From the journal of Father Domingo Sanz de la Fuente
Translated from the Spanish by
Faye Longchamp-Mantooth, Ph.D.,
and Magda Stockard-McKenzie, Ph.D.
It was too late for Ocilla and all her kin, and I well knew it. When the village’s men returned from exacting their vengeance on Father Esteban, I began ministering to my flock for the last time.
I prepared willow water for their fevers and poultices for their angry flesh. I made weak broths for those few who could eat. I administered the Last Rites, time and again. And, one by one, I buried them.
The children fared better than most. Not the babies. They perished as quickly as the village elders. But the strongest youngsters and a few of their mothers and fathers did heal. I did not expect this.
My intention had been to bury the last of my Timucuan friends, and then find a way to die. My plans were murky, for I had never once considered committing this most final sin. But now? If I leave these few survivors, they will have no hope.
I am certain there is a message from God in the fact that among the survivors are two of Father Esteban’s grandchildren. Perhaps they will live long enough to do great things and expunge the world of a small piece of his sins.
In my heart, I believe they have no hope, with me or without me. If I do not choose to die now, then I may live to see a day when there are no more Timucua. Perhaps this is my penance, to watch over a doomed people. If I do it well and faithfully, perhaps Our Lord will absolve my grievous sins and open the gates of Heaven to His most flawed servant. Despite the fact that she remained heathen to her dying breath, perhaps I shall see Ocilla there.
But in my heart I doubt that I shall see Heaven. I doubt it because I know that Our Lord sees into the depths of our souls. I know that He knows what will happen if I arrive at the Throne of God and see that Father Esteban, too, has also been offered that mercy: I will kill him again, this time with my own hands.
Because He knows this, I believe that Our Lord will consign us both to the deepest circle of Hell. And if I know that Father Esteban suffers agony for all eternity, I will be content to suffer it myself.
I think I will write no more in this book. I have people to tend.
__________
I, Father Domingo Sanz de la Fuente, attest that the foregoing is a statement of actual events.
Post-cesarean recovery was not fun. The pain radiated, so Faye hurt pretty much everywhere. Everything hurt, even breathing. But there was one part of her recovery plan that she thoroughly enjoyed—the doctor’s instruction that she was to lift nothing heavier than her baby.
He was so tiny, not even six pounds, but the doctor said he was as healthy as a horse. This had made Joe smile, but Faye knew what he was thinking. This child of theirs would be no domesticated animal. He would be as healthy as a bear, a fox, a wolf. And she would love him until the sun burned out.
He had remained nameless for days, until Joe was ready to leave Faye’s side. The abruption, the emergency surgery, and an infection had teamed up to keep Faye in the hospital nearly a week. Only when the doctors started talking about releasing her did Joe agree to go start making preparations for the baby’s early homecoming.
Part of those preparations had been a few hours in the woods with a campfire, some herbs, a bowl of water, and a hand-rolled ceremonial cigarette. After some time spent cleansing himself, body and soul, Joe had meditated until the baby’s name presented itself. A circling bird of prey had delivered it:
Michael Hawk Longchamp-Mantooth
Faye agreed that it was perfect. It honored little Michael’s godfather, Sheriff Mike. It honored both their parents. And the high-flying, fierce hawk would be as good a totem for their baby as the wolf had been for Joe.
He was a fine, strong child, with a sleek cap of black hair and a full set of black eyelashes. His eyes were the newborn’s usual murky noncolor, but when they were open, they viewed the world with a calm and intense interest. He slept comfortably, wrapped in a summer-weight blanket and cradled under one of her breasts.
She’d wondered how she would feel, walking back into Dunkirk Manor with its terror-filled memories, but it couldn’t be helped. At least Joe was at her side.
Magda, Levon, and Kirk had used their time well during her hospital stay and the site work was complete. There were several days of billable time on the project left for her to write the report, then she could put Dunkirk Manor behind her forever, but she needed to go back one more time. She needed to say good-bye to Suzanne, who had been willing to believe the worst of her own husband and to do what was necessary to save Faye and her friends. And Faye’s baby.
Suzanne couldn’t put Dunkirk Manor behind her. She could leave it for the nonprofit corporation to run, and she planned to, but the old house would haunt her for the rest of her life.
Faye wanted to reach out to her. She wanted Suzanne to know that there were people out there who cared about her, who wanted to see her find a way to be happy again.
Suzanne greeted Faye and Joe with a coffeepot in one hand and a tray of pastries in the other. “Welcome! Come in the dining room and eat something. I want to get a look at that gorgeous baby!”
The B&B guests had cleared out of the dining room for the day, but there were others sitting there, waiting for Faye’s arrival. Magda, Levon, Kirk, Detective Overstreet, Betsy, and Harriet were deep in conversation. Victor hovered over them all, with a china teapot held carefully in both hands.
One of Suzanne’s glorious flower arrangements adorned the table. Faye knew enough of the language of flowers to know that the woman had put thought into the choice of every stem. Daisies and baby’s breath spoke of innocence. Holly branches carried a wish for domestic happiness. Trailing tendrils of ivy signified wedded love, and so did fragrant orange blossoms. Suzanne had reached outside her own garden and purchased pussy willows, the emblem of motherhood and the perfect adornment for a baby shower. There were wrapped gifts in front of each of the guests’ plates.
In a plush armchair nearby, surrounded by pillows, lounged Glynis. A cast was visible below the hem of her flowing red silk pants. Faye was thrilled to hear her ask Victor for herbal tea, because she wasn’t drinking caffeine until her baby came. After all she’d been through, Glynis was still pregnant. This was, in its way, a miracle.
“It’s a baby shower!” Victor crowed, pulling out two chairs and flapping his hands in their direction. “Sit down and open your presents!”
Levon and Kirk had gone in together to buy a picture book about an American housecat who time-travels to ancient Egypt and helps discover King Tut’s tomb. Overstreet had brought a waffle ball and a plastic bat, saying, “It’s never too soon.”
Suzanne had slipped a gift certificate for a downtown baby boutique into an envelope, along with a photo of a pregnant Faye standing on the lip of an open excavation. “For Michael’s baby book,” she said.
Harriet had found an ethereal dreamcatcher in a gift shop in the historic section, woven of twine and adorned with beads and feathers. She’d written in the card that “This child will have more dreams than he can catch in his hands.”
Betsy had brought a mouth-blown stoppered bottle, small enough to stand on the palm of her hand. It was full. “Water from the Fountain of Youth. Because you never know.”
Faye tilted the bottle and watched the water flow. “No, you don’t. You never know.”
Glynis had brought an adorable piggy bank and a Morgan silver dollar. After Faye opened it, Glynis grinned at Victor, signaling him to give his part of their gift. He carefully laid a silver dime next to the bank. “1918!” he said. “The oldest one I had.”
Faye cradled the dime in her palm and admired the image of Liberty with her lovely winged cap. She held it down for Michael to see, but his perfect eyes were closed.
Magda gently laid her gift, a crocheted blanket, over Michael as he slept, and handed a wooden box to Joe. “From my husband, for his namesake.” Inside was a collection of worn and well-loved alphabet blocks carved of wood. “They were his, when he was a kid. Mike’s kids have all played with them, and Rachel’s ready to pass them along.”
Joe fumbled through the blocks until he found the seven he wanted, then he spread them across the table in front of Faye. “M-I-C-H-A-E-L,” he said, pointing each block in its turn. “Open your eyes, kid. It’s never too soon to learn this stuff.”
Michael, recalcitrant, remained asleep.
“Can I show you my room, Faye?” Victor asked.
Faye gave Suzanne a questioning glance.
Suzanne said, “Victor, why don’t you and I take Faye back there together?” Then she reflexively refilled everybody’s tea cups, whether they’d asked for more or not. Victor ran ahead of them to the service wing where Faye and her crew had been staying.
In the kitchen, out of earshot of the others, Suzanne said, “Ever since…since that terrible day…I can’t keep my mind off Victor’s situation. Maybe I’m just distracting myself. Could I have stopped Daniel from doing what he did to Glynis? And to you? It keeps me awake nights. And that gives me time to worry about the old man living in a hovel at the end of my street.”
Suzanne waved away Faye’s attempts to reassure her that she didn’t hold Daniel’s widow responsible for his actions.
Michael burbled in his sleep. Suzanne leaned down and studied his flawless little face for a second.
“First, I had Victor move into one of the rooms on your hall, but just getting him out of that squalor didn’t quiet my mind. I needed to know how this thing happened. Raymond and Allyce Dunkirk had practically adopted Victor as a child. They gave him that little house, and it was probably pretty nice when they did. How could people so educated and wealthy have failed to foresee that he wouldn’t be able to take care of himself financially? I don’t think Victor has ever really been much more than a child, mentally, and surely they knew that. So I reverted to being a lawyer, at least for a little while. I looked in the public records for their will, but it wasn’t there.”
“Was it lost? Or destroyed?” Faye asked. “Public records are supposed to stick around. They’re…well…public.”
“Not when rich people have something to hide,” Suzanne said. “Since then, I’ve learned that my Great-great-aunt Allyce was committed to a mental institution shortly before her husband died.”
“That explains a lot about the second half of her life,” Faye said. “I’d noticed that she disappeared from the society pages years before that. She just faded away.”
“That makes sense. I’d guess that her mental illness began earlier, but he waited to institutionalize her until he came to the end of his life. That way, he knew she’d be taken care of.”
“Is that when he gave Victor the gatehouse—after he knew he was dying and needed to get his affairs in order?”
“Yes. I found the property transfer before I found the will, because there had been no reason to hide that.”
The treasure hunter in Faye perked up her ears. “You found the will? Where?”
“In that room upstairs, the one that’s full of junk.”
“Yes,” Faye said, remembering her odd encounter with Daniel that day. She’d never really known why he took her there in the first place, but now she suspected that he’d wanted her baby from the moment she took the consulting job. Perhaps he’d even hired her firm so that he could have a chance to steal her baby. She leaned down to kiss Michael’s forehead.
How many times had Daniel taken her aside to ask a question or hand her some food, only to be interrupted by her hovering husband? If Daniel had been successful in his earliest attempts to kidnap her, perhaps Glynis’ ordeal would never have happened. And if he hadn’t taken her to the attic storeroom, trying to kidnap her, Father Domingo’s journal would still be disintegrating in the heat and humidity.
“There’s no telling what you might find in that room, if you set out to look, but I can’t imagine that you’d ever find something you were actually looking for. Like a will.”
“Well, I’m not sleeping nights. And there were only a few places where family records had been stored, so at least I knew where to start looking.”
Suzanne clasped her hands together in front of her abdomen. It was a controlled pose, and it brought the lawyer in her back to life. Suddenly, Faye was certain that Suzanne would survive the tragedy of her husband’s madness. She had survived the loss of a child, so she was stronger than she looked. Suzanne might do any number of things with the rest of her life. She might decide to continue operating the B&B. She might go back to practicing law. Or she might do something completely different, like open a florist’s shop. But she would be okay.
“I found that Raymond
had
set aside money for Victor,” said the attorney who was emerging from retirement very nicely. “Quite a lot of it. Income from that money went to an account at a bank not a quarter-mile from here. The bank tellers there were instructed to give Victor his money in cash every Friday when he came for it. And at least a dollar of it was always supposed to be in dimes.”
“That’s amazing service.”
“Remember, it was the 1950s, and this is a small town.”
“Did Victor just get lost in the shuffle over the years, as the old bank tellers retired and died?”
Suzanne nodded vehemently, and Faye knew that she’d reached the crux of her story. “Yes. But it was more than that. Raymond left instructions for his law firm to pay Victor’s property taxes and other bills out of his account, then distribute the rest in cash for his food and incidentals. Faye, that’s riverfront property. Do you have any idea what the taxes are like?”
Having struggled to pay her own property taxes, Faye did.
Suzanne continued her story. “Raymond was a brilliant man who handled his money well. He came through the Great Depression smelling like a rose. But he had no way to know how long Victor would live. And he had no way to know how low those property taxes would drain Victor’s inheritance. These days, it’s easy to pay Victor his income in dimes.”
“Dimes! I have a whole lot of dimes!” Victor said, poking his head in the door. “When are you coming to see my room? That’s where I keep my dimes.”
“Raymond Dunkirk’s will was carefully and lovingly laid out. Allyce was sent to the most comfortable asylum in Florida, and fresh flowers were sent to her room every day for as long as she lived. Victor was given a place to live and a financial legacy.”
Suzanne smiled at the impetuous old man, who was jumping up and down in his eagerness to show Faye where he kept his dimes. “He loved them both, I think. I’ve come to forgive him for betraying my Great-great-aunt Allyce.”
The archaeologist in Faye began to think in terms of time. The events in a person’s life stacked up, bit by bit, just as surely as layers of soil covered the past. The last layer of Allyce Dunkirk’s life was represented by the asylum, and that starkness was softened by her dead husband’s flowers.
Digging deeper in time, the layer below the asylum was represented by Allyce’s twenty years as a recluse. Her years spent as the hostess of glittering parties had ended when Lilibeth Campbell died, as suddenly and surely as the closing of a garden gate.
Excavating the layer below those reclusive years brought Faye to the early years of Allyce’s marriage, a time when she was young and beautiful and rich, but she couldn’t save the children she lost, one after another. The parties, the friends, the jewels, the beautiful clothes…in the end, they hadn’t meant that much. But the watershed moment that coincided with abandoning that socialite’s life hadn’t been the death of her last child. It had been the death of her husband’s mistress.
Something horrifying began to nibble at Faye’s mind. Suzanne kept talking, and her words served only to solidify Faye’s suspicions.
“I think Allyce’s mind was already gone by the time her husband met Lilibeth Campbell. Great-great-uncle Raymond was a human being and he needed companionship and romance, but my heart—and the detailed provisions for her in his will—tell me that he never got over loving Allyce. He died thinking he’d taken care of her, and of Victor, too. The image of flowers being delivered to an insane asylum, year in and year out, from a dead man to his widow…that image softens my heart toward Great-great-uncle Raymond.”
“Flowers. Oh, she loved flowers.” Victor beckoned, and they followed him to the servants’ wing. “And she loved to paint. So much.” He opened the door with a flourish. On the room’s far wall was an oil painting of a small boy with Victor’s eyes. “After she stopped going places, she didn’t do much but paint and plant things.” Lowering his voice, he leaned in their direction. “Sometimes…sometimes, she planted things that wasn’t flowers.”