The Lady Sleuths MEGAPACK TM(937)

                “That actually strengthens his story. We thought perhaps a romantic interest, although he never said that. It was clear, however, that they were friends. On the day he waited for her, but she never showed up, and he left.”

                “But why didn’t he return to the campsite and help in the search?” I could not conceal an accusatory note.

                “He never intended to return. He was leaving for good. He said that he was frightened by Ernesto.”



                             “Ernesto? A much older man, is that right?”

                “Yes. What the people called a brujo—a sorcerer. You rightly identified him as a priest of the old religion.”

                “Your grandfather believed in his powers?”

                “He believed in Ernesto’s power over Petrus Jonken. If there was trouble between the young Jonkens, you can be sure it was because of that man.”

                That was something I hadn’t consciously articulated, but I felt it was true. “He encouraged Petrus about the city—and he turned out to be right.”

                “My grandfather was sure Ernesto knew all along where the ruins were. He just wasn’t willing to tell.”

                “What changed his mind?”

                “I was hoping you knew that. I think he was waiting for something, perhaps something that would excuse, or exorcise, the guilt of bringing a foreigner to the sacred site.”

                “What would that something be?” My voice sounded small as if I’d lost the air under my diaphragm.

                “Some sacrifice,” Fuentes suggested. “As in the old days.”

                There was another long silence. I waited until I could no longer resist the idea which must first have insinuated itself on the day Matt called me downstairs. “Are you good on bones?” I asked, and when he said he was, I told him there was an anomaly in the collection.

                We took the box down to the laboratory. As we opened it, I smelled the dust and the faint earthy scent of old bone.

                “There,” I said, “you can see the length of the leg and arm bones.”

                The body was damaged, too, the breastbone, split, and the ribs, broken. Matt and I had believed—or pretended to believe—that was shipping damage, but in the clear white light of the lab, I was unconvinced.

                Fuentes pulled on gloves and began to examine the bones, handling them with care, even tenderness. On the way downstairs he told me that he’d done volunteer forensic work in both Guatemala and Bosnia. I did not want to imagine what he had seen or the immense catalogue of suffering he had amassed. I, personally, have a fearful imagination, which, doubtless, will keep me from doing anything of great significance.



                             Now and then Dr. Fuentes gave a soft grunt, but he did not speak until he had completed his examination and was completely sure in his own mind about the conclusions.

                “We would have to do carbon dating to be sure, but I believe this to be a modern skeleton—it’s certainly nowhere near as old as the rest of the bones. She was in her early twenties, a well nourished woman who had never done hard manual labor. The teeth are excellent, only two missing. Caucasian. My guess would be she was of Scandinavian extraction.”

                My heart skipped a beat. Alice Jonken’s maiden name was Grieg. “Do you know how she died?” I asked.