Beyond the Grave

TWO

Gray's face was an almost translucent white, the skin drawn taut over his cheekbones. His lips curled back like those of an animal about to attack. It was his eyes that frightened me the most: black holes in which pinpoints of fury glittered.

I got to my feet slowly, pain biting into the small of my back where I had twisted it. Gray stepped forward, and I smelled the sharp odor of bourbon. The liquor had not affected his control, however: he was steady on his feet, poised to spring at me, and the bunching of his fists at his sides suggested a brute strength.

He said, “Doing a little treasure hunting, lady?”

I said, “Yes, but there's nothing here.”

“Nothing here.” He laughed, a sound that abruptly cut off before it reached its crescendo. Goose bumps rose over my whole body, and I thought: This is the way it was when he killed her.

Gray said, “Nothing here but Georgia.”

Involuntarily I glanced back at the cairn of rocks.

He smiled, but the feral set of his face turned it into a snarl. He said, “I see you've already met my wife.”

The goose bumps rippled again, icy cold. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear its thrum in my ears. I took a step backward.

“Wha's the matter-don't you like my joke?” Gray lunged at me, but I sidestepped, and he staggered, then fell to one knee.

I turned and ran toward the other side of the ruins.

“Come back here, you goddamn bitch!”

I glanced over my shoulder. He had regained his feet and was running after me. Looking down at the ground, I saw a chunk of red tile. I scooped it up, and when he was within a couple of yards of me, I threw it hard. It missed his head but smacked into his left shoulder. He jerked his right hand up, clutched the place where it had hit, and the motion put his balance off. I jumped over the foundation and ran into the graveyard.

Something-a tangle of weeds, one of the low gravestones-caught my foot, and I fell heavily. For a moment I was stunned, face pressed into the grass. Then I heard Gray rush at me, overshooting the spot where I lay. I pushed up on both elbows and saw him stop, disoriented, midway between the graveyard and the grove of oak trees. As I got up, he whirled and saw me.

I expected him to run at me again, but instead he stood, fists clenched, feet spread wide apart. “Come on, bitch,” he said, “what're you going to do now?”

I glanced around frantically, uncertain which way to go. Gray was blocking my path to the road-and the safety of my car.

He said, “Face it, bitch, you're caught. Thought you could run out on me, didn't you? Clean out the bank account and take off for Peru. Never come back.”

Madre de Dios! I thought. He's lost his mind. He thinks I'm his wife.

“We'll see about that,” Gray said. “Now we'll see.”

As he started back toward me I turned and ran, not caring where. Pain stabbed at my back as I skirted the high headstone of Don Esteban Velasquez. At the edge of the cemetery my foot caught in a tangle of vines, and I stumbled almost to my knees but kept on going. Behind me Gray had also begun to run; his breath came in grunts and wheezes.

My own breath came hard, and I heard myself sob. The pain in my back was worse now, a fiery searing that brought tears to my eyes. I ignored it and raced across the field of wildflowers. Ahead was the stone lavanderia. Perhaps there I would find some sort of weapon….

Gray was gaining on me, only about ten yards away. I rounded the old well and looked inside. Nothing but stones and beer cans, and they were too far down to reach. Sobbing again, this time in frustration, I changed my course, running for the knoll where Quincannon had been ambushed. There were rocks up there. I could throw them at Gray-if I could run that distance….

But before I could get very far, he hurled himself forward and dived at my feet. His outstretched hands grabbed my right ankle. I bent my left knee, flailed my arms for balance, tried to kick out at him. There was a wrenching spasm in my back, and I fell heavily to the ground.

Gray was on top of me now, his knees on my back, intensifying the pain. His hands grasped my neck from behind, fingers reaching forward toward my throat. I tried to shake him off, but the pain prevented that. I screamed, my face pressed into the weeds, but the cry came out a mere gurgle.

Behind me Gray's voice was shouting: “Bitch! You'll never leave me!” The shouts were loud at first, then fainter, replaced by a buzzing in my ears. Tears were running down my face now. I tried to move my arms, but they felt numb. And there was the terrible, terrible pain in my back….

A second voice began shouting in counterpoint to Gray's. The words were in Spanish: “Basta! Basta! Hijo de puta!”

Gray's body began to heave up and down, as if something were shaking it. His fingers loosened on my neck. For a moment his hands clutched at my shoulders, pulling my upper body away from the ground. Then he let go, and I fell flat. I felt him being dragged from me, heard grunts and scuffling. Then someone crashed to the ground beside me.

I tried to roll onto my side, but hands grabbed me again. Terror and rage flooded me and gave me the strength to scream. This time it came out a keening shriek. Above the sound, a man's voice said, “Elena, Elena, esta bien! Esta Arturo. Esta bien, Elena!”

A hand, lean and long-fingered, touched my cheek. An arm supported me, helped me sit up. I cried out from the pain in my back, pressed my wet face into Arturo Melendez's rough wool shirt.

“Elena,” he said, “are you all right?”

I hiccuped, cutting off a sob.

“Elena?”

I pulled back from his chest, scrubbed at my face with one hand. “What happened to-”

“For now, he is unconscious.”

I opened my eyes. Arturo's face was directly in front of mine, made thin and pale by concern. He knelt beside me, one arm around my shoulders. Gray lay on the ground not three feet away from us, on his back, arms and legs splayed out. His eyes were closed, and blood trickled from a gash on his forehead.

“Elena,” Arturo said, “what happened?”

“You didn't see …?”

He shook his head. “I was walking on the far side of the hill, where I often go, by the ruins of the hacienda. I heard Gray shout. When I reached this side, he was chasing you across the field.”

I sighed and brought both hands to my face, blocking out the sight of the supine figure. “Gray killed his wife,” I said shakily. “That's what all this drinking has been about. She's buried over there under that pile of stones by the wall of the church. I found her.”

Arturo sucked in his breath. For a long moment neither of us spoke.

Then he said, “We must go for the police.”

“You go. I don't know if I can walk.” And then I remembered what I'd been about to do when I'd discovered Georgia Hollis's body. “When you come back, I want you to help me with something.”

“What?”

“Digging.”

“For what?”

“You'll see.”

Arturo looked puzzled, but merely said, “I will not leave you here with that hijo de puta. We will tie Gray up and both go for the police.”

“What if he wakes up?”

“He won't, but I almost wish he would before we go.” Arturo paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was low and ugly. “If he did, I would be only too happy to kick him in the head again. Or in the cojones, should you prefer that.”