by Sandra Brown
As though sensing her trepidation, Father Geraldo pulled the jeep to a halt. “What you intend to do will be extremely dangerous, Mrs. Porter. Perhaps you should reconsider.”
“I want my daughter.”
Father Geraldo engaged the gears and switched on the headlights. They started down the curving road. The narrow shoulder dropped off into nothingness. Fearfully Lara wondered how much rum Father Geraldo had consumed that evening. Whenever the wheels sank into the soft shoulder, she gripped the edge of her seat.
As it turned out, the condition of the road and Father Geraldo’s level of inebriation were inconsequential. As they came around a bend, they were impaled by blinding spotlights and deafened by a chorus of shouting voices. “Alto!”
A platoon of guerrillas surged forward to surround them, guns aimed and ready to fire.
Chapter Twenty
Jody knocked on Janellen’s bedroom door.
“Mama?”
Jody opened the door but remained standing on the threshold. She didn’t remember the last time she’d been in Janellen’s room, and some of the furnishings were unfamiliar to her. However, she recognized the cherrywood fourposter bed, chest of drawers, and dresser; they’d belonged to her daughter since she graduated from the crib.
The drapes and wallpaper were new, or at least it seemed they were. The pale gold and china-blue print combinations were too festive and feminine for her taste. She vaguely recalled granting Janellen permission to redecorate but couldn’t remember when that had been. Five years ago? Yesterday?
Janellen was lounging in an easy chair upholstered in floral chintz, her feet resting on the matching ottoman, a paperback novel lying open in her lap. A small brass lamp at her elbow cast soft, flattering lighting over her. It came as an unpleasant shock that Janellen looked almost pretty.
During her childhood Jody realized that her daughter was not going to be a raving beauty. Rather than finding this regrettable, she was glad and had done everything possible to guarantee Janellen’s homeliness. She’d never dressed her in anything bright or sassy and she had styled her hair in the least becoming way.
She firmly believed that desexing her daughter was the best thing she could do for her. Wishing to attract a man was a weakness inherent to women. Jody aimed to see that Janellen never fell into that trap.
Compliantly, Janellen had conformed to the mold her mother designed for her. She’d become an intelligent, competent woman who could never be accused of frivolity or flirtation. She’d been too reasonable to fall in love. Her plainness had spared her the deviousness of playboys, fortune hunters, and men in general. In that respect, Jody considered her daughter most fortunate.
There was one major drawback. Janellen had the Tackett eyes. His eyes. He’d been dead for years, but that living legacy, which all her children had borne, never failed to disconcert her. It was as if Clark Junior were in the room with her, watching her from behind their daughter’s face.
“Mama, what is it? Are you feeling all right? Is anything wrong?”
“Of course I’m feeling all right. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Janellen’s curiosity was understandable. Jody never sought her daughter’s company and certainly not at this hour. It was almost midnight. Janellen had tucked Jody in hours ago, but she’d been unable to sleep. Smoking heavily, she’d paced the floor of her bedroom. Her body was tired, but her mind wouldn’t relax and allow her to rest.
She’d always been an insomniac, even as a girl when frustration over her family’s poverty had affected her sleep patterns. Night after night she had lain awake between two snoring siblings, scheming ways to free herself of poverty’s stranglehold.
The tornado that had destroyed her house and killed her family had been a godsend.
Once she began working for Tackett Oil, the challenge of the job kept her clever mind too energized for sleep. Later, she’d spent years pacing the floor of her solitary bedroom while conjuring up infuriating, devastating scenarios of Clark Junior with other women.
Pushing that embittering thought aside, Jody said, “Where is your brother?”
“Key?”
She shot Janellen a retiring look. “Of course Key.”
“He’s out of town.”
The problem with Janellen was that she’d learned her lessons too well. She’d conformed, she’d done what was expected of her, she’d never been rebellious, never created unpleasantness of any kind, but she was a titmouse. Sometimes her eager-to-please expression was too much to stomach. This was one of those times. Jody wanted to shake her hard.
“He’s gone to Central America, hasn’t he? He took that bitch down there just to show me that he didn’t give a damn how I felt about it.”
“Yes, he went to Montesangre with Dr. Mallory, but not because—”
“When did he leave?”
“Today. They planned to arrive tonight. He said he would call if he had a chance, but he didn’t think it was likely.”
Jody’s posture remained rigid. The folds of her housecoat hid her hand from Janellen. Otherwise her daughter would have seen how hard she was gripping the crystal doorknob.
“He’s a goddamn fool. She crooked her finger at him and he went running.” Her lips curled contemptuously. “Just like your father, he can’t resist a chance in a woman’s bed, no matter who she is or what it costs him.”
“Key went because Dr. Mallory wants to bring back her baby girl’s remains.”
The sentimental implications didn’t soften her. “When are they due back?”
“He didn’t know.” Janellen’s eyes filled with tears. “He left some papers with me. I’m supposed to open them if he doesn’t… if they don’t…”
If she hadn’t been holding on to the door with such determination, Jody might have collapsed from the impact of her emotions. She had to get out of there before she made a fool of herself.
Without a word, she backed into the hallway and pulled the door shut with a decisive click. Only then did she give vent to her inner turmoil. Her shoulders slumped forward. Bowing her head, she raised her fist to her lips and mashed them hard in order to keep from uttering an anguished sound.
After a time, she returned to her bedroom, feeling alone and very frightened.
Reaching between the front seats of the jeep, Key thrust the Magnum against Lara’s side. “Take it,” he whispered. “Don’t be skittish about using it if you have to.”
She didn’t argue. The guerrilla fighters had completely surrounded them. Their expressions were menacing. She clutched the revolver and placed it in her lap, hiding it in her voluminous skirt.
“Buenas noches, señores.” Father Geraldo spoke pleasantly to the band of armed men. Key counted a dozen. Three times that many were probably keeping cover in the foliage. He didn’t like the odds.
“¿Quién es?” One of the soldiers separated himself from the others. He was dressed in camouflage fatigues and armed to the teeth. His stance and tone were belligerent, his eyes hostile and suspicious.
The priest introduced himself. The soldier spat in the dirt. Unruffled, Father Geraldo said in fluent Spanish, “You know me, Ricardo Gonzáles Vela. I conducted your mother’s funeral Mass.”
“Years ago,” the soldier growled, “when we still believed in such foolishness.”
“You no longer believe in God?”
“Where was God when women and children begging for food were slaughtered by the swine under the command of Escávez?”
Father Geraldo was disinclined to engage in a theological or political debate, especially since the other soldiers cheered and raised their weapons to reinforce their comrade’s opinion.
The angry young rebel glared at the priest, then his eyes shifted to Lara, who’d had the good sense to keep her head down to hide her Anglo features. “Who is this woman?” Ricardo jabbed the barrel of his rifle in her direction. “And him?”
“They live in a small village in the foothills. Her husband was killed defending the village from con
tra forces. She’s pregnant. Her brother-in-law,” he said, hitching a thumb toward Key, who’d remained slumped down and seemingly disinterested, “already has four sons. He cannot afford to feed two more mouths. I offered to bring her to the city and provide food and shelter in exchange for housekeeping duties at the rectory until she can find someone else to take care of her.”
One of the soldiers made a crude comment about the kind of “housekeeping duties” she would be performing for the priest. Key had a basic understanding of Spanish. He didn’t catch all the words, most of which were slang, but these duties had something to do with her getting onto her knees.
Ricardo smiled hugely in appreciation of his comrade’s ribald wit, then instantly sobered. He gave Key a contemptuous once-over. “You look strong and tall. Why aren’t you fighting? El Corazón’s army needs fighters.”
Key’s stomach tensed, but he pretended not to understand that the question had been directed to him. Thankfully Father Geraldo took his cue.
The priest motioned Ricardo closer. He approached warily, his military accoutrements making sinister jingling sounds in the darkness. Key heard several guns being cocked and wondered if he should do the same with the one hidden in the sleeve of his peasant shirt.
Lowering his voice to a confidential pitch and tapping his temple with his index finger, Father Geraldo whispered, “He’s an idiot, good for milking goats and planting beans, but otherwise useless.” He shrugged eloquently.
“But you said he has four sons,” Ricardo argued.
“All of them nine months and ten minutes apart. The poor fool doesn’t realize that rutting makes babies.”
A roar of laughter went up from the guerrillas. Ricardo relaxed his vigilance. “When will he return to his village?”
“In a few days.”
Ricardo leered. “Perhaps we should pay a visit to his village while he’s away. Maybe his wife will be lonely.”
The others laughed, including Father Geraldo. “I am afraid you would find her unaccommodating, amigo. She was grateful for these few nights of rest.”
Ricardo swept his arm toward the road ahead. “We will not detain you. You are no doubt eager to have the widow begin her housekeeping duties.”
“Gracias, señores,” he said, addressing the laughing group. “God’s blessings on you and on El Corazón del Diablo.”
He put the jeep into first gear. Key’s gut muscles began to unknot. The jeep had rolled forward only a few yards, however, before Ricardo commanded them to halt again.
“What is it, comrade?” Father Geraldo asked.
“An airplane was sighted tonight, flying low over the mountains from the coast. Did you see it?”
“No,” the priest replied, “but I heard it. Unmistakably. About an hour ago. Back there.” He pointed toward the mountains, but in a direction several degrees off the spot where they’d hidden the aircraft. “I thought it was delivering supplies to your army.”
“And so it was.” Ricardo lied as nonchalantly as the priest had. “The army of El Corazón del Diablo lacks nothing, especially courage. We’ll fight with our bare hands if we must, to our deaths.”
Father Geraldo saluted him and let off on the brake. They were allowed to proceed without further delay. None of them breathed easily until they were well away from the reconnoiters.
“Very well done, padre,” Key whispered from the backseat. “I couldn’t have lied more convincingly myself.”
“Unfortunately this isn’t the first time I’ve had to break a commandment in order to save lives.”
“Lara, you okay?”
She nodded her covered head. “Do you think we’ll be stopped again?” she asked the priest, her voice muffled by the scarf.
“Probably not, but if we are, we’ll stick to the same story. Keep your head down and try to look like you’re grieving.”
“I am grieving,” she said.
From the backseat Key told her to keep the pistol ready to fire if necessary. She nodded acknowledgment, but said nothing more.
At one time the population of Ciudad Central had exceeded one million. Key doubted that half that many lived there now. Even taking into account the lateness of the hour, the city appeared deserted. The streets were dark, as most city streets would be past midnight. But these streets were beyond dark and sleepy—they were dead.
Structures that had once been thriving businesses and gracious homes were now battle-scarred shells. Nearly every window in the city had been boarded up. No light shone through those few that hadn’t been. Lawns that marauders hadn’t completely trampled were in a sad state of neglect. Vines and undergrowth grew unchecked. The jungle was reclaiming territory that had belonged to it long before man had striven to tame it.
On walls and fences and every other conceivable surface had been scrawled graffiti advocating one junta or another. The only point on which all sides seemed to agree was their hatred for the United States. Cartoons depicted the president in all manner of disgusting and humiliating postures. The American flag had been desecrated in countless ways. Key had been in many countries hostile to the United States, but he’d never felt the antipathy as strongly as here, where it was as powerful as the stench of raw sewage.
“Oh, my God!”
Lara’s gasp drew Key’s attention forward. A woman’s body was hanging by the neck from a traffic-light cable. Her mouth was a gaping, black, fly-infested hole.
“Some of El Corazón’s handiwork,” the priest explained to his horrified passengers as they passed beneath the swaying corpse. “Montesangren women are valued as soldiers. They’re not spared military duty because of their gender. When they’re found guilty of an offense, they’re dealt with just as harshly as their male counterparts.”
“What was her crime?” Lara’s voice was husky with revulsion.
“She was exposed as a spy who carried secrets to Escávez. They cut out her tongue. She drowned in her own blood. Then they hung her body in that busy intersection. It’s a warning to everyone who sees it not to cross El Corazón del Diablo.”
Considering the risks Father Geraldo was taking to help them, Key didn’t blame him for his closet drinking.
“Here we are,” he said as he pulled the jeep into a walled courtyard. “You’ll find it changed since you were here, Mrs. Porter. The few Montesangrens who are still faithful to the church are afraid to have it known. I hold daily Masses, but more frequently than not, I’m the only one in attendance. That makes for empty offering plates.”
Key alighted and looked around. The courtyard was enclosed on three sides by stone walls covered with bougainvillea vines. When Father Geraldo noticed Key’s interest in the arched opening through which they’d entered, he said, “Until three years ago, there was a very beautiful and intricate wrought-iron gate. It was requisitioned by the rebels.”
“Sounds like the Civil War when the Confederate army made cannonballs from iron fences. What’d the rebels use your gate for?”
“Pikes. They severed the heads of the generals of Escávez’s army, impaled them on the pikes, and left them in the city square until they rotted. That was shortly after you left, Mrs. Porter.”
She didn’t quail or turn pale or faint. “I’d like to go inside,” she said in a level voice. “I’d forgotten how ferocious the mosquitoes here can be.”
Key admired her fortitude. Maybe the danger they’d experienced tonight, coupled with seeing evidence of so many atrocities of war, had inured her. Then he reminded himself as they carried their gear toward the entrance of the rectory that she’d experienced an atrocity firsthand.
One of the encompassing walls of the courtyard doubled as the exterior wall of the church. It was taller by two-thirds than the other two walls. Typical of Spanish architecture, the sanctuary had a bell tower, although the bell was missing.
Another of the walls formed the exterior of the school, which Father Geraldo sadly explained was no longer used. “I wished to teach catechism, but all the various juntas wanted th
e children indoctrinated to violence and retaliation, which are incongruous with Christ’s teachings. The nuns were faithful, but feared for their lives. Parents, under the threat of execution, were afraid to send their children to class. Eventually the enrollment dwindled to nothing. I closed the school and requested that the nuns be reassigned to the States. There had been so many clergymen executed that all elected to leave.
“For a while the vacant school was used to house orphans. There were dozens of them, victims of the war. Their parents had either been killed or had abandoned them to join the fighters. One day soldiers arrived in trucks and transported the children to another place. No one would ever tell me where they were taken.
“This,” he said, unlocking a heavy wooden door, “is where I live and do what little work I’m still permitted to do.”
To Key, the rectory was extremely claustrophobic, but he was accustomed to having the sky as his ceiling. The priest’s quarters were a warren of small rooms with narrow windows and low, exposed-beam ceilings. Key had to duck his head to pass through the doorways. His shoulders barely cleared the walls of the dim corridors. More than once the toes of his boots caught on the seams of the uneven stone floor.
“I’m sorry,” the priest said when Key tripped and bumped into a wall. “The rectory was built by and for European monks much smaller than you.”
“No wonder they prayed all the time. They didn’t have room to do anything else.”
Father Geraldo indicated that they precede him through a connecting doorway. “I have refreshments in the kitchen. You’ll be glad to know that it was modernized in the late fifties.”
By contemporary American standards, the kitchen was woefully outdated, but it was centuries ahead of the other rooms of the rectory. They sat down at a round table while Father Geraldo served them fruit, cheese, bread, and slices of a canned ham one of his relatives in the States had smuggled to him. Out of deference to his meager hoard, they ate sparingly.