Paco sat back on the floor in stunned disbelief, a ringing in his ears. It took a moment for Dr. Moore’s words to cut through the white noise. “I am not hurt, Doctor Moore,” the mountaineer replies at last. “Por favor, a napkin...”
Wiping the blood and tissue from his face and hands, he rises and offers what aid he can to the others, willing himself to focus on the task at hand and pushing the horror of the sudden, violent death deep into a remote corner of his conscious mind.
Soon the hotel staff begins to arrive and instructions are given. At an opportune moment, Paco excuses himself and returns to his room. Fumbling with the key in the lock, he enters and closes the door, taking a deep breath as he sits on the edge of his bed, then looking himself over.
His rough ablutions with the dinner napkin and a glass of ice water had succeeded more in turning the drips of blood and bits of grey matter into reddish streaks than it had in removing them from his skin. His once-clean and neatly-pressed suit is stained, his freshly shaved face smeared crimson, his trimmed hair filled with flecks of tissue. He strips away his jacket and shirt and tie, and looks to the claw-footed porcelain tub in the bathroom. Before he can begin to wash away the marks on his body, however, there is another cleansing that must come first.
From his trunk Paco removes his rosary and kneels beside his bed. “Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui Iesus. Sancta Maria mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae...”