“Why do you keep talking about time?”
“I am dying,” Velasquez said without inflection. “The doctor in Santa Barbara … it was him I saw that night, before I went to Cordova's.… He told me I have only a short while to live. A few weeks, no more.” He coughed again. “Cancer, senor. Now do you understand?”
Some of the anger went out of Quincannon. He moved closer to Velasquez, into the warmth of the fire. The Remington felt heavy in his hand, but still he did not pouch it. “Yes,” he said, “now I understand.”
“It was not for me that I wished to recover the artifacts. It was for my wife and daughter. This ranch is not so successful as it might appear. There are debts … too many debts. Dona Olivia will be forced to sell after I am gone. Rancho Rinconada de los Robles will be no more.”
“The artifacts may still be recovered-”
“No, they will not be. They are lost forever.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because of the missing page. Luis Cordova did not have it; I would have found it if he had, or you would have. He did not lie. It was lost.”
“The rest of the letter isn't enough? Not even with the words on the torn corner?”
“No. Last night, all night, I studied the two pages. The missing directions cannot be reconstructed.” Contempt animated Velasquez's voice as he continued. “Most of the letter is an apology to the traitor's wife. He was sorry he had stolen the statue of the Virgin Mary. He was sorry for his betrayal of Don Esteban. He begged her and God to forgive him. He did this terrible thing only for her sake and that of his child.”
“Just as you did a terrible thing for the sake of your wife and child,” Quincannon said. “Is there really so much difference between you and Tomas Cordova?”
“A foolish question. I am not a traitor.”
“What are you, then? A martyr like you believe your father to be?”
“I am Felipe, son of Don Esteban. I have given him a small measure of vengeance.”
A coldness like the touch of dead fingers brushed Quincannon's neck. There was no longer any anger left in him. He felt nothing toward the dying man in the chair, not even pity.
“You're proud of what you've done,” he said flatly. “There is not a shred of remorse in you, is there.”
“Remorse? Why should there be? I ended the life of a traitor's son-a coward and a thief himself. He kept the statue all those years. He did not return it to my family. He did not give us the traitor's letter.”
“Perhaps he was ashamed.”
“Bah. It is we who were shamed by him and his father.”
“And Pablo? Do you feel remorse for him? Or don't you admit he died because of you?”
“He died because he was loyal,” Velasquez said. “As Don Esteban's servants died for him. His death is an honorable one.”
“What would mine have been? Would you have found honor in murdering me, too?”
Velasquez made no reply. But none was needed: Quincannon knew the answer. He was a gringo, and in the eyes of Felipe Antonio Abregon y Velasquez, son of Don Esteban the martyred nobleman, all gringos were the enemy. Use one if it suits one purpose; kill one if it suits another. There is never any regret in the death of an enemy.
A silence built between them. Velasquez stared into the fire with his dull, empty eyes. Outside, the wind began to buffet the house, rattling shutters; it would not be long before the storm broke. The air in the room, Quincannon thought, was like the air outside: heavy, oppressive, static with an aura of repressed violence. He found it difficult to breathe, as if there were no longer enough oxygen-or enough space-for the two of them to share.
Velasquez seemed to feel the same sense of suffocation. He said without turning his head, “I would like to be alone now, senor. You will please leave for a few minutes.”
A thought entered Quincannon's mind, made him hesitate. But only for a moment. He refused to take hold of the thought, let it slide away into a recess of his consciousness. He backed to the door, not looking anymore at the dying man in the chair, and left the study. And it was not until he closed the door that he finally holstered his revolver.
Barnaby O'Hare was waiting when he stepped out onto the gallery. The historian's moon face was troubled. “Is everything all right, Mr. Quincannon?”
Quincannon said nothing. He moved to the railing, stood staring into the courtyard. The day had turned very dark; the sky overhead boiled with thick, black-veined clouds. As he watched, the first drops of rain began to pelt down.
Beside him O'Hare said diffidently, “Mr. Quincannon?”
“Yes. Everything is all right.”
“You seemed so upset a few minutes ago …”
“I was. Not any longer.”
“Then you found Senor Velasquez?”
“I found him.”
“He isn't ill, is he?” O'Hare asked. And when Quincannon didn't answer, “I've been afraid he might be. He wouldn't speak to me when I returned. He … well, he acted strangely. He sent his wife and daughter away, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Did he tell you why?”
“No,” Quincannon said. “But I know why now.”
“Perhaps he needs a doctor …”
“There is nothing a doctor can do for him. Nothing anyone can do.”
Lightning flashed in the distance; thunder cracked. Quincannon watched the rain, listening.
Inside the house, inside the study, there was a noise like a small sharp echo of the thunder: a single pistol shot.
O'Hare said, “Oh my God!” and ran for the door. Quincannon stayed where he was and watched the rain, no longer listening.
PART VII
1986
ONE
I set the photostats of Quincannon's notes aside and sat staring at a spider that was spinning a web on one of Sam's straggly rosebushes. This final installment of the detective's story had left me with a curious and conflicting assortment of emotions.
Disappointment, of course, because for all his efforts he had not uncovered the hiding place of the Velasquez treasure. Sorrow, for the participants in the tragedy that had befallen the once-proud family. It was a sorrow that extended to the dead: to Felipe Velasquez, whose life had been twisted and finally destroyed by his obsession with finding the missing artifacts; to his wife, Olivia, the innocent bystander. But I particularly felt a keen sympathy for the still-living Sofia Manuela: From the way she had spoken of her father, the “great man,” it was apparent her mother had not told her that Felipe had died a suicide and a murderer. But I wondered if at some point Sofia had found out at least part of it; if perhaps that knowledge-rather than sentiment-was why she could never bear to look through the papers in the wooden box she kept under her bed.
To me, Felipe Velasquez had been a strange man. We were of the same culture, descended from the same people, but his attitude of hatred and superiority toward Anglos was something I couldn't fathom-even for those times. Of course I'd felt some resentment of Anglos in my lifetime; it hadn't been easy growing up in Santa Barbara, where even the poorest of them seemed to have so much; I still hurt when I remembered running home from school in tears because a classmate had taunted me about my mother cleaning her mother's house for a living. But hate Anglos? Feel inferior or superior to them? No. Maybe the difference between me and Felipe Velasquez-besides the obvious one of time and circumstances-was that I hadn't been raised to hate.
In spite of my sadness and disappointment over the outcome of Quincannon's case, I also felt an even greater excitement than before. In his informal notes, there had been more richness of detail, and he had indulged in a fair amount of speculation; it was as if he'd used these notes to order his thoughts before setting down the bare and still-confusing facts for the final time. Reading them, it was easy to sense Quincannon's anger and frustration.