“We go,” Hererra said, herding them all toward a large four-wheeldrive SUV crouched at the edge of the field. “Now.”
The Cementerio del Tepeyac and, especially, the Basilica de Guadelupe looked completely different in daylight. All the sinister qualities, burned into the Mexican night, had been washed away, leaving a thin veneer of religiosity that no doubt hid a multitude of sins, both venial and mortal.
Parking his stolen car a hundred yards away, Bourne spent several minutes circumnavigating the immediate area around the basilica. There was no sign of the hearse that had conveyed him and Rebeka to the establishment of Diego de la Rivera, Maceo Encarnación’s brother-in-law. There was also no sign of the mysterious pseudopriest, el Enterrador. Bourne recalled in vivid detail the tattoos of coffins and tombstones adorning his forearms.
He went around to the entrance and slipped through. The interior was filled with echoes and incense. A choir of angelic voices lifted heavenward. Mass had commenced. Bourne made his way to the back of the apse, returning to the dimly lit corridor that led to the rectory.
Before he arrived, however, he paused, hearing voices from within the small office. One was a female alto. Moving stealthily forward, Bourne caught a sliver of the rectory, the enormous crucified Christ dominating as usual. Then into his restricted line of vision came the source of the alto. With a start, he recognized the beautiful young woman who had drifted down the staircase in Maceo Encarnación’s villa, who had cried out when she had seen what Bourne understood must have been her mother, laid out, ready for the mortician’s art. The anomaly of her coming from an upstairs bedroom where no servant ought to be, naked beneath her expensive robe, now returned to the forefront of Bourne’s mind. Upon returning upstairs, she had gone into the master suite, where Maceo Encarnación presumably lay beneath the bedcovers.
What was she doing here? Bourne moved slightly, his gaze following Maria-Elena’s daughter as she moved anxiously around the rectory. He’d heard de la Rivera, the mortician, use the dead cook’s name. A moment later, she stopped in front of a robed and hooded man. His spade beard announced him as el Enterrador.
“Give me absolution for my sins,” she said softly. “I harbor murderous thoughts.”
“Have you acted on these thoughts?” he replied in his raspy whisper.
“No, but—”
“Then all will be well, Anunciata.”
“You can’t know that.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t know what I know,” she said bitterly.
“By all means tell me,” el Enterrador said with quiet menace.
She quailed for a moment, then expelled a deep breath.
“I trusted Maceo. I thought he loved me,” she said, her voice abruptly changed, deeper in register and somehow darker.
“You can trust him. He does love you.”
“My mother’s legacy.” She unfolded a sheet of paper, shoved it at him. “Maceo slept with my mother before he slept with me. He’s my father.”
El Enterrador touched the crown of her head. “My child,” he said, just as if he were a real priest, continuing in that ecclesiastical vein: “Fallen from the Garden of Eden, we all come from a dark place. This is our heritage, our collective legacy. We are all sinners, navigating a sinful world. However wrongful their liaison, your parents gave you life.”
“And if the worst happens, if he makes me pregnant?” “Of course we must see to it that never happens.”
“I could cut off his cojones,” Anunciata said with no little vitriol. “That would make me happy.”
El Enterrador said, “I knew your mother ever since she came to Mexico City. I gave her confession. I have hope that I helped her through difficult times because she needed help and did not know where else to turn. Now it’s you who comes to me for help and advice. Go to your father. Talk to him.”
“What we have done!” Anunciata shuddered. “It’s a hideous sin. You of all people should know that.”
“Where is Maceo now?”
“You mean you don’t know? He’s gone. He left with Rowland for the airport.”
“Where are they going?” Bourne said as he stepped into the rectory.
Both Anunciata and el Enterrador turned to stare at him. The priest was clearly more surprised to see him. The young woman registered only curiosity.
“Who are you, señor?” Anunciata said.
“Rebeka and I were at the villa early this morning.”
“Then you—?”
But Bourne was already turning away from her. “I should still be at the airport. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”
“How would I—?”
“The crystal-encrusted skull you gave me. I found the transmitter inside it.”
El Enterrador withdrew a long-bladed stiletto from beneath his robes, but Bourne shook his head, leveling the handgun he had taken from Maceo Encarnación’s guard. “Put it down, Undertaker.”
Anunciata’s eyes opened wide. She seemed even more beautiful now than she had earlier. “He is a priest. Why do you call him el Enterrador?”
“That’s his nickname.” Bourne gestured with his head. “Show her the tattoos on your forearms, priest.”
“Tattoos?” Anunciata echoed. She stared at her companion, clearly stunned.
He said nothing, didn’t even look at her.
She reached out, pushed up the sleeves of his robe, and gasped at the intricate handiwork displayed.
“What is this?” It seemed unclear who she was addressing.
“Tell her, Undertaker,” Bourne said. “I’d like to hear it, as well.”
El Enterrador glared at him. “You were not supposed to come back here.”
“You weren’t supposed to track me, either.” Bourne nodded. “Now let’s get to the truth.”
“About what?” el Enterrador whispered. “Maceo Encarnación asked for my help. I gave it to him.”
“Rebeka—the woman—my friend—is dead. Put the knife on the desk.”
After a hesitation, el Enterrador complied.
“The truth,” Bourne said. “That’s what I’m here for. How about you, Anunciata?”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“Ask the Undertaker. He’s the one who is in real need of forgiveness.”
She shook her head again.
Bourne said, “Rebeka and I got into Maceo Encarnación’s villa via a mortician’s hearse. In order for that to happen, someone inside the villa had to die.”
“My mother.”
Bourne nodded. “Your mother. But how would anyone know beforehand that she was going to die?” He stared directly at the priest. “People had to know your mother was going to die. Which means she was murdered.”
Tears were standing out in Anunciata’s eyes. “The doctor said she died of a heart attack. There wasn’t a mark on her. I know. I dressed her for the...the mortician.”
“Poison doesn’t leave an external mark,” Bourne said. “And if you’re clever you can find a poison that won’t leave an internal trace, either.” He nodded. “I think that might have been your part in the murder, Undertaker.” He turned to Anunciata. “Hence his nickname.”
She whirled on el Enterrador. “Is that true?”
“Of course not,” he scoffed. “The very idea that I would harm your mother is absurd.”
“Not if Encarnación asked it of you.”