One Grave Less (4 page)

She rushed over to him, taking short breaths through the wet paper towel.

“I’m all right. I’m all right,” he said, coughing, trying to sit up.

Diane assisted him to a sitting position.

Patches on his hands and face were red. Half his beard was singed, as was his hair.

“I’m all right,” he said again, struggling to rise to his feet with Diane’s help.

“If you’re able, I need to get you out of here so you can direct the paramedics to the lab when they come,” said Diane.

“I hope they’re friendlier than the last ones,” said Rufus, gritting his teeth and standing.

She led him toward the exhibit entrance.

“We got someone else hurt in the lab?” he asked between gasps for air as Diane urged him toward the door.

“Yes.”

“Then I need to see to them. I’m fine. Just a little singed around the edges. Strained my leg a little falling. Bad knees.”

Diane could see he wasn’t going to be dissuaded, short of her ordering him out. Recognizing his need to help, she led the way as he limped into the lab.

Simone was still lying amid the overturned boxes.

“My bag was in the fire,” he said.

“We have gloves here in the lab—and a first-aid kit. Not as good as yours . . . ,” said Diane.

She hurriedly retrieved the gloves and kit from a cabinet and took them to Rufus. He was looking at Simone’s eyes when Diane returned.

“Her pupils are slow to respond,” he said, speaking rapidly.

“What was the other guard’s name?” she asked Rufus. “The one who came with you.”

Rufus paused a moment. “He had to be in on this. He didn’t call the ambulance, did he? He called someone else. Of course,” he said, as if just realizing. “V. Jones. It was on his shirt.” Rufus pointed to the pocket of his own shirt.

“That wasn’t Vic Jones,” said Diane. “Vic Jones is on vacation. I don’t understand why this guy wasn’t discovered in the security office.”

“He met me on the way,” said Rufus. “Said he’d been called. I just assumed . . .”

“I would have assumed too,” said Diane.

But she should have realized something was amiss when she didn’t recognize him. It was her standing practice to meet every employee who was hired at the museum. She had reviewed all the applications, but she still hadn’t met with all of them. She had assumed that he was someone she had approved on paper, and Chanell, head of security, had hired him.

Noise in the exhibit room brought their attention to the door. They glanced at each other, apprehension in their gazes.

“Stay here with the woman,” she said, and made her way to the door.

It opened almost in her face. It was the paramedics—and they were people she knew. She sighed with relief.

“Over here.”

She led them to Simone and Rufus, with instructions to check Rufus out also.

On the heels of the paramedics were the firemen, checking out the exhibit room, spraying fire-suppressing foam in spots where the sprinklers had not put out the fire completely. Fortunately, there were no flammables in the room—other than the kerosene that had been poured on the floor—mostly stuff that wouldn’t burn. But there was still smoke and soot damage aplenty. Diane pushed that problem into the back of her mind.

The fire chief instructed Diane to leave the area. Her own security staff had stationed themselves outside the door, keeping out any stray visitors who might wander from the various courses the museum offered in the evening.

The fresher air was a relief. Diane sat down on the bench outside the exhibit room and looked at the pyramid facade. A wisp of smoke found its way out the door and was rising to the ceiling, making it look as if the Mayans were under attack.

Douglas Garnett came over and sat down with Diane. He was the chief of detectives in Rosewood. Chief Garnett was a tall, lanky man in his mid-to-late forties. He had a full head of well-styled salt-and-pepper hair. This evening he was well dressed, as usual, in a brown herringbone suit and brown Italian shoes.

The museum housed a crime lab headed by Diane. The lab was under the authority of the City of Rosewood. Even though Diane was director of both the museum and the crime lab, the two units had an often tenuous relationship with each other. Garnett knew that if the museum were ever in any danger from the crime lab, the lab would have to go. So he made it a priority to protect the museum and the relationship. He did his best to make sure, when he could, the museum didn’t get any bad press. There was a standing order to the police dispatcher to contact his office by phone rather than the radio, which could be picked up by reporters, if there were any calls from the museum. But there would be little chance for damage control this time.

Diane realized she didn’t know exactly what had happened in the exhibit room when the fake medical personnel came in and wrecked the place. She hadn’t seen it. She had been in the lab inspecting Simone.

“What happened?” Garnett asked, unnecessarily smoothing a side of his styled graying hair with his hand.

“I’m not entirely sure,” said Diane. She described the sequence of events, and a quick rundown of what she was sure of—including the name of the female victim.

As he listened, the crease between Garnett’s eyebrows seemed to grow deeper.

“This Simone Brooks, she was someone from your past work in South America?”

Diane nodded. “Yes. The main work she did with me was to conduct interviews of witnesses. She was very good at putting people at ease.”

“What was she doing here?” he asked.

“I have no idea,” said Diane.

The paramedics came by with Simone on a stretcher. Rufus walked over to where Garnett and Diane sat and stopped. They stood up and motioned for him to sit. He shook his head.

“I guess you’ll be wanting a statement from me,” he said to Garnett. He had ointment on his face and neck as well as his hands. He was wearing a white T-shirt. He had taken his outer shirt off and was holding it in one hand. Diane could tell from his face that he was very uncomfortable.

She gave him a quick smile. “Anything to get out of going to the hospital?” she said.

He shrugged. “I’m fine. I just need some ointment—and some painkiller. The burns hurt like hell. But that’s good. I have nothing more than first-degree burns, really.”

Diane raised her brows at him and he shrugged.

“I have a very mild second-degree burn on the top of my hand. It might not even blister very much.” He raised the hand with the shirt. “Thanks to my fire-retardant uniform.”

“Can you give me a brief statement of what happened?” said Garnett. “I can get something more detailed from you tomorrow.”

Rufus nodded. “I was tending to the first victim—the guy who seems to have disappeared—when three paramedics came in with a stretcher. I turned to say something to them when one of them hit me, knocking me into the display case. Before I could recover myself, two of them hauled the victim onto the stretcher. The third one started spreading kerosene and struck a match to it.” He took a deep breath and his face screwed up with emotion. “What kind of person would do that, try to set someone on fire? He didn’t give a damn that I was there.”

“A very reckless, wicked person,” said Diane. “Certainly someone desperate to hide something. If Chief Garnett is finished for now, why don’t you go home and take it easy? You don’t need to come in tomorrow. Wait until you heal some.”

“I’m fine,” he said again.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” said Diane, “change clothes and leave what you were wearing with security.”

He nodded. “Oh, sure thing. I’ll do that.” As he left them he was muttering, “Who would do that to a person?”

“You have any ideas?” asked Garnett. “It obviously had something to do with this Simone Brooks.”

“I have no idea whatsoever. Simone said ‘It was one of us.’ I don’t know what she meant.”

Garnett nodded. “I’ll need to see your security tapes,” he said.

“Sure,” she said.

“Do you think they destroyed all the evidence? That was what they were trying to do with the fire, I imagine.”

“Yes, I’m sure that was their intent. Kerosene is good for getting rid of blood evidence. The fire just helps make sure. But apparently they didn’t think about transfer.”

“Transfer?”

“Mine and Rufus’ clothes. My shoes are on top of the case in the exhibit room. We still have samples of the victim’s blood on their soles. If that’s what they were trying to get rid of, it was a wasted effort.”

Diane retraced her steps back into the exhibit room to retrieve her shoes. On her way out she saw a telltale piece of something sticking out from under one of the cases at the far end of the room. She went over to have a look. Probably building waste that hadn’t been picked up. She took hold of it and tugged. It was a strap attached to a backpack. The pack was half open and Diane could see a bone sticking out—a human bone.

The two of them, Maria and Rosetta, the tiny ad-hoc family, stood still in the dark, gazing at the man on the ground illuminated by the flashlight. He wasn’t dead, but he wouldn’t be getting up for a while either—maybe never.

Finally little Rosetta spoke. Her voice shook.

“He will have things on him that we need.”

“Yes,” said Maria. “I’ll search him.” She squatted down beside him.

“I’ll help.”

Maria shook her head. “I need you to stand watch. He may not be alone. We don’t want to be sneaked up on again. We have to be more alert.”

Rosetta nodded and took up a post a few feet from Maria and began watching the jungle around them.

Maria took his knife first, carefully removing it from his hand. Then she unbuckled the holster and gun strapped to his torso. She swallowed any squeamishness she had and began going through his pockets. The back of her fingers and hands brushed against his body. He was warm. She expected him to grab her arm at any moment. Her hands shook. She glanced at the wound on his head. He wouldn’t be grabbing her. A pang of guilt rushed through her. She parried the feeling by thinking about what he had intended to do to them.

Deep in his front pants pocket she found a billfold that looked like crocodile skin. She opened it.

“This is going to be helpful,” she said out loud.

“What?” Rosetta peeked over her shoulder. “Is that real?”

“Let’s hope. We’re going to need to spend it to get home.”

The man, Luis Portman, according to the information in his wallet, was carrying about three hundred U.S. dollars in mostly twenties and tens. Maria put his wallet back in his pants and stuffed the money into her pocket. When they had a chance she would secret it in a better place.

Maria continued searching. She discovered another knife and another small gun in his boot and, in another pants pocket, what appeared to be good luck charms made from animal paws. She also found a slider heart on a chain. It was hers, given to her by John, her boyfriend. So this man probably was one of the gang who pulled her from the Jeep. She remembered the necklace being jerked from her throat and the rage she felt at the theft. The memories hardened her heart against errant feelings of guilt at what she was doing, at what she intended to do, which was to leave him on the ground in the jungle, wounded. Probably a death sentence. She continued her search of his many pockets.

His clothes were frayed along the edges of the collar and cuffs, and there were holes and tears, but the material was good. They had been expensive clothes.

In the inside pocket of his khaki vest Maria came across a set of car keys.

“He has a vehicle somewhere,” said Maria, looking at her young liberator. Of course he would have. He didn’t seem like the kind of character who would be out walking alone in the jungle. Alone. That bothered her too. There was a very good chance he wasn’t alone.

Rosetta’s eyes grew big looking at the keys. “That would be good. We could drive all the way to America.”

“Part of the way anyhow, but there are hazards,” said Maria. “Like, what if we run across someone who recognizes the vehicle and knows who’s supposed to be driving it?”

“It will be good to sleep in,” said Rosetta. “Keep out bugs and snakes.”

“That certainly has its appeal. But we’ll have to find it first.”

Maria stood and began stuffing her finds into the knapsack. She kept the guns with her. One was a semiautomatic. The other was something smaller. Maria didn’t know guns. She had serious doubts she could figure out how to fire the automatic. She did look for a safety to turn before she put the gun back in the holster.

“Now let’s look for the vehicle,” she said.

She examined the key. It was a modern key with a plastic bow and metal two-way shank. There was no remote on it, only a monkey’s paw that Maria removed.

She took the map out of the backpack. If she could find a road nearby, she could probably find the vehicle. It wasn’t easy examining the map with the flashlight, standing in the jungle. She noticed she was shaking slightly. She gripped both the map and the light harder. It made her nervous not being on the move. She stopped her study of the map several times and listened. Nothing but night jungle noises.

“They will not come after us quickly,” said Rosetta, watching Maria closely, as if detecting her unease.

“Why?”

“I drugged them,” said Rosetta.

“You drugged them?” Maria stared at the shadowy little girl.

“It won’t hurt them, just make them sleep,” she said.

There were so many questions Maria wanted to ask the girl, but they would have to wait. Drugged or not, the thugs would wake up sooner or later and find that their valuable captive had escaped. She turned her attention back to the map.

It was crude—a basic map with roads and villages—places that hadn’t made the original map—drawn in. Most roads in the area were mere dirt paths barely wide enough for a vehicle, and the villages were tiny. She looked at the villages that had been marked on the map. One was circled several times.