A Passing Curse (2011) (14 page)

The sun teetered on top of the adobe wall. The wall’s shadow fell across the tombstones. It would be dark in thirty minutes.

“The Chief said this part of the mission is private property,” he said. “Who owns it?”

“It’s a long story,” she said. “The Spanish took the land from the Indians, the Mexicans took the land from the Spanish, the Americans took the land from the Mexicans. For a long time the priests were only tenants, until Lincoln gave them back the land.”

“Abraham Lincoln?”

“He needed friends wherever he could find them during the Civil War. Especially friends in the Vatican. Why do you care?”

“It’s private property. If Ramon’s bothering you, I’ll have him arrested for trespassing, but I’ll need the owner to press charges.”

“My employer holds the deed to this small portion of the mission’s grounds. His great-grandfather was a Spanish Don and, well, it’s too complicated to go into, but he lets the Church use the land. It’s only a half-acre.”

“Your employer?”

“Ajax Rasmussen,” she said and saw his face stiffen as if he had just seen something ugly. She hoped he was not working for Ajax. “You know him?”

“I know he owns Cirrus Industries.”

“So?” she asked, positive, now, that he had more than a passing acquaintance with Ajax. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well, you’ve got bones turning to dust, maybe you have skin disappearing, you do have stakes in hearts, a Catholic priest removing teeth where fangs would be, and the property owner just happens to own a good part of the world’s fresh blood supply.”

“Yes?” she asked, wanting him to say it.

He smiled. “It’s either vampires or somebody’s pulling our chain.”

“That’s ridiculous.” She could tell he thought it was funny, and it was funny, especially if you hadn’t been in Romania. If he’d been thrown against a wall in front of a firing squad, he wouldn’t be smiling.

“It is ridiculous,” he said. “Especially the part about a billionaire hiring a world-class archeologist to poke around in the back of a mission. And let’s not forget about Father Ramon and the Chief acting like you’ve dug up the anti-Christ.”

“And then you show up,” she said. “That’s the richest part.”

“Me? I’m just doing the Chief a favor.”

“I’ll bet you are,” she said and wondered if Ajax had hired him to keep an eye on her. She kicked the heavy green tarp and squatted to pick up one end. “Give me a hand since that’s your job.”

By the time they’d stretched the tarp across the ditch and anchored the corners with sandstone chunks, the sky was dark purple. She slung her pack on and felt the extra weight of the gold cross, the doll, the finger bones, and the sandal. She did not feel the least bit guilty.

They walked along the path in silence. It was nearly dark.

She closed the gate and turned to him. “I’m parked up front,” she said.

“I’m right there.” He pointed to the lone car in the parking lot. She couldn’t make it out, but it looked too small for him. “See you later, then.”

He turned to go. She didn’t even stop to think what she was doing. “Can you meet me at the Sheraton in an hour? We can talk about security over dinner.”

He studied his watch, weighing her invitation. She could barely see his smile. Why was he teasing her and why did it bother her so much?

“An hour?” he asked.

“Something better to do?”

“I’ve been asked that a lot lately.”

“To dinner?”

“If I have something better to do.”

“Do you?”

“I haven’t had a better offer.”

“You waiting for one, Mr. Tarrant?”

“No, I’m not that optimistic.”

11

Father Ramon methodically whipped his back, swinging the doubled-up bullwhip from the floor like a man pitching stones over his shoulder.

On the return stroke, blood flew like batter off a whisk, spotting the wall. He used both hands. With each stroke came the wet towel snap. He staunchly kept the count in a loud and determined voice. Three. Four. Five. He’d clean the wall later.

It’s difficult to whip yourself, he thought. The tendency was to hold back. He should hire someone, but that one time he had - disaster. A woman in black leather, yelling obscenities, shaking the leather dildo, grotesque laughter, asking him to do the other, but he’d only wanted the whipping. She’d humiliated him, kicked him with sharp, stiletto heels, and finished him off with the end of the whip, smeared in Vaseline.

With a last weak movement he mumbled, thirty, and threw the whip to the floor. He looked down at himself in anticipation, disgusted that so much pain had produced so little result. He blamed the girl, the archeologist. He made a fist and hit himself in the mouth.

Had it been his fault she was crazy? Threatening to go to the reporters with stories of Franciscan outrages: the genocide of the Indians, the destruction of a people. It had been nearly two centuries ago and the Indians had needed to be brought into God’s domain. The fold of life. Mistakes had been made. Yes. But did good intentions count for nothing?

He hit himself in the mouth twice more and tasted the blood.

And now she was yelling about the Federal law on antiquities and how the reservation Indians would have to be called as the nearest descendants and how she’d have to dig up the whole garden! Preposterous.

What did the new Indians care about old bones? They had their casino, making millions. They were too busy spending their filthy lucre to worry about bones and Junipero Serra. Had she nothing better to do than cry over spilt milk?

Someone called from outside the door, and he quit thinking about the stupid girl. He rushed to cover himself. He rustled into his robe and stole to the door.

“Who is there?” he asked but got no answer.

Deciding it must be the wind or a raccoon, he went back to his stool and put his hands on the desk. Let the wind take care of itself. Sweat entered the wounds and deliciously stung his back.

He wiggled his shoulders. The rough wool made it even better. A whisper of pain. A dollop. He considered the tooled leather cover of the ancient book he’d lugged up from the catacombs, the former wine cellar now filled with thousands of books, frayed and putrid, most of them chronicling the end of the Spanish empire. He hoped this particular book would explain the skeletons and the stakes, the flesh that had changed to dust.

It was a special book, indeed. Hand made. No flimsy cotton pages. The script was Latin, each letter written by hand, not printed, formed laboriously and to strict form.

The cowhide cover was brittle and beginning to decay. He felt the smooth vellum pages, like velvet. He inhaled. Sulfur and decomposing flowers, the smell of dead dreams. He felt himself rising against the rough wool and reached down, praying softly. Yes.

She’d just finished hiding the cross under the mattress and straightening the covers when he knocked on the door. “It’s open,” she said and reflected that under the mattress was usually the first place the cops looked.

He came in carrying a bottle of wine. She took the wine from him, Murphy Goode Cabernet, and said, “I thought we could discuss site security while we ate in the dining room.”

“Site security?” he said with that half-ass grin of his. “That’s really why you invited me to your room?”

She was not sure why she’d invited him. She looked at the bottle and back at him. “I said dinner. I said site security. I didn’t say anything about a bottle of wine in my room. I didn’t say anything about intimate. Was there something else you had in mind?”

“Not at all,” he said and shrugged. “Dinner in the dining room? I’m easy.”

An understatement, she guessed. She pulled out her Swiss Army knife. She removed the lead wrapper and popped the cork. She filled two water glasses and handed him one.

He sat on the small couch, hooked one leg over the arm, and swirled the wine. He cocked an eyebrow. “Let’s talk about Mr. Ajax Rasmussen.”

“You can charm a girl.”

“We can talk about you.”

“What about me?”

“Your eyes.”

“They’re green.”

“An unconquered flame.”

She looked at him. He was still smiling. She took a drink. He was coming on pretty strong for a retired cop . And fairly literate for someone who was trying his best to act like a jerk. “That’s some line.”

“That’s Ezra Pound.”

“Did it do him any good?”

“He died in a mental hospital.”

“From love?”

“Probably.”

“He called six weeks ago, out of the blue.”

“Ezra Pound?”

“We were talking about Ajax.”

“We were talking about your eyes.”

“You’ve had enough wine.”

“Not yet.” He poured himself another glass. She was now wondering if he was a complete fool or just acting like one. “So, Ajax called you out of the blue?”

“About finding the tomb of Vlad Tepes. I went to Romania.” She gave him a quick overview of her trip. Just the high spots.

“Isn’t Transylvania in Romania?”

“Something funny?”

“Hunting Dracula is hilarious.”

“I was not hunting Dracula,” she said. “I was searching for the remains of Vlad Tepes. Historians credit him with saving Eastern Europe from the Muslims. He’s a national hero in Romania. An important historical figure.” She almost laughed. It was the same excuse Ajax had given her.

“Thanks for clearing that up. I thought you were hunting vampires and wasting a good education. The Chief mentioned that you had a lot of schooling.”

“Hunting vampires is not scholarly enough for you?”

“No,” he said and took another healthy drink. “What’s interesting is that it’s a common theme. I always look for that in a case. What holds everything together.”

“Vampires is a common theme?”

“In this case, yes. For example, some people think your employer is a vampire. I mean, he lives on other people’s blood, literally. He drains people dry for a living, mostly the poor. I read that in Newsweek magazine.” He poured another glassful. “The skeletons in the garden with the stakes in their chests, were they vampires?”

“The people who killed them might have believed so, but then Father Ramon makes a daily ritual of drinking Christ’s blood, so maybe he’s a vampire.”

“I’ll ask him,” Reese said.

“Do that. Any other questions?”

“Are you Rasmussen’s personal archeologist?”

“Like a personal trainer?”

“You tell me,” he said.

“Ajax called yesterday about a problem at the mission that might benefit from my expertise, his term, not mine. I wouldn’t characterize my expertise as personal.”

“What exactly is your expertise?”

“How much time do you have?”

“The Chief said you were the best.”

“You said he exaggerated.”

“How much does a world class archeologist make?” Reese asked. “I’m asking because it’s not something you generally run into. Not like a world class hair stylist.”

“Ajax pays very well.”

“How well?”

“He’s making it worth my while.”

“What’s your while worth?”

“Out of your league, Reese. Sorry.”

“You think I have to pay for it?”

“I said you couldn’t afford it.”

“Do you give discounts?”

“Not yet,” she said.

“What really brought you here?”

“The Mediterranean ambiance.”

“That’s my excuse,” he said. “Plus the seafood. I think you’re here for the money. But also something else.” He suddenly did not appear to be either drunk or joking. “You want to tell me what that might be?”

“No.”

“That’s not cooperative.”

“True.”

“Would you lie to me?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“I want to meet him.”

“Ajax? What’s he to you?”

“Like I said, maybe he’ll hire security to keep Ramon from harassing you. I’m surprised he doesn’t have security in place as it is. A famous archeologist like you working in the back of a lonely mission.”

“Hire rent-a-cops? When I have you? And since we’re talking about you, what do you want? Come on, Reese. Time to lay your cards down. You talk about cooperation but it’s all a one way street. Men.”

“We’re not talking about me,” he said, his voice warmer. “We were talking about your eyes, Ezra Pound, and Ajax. In that order, I believe.”

“You do know.”

“What.”

“How to charm a girl.”

“It comes naturally.”

She grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the chair. She looked at him for a second before dropping his hand. It was the second time today that she’d held his hand. Lately, a record for her. She opened the door. She went into the hall. “Let’s go eat,” she said. “They cook a passable steak downstairs.” She was probably making a huge mistake with him, she thought, but suddenly did not care.

Father Ramon swung the door open and stuck his head into the walkway, empty except for the smell of oak wood from the eternal fire that Lavour kept burning in the rectory.

He stepped to the rail and breathed deeply. The city lights blinked silently with little warmth. He could not see the black ocean beyond, but he could feel its depth. The stars burned cold. Was he going mad? Scrapes, bumps in the night. Voices calling his name? He knew the cause. It was the girl and her disruption at the cemetery. She was damnable and affecting his nerves. He must forget her. No. He must forgive her.

When he was again settled at his desk, Ramon turned to the back of the book. There were at least twenty pages of illustrations. One showed Indian converts, the acolytes, forming roof tile on their upper thighs to dry in the sun. There were scenes of the Indians stretching cowhide and stirring huge vats of tallow. There were also colored-ink portraits of the various Santa Marina luminaries: the major players of both Church and Military. The Scarlet and the Black.

He turned the pages, stiff portraits flashed by: ruffled collars, cocked hats, the plump well-fed faces of the priests. One face caught his eye, the name clearly written at the bottom: Father Delgado.

The face of this Delgado was angular, carved from granite, hard lines and black eyes. A fervid face. Malicious. The face of a predator.

He closed the book. Ajax Rasmussen. Not a match, no, not exactly, but the qualities of Rasmussen. The evilness. The candid debauchery.