by Janet Dawson
“By God, I will.” Humberto turned back to face Cruz. “Go to San Blas, capture this rebel, and bring him back here. I will deal with him. Let the campesinos know I am displeased with them. Do whatever you have to do.”
Cruz grinned. He assembled his men on the gravel drive behind the Aragón house, armed with guns and machetes as they climbed into their Jeeps and drove away.
“More coffee, Señor Llewellyn?” Humberto settled into his chair as though nothing had happened.
“No, thanks,” Rod told him. “I’m feeling a bit tired. I think I’ll lie down.”
“Ah, yes, a siesta.” Severino grinned as he handed a cup to Claire. His hand tweaked her long blond hair. “A time-honored custom.”
Upstairs, Rod splashed cold water on his face and reached for a towel. He had the keys to the rental car. He could head back to San Salvador on his own, get an earlier flight. But the somnolent heat of the afternoon sapped his energy. It was easier to do nothing. He kicked off his shoes, stretched out on the bed, and dozed.
Gunfire. Rod roused himself and went to the balcony. Had he imagined gunfire? No, there it was again. Smoke rose beyond the ridge, black smoke hanging like a funeral pall, turning the setting sun as red as blood.
When the Jeeps returned, Rod rushed downstairs. Humberto, Severino, and Claire were already outside, with Cruz. A smirk twisted Cruz’s lips and his eyes held a glittering, sated look. A bloody corpse sprawled in the back of a Jeep. Rod’s stomach turned. He tried to make sense of the words ricocheting around him.
“We had to fight, Patrón,” Cruz said. “The rebels fired on us while we were trying to arrest them. It was quite a battle, but these rebels won’t trouble you anymore.”
“What’s done is done,” Humberto said. “But why did you bring the children?”
Children? Now Rod saw them in another Jeep—an infant and a little girl who didn’t appear to be hurt. The third child, a little boy, had a cut on his chin.
“They’ll fetch a good price,” Cruz said.
“You’re not going to sell them,” Severino snapped.
“The army takes children, too.” Cruz had a knowing look on his ugly face. “They sell them to rich Americans who want babies. The major knows this.”
Severino shook his head. “I know nothing of the sort.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Claire said. “Ana! Come out here and help me.” The frightened woman came out of the house and did Claire’s bidding. Rod held the door open as Claire and Ana carried the children into the kitchen. Ana sat the little girl on the floor and the baby in a basket. Claire deposited the boy in a chair. She grabbed a towel, dampened it at the sink, and wiped the blood from the boy’s chin, sending Ana to fetch a first-aid kit. Claire rummaged inside the kit for gauze, scissors, and a small brown bottle. The boy whimpered as Claire cleaned his wound and treated it with salve. She covered the cut with a bandage. “Pobrecito. He’ll have a scar.” She washed and dried her hands, then turned to Ana. “Clean them up and give them something to eat. Then put them to bed. Give them a little brandy if necessary, to help them sleep.”
Rod followed Claire out to the veranda. “What are we going to do about this?”
“It’s not our concern.” The low table outside the dining room held a bottle of brandy and several squat glasses. Claire poured herself a shot and drank the liquor in one swallow. “Humberto and Severino can’t be held responsible for Cruz and his men going off the rails.”
Rod grabbed her arm. “Those thugs work for Humberto. He’s responsible. He told them to go up there and throw a scare into those villagers. Your words, I believe.”
Claire shook off his hand and set the glass on the table. “Remember who the Aragóns are. Uncle George’s in-laws. Highly respected landowners who’ve owned this land for generations. Growers who produce a high percentage of the Salvadoran coffee the Dunlin Corporation imports.”
Rod stared at her. “More important than dead campesinos. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes, that’s what I’m saying.” Her words were as cold as her eyes. “Dragging the Aragóns through the mud isn’t going to bring those dead campesinos back to life. Stay out of this. Run along, go take another nap.”
“I’m staying right here.”
The Aragóns joined them on the veranda. Humberto sloshed brandy into a glass and raised it to his lips. Claire whispered in Severino’s ear and urged him and Humberto into the house through the dining room. Rod followed but Severino barred his way. “Señor Llewellyn, this doesn’t concern you. Please give us privacy.”
Rod waited until they were inside. Then he walked around the veranda to the windows outside Humberto’s office. Now he was reduced to eavesdropping.
Severino’s voice was so close that he must have been standing just the other side of the window. “If the damn reporters get wind of this it will be a nightmare.”
“We can’t afford a scandal,” Humberto said. “But how do we control the damage?
“It never happened,” Claire said. “Get rid of the village. Bury the bodies and bulldoze all the buildings. That’s a man-made pond up there, with an earthen dam. Breach the dam and flood the village. Then it’s a lake. You say it’s always been a lake.”
“So water covers our problem.” Humberto sounded relieved. “Excellent. I will have the men start right away.”
“It’s late,” Severino said. “By the time they get back to San Blas it will be dusk. They can’t work in the dark without generators and lights.”
“It will have to keep until morning, then,” Humberto said. “I want them up there at dawn, the bulldozer and every man with a shovel. They must be fast and thorough. We saw the smoke. No doubt others did, too, and will investigate.”
By the time the Aragóns and Claire returned, Rod was seated outside the dining room, drinking brandy. He set his glass on the table.
“I’ve told Ana to prepare a light supper,” Humberto said, as though nothing had happened.
Rod stood. “I don’t have any appetite. If you’ll excuse me.” He walked through the dining room and glanced into the kitchen. The children were on the floor near the pantry, nibbling on tortillas, the baby in the basket between them.
Rod went upstairs to his room. He stared at the rental car keys and the small camera he carried with him on visits to growers. A plan took shape in his head.
* * *
Rod rose before dawn and dressed in the dark. He slipped keys, camera and film into his jacket pockets. He opened the door and listened. No sounds came from the other bedrooms, but someone moved on the first floor. He went downstairs, every squeak of the boards beneath his feet sounding loud as a thunderclap. Ana stood at the kitchen table, stirring something in a bowl. She gestured at the stove, where a coffeepot sat on the back burner. He shook his head and raised a finger to his lips. In the pantry, he saw the baby in the basket, between two shapes huddled in blankets.
Outside the sun was a faint yellow glow on the horizon. Lights and voices in the outbuildings carried on the cool morning air. Rod didn’t have much time. He climbed into the rental car and stuck the key into the ignition. The engine started, the sound explosive to his ears. He expected lights to go on in the house, but nothing happened. Rod put the car in gear and headed down the driveway, without lights. A gravel road led directly to the processing plant and San Blas, the likely route Cruz and his men would take. There was also a dirt road, he recalled from Saturday’s tour of the coffee groves. The two roads met near the processing plant. He located the dirt road. The sun crept a bit higher. The blackness on either side of the road became gray.
It was a few kilometers to the plant, then another kilometer to San Blas, over a ridge and down into the village. Rod couldn’t see the car’s odometer but he guessed he’d traveled a kilometer when he passed the spot where dirt joined gravel, a sharp angle to the right that led back to the house. Last night the idea had been to get to the village, take pictures, and get back before anyone knew he was
gone. Now, in the cold light of dawn, Rod saw gaps in his plan. What if he got up to the village and then Cruz and his men arrived? How would he get back? What were the consequences of his impulse, of discovery?
Too late to change his mind. He was at the processing plant. Buildings loomed at him as the sun spread its pale glow across the landscape. Rod gunned the engine and pointed the car toward San Blas. A Jeep sped straight at him. Rod slammed on the brakes.
Cruz got out of the Jeep, walked to the car, and yanked open the door. He pointed a pistol at Rod. “Get out.” Rod complied. Cruz backed him against the car. “I ought to shoot you.”
Rod found his voice. “Señor Aragón wouldn’t like that.”
“He won’t like you meddling. You’re a nosy American. I should blow off your head. But you’re a guest of the patrón. That’s the only thing saving you. So I won’t kill you. Not today.”
Rod thought the grinding noise he heard was blood rushing through his own veins, but it was a line of Jeeps and pickup trucks, a bulldozer bringing up the rear. The caravan stopped, blocked by Rod’s car and Cruz’s Jeep. Cruz shouted orders in Spanish. Two men ran to the vehicles, moving them out of the way. The caravan began to move again, cresting the hill, heading for San Blas.
* * *
Claire jingled the car keys in the palm of her hand. “You shouldn’t have done this.”
“I could say the same for you,” Rod said. “You’re an accessory after the fact.”
“You’re being dramatic.” Her fingers closed over the keys. She tucked them into her pocket and reached for his camera. “So you were planning to take pictures. Then what? Call the New York Times? Drag the Aragóns into a scandal? Humberto is appalled that you would abuse his hospitality.”
“I’m appalled by the Aragóns,” he said. “By the massacre in San Blas, and your part in it. You suggested they send Cruz to that village. Now you’re helping them cover it up.”
“You’re not going to tell anyone,” she said. “People like the Aragóns are the backbone of the coffee business in El Salvador.”
“They’ve built it on the backs of the campesinos.”
Claire tossed words back at him. “Agricultural production all over the world is built on the backs of cheap labor. It’s no different here, or back in California. Who do you think picks lettuce and tomatoes in the Central Valley? This finca produces much of the coffee we buy in El Salvador. Any scandal affecting the Aragóns reflects on the company and jeopardizes business. Speaking as the boss’s niece and the daughter of one of the major shareholders, I can tell you the family won’t like that. Keep your mouth shut. You’re in a war zone. You could have an accident. The roads are so bad. And there are soldiers everywhere.”
Rod had always known she was ruthless but he’d never imagined the past twenty-four hours. “I want to leave.”
Claire shook her head. “Our tickets are for tomorrow evening. I won’t stay in a hotel when I’m comfortable here. We’ll spend the night here as planned and leave for San Salvador tomorrow.”
“Since you have the car keys, I have no choice.”
“That’s right, you don’t. I’m taking those children to an orphanage in San Salvador. They’ll have a chance of getting adopted.”
“They wouldn’t be orphans,” he said, “if you and the Aragóns hadn’t turned those thugs loose in that village.”
Rod was trapped, under house arrest. He refused dinner. He couldn’t eat with the others, making conversation while the knowledge of what had happened seethed under the surface of social niceties. Instead he drank brandy on the veranda, as the blood-red sun sank behind the mountains to the west.
Tuesday morning he woke with a wicked hangover. Ana brought him a tray with coffee and pastries. He swallowed aspirin and chased it with strong black coffee. The caffeine cleared his head and settled his stomach. He ate, marveling at how hungry he was. Then he showered, dressed, and packed his suitcase. He couldn’t wait to get out of this place, off the Aragón finca, out of El Salvador.
He stepped onto the balcony as a Jeep skidded to a stop. Two men hauled someone from the backseat, a woman in faded jeans and a blue shirt, a ballcap on a head of blond curls. Rod rushed downstairs to the hall, where Claire and Severino examined an American passport. In the office the woman slumped in a wooden chair near the desk. Blood stained the woman’s jeans leg.
“What’s going on?” Rod asked.
“Two people were poking around up at San Blas,” Claire said. “One got away. This woman is a reporter.” Ana came from the kitchen with a tray holding a pitcher of water, a bowl, and folded cloths. She set the tray on the desk and retreated. Claire entered the office and sat down. She reached for the first-aid kit, cut away the cloth on the woman’s leg, then cleaned and bandaged the wound.
Humberto Aragón appeared, swearing in Spanish. He glared at the woman in the chair. “They should have put a bullet in her head and left her for the vultures.”
“She speaks Spanish,” Severino warned.
Claire put her hand on Humberto’s arm and led the way out the back door. Rod remained in the kitchen, straining to hear Claire and the Aragóns.
“Better to kill her and get it over with,” Humberto said.
“Too late for that.” Severino’s voice came in and out, as though he were pacing back and forth along the veranda. “Your coffee broker from Dunlin knows too much.”
“I can handle him,” Claire said. “The journalist can be handled, too. The rebel she was with will contact other reporters. If she winds up dead, you’ll be blamed. Too many people have seen her. Take her to San Salvador.”
“Let her go?” Humberto bellowed.
“Have her press credential pulled,” Claire said. “Your son-in-law works for the government.”
“Call Cristina,” Severino said. “She and Francisco have influence.”
“They’ll make it happen,” Claire said. “Severino takes the woman to the airport. She’s escorted onto the next available flight out of the country. You’re a respected businessman. You can’t be blamed if your guards got carried away. Who’ll believe her? Her camera is smashed, the film exposed.”
“What if she had another roll of film and gave it to the rebel?” Severino asked.
“Showing what?” Claire countered. “A lake? No one knows what happened on Sunday.”
“What if someone escaped the village?” Humberto asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” Claire said. “If the story gets out, it’s your word against theirs. She has no proof.”
No proof. The words echoed inside Rod’s head. He leaned against the wall, trying to decide what to do. Claire’s threat reverberated in his mind. He was afraid. Rod Llewellyn could wind up dead in El Salvador.
32
“I never told anyone,” Rod said. “I’m a coward.”
Lindsey struggled with the knowledge that the woman at the Aragón finca was Claire. Loss washed over her. She’d always considered Claire a good friend. Now that friendship was broken. “You tried to get up to the village.”
“What a paltry effort that was.” He pushed away his plate. “I could have told Max. I could have resigned. But I did nothing. Why? Expedience. Inertia. Inaction is comfortable. The moment passed. My indignation evaporated.”
The server returned and whisked away plates, offering coffee and dessert. Lindsey shook her head, and Rod asked for the check. He glanced at it and took cash from his wallet.
“Then the massacre at San Blas hit the news,” Lindsey said.
“I thought I was off the hook,” he said. “Merle Sefton did what I hadn’t done, much better than I could have, with photos and eyewitnesses. I thought there would be an outcry, an investigation of the massacre. But there wasn’t. If I had talked, would it have made a difference?”
“Who knows?” Lindsey shook her head. “The Aragóns disputed the facts loud enough and long enough to discredit Sefton and her story. The cover-up succeeded.”
“Claire was the architect of
that cover-up.”
“I’ve known Claire a long time,” Lindsey said. “Now it seems I don’t know her at all.”
“No, you don’t,” Rod said. “I’ve seen a side of Claire that you never have, one she’s hidden from you and the others. There is a human cost to producing a crop. But the price of coffee shouldn’t include death.”
“Did Claire say anything about the children?” Lindsey asked. “On the trip back to San Salvador, or after you left them at the orphanage?”
“She seemed taken with the little boy, said she knew someone who needed a boy. I told her she couldn’t carry him onto the plane like a souvenir. She said she could, if she greased the right palms.”
Claire had done it with more subtlety. She’d set the wheels in motion, then told the Segals about the Salvadoran boy who needed a home and a family. Something he’d already had, until that Sunday when the men with guns had obliterated his village.
“The woman I interviewed is a San Blas survivor,” Lindsey said. “Her child was taken that day. He’s the little boy with the cut on his chin.”
“Dear God, how the past comes back to haunt us. Does she know where he is?”
“She’s been looking for years. He was adopted, by a couple here in the United States,” Lindsey said. “Why did you agree to talk with me today?”
“Max wondered why you asked about El Salvador in the spring of ’eighty-nine. I knew it had to be about that trip, that incident.”
“You’re curious. But you also want leverage against Claire, because of the company. I have another agenda, too.” Lindsey reached for her handbag, removing the book by Dylan Thomas she’d found in Pandora’s Box. She had translated the inscription via computer the night before. “I should have known all along. But it didn’t really occur to me until recently, when I found this.”
Rod stared at the book, emotions flickering on his face. “Where did you get that?”
“I found it in a box of keepsakes. It contains things that are important to Annabel. A book by a Welsh author, with a Welsh inscription.” She opened the book to the flyleaf and pointed at the words written so long ago. “Cariad means love. And Rhodri is a popular boy’s name in Wales, just as Llewellyn is a common surname. Sometimes when you speak I can just hear it in your voice, a lilt, an accent.”