But his search had not been completely fruitless. He thought he knew now who had written the missing document, and why; and he thought he knew, too, how the statue of the Virgin Mary had come into Luis Cordova's possession. Several letters and an inscription in the Cordova family Bible had given him those answers.
Luis Cordova had not been born in Oaxaca, Mexico; he had been born on Rancho Rinconada de los Robles, in the year 1840. His father and mother had both been in the employ of Don Esteban, and the family had lived at the rancho's pueblo. Luis and his mother had fled to Santa Barbara the day before the siege by Fremont's troops, with the other women and children. His father, Tomas, had stayed behind to fight-and to die. It seemed clear now that Tomas Cordova had helped Don Esteban and Padre Urbano secrete the artifacts; it also seemed clear that he was not as trustworthy as they had considered him to be. He had managed to steal the statue of the Virgin Mary and to pass it on to his wife before she and Luis fled. And he had written down for her the location of the remaining artifacts, so that she or Luis might someday return for them. It was this document that was now in the murderer's hands.
But there were still unanswered questions. Had Tomas Cordova's wife returned for the cache of artifacts? Or had Luis, when he was old enough? And if they hadn't, for reasons of their own, were the artifacts still in their original hiding place, waiting to be carried away by the man who had killed Luis?
And who was that man? Who had the missing document?
Quincannon continued to scowl. He did not like cases involving murder. Nor was he fond of complex mysteries, as adept as he often was at solving them. Cerebral detection might be child's play for Sherlock Holmes; for John Frederick Quincannon it was damned hard work.
He tucked half a dozen personal letters into his coat pocket for future reference. Then, cautiously, he let himself out of the rooms, pausing among the olive branches to make certain there was no one on the boardwalk or street below before descending. The few people in the vicinity seemed to pay him no attention as he went to his horse, mounted, turned away from the dry-goods store.
Mas alia del sepulcro, he was thinking. Donde Maria. What was the significance of those two phrases? They were key phrases, he was sure, to the location of the original hiding place of the artifacts-perhaps so vital that without them, the person who had stolen the document would not be able to determine the exact location. Donde Maria. Where Maria. Where Maria what? Who was Maria?
As he rode back toward the center of town, the first phrase began to haunt him-to repeat itself in his mind in a kind of macabre litany.
Mas alia del sepulcro.
Beyond the grave.
PART V
1986
ONE
Mas alia del sepulcro. Donde Maria.
The words repeated in my mind as they must have in John Quincannon's. They echoed as I waited in the strange motel bed for sleep to come. They haunted my troubled dreams. The dreams were peopled by the vague figures of Felipe Velasquez, Luis Cordova, James Evans, Bamaby O'Hare, and Oliver Witherspoon, who spoke and moved and did various things, although I couldn't really see them. The only person who appeared perfectly clear to me was John Quincannon.
I could visualize him: a big man, maybe bearded, with a slightly ruddy complexion, possibly from a fond indulgence in drink. And I could hear him talking over the events that had transpired, speculating on what their significance might be in a low, contemplative voice. By the time the fog-filtered morning light had crept around the poorly fitting motel curtains, Quincannon and I had had quite a talk.
Who had killed Luis Cordova? And what was the meaning of mas alia del sepulcro and donde Maria? Had Quincannon found out?
I continued mulling over these questions as I drove north toward Santa Barbara. I'd waited until most of the rush hour traffic had cleared before I'd started, but even so, it was slow traveling until I was past Van Nuys. The delay didn't bother me as much as it normally would have, however; I had other things to occupy my mind.
I was terribly disappointed that this second section of Quincannon's report had also ended abruptly. Had still more of it survived? And if so, where was it? Of one thing I was certain: If the report had survived to the present day, I would find it one way or another.
At Thousand Oaks, the freeway widened, and I put on speed as I began to descend the Conejo Grade. My attention began to wander further and further from my driving, and I resumed my imaginary dialogue with Quincannon. We discussed the problem of what he and I should do next all the way to Ventura, and it was only when I had to slam on my brakes for a slowdown caused by a closed lane that I realized how strange my internal conversation sounded-even to me.
The truth was, I'd developed an eerie connection to a man who had probably been dead for forty years or more. I wasn't viewing Quincannon or his long-ago investigation as something out of a history book. Instead I was living it along with the detective, at the same time that I was driving on this twentieth-century freeway. I could speak mentally with him, almost see and touch him. It was almost as if John Quincannon were trying to reach out of the past and tell me something.
The thought made me feel strange and a little frightened. I tried to laugh it off, blame it on my heritage from my superstitious ancestors. When that didn't work, I turned the car radio on to a country-and-western station-I'd developed a fondness for that kind of music after a trip last summer to Bakersfield, the self-proclaimed country-and-western capital of California-and tried to take my mind off 1894 by singing along to songs about present-day heartbreak and drunkenness the rest of the way to Santa Barbara.
When I arrived in town, it was time to visit Mama, so I drove directly to the hospital. I'd called her the night before from the motel, and she'd been somewhat short with me. I hoped she'd be in a better mood this morning, and when I first entered her room, it seemed my wish had been granted. She was on the phone, but she ended the conversation quickly and looked up at me with a smile.
“That was Tia Constanza,” she said.
“Funny, I was just thinking about her yesterday. How is she?”
“Not so good. Tom is coming out of prison next week, and she doesn't know what to do with him.”
“Is he going to live with her?”
“For a while, she says.”
“So why does she have to do anything with him? Tom's an adult. He needs a place to stay and a job, not a lot of mothering.”
Mama glared at me. “You are all alike, aren't you? You think you're so grown-up and wise, but you're really just children inside.”
I proved her point by shrugging sullenly, but at the same time I felt a bit of relief. That glare told me Mama was getting better.
“So,” she said after a moment, “why did you go to Santa Monica?”
I didn't want to go into the subject of Quincannon and his report right now. If I got started, I might confess about the odd relationship I'd developed with a dead man, and the last thing I needed was my practical, hardheaded mother telling me I was loca. “Museum business,” I said.
“What? I thought you were on vacation.”
“I am, sort of.”
“I thought you were going to use the week to relax and spend some time with Dave and see about getting the house painted.”
I was silent, fingering the Venetian blind cord on the window next to me.
“Well? You know if you don't get that house painted, you could have serious problems. The last time it was done was in 1968. Another winter with the kind of rains we've been having, and you'll see moss growing on it, and next you'll have to replace the stucco-”