Beyond the Grave

FOUR

Quincannon holstered his revolver, stepped around the body of the dead mestizo, and climbed to the crest of the knoll. The anger continued to smolder in him; he used it like fuel to burn away the cold and the aftermath of sudden violence.

The claybank horse, frightened by the shooting, had pulled loose of its picket and run off into the marsh, where it had come close to getting itself mired. He went down there, spoke gently to the animal to keep it still, finally succeeded in catching the reins and leading it out to firmer ground. Then he mounted, turned to the north, forded the creek, and veered overland through the orchard. When he reached the main road, he kicked the horse into a hard gallop all the way uphill to the hacienda.

There were no guards on the gate when he clattered through. He drew sharp rein, swung down. The door to one of the house's ground-floor rooms opened and Barnaby O'Hare appeared, drawn by the noise of his arrival. O'Hare came out into the courtyard. And the expression on Quincannon's face, the damp and grass-stained condition of his clothing, seemed to startle him.

“Mr. Quincannon, what on earth-”

“Where is Velasquez?”

“Why… I don't know. I haven't seen him for the past hour. Has something happened? You look-”

Quincannon pivoted away from him, hurried up the stairs to the second-floor gallery. There was no one in the parlor when he entered; the house seemed unnaturally quiet. He drew his revolver again, went to the closed door to Velasquez's study, and threw it open-standing back and to one side as he did so, out of the line of fire from within.

But there seemed to be no need for his caution or his weapon. Velasquez sat unarmed in the chair before the fire, his hands on his knees; he turned his head at the sudden opening of the door but made no other movement. His posture was that of an old man, a cripple incapable of movement without assistance. Firelight flickered over his face, creating shadows and highlights that gave his skin the look of tallow about to melt.

“So,” he said in a thin, dead voice. “Pablo did not succeed.”

Quincannon entered the study, shut the door behind him. He might have holstered his pistol then, but he didn't; he let it hang down at his side instead. There was no trust left in him today, not even of his own perceptions.

“Pablo is dead. You should have sent more than one man.”

“It does not matter now.”

“No? Why doesn't it?”

“Time,” Velasquez said. “Time.”

“It has run out for you, if that's what you mean.”

“Run out. Yes.”

“But you didn't think so earlier, when you gave Pablo his orders.”

Velasquez lifted one hand, let it fall again to his knee. “I believed then that your death would give me a little more of it-a little more time.”

“Because I was close to the truth,” Quincannon said bitterly. “And the truth is you killed Luis Cordova and stole the document his father wrote. No one has ever been after Don Esteban's artifacts but you.”

“Stole the document? No, senor. It is rightfully mine, as the artifacts are rightfully mine.”

“Was it also your right to take Cordova's life?”

“I did not mean to kill him. I went to talk to him, nothing more. I was afraid your way would be too slow. But he was very frightened, and I was very angry. He told what his father had done; he gave me the traitor's letter-all but the last page. He said the last page had been lost years ago. I didn't believe him then. I struck him. He fought me in his fear; it must have been then that he tore off the scrap you found. It was only after I returned to the St. Charles that I noticed it was missing. But I did not think it was in his hand; I thought it had also been lost years ago.”

Quincannon felt in his coat pocket. The slender metal cone was still there, and he drew it out. “Cordova tore this from you, too,” he said. “From one end of the string tie you were wearing that night. I noticed the tie in the bar at the St. Charles; the ends clicked together once when you moved.”

“I knew you would remember what it was and where you had seen it. It was only a matter of time.” The ghost of a mirthless smile played at the edges of Velasquez's mouth. “Time,” he said again.

Quincannon said, “I should have known all along it was you. I should have known for certain yesterday afternoon. Here, in this room, you asked if I had any idea who had taken the document from Cordova's study. But I said nothing to you about a study; I said only that I had found Cordova dead in his lodgings.”

A small fit of coughing seized Velasquez. When it ended, he said, “You are a good detective. If you weren't-”

“If I weren't, you wouldn't have tried to have me killed.”

“A desperate measure. But I told you: it was only for time that I did it. Now …” He shrugged emptily. “Now, it does not matter. It was all for nothing. There can never be enough time.”

“Why do you keep talking about time?”

“I am dying,” Velasquez said without inflection. “The doctor in Santa Barbara … it was him I saw that night, before I went to Cordova's.… He told me I have only a short while to live. A few weeks, no more.” He coughed again. “Cancer, senor. Now do you understand?”

Some of the anger went out of Quincannon. He moved closer to Velasquez, into the warmth of the fire. The Remington felt heavy in his hand, but still he did not pouch it. “Yes,” he said, “now I understand.”

“It was not for me that I wished to recover the artifacts. It was for my wife and daughter. This ranch is not so successful as it might appear. There are debts … too many debts. Dona Olivia will be forced to sell after I am gone. Rancho Rinconada de los Robles will be no more.”

“The artifacts may still be recovered-”

“No, they will not be. They are lost forever.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because of the missing page. Luis Cordova did not have it; I would have found it if he had, or you would have. He did not lie. It was lost.”

“The rest of the letter isn't enough? Not even with the words on the torn corner?”

“No. Last night, all night, I studied the two pages. The missing directions cannot be reconstructed.” Contempt animated Velasquez's voice as he continued. “Most of the letter is an apology to the traitor's wife. He was sorry he had stolen the statue of the Virgin Mary. He was sorry for his betrayal of Don Esteban. He begged her and God to forgive him. He did this terrible thing only for her sake and that of his child.”

“Just as you did a terrible thing for the sake of your wife and child,” Quincannon said. “Is there really so much difference between you and Tomas Cordova?”

“A foolish question. I am not a traitor.”

“What are you, then? A martyr like you believe your father to be?”

“I am Felipe, son of Don Esteban. I have given him a small measure of vengeance.”

A coldness like the touch of dead fingers brushed Quincannon's neck. There was no longer any anger left in him. He felt nothing toward the dying man in the chair, not even pity.

“You're proud of what you've done,” he said flatly. “There is not a shred of remorse in you, is there.”

“Remorse? Why should there be? I ended the life of a traitor's son-a coward and a thief himself. He kept the statue all those years. He did not return it to my family. He did not give us the traitor's letter.”

“Perhaps he was ashamed.”

“Bah. It is we who were shamed by him and his father.”

“And Pablo? Do you feel remorse for him? Or don't you admit he died because of you?”

“He died because he was loyal,” Velasquez said. “As Don Esteban's servants died for him. His death is an honorable one.”

“What would mine have been? Would you have found honor in murdering me, too?”

Velasquez made no reply. But none was needed: Quincannon knew the answer. He was a gringo, and in the eyes of Felipe Antonio Abregon y Velasquez, son of Don Esteban the martyred nobleman, all gringos were the enemy. Use one if it suits one purpose; kill one if it suits another. There is never any regret in the death of an enemy.

A silence built between them. Velasquez stared into the fire with his dull, empty eyes. Outside, the wind began to buffet the house, rattling shutters; it would not be long before the storm broke. The air in the room, Quincannon thought, was like the air outside: heavy, oppressive, static with an aura of repressed violence. He found it difficult to breathe, as if there were no longer enough oxygen-or enough space-for the two of them to share.

Velasquez seemed to feel the same sense of suffocation. He said without turning his head, “I would like to be alone now, senor. You will please leave for a few minutes.”

A thought entered Quincannon's mind, made him hesitate. But only for a moment. He refused to take hold of the thought, let it slide away into a recess of his consciousness. He backed to the door, not looking anymore at the dying man in the chair, and left the study. And it was not until he closed the door that he finally holstered his revolver.

Barnaby O'Hare was waiting when he stepped out onto the gallery. The historian's moon face was troubled. “Is everything all right, Mr. Quincannon?”

Quincannon said nothing. He moved to the railing, stood staring into the courtyard. The day had turned very dark; the sky overhead boiled with thick, black-veined clouds. As he watched, the first drops of rain began to pelt down.

Beside him O'Hare said diffidently, “Mr. Quincannon?”

“Yes. Everything is all right.”

“You seemed so upset a few minutes ago …”

“I was. Not any longer.”

“Then you found Senor Velasquez?”

“I found him.”

“He isn't ill, is he?” O'Hare asked. And when Quincannon didn't answer, “I've been afraid he might be. He wouldn't speak to me when I returned. He … well, he acted strangely. He sent his wife and daughter away, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“No,” Quincannon said. “But I know why now.”

“Perhaps he needs a doctor …”

“There is nothing a doctor can do for him. Nothing anyone can do.”

Lightning flashed in the distance; thunder cracked. Quincannon watched the rain, listening.

Inside the house, inside the study, there was a noise like a small sharp echo of the thunder: a single pistol shot.

O'Hare said, “Oh my God!” and ran for the door. Quincannon stayed where he was and watched the rain, no longer listening.