mustard, their lunch. She pushed them away. Two soldiers, the ones who had clubbed Wallace, dragged Bugazi’s body behind a trash can. Other soldiers held Wallace’s head up to give him coffee. A squad of United States paratroopers jumped from the sides of the Blackhawk and fanned out. Their uniforms were remarkably clean.
The Romanian who had brought the order for her death now stood in the center of the courtyard waving a white rag and calling out, “Vee luf America.”
5
Four weeks later
Santa Marina, CA
The sun pushed through the fog. The oak trees came into view, their tops barely visible over the adobe wall of the mission’s cemetery.
Father Ramon had instructed the workers, a laborer and a backhoe operator, to dig the footings down three feet. He had also told them that this part of the cemetery, half an acre in the north corner once used as a garden, was clear: there were no gas or water mains to dig into, no electricity or TV cables to cut through, and, most certainly, there were no bodies or coffins to dislodge.
Earlier this morning, after a surveyor had set hubs for elevation, the laborer painted in the footings with orange paint, and the backhoe operator began digging.
By measuring each section of new ditch with a pole marked at three feet, the laborer made sure that the operator dug no deeper than required. When the ditch was at the right depth, he signaled with a sideways chopping of his right hand and the operator moved the backhoe forward to dig another set.
As the sun baked off more fog, the coastal mountains cleared, and the laborer set his grade pole down. He walked over to the spoils pile and kicked at something.
Wanting to move on - the cement trucks were coming at three - the operator yelled over the engine, “You gonna check grade or what?”
“You pulled something up!” the laborer shouted.
The operator hoped that it was not a telephone line. The optical ones were underground and expensive. The priest had said the ground was clear, no utilities, so if he had hit a line it would be on the priest. He killed the engine and leaned out of the cab. “What is it?”
“I think it’s a leg,” the laborer said slowly.
“What?”
The laborer nudged it with the toe of his boot. The skin was wrinkled and tea colored. “A leg,” he said and reached down with his hand.
“Don’t touch the goddamn thing!”
The laborer jerked his hand back. “Feels like leather.”
“I said don’t touch it.” The operator climbed down. He looked at the pile of dirt, the leg, and the twisted leather sandal still attached to the foot. “You’d better go get the fat guy,” he said. “Go get Ramon.”
The laborer ran off. The operator touched the leg. It did feel like leather.
Reese Tarrant walked from his new apartment to the beach and Foggy Ben’s diner for breakfast. Another dull day in Santa Marina, he thought. The fog was drifting out to sea and he was drifting with it. He could smell the salt from the ocean and below that the low-tide smell of seaweed and maybe a dead fish or two thrown in with it.
From Foggy Ben’s, if you went along the beach road, palm lined and sand blown, there were bars and fast food joints, liquor stores, porno shops, several desultory whores, and a tattoo parlor, typical for any beach town.
Up ahead, the mission’s twin bell towers broke through the haze. The parking lot was deserted, still too early for tourists. Over the low adobe wall, topped with faded and cracked Spanish tile, imbedded with shards of broken glass for the over-curious, he saw a backhoe kicking up dust, and, through the dust, a worker leaning against his shovel.
The path lay between the crumbling asphalt road and cottages sitting quaint and dreamlike behind white picket fences and country gardens. It was a lovely town, and, for a moment, he wished he were retired.
But he was working, and, for the first time in years, he was not sure how things would turn out. He was alone. No backup. The
The Romanian who had brought the order for her death now stood in the center of the courtyard waving a white rag and calling out, “Vee luf America.”
5
Four weeks later
Santa Marina, CA
The sun pushed through the fog. The oak trees came into view, their tops barely visible over the adobe wall of the mission’s cemetery.
Father Ramon had instructed the workers, a laborer and a backhoe operator, to dig the footings down three feet. He had also told them that this part of the cemetery, half an acre in the north corner once used as a garden, was clear: there were no gas or water mains to dig into, no electricity or TV cables to cut through, and, most certainly, there were no bodies or coffins to dislodge.
Earlier this morning, after a surveyor had set hubs for elevation, the laborer painted in the footings with orange paint, and the backhoe operator began digging.
By measuring each section of new ditch with a pole marked at three feet, the laborer made sure that the operator dug no deeper than required. When the ditch was at the right depth, he signaled with a sideways chopping of his right hand and the operator moved the backhoe forward to dig another set.
As the sun baked off more fog, the coastal mountains cleared, and the laborer set his grade pole down. He walked over to the spoils pile and kicked at something.
Wanting to move on - the cement trucks were coming at three - the operator yelled over the engine, “You gonna check grade or what?”
“You pulled something up!” the laborer shouted.
The operator hoped that it was not a telephone line. The optical ones were underground and expensive. The priest had said the ground was clear, no utilities, so if he had hit a line it would be on the priest. He killed the engine and leaned out of the cab. “What is it?”
“I think it’s a leg,” the laborer said slowly.
“What?”
The laborer nudged it with the toe of his boot. The skin was wrinkled and tea colored. “A leg,” he said and reached down with his hand.
“Don’t touch the goddamn thing!”
The laborer jerked his hand back. “Feels like leather.”
“I said don’t touch it.” The operator climbed down. He looked at the pile of dirt, the leg, and the twisted leather sandal still attached to the foot. “You’d better go get the fat guy,” he said. “Go get Ramon.”
The laborer ran off. The operator touched the leg. It did feel like leather.
Reese Tarrant walked from his new apartment to the beach and Foggy Ben’s diner for breakfast. Another dull day in Santa Marina, he thought. The fog was drifting out to sea and he was drifting with it. He could smell the salt from the ocean and below that the low-tide smell of seaweed and maybe a dead fish or two thrown in with it.
From Foggy Ben’s, if you went along the beach road, palm lined and sand blown, there were bars and fast food joints, liquor stores, porno shops, several desultory whores, and a tattoo parlor, typical for any beach town.
Up ahead, the mission’s twin bell towers broke through the haze. The parking lot was deserted, still too early for tourists. Over the low adobe wall, topped with faded and cracked Spanish tile, imbedded with shards of broken glass for the over-curious, he saw a backhoe kicking up dust, and, through the dust, a worker leaning against his shovel.
The path lay between the crumbling asphalt road and cottages sitting quaint and dreamlike behind white picket fences and country gardens. It was a lovely town, and, for a moment, he wished he were retired.
But he was working, and, for the first time in years, he was not sure how things would turn out. He was alone. No backup. The
Similar Books
