Her eyes filled with tears. He pulled her into his arms. He could feel her shoulder blades, sharp as knives, through her dress. She was so fragile, as if she would shatter into a million pieces if he held her too long or too hard. He lowered his head to hers, and breathed in her scent —- not the lavender soap he remembered but something dusty and dry. His throat constricted and he squeezed his eyes shut against it.
She pulled away to look up at him. “The police are looking for you. They will come here.”
Frank shook his head. “They won’t come. They don’t know about this place. They don’t know who I really am.” He hesitated. “Mama, I have nowhere else to go.”
“But the others...your brother won’t allow it”
Frank stepped back and took her small shoulders in his hands. “Emilio is dead.”
Her eyes widened. “Dead?”
“It was an accident,” Frank said. “I didn’t mean to do it. We were fighting, and —-”
She eased from his grip and covered her face with her hands. Frank hung his head, rubbing his face. Emilio had been right. He shouldn’t have come back. Kincaid or someone would eventually trace him here. The police would come. And they would find out about the girls and what they did here, what they had been doing here for decades.
“Francisco.”
Frank looked at his mother.
“Where is he? Where is your brother?”
Frank looked down toward the mangroves. She followed his gaze and started toward the water, but he put his hands on her shoulders, stopping her.
“I’ll take care of him,” he said. “Then I will go.”
Her fingers curled around his forearm. “Go? Where?”
“Back. If I turn myself in, they’ll leave you alone. If I don’t go back, they’ll come here.”
“No,” she said. “I lost you once. I won’t lose you again. You will stay here now.”
Frank shook his head. “No, Mama, there’s no way that can happen now.”
Her grip on his arm tightened. He was surprised by her strength.
“There is a way,” she said. “I know a way you can stay and they will not come here looking for you. Frater tuus mortuus est. Voluntas dei est. Nunc ille locum tuum sumet et tu suum sumes.”
Frank stared at his mother, too stunned to answer.
“Francisco, do you understand?” she asked.
He hesitated, then nodded.
“Tell me you understand,” she said firmly.
“Sic intellego,” he whispered.
She touched his face.
“What about the others?” he asked.
“They will do as I say. They always have.”
Frank shook his head. “I’m so sorry, Mama,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to kill him. I didn’t —-”
Her hands came up to his cheek and he felt their dry caress. “I know. Everything will be all right. You are home now.”
Frank reached up and took his mother’s hands from his face. He covered her small hands with his own, holding them for a moment, then turned away.
He looked down into the dark mangroves. He could just make out the white of his brother’s shirt. He didn’t want to look at it. He didn’t want to do what he knew he had to.
Your brother is dead. It is God’s will. You must take his place and he must take yours.
He looked back at his mother. “Go back to the house, Mama,” he said. “I’ll take care of everything.”
He started down toward the mangroves. It was quiet, just the sound of the water lapping against the roots. There was nothing to break the darkness, not one light not one boat, no sign that there was another world somewhere out there.
He knelt in the mud and began to unbutton his brother’s shirt. When he had undressed him, he took off his own red shirt and shorts, putting them on his brother. Mustering the last of his strength, he slowly dragged the body back into the water.
He started wading out, away from shore, guiding the body in front of him. When the water was chest-high, he stopped. He brought up his hand and slipped off his gold wedding band. He put it on his brother’s left hand.
Lightning flashed behind the billowing banks of thunderheads, but there was no thunder. There was no noise at all except for the lapping of the water and the pounding in his temples. The currents were swirling around him. He let go, and his brother’s body began to drift away.
“Ave atque vale, Frank Woods,” he whispered.
CHAPTER 27
Louis slammed the screen door to his cottage, ripping off his shirt as he headed to the kitchen. He threw the shirt in a corner and yanked open the refrigerator. No fucking beer.
His eyes lasered up to the bottle of Remy Martin that Roberta had forced on him after the storm. He pulled it down, and took off the cap.