House on Fire

30

Devastated, I followed Santiago along the low stone wall for a few hundred feet until the wall ended. Ahead, a path led steeply down to the gulley.

I was in a state of shock, or close to it. At the same time, I felt queasy. Maggie had been on her way into the house; how could she have been diverted back to the yard and the adjacent property? It didn’t make sense.

“Por aquí. Empujé la carretilla pa’ acá pa’ tirar la hojarasca del jardín. Y entonces me topé con... esto.” He’d rolled his wheelbarrow down here to dump the leaves from the yard and then he saw the body down below.

Soon we were clambering over the low stone wall and down the steep hill. Santiago was like a mountain goat, steady on his feet, grabbing branches to steady himself. I followed his lead. It was steep enough that you could lose your footing and tumble headlong. But I held on to brush and vines and branches and rock faces. I stepped carefully, finally turned around to face the hillside. Then I climbed down using my hands and legs, like it was some climbing wall in a fancy gym.

I saw the body again and scrambled through the woods toward it.

Maggie Benson lay on the ground, her white T-shirt soiled, her legs and arms splayed oddly. Her copper wig was astray. I knelt beside her. From this angle I could see her face. Her eyes were open, staring. It looked like her neck was broken.

There was no question she was dead; I didn’t need to feel her pulse.

No envelope, no file on the ground near her, but I didn’t expect there would be.

“No lo toque,” the gardener warned me as he approached. “No toque al muerto.” Don’t touch the body.

He waggled his index finger. He knew something about American police work.