Jacaranda (The Clockwork Century 6)

“No sir. Not until you reach the far side of the Strand.”

“A garden, then? Perhaps out behind the courtyard? We must put her someplace, and we’d better do it before the rain begins in earnest—or before the other guests awaken, and wonder what’s occurred.”

Sarah furrowed her brow. “But what about the police? Should we call them?”

“They must be tired of hearing from you, by now—and whatever occurs here, it occurs outside the Rangers’ authority. Besides, they’ve made it rather clear they aren’t coming. We’ll see to Mrs. Fields ourselves,” he concluded firmly.

“You’re right, I know you’re right. I don’t know why I even suggested it. I should…I should clean this up.”

“First, you must help me. There’s a groundskeeper’s shed, isn’t there?”

“Tim’s not there,” she murmured, her gaze darting restlessly between the body, the mosaic, the doors—which still trembled ever so slightly in their frames. She hugged her own shoulders. “If he was, he’d help you dig. But I can…I can get some sheets. You want me to wrap her up?”

He did his best to remain patient. “Please cover her, at the very least. I can take care of the rest. And never mind the shed,” he said under his breath. “I’ll find it on my own.”

The shed was locked when he finally stumbled upon it, but that did not stop him for long; and it was dark inside, but the lamps in the nearby courtyard cast enough light to show him what he needed. In stark outlines he saw a row of rakes, hoes, and shears; he ran his hands over shelves and found buckets, trowels, burlap bags, pouches of seeds, paint brushes, and other things he couldn’t quite identify by touch. And there, in the backmost corner, he found three shovels of varying sizes.

He chose the largest, and while he was at it, he grabbed a hoe with sharp metal tines.

Back inside the lobby, Sarah had found some sheets, a bucket and mop, and a length of rope—and one of these sheets was tucked around Mrs. Fields.

Juan Rios told her she’d done a good job, and while the girl occupied herself with the cleaning supplies, he lifted the corpse and swaddled it—using the rope to secure the wrappings around her waist, feet, and neck. He put her over his shoulder, where she hung as angular and lifeless as a sack of sticks.

Wet sticks, he thought, as dampness seeped through his sleeve, and smeared against his neck.

And he set out to dig a grave.

Behind the fountain, between the shrubbery and the cold-brick wall of the hotel itself…he lifted the sharp-tined hoe and used all his weight to slam it into the ground. Over the years, and over too many graves, he’d learned efficiency.

Don’t start with the shovel. Start with the hoe. Better leverage. Easier on the back.

He brought the hoe down again, rocked it back and forth, and lifted forth a chunk of turf the size of a dinner plate.

Rain still came down in fits and starts, speckling his black cassock. But the night air was mild enough that he could remove it, and he did—giving his shoulders and elbows better range to swing, again and again, until there was a long, shallow hole.

And now it was time for the shovel.

Scoop after scoop, alone in the dark, naked from the waist up. He dug until there was enough depth and enough width, that if he folded Mrs. Fields’s knees up to her chest, she’d still be eighteen inches deep.

He would’ve preferred the traditional six feet, but it was dark, and he was tired, and there was still so much work to be done.

If it might have waited until morning, he supposed, he could’ve imposed upon Tim—he could’ve let Sarah offer directions, and allowed someone else to handle this part of Mrs. Fields’s death. In the morning, he could’ve given the strange and violent demise of the poor woman a closer examination. The light of day might have told him more than the shadows did.

But in the morning, who knew?

Maybe Sister Eileen was wrong, and the storm would bring its full force to the island sooner than expected. For all he knew, in the morning, everyone and everything might lie in pieces, murdered by the carnivorous hotel—their remains unceremoniously scattered about the lobby.

Maybe none of

them would live to see the dawn, and there would be no one left to dig any graves.

He finished his task and returned the tools to the shed, closing it up behind himself. Although he’d removed his frock, he hadn’t done so in time to keep it from all of the sweat and mud. It was filthy, and so was everything else—but what could he do about it? He considered the sink in his room, but upon second thought, the hotel must have some sort of formal laundry.

Without too much difficulty, he found it down a corridor on the first floor. Lined against the wall were washing machines the size of wheelbarrows, but he didn’t know how to use them; so he was relieved to discover a huge sink of the ordinary variety. Beside the sink sat a bar of soap as big as his shoe.

He rinsed his frock and left it to dry, hanging beside a row of pillowcases clipped upon a line. He hoped it would air out quickly; he felt naked without it. But in the meantime, he borrowed a uniform shirt—something too large, something that might have been Tim’s. It was free of blood and mud, and Tim wasn’t present to object, so the padre buttoned himself inside it.

Back in the lobby, he found nothing.