Betrayed (40 page)

It was exactly as she’d imagined it. Or remembered.

Still being cautious, Cesar tugged Vicki to a halt short of a sparkle of sunlight. A grove of orange trees spread their limbs, the rotting fruit underfoot signal that this season’s crop had not been harvested. The low-hanging branches didn’t screen what lay beyond. The hamlet held perhaps twenty to thirty houses. These were just four bamboo walls roofed with thatch, clustered around an open area, once worn bare but now a tangle of grasses, vines, and brush. The village commons, soccer field, gathering place.

Around each hut, weed-choked patches of corn and bananas and fruit trees made a yard of sorts. To the left across the open ground was the hamlet’s only solid construction: a cinder-block rectangle with a corrugated tin roof. At the far side of the commons, Vicki could see the ruts where vehicles had made their way into the village.

Like a battered red Jeep.

I remember! I remember Papa driving
.

Everywhere she looked was familiar. How had she forgotten so completely what had once been her whole world?

Except that in Vicki’s memory there was no empty silence, but women stirring food pots under the thatched cooking shelters. Children kicking a soccer ball. Men swinging in hammocks under the fruit trees. And beyond the dirt track on a wide veranda edged with flowering pots, a dark-haired woman with Vicki’s face fussing over the bandage on a child’s leg. A tall blond giant raising a 35-millimeter camera. A toddler with hair like the moon at night peeping through an open door.

Vicki turned. The wood and brick home with multiple rooms that her father had created for his family had been a novelty to the villagers. But where it should have been between two thatched huts was instead an irregular mound overgrown with vines and brush that might have been charcoaled debris. The sight of it was a blade ripping through twenty years of rejected memory.

No! No!

The light filtering through branch and leaf was no longer sunshine but flames leaping high against a black night. In front of those flames, men in uniform argued over possessions she recognized. Someone lifted a camera and laughed. Then tall shapes separated from the others, voices frightening in their sharp anger. “
No witnesses . . . Those kids aren’t local. . . . Get away from those cameras!
”

Now Vicki reached frantically to retrieve that veil, no longer wanting to remember. But she could no longer push memory away. The bodies, piled in a careless heap, bloodied and still, dead eyes wide and staring. Faces of children who had been her playmates. Adults to whom she’d run for an indulgent smile and pat.

Papa! Mama!

Vicki didn’t know the retching sound was hers until Cesar shook her hard. “Vee-kee! Señorita Vee-kee!”

She came back to dappled sunshine, the scent of overripe oranges crushed under knees and hands, Cesar’s drawn face above hers. Only the emptiness of her stomach had kept her from making a total fool of herself.

Yanking an orange from a branch, Cesar sliced it open with a pocketknife. “Here. This will help.”

Vicki sucked at the fruit gratefully, its sweet acidity settling her stomach enough to push herself back to her feet.

“Come! It is enough. We should go.” Cesar looked around apprehensively. How loud had she been?

But Vicki shook her head adamantly. “No, I’m all right now. Please, I remember . . . everything! I just want you to tell me—why? Why this village? Why my parents? Surely even then killing American citizens was hardly standard practice. And why was it reported as a robbery? How could they cover up what happened all these years?”

Despite herself, Vicki’s voice began to rise. “You knew the truth of what happened here. How come in all these years you never told it?”

“The truth!” Cesar’s tone lost some of his own restraint. “I still do not know all the truth of what happened. As to why our village, why not? There were many villages destroyed in those days by the army. Then I believed it was because of the guerrillas. They came the day before the army, demanding food for their troops, bringing us into the schoolhouse.”

He gestured toward the cinder-block rectangle. “They did not hurt us; they wanted only to speak about our rights to a better life. The elders could not say no because they had guns. But they were afraid the army would find
la guerrilla
had come. Then your father came and asked the guerrillas to go. And because he was known to be a good man and to help our people, they went, taking only some bags of corn to feed themselves. But there must have been a
soplón
because the very next day the army came.”

The term
soplón
, literally a “blower of air,” had come to mean the countless informants who for fear or greed or even revenge carried tales to the eager ears of police or military.

“They demanded the guerrillas be turned over to them. Again your father spoke for the village. Oh, but he became angry. He told them there were no guerrillas here. He told them he was a
periodista
and would tell the world of their abuse if they did not leave us alone. And they went. But that night they came back. I thought then it was because of the
soplón
, that this traitor had informed the army that
la guerrilla
had been welcomed into our village. But now . . .”

As Cesar hesitated, Vicki urged impatiently, “Yes? But now what?”

Cesar looked away from Vicki as he said slowly, “When I became a student and came to know more of
la situación
and all that happened beyond our village too, I came to wonder if it was not because of the pictures.”

“What pictures?”

“Your father’s pictures.
Los militares
do not like to have their actions questioned or their violence publicized. And your father took pictures of the soldiers rounding up the people, striking women and children. More, the soldiers had with them three bodies they said were guerrillas. They demanded to know their names. Everyone knew who they were—men from the next village. But no one spoke for fear
los militares
would turn next on their families. Your father took pictures of the bodies and the soldiers with them. I saw the pictures myself when he printed them. He made the soldiers leave without completing their mission. Their
comandante
would have been very angry. He would not wish those pictures to find their way into the media. Not when the authorities had been lying to the Americans that
los militares
had changed their ways so that American aid would begin to come again into their pockets.”

Vicki’s stomach was roiling again. Was it really possible her family’s presence in the village had brought death and not the other way around?

“As to why I did not tell of what happened that day, it is simple. I was never asked. It was a common enough tale after all, and I spoke only the little Spanish your mother had taught me then. I did not know after that day what had become of you nor what had been reported to your family. I knew only that you were gone, and I was alone in the refugee camp with people who did not speak my language and despised my people. And later, when I had learned from their schools and
Tía
Maria had found me . . . You are not the only one who chose to forget the past. Besides, only the foolish protested against the army. I remained silent and took what was offered and became the first of my village to go to university. Do you think that was a betrayal?”

The harshness of his demand was a sharp reminder that Vicki had not been the only injured party. Who was she to judge? She’d at least had the foster care system. And the Andrews. Would she have done as well in his place?

“Of course not. It’s just the embassy wrote it up as a robbery. Not even as an unknown cause. It’s in the death report. They had to know it wasn’t true. That an army massacre had killed American citizens.”

“Perhaps they did not. Perhaps they knew only what
los militares
chose to tell them—that their citizens had been robbed and killed in the sierras.”

“No!” Now the harshness was in her own tone. If Cesar had spoken no Spanish twenty years before, neither had Vicki. Other words came to her mind. “
Don’t cry, sweetheart. Everything’s going to be all right. You’re safe now
.”

“No, the embassy knew all right. At least someone did. Because there were Americans with the army that night. Americans who not only knew but were involved with how—and why—my parents died.”

Chapter Thirty-One

“But of course it was the gringo who took us away that day.” Cesar looked uncomprehending at Vicki’s vehemence. “I didn’t know their words to say they were
americanos
, only foreign. But who besides
los americanos
would be in the sierras alongside our
militares
?”

Yes, who?

“Why should you think they would hurt your parents? Was the gringo not the one who took us away and did not allow the soldiers to touch us? I remember well. Though I never saw him again, I have always believed it was the gringo who left instructions at the camp for my schooling.
Los militares
would not think of such a kindness. Do you not think it is possible the gringos came only to find your parents dead? I have always heard
los americanos
do not kill without reason like
los militares
.”

“That isn’t the point. You don’t understand our government. If Americans working down here with the military even
knew
they’d butchered American citizens, if they were involved even in the cover-up . . .”

Vicki shook her head. Something she’d just said struck a chord. But the thought receded when she groped for it. And now that the first shock of memory was easing, there were other incongruities she was taking in. It had been twenty years since she’d stood under these same fruit trees looking out at the aftermath of a nightmare.

Yes, a terrible thing happened here, but it was a lifetime ago. I’m not a five-year-old anymore but a twenty-five–year-old PhD who’s managed just fine all these years without cracking up. So get a grip!

But if it had been twenty years, why was this place so completely familiar? Why was the whitewash only slightly faded on bamboo walls? In the yard closest to her, why was a hammock still hanging limp between two citrus trees, a wooden hoe not yet rotted?

For that matter, why were the huts themselves not destroyed in the damp and mold of twenty rainy seasons? And if the village commons needed mowing, it certainly didn’t hold two decades of growth.

 “Where are you going?” Cesar hissed as Vicki stepped forward. “You said we could leave now.”

Vicki eluded his restraining grab. “I have to see.”

One more step, and she was in the sunlight. The sun was almost directly overhead, its radiance welcome after the damp chill of the cloud forest. Vicki walked over to an aluminum pot lying on its side under the cooking shelter just beyond that hanging hammock. She rolled it over with her foot. Ants were still scouring its interior, but there was crusted food on the bottom. Charred firewood around it still held its shape.

Pushing open a bamboo door, Vicki stepped into the hut. The interior had been ransacked, any furniture now pieces of broken wood scattered around the dirt floor. But in a corner, a piece of ragged clothing had not been worth taking. She looked down as something touched her sneaker. It was a cheap, pink Barbie doll knockoff, bought by some Mayan parent for her daughter as a treasure from the outside world. Its sprawled limbs and staring eyes twisted at Vicki’s chest, and she stepped out quickly.

Walking swiftly across the commons to the ruins of her childhood home, she braced herself for emotion. But here at least was nothing familiar, and she felt only a somber absorption in tracing the outline of crumbling brick and concrete foundation still discernible under its cloak of vegetation and moss. Only four rooms but a mansion to the Mayan villagers. A common living/dining area and two bedrooms forming a square.

Holly’s and mine was on this side overlooking the cooking shelter. There was . . . yes, a wooden bed we shared and a chest for our clothes. The Mayan cook—it must have been Cesar’s mother—used to let us help shuck the corn and pound it with a big, wooden pestle.

The cooking shelter was just a thick growth of brush, as she’d have expected the other huts to be, but behind the second bedroom was the tumbled-down ruin of a fourth room. Vicki conjured up a hazy recollection of a windowless place full of strange objects sternly forbidden to small girls’ questing fingers. Jeff Craig’s darkroom.

But only the outline was familiar, so Vicki walked on to where the village’s single road curved away from the commons to disappear into the cloud forest. Here too was incongruity, because ruts pressed deep into dried mud had not yet melted under the
chipi-chipi
. And not just the ruts of a mule cart. The wide treads of a motorized vehicle.

A new dread was building up in Vicki’s stomach. She could almost smell the reek of death. Pressing the orange peel still in her hand against her nostrils, she breathed deeply to keep from retching again. How tense she was, she didn’t realize until a clap of sound spun her around. She was scrambling for a banana grove when the sound came again, not so violently. This time Vicki witnessed its origin and relaxed. A gust of wind was catching at the schoolhouse door, slapping it inward to bang against its hinges.

Another slam jolted Vicki’s nerves, and she rushed toward the schoolhouse. Cesar rose from where he too had thrown himself flat under an orange tree. Reaching the concrete structure, Vicki climbed the steps. All she had in mind was to pull the door shut. But as she stepped over the threshold, she stiffened in shock.

This place too brought back sharp memory. Sitting on the narrow wooden benches with other small, squirming bodies. Shrill voices reciting lessons she didn’t understand. Chalk letters on the blackboard. Holly had been too little, but a five-year-old Vicki had insisted on joining the village children for their lessons.

But these stains puddled everywhere, on the concrete floor, splashed across the walls were not in Vicki’s memory. Stains of a rusty brown she had encountered too often in too many places not to recognize. Stains that should have long faded.

Vicki’s limbs seemed turned to stone, her mind fitting together ugly facts and images into an equation she should have already reached. The tragedy that had happened here was not of the far distant past but only too current. And that smell of death was no imagination. Somewhere close by was a fresh mass grave.

Cesar coaxed Vicki out of the schoolhouse and down the steps. He tugged the door closed, a broken branch through its latch to hold it shut. Vicki made no protest as he drew her back across the commons to the orange grove.

She breathed deeply of its cleansing acidity before she rounded on him. “That didn’t happen twenty years ago. The massacre two months back—Alicia and Gabriela’s family—it was here, wasn’t it? It’s happened all over again.” She ran a shaking hand across her face. No wonder it was so quiet in here. The animals could smell the death.

“I didn’t know what we would find here, but I was afraid it might be so,” Cesar admitted. “I had heard it whispered that there were those who wished to leave Verapaz and go back to the sierra. Those whose
familiares
once lived in these mountains who knew there was good land and were tired of living under the fist of
los militares
. That it was forbidden meant little. Have not
los españoles
always taken our land and given it to others?

 “But I was away then at the university finishing my studies. When I came to the center,
Tía
Maria whispered to me that my cousin—Alicia and Gabriela’s father—was among those who’d chosen to go. I wondered if they had returned to the old village. It is easier to clean up old fields than to clear fresh jungle. And the schoolhouse at least would still be standing. I was not happy that they went. Not only because it could bring more grief to our people but because I had learned of the importance of this biosphere to our country. But I am no
soplón
. And it was only one village.

 “Then word came of the massacre. What could be said when to even admit of their presence in forbidden territory could bring trouble with
los militares
? So once again nothing was said, and our
familiares
were mourned in silence. It wasn’t until I saw where Alicia and Gabriela’s path led yesterday that I knew it must be our old village. That road—” he gestured toward the dirt track leading out of the village—“goes to another which in turn joins with the biosphere trail. When we were children, it was the only road to the army
cuartel
and markets down the mountain.”

“Then the girls were trying to get back here. The men must have caught up before they arrived because I didn’t see any fresh sandal prints coming into the village. Or tire tracks. So where did that army transport come from last night?”

Cesar shrugged. “There are many tracks in these mountains.”

Yes, Vicki had seen any number yesterday as well as on the bike ride, remnants of other hamlets these mountains had sheltered. “But who would do this? Alpiro might be hard-nosed enough to arrest those men for being in the wrong place looking for lost kids. But I can’t see him ordering a full-scale massacre over a little trespassing. Not when it would be easy enough just to bulldoze the place and deport them back out of the biosphere. And roving bandits—they go after tourists with money and cameras. These people could have nothing they’d want. It doesn’t make sense.”

It had been Vicki’s cry for weeks—since Holly’s death. Had she been wrong, after all, in the revelation that had come to her last night? Was it the massacre that had troubled Holly that day at the airport? That she had been investigating in those last days?

No, wait—Holly hadn’t even known about that before Lynn brought it up. Nor had it seemed to trouble her particularly. Far less in Holly’s single-minded environmentalism than her lost jaguarundi. Unless . . .

A thread of thought was again tugging at Vicki. Unless it was all connected. The past. The present. The massacre. The photos. Holly’s last words. Her death.

Vicki hadn’t realized the massacre had happened so close to the plateau. She had thought little about it beyond a detached indignation until she’d met Alicia and Gabriela. Now she remembered something Joe had said. The overgrown clearings they’d circled in the valley, the same that showed in such a wealth of colors in Holly’s pictures, had been abandoned by the massacred villagers. The shock of gunfire following had driven that comment from Vicki’s mind until now.

Vicki’s knapsack had remained over her shoulder in all her striding around. Lowering it, she dug out the photo printouts, as she’d meant to do up on the ridge before her recognition of Cesar had driven every thought from the present into the past. She shuffled to the shot of the flower-cloaked clearings. “Do you know what kind of flowers these are?”

“No, they do not look native to the sierra.” Cesar’s tone questioned why it mattered. “But I am a veterinarian, not a botanist.”

No, he wouldn’t. The flowers were no more indigenous to Guatemala than to the sierras.

“Is there a lookout nearby where we could see these fields clearly as we could from the mountainside?”

Cesar looked baffled. “On the far side of the village.”