man was, he was a human being, right? What was the line of poetry her father had always quoted? “Do not ask for whom the bell tolls.” Something like that.
Do not ask for whom the bell tolls.
Amy gasped. Do not ask. . . . The answer had been right there. Why hadn’t she thought of it? The twenty-second man. The one who would always come into the chapel last and hardly be noticed. The one who didn’t come in today.
The bell ringer.
CHAPTER 22
The door to the bell tower was closed, the first closed door Amy had encountered. But the monastery prided itself on having no locks, and she was able to push open the heavy door to find a square empty space with a dirt floor. The four stone walls enclosed a hollow wooden scaffold that supported a staircase. The stairs circled the interior walls, climbing the height of the tower to a single huge bell suspended from a set of crossbeams at the top. She stood in the middle of the square and listened. There was something moving up there, a scuffling sound, something barely audible above her own gasps for breath and the beating of her heart.
Without thinking, on adrenaline alone, she crossed to the steps and began to climb, one foot in front of the other, circling the space as she went. The scuffling above grew louder. But the sight still caught her by surprise—a landing about halfway up the tower, made larger by an alcove in the wall and a pair of vertical arrow-slit windows. Amy stumbled up to the landing, and the two men froze, much more shocked to see her than she was to see them.
He was older than his cartoon self, sturdily built but thinner, in a brown robe instead of an army uniform. But he was still just as frightening, his face a sweating, straining, angry mass of flesh. There was a streak of blood on his cheek, and a red gash in the left sleeve of his robe. His strong hands were even more frightening than the rest of him, perhaps because they were encircling Nicolas’s neck, pressing him down into the floorboards, in the process of squeezing the life out of the young guide.
Nicolas stared into Amy’s eyes, his own eyes bulging with fear and desperation. “Help,” he groaned between tightened lips. “Help me.”
Amy took a second to survey the scene, scouring the landing for the weapon. It was there on the stone of the alcove, one of the medieval-looking knives from the kitchen, blood dripping from its blade.
“General,” she said to the straining mass of flesh. “Stop. This isn’t you. Not anymore.” The second after she said it, she realized he probably didn’t speak English. “General, por favor. No.”
It didn’t take much to make the ex-general stop. Just the sight of the intruder was enough to break the spell. He had been on his knees, straddling the smaller man. Now he rolled to one side with a loud pained grunt. His right hand went to the gash in his sleeve, trying to staunch the flow of blood.
“He attacked me.” Nicolas coughed and rolled to the other side. “For no reason.” He pointed to the knife. “The man is crazy.”
Amy paused and nodded. She didn’t mean to nod. She was still catching her breath. “Was it your father, Nicolas? If that’s your name. Was it your father or your mother that he killed?”
Nicolas nodded in return, his hands on his own throat now, trying to rub the air back in. “My father and my mother. They were professors. That was their crime.” The fear in his eyes had changed to anger. “I was a baby, but I remember. Being ripped from my mother’s arms.”
“I killed no one,” said the bleeding monk. His accent made him barely understandable. But the English was there, and his comprehension. “I did many things. I detained people. I followed the lists made by other generals. Many bad things I ignored.”
“You were responsible,” Nicolas growled.
“No. There was a court trial. Argentina said I was innocent. By the law,” he added, as if he knew the difference and knew that the difference didn’t matter.
T
he blood was seeping through his fingers. Amy considered using her pashmina shawl to help. The monk saw her about to take it from her shoulders and objected with a grunt. Was it because the shawl was too nice, she wondered, or because it would leave her shoulders uncovered? The monk looked at the hem of his own robe, then at the bloody knife on the stone.
“Nicolas,” Amy said with an authority that surprised her. “Cut off part of his robe. We need to apply pressure.”
The guide had a decision to make, and Amy knew that once he made it, she could trust him. A similar thought was probably going through the minds of the two men. And then Nicolas did it. He grabbed a section of the brown wool hem, pierced it with the knife’s blade, and sawed until he had carved out a piece the size of a dish towel. He handed it to Amy and stepped back as she pressed it to the monk’s upper arm.
“What was his name?” she asked Nicolas.
“Is his name. He remains General Juan Cortavos, butcher of La Boca.”
“I deserve all your curses,” mumbled the monk. He settled back against the stone, half sitting up, trying to regain his strength. Amy sat beside him and kept the pressure on. “For twenty years, every day I ask God to forgive me. To use me in His service. Perdoname, te lo suplico.”
The younger man ignored his plea for forgiveness. “How did you know?” he asked Amy. “Who told you?”
‘You did,” said Amy. “Your mural in Buenos Aires.”
“You saw my mural?” Beneath his anger there was a glimmer of pride. “I worked for weeks. All alone in the middle of the night. I used the most expensive acrylics, so it would last forever.”
“It’s quite powerful,” Amy admitted. “The size of it, the anger. I didn’t connect it to your other drawings, not until you drew the general again. Then today, when I saw his gold ring in the chapel . . .”