The translation, had Demencio known it, would have failed to put him at ease. “That’s it,” he said curtly. “Closing time.”
At Roddy’s urging, Sinclair returned the twelve painted turtles to the water. Roddy led him to the car, and Joan drove home. Roddy began stacking charcoal briquettes in the outdoor grill, but Sinclair said he wasn’t hungry and went to bed. He was gone when Joan awoke the next morning. Under the sugar bowl was his journalist’s notebook, opened to a fresh page:
I’ve returned to the shrine.
That’s where she found him, rapt and round-eyed.
Demencio took her aside and whispered, “No offense, but I got a business here.”
“I understand,” said Joan. She walked to the moat and crouched next to her brother. “How we doing?”
“See that?” Sinclair pointed. “She’s crying.”
Demencio had repaired the Madonna’s plumbing; teardrops sparkled on her fiberglass cheeks. Joan felt embarrassed that Sinclair was so affected.
“Your boss called,” she told him.
“That’s nice.”
“It sounded real important.”
Sinclair sighed. Cupped in each hand was a cooter. “This is Bartholomew, and I think this one’s Simon.”
“Yes, they’re very cute.”
“Joan, please. You’re talking about the apostles.”
“Honey, you’d better call the newspaper.”
Demencio offered to let him use the telephone in the house. Anything to get the goofball away from the shrine before the first Christian tourists arrived.
The managing editor’s secretary put Sinclair through immediately. In a monotone he apologized for not calling the day before, as promised.
“Forget about it,” said the managing editor. “I’ve got shitty news: Tom Krome’s dead.”
“No.”
“Looks that way. The arson guys found a body in the house.”
“No!” Sinclair insisted. “It’s not possible.”
“Burned beyond recognition.”
“But Tom went to Miami with the lottery woman!”
“Who told you that?”
“The man with the turtles.”
“I see,” said the managing editor. “What about the man with the giraffes—what did he say? And the bearded lady with penguins—did you ask her?”
Sinclair wobbled and spun, tangling himself in the telephone cord. Joan shoved a chair under his butt. Breathlessly he said: “Tom can’t be dead.”
“They’re working on the DNA,” the managing editor said, “but they’re ninety-nine percent sure it’s him. We’re getting a front-page package ready for tomorrow.”
“My God,” said Sinclair. Was it possible he’d actually lost a reporter?
He heard his boss say: “Don’t come home.”
“What?”
“Not just yet. Not till we figure out what to say.”
“To who?” Sinclair asked.
“The wires. The networks. Reporters don’t get murdered much these days,” the managing editor explained, “especially feature writers. It’s a pretty big deal.”
“I suppose, but—”
“There’ll be lots of sticky questions: Where’d you send him? What was he working on? Was it dangerous?” It’s best if I handle it. That’s why they pay me the big bucks, right?”
Sinclair was gripped by a cold fog. “I can’t believe this.”
“Maybe it had nothing to do with the job. Maybe it was a robbery, or a jealous boyfriend,” said the managing editor. “Maybe a fucking casserole exploded—who knows? The point is, Tom’s going to end up a hero, regardless. That’s what happens when journalists get killed—look at Amelia Lloyd, for Christ’s sake. She couldn’t write a fucking grocery list, but they went ahead and named a big award after her.”
Sinclair said, “I feel sick.”
“We all do, believe me. We all do,” the managing editor said. “You sit tight for a few days. Take it easy. Have a good visit with your sister. I’ll be in touch.”
For a time Sinclair remained motionless. Joan took the receiver from his hand and carefully unwrapped the cord from his shoulders and neck. With a tissue she dabbed the perspiration from his forehead. Then she dampened another and wiped a spot of turtle poop from his arm.
“What did he say?” she asked. “What’s happened?”
“It’s Tom—he’s not in Miami, he’s dead.”
“Oh no. I’m so sorry.”
Sinclair stood up. “Now I understand,” he said.
Nervously his sister eyed him.
“Finally I understand why I’m here. What brought me to this place,” he said. “Before, I wasn’t sure. Something fantastic took hold of me when I touched the turtles, but I didn’t know what or why. Now I do. Now I know.”