Chapter LXXXI
CHAPTER LXXXI
Seeley’s preparations for disappearing were virtually complete. Soon, funds would be transferred, old accounts closed and new ones opened, companies shuttered and assets disposed of. A clean identity would be activated, one known only to a handful of financial advisors, their discretion assured by relationships stretching back decades and generous commissions, because nothing said “I care” like a little douceur.
They would strike at Triton that night. Seeley would have preferred to wait, giving them more time to establish the routines at the property and assess the capabilities of Triton’s security team, but retrieving the final child had become a matter of terminal urgency for la Senora.
In a vacant Freeport condo building rented for them by Seeley’s Maine contact, Urrea’s men were suiting up in full-body bulletproof armor: Level 3A+ equipment that covered the chest, shoulders, upper legs, groin, and neck. Seeley reflected that had Aldo Bern and his colleague invested in protection a grade or two higher, they might have suffered fewer injuries from the Claymore. They’d still be dead, of course—Seeley was always going to be better than them—but their suffering would have been lessened.
Urrea’s Mexicans had prepared a big jug of michelada —beer mixed with tomato juice, lime, and hot sauce—and were consuming it from disposable cups while they worked. On the same table lay cold cuts, cheap sliced bread, and a selection of salads and fruit. Whatever the men discarded was placed in a black garbage bag, and they wore lightweight full-finger gloves that allowed a touchscreen to be operated without their removal. They had also brought a handheld vacuum fitted with a dust bag. Before they left the condo, one of them would don a surgical hair cap and clean the rooms, leaving as few traces of their occupancy as possible.
La Senora was sitting alone on the patio. Seeley thought she might be conserving what was left of her strength. He was reluctant to disturb her, but he had a final question he wanted answered before they went after Triton. It might have been attributable to curiosity had la Senora’s impact on Seeley’s beliefs not been so overpowering. He had caught a glimpse of the numinous, had entered its presence, and now required more: a confirmation, a revelation.
Seeley pulled up a chair beside her, in front of an empty swimming pool hardly big enough for a small child to complete more than a dozen strokes. The pool covering had come away to reveal dead leaves and the corpse of a bird. La Senora did not look at him, he did not look at her, and the afternoon sun barely warmed them both.
“Do you have something to say?”
“A question to ask,” Seeley replied.
“Then ask it.”
“Who are you?”
“Didn’t Urrea tell you?”
“He told me a story: of children, a mountain, and a deity.”
The woman laughed. It was a strange, rasping sound, and when she stopped, her breathing was more labored. A breeze arose, setting the leaves dancing and causing the dead bird’s feathers to flutter.
“Urrea said that the children were taken from a cave that was about to collapse,” continued Seeley. “It was assumed they’d been sacrificed to an apu linked to that place, but Urrea’s researches revealed this was an error. The cave wasn’t the home of a spirit, but a god.”
La Senora’s face bore a trace of amusement.
“Go on. I’m interested to hear where your reasoning leads you.”
“You were there from before, long before. You watched over the children, like a mother.”
“Like the First Mother.”
Seeley heard regret—and love.
“Were there other children?” he asked.
“Yes, but not like them.”
“Why were they different?”
“They did not fall silent like the rest, so I was not lonely.” Lost to memories, eyes closed, she stroked her hair with her left hand. Seeley noticed that with each caress, strands came away from her scalp, falling to her shoulder.
“Name me, Seeley,” she said. “We have come to it. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To speak, and in speaking, to bear witness?”
“Mama Sara?” he offered.
“A goddess of corn and crops? ?Neta? Try harder.”
“Mama Quilla, then.”
“The moon goddess, protector of women? Don’t insult me, Seeley.”
Her eyes flicked open and she bared her teeth. Seeley had pretended ignorance but she—they, it —had seen through him. He realized his error: men should not play games with gods. She turned to face him, and those teeth, now further exposed by the accelerating recession of her gums, seemed to him impossibly long and sharp.
“It was an error on my part,” said Seeley. “I take it back. I should not have asked.”
“Too late. The error is made.”
“I don’t—”
“It was not just a cave, but a doorway,” she said, “an entrance to Ukhu Pacha. Do you understand? Are you beginning to see?”
Yes, Seeley was beginning to see, though he wished it were otherwise. Urrea had not been mistaken. This was no mere apu , but nor was it a mere god.
La Senora’s voice altered, and Seeley heard both the male and female in it, the former now dominant. Seeley, who had been exposed to the worst in men, was confronted with a greater darkness, a convergence of shadows at the heart of existence from which emerged an intersex being of male and female aspect, and for the first time he feared, not the pain of dying, but what might come after. He had predicated his life on a promise of oblivion when it ended, a peace without end. Now that was taken from him, and what replaced it would haunt him until it became his reality after death. Behind the glass of the patio window, Urrea’s men gathered. The gringo might have been a chingon , a badass, but even a chingon was capable of folly.
“You asked the question,” said the voice, quieter now. “Speak the answer. Say my name.”
“Supay,” said Seeley at last. “I think you are Supay.”
Inside, the Mexicans dispersed, returning to their tasks. La Senora’s dry fingers stroked Seeley’s face, the right index coming to rest against his lips. When she spoke again, it was in her usual register.
“How much longer?” she asked.
“As soon as night falls,” said Seeley to the god of the underworld, the god of the dead and dying.
La Senora nodded. Seeley stood. He re-entered the building, went to the bathroom, locked the door, and tried to scrub away the memory of her touch.