8

I scanned the night, searching for movement—but everything was moving in the near hurricane winds: trees, branches, shrubs, dolls, grass.

Pistol held close to my chest, muzzle pointed skyward, I followed the trail of blood. It went right along the porch, all the way to the bannister.

What had Nitro being doing down here? Pita and I had remained huddled near the door our entire watch. Had he heard a noise and come to investigate?

Then what? When his back was turned, Solano emerged from the night and slit his throat?

I poked my head over the bannister, looked down the length of the cabin.

Nobody there. No footprints. Nothing.

Whoever had killed Nitro, it seemed, had vanished into thin air.

1957

1

Patricia Diaz was putting Salma, her six-month-old newborn, to bed in her crib when there was a knock at the front door. She tucked Salma’s blanket beneath her chubby chin, then left the bedroom. In the foyer she opened the front door and was surprised to find a policeman standing on the little stoop. He had a moon face and a large belly testing the buttons of his uniform. He was holding the hand of a feral looking girl dressed in a ratty nightgown, her hair chopped short—

“María!” she exclaimed.

“Mommy?”

“Baby? Oh my God…Oh my God!” She enfolded her daughter in a great hug. “Oh baby! What’s happened to you?”

“Officer Rodriguez, ma’am,” the policeman said. “I picked her up earlier not far from here. She was loitering in the park. Actually, she appeared to be living there.”

“Living?” Patricia released her daughter and frowned at her. “Why were you in the park, sweetheart? Why weren’t you at Saint Agatha’s?”

“I didn’t like it,” she said simply.

“The school?”

“I just left.”

“You left?”

“I just left,” she repeated. And she sounded angry. Her voice was shrill, her eyes hard.

“Why don’t you go inside, honey. You can lie down in my bed. Okay? I’d like to speak with the policeman in private for a moment.”

When María disappeared inside the house, Patricia looked at the policeman and swallowed tightly. “This is very strange,” she said, feeling suddenly nervous even though she had done nothing wrong. “You see, María has a certain condition. She doesn’t learn well like others her age. Two years ago her school psychologist recommended she enroll in a special boarding school.”

“Saint Agatha’s?” the policeman said.

“Saint Agatha’s School for Lost Children. Some of the children, their parents have died, or they’re alcoholics, or…there are many reasons why they are placed there. But some are like María. They are mentally deficient in some way.”