by Sandra Brown
“The water is supposed to be sterilized, but I boil it anyway,” he said as he removed a pitcher from the refrigerator. He placed lemon slices in their glasses. There was no ice. He also set a bottle of Jamaican rum on the table. Only after Key had helped himself to it did the priest pour a glass for himself.
“It helps me sleep,” he said sheepishly.
Lara was polite enough to wait until they’d finished the meal before broaching the subject of her daughter’s grave. “Where do we start our search, Father Geraldo?”
He looked at them uneasily. “I thought you might have a plan. All my inquiries have led to dead ends. This doesn’t mean that no information exists. It simply means that no one is willing to impart it.”
“The result is the same,” Key said.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Lara, however, seemed undaunted. “I want to start by searching the American embassy.”
“There’s no one there, Mrs. Porter. It was looted and has remained vacant these past years.”
“Do you remember my husband’s aide and interpreter, Emilio Sánchez Perón?”
Key had traveled extensively in Central and South America and was familiar with the custom of tacking on the mother’s maiden name to establish an individual’s identity.
“Vaguely,” the priest answered. He refilled his glass from the bottle of rum. According to Key’s count, this was his third drink. “As I recall, he was a quiet, intense young man. Slight in build. Wore glasses.”
“That’s Emilio. Have you seen or heard from him?”
“I assumed he was killed when the embassy was raided.”
“His name didn’t appear on the casualty list.”
“That could have been an oversight.”
“I realize that,” Lara said, “but I’m clinging to the hope that he’s still alive. The embassy library fascinated him. He spent most of his off-duty hours there. Do you know if the library was ransacked along with the rest of the building?”
Father Geraldo shrugged. “The rebels have very little time for recreational reading,” he said with a wry smile. “But I wouldn’t expect to find anything there intact, including the library. I haven’t seen it, but from what I’ve heard, the building was destroyed.”
The discouragement that settled on Lara’s face was heartbreaking to see. “What about Ashley’s death certificate?” Key asked. “Wouldn’t a doctor have signed one before she was buried?”
“That’s a possibility,” the priest conceded. “If the certificate wasn’t destroyed, if the doctor’s name was recorded, and if we can locate him, he might know where her body is buried.”
Lara sighed. “It seems hopeless, doesn’t it?”
“Tonight it does.” Key came to his feet and assisted her out of her chair. “You’re exhausted. Where is she sleeping?”
“I need a bathroom first, please.”
“Of course.” Father Geraldo indicated a narrow passageway. “Through there.”
While Lara was in the bathroom, which fortunately had plumbing, Key and the priest shared another drink. “If you’re so limited in the work you can do here, why don’t you return home?” Key asked. “Getting reassigned shouldn’t be a problem considering the number of missionaries who’ve been slaughtered.”
“I made a commitment to God,” he replied. “I may not be very effective here, but I doubt I’d be much more effective elsewhere.”
He raised his glass of rum and drank deeply. Father Geraldo knew that in the States he would be committed by the Church to an alcohol-addiction rehab facility. Staying in war-torn Montesangre was his self-imposed penance for his weakness.
“You might die here if you stay.”
“I’m well aware of the possibility, Mr. Tackett, but I’d rather die a martyr than a quitter.”
“I’d rather not die at all,” Key said somberly. “Not yet.”
The priest looked at him with renewed interest. “Are you Catholic, Mr. Tackett?”
Key chuckled at the notion. There wasn’t even a Catholic church in Eden Pass. The few Catholic families in town traveled twenty miles to worship. They were treated with only a little more tolerance than the Jewish families and were looked at askance by the Protestants of his hometown, where most folks erroneously assumed that if you were American-born you were automatically Christian.
“I was raised a Methodist, but don’t hold that against them. They did their best. I was the scourge of every Sunday-school teacher unfortunate enough to have me in class. I eliminated any doubts they might have had as to the devil’s existence. I’m living proof that Lucifer is alive and well. When it comes to righteousness, I’m a lost cause.”
“I don’t believe that.” The priest raised his glass and looked through the rum as he spoke. “I’m not much of a priest, but I haven’t forgotten all my training. I can still see into a man’s heart and judge his character with a fair degree of accuracy. It took a man of courage and compassion to bring Mrs. Porter here, particularly when one considers her relationship with your brother.”
Key let that pass without comment and leaned across the table so he could whisper. Water was running in the bathroom, but he didn’t want to take a chance on Lara overhearing. “Since you claim to be a fairly good judge of character, would you say the soldier on the road was fooled by that crock of shit you fed him?”
The water in the bathroom stopped running.
The priest drained his glass. “No.”
Father Geraldo and Key exchanged a stare rife with unspoken meaning. Lara rejoined them, fatigue weighing down her small frame.
“Bedtime,” Key said, coming to his feet.
The priest led them through a maze of hallways. Entering a cloister, he smiled at Lara encouragingly and indicated the window. “It opens onto the courtyard. I thought you’d like that. But be sure to use the mosquito netting.”
She didn’t seem to notice that the cot beneath the crucifix was narrow, that the only lighting was a weak, bare bulb suspended from the ceiling, that the chamber was airless and hot, and that in lieu of a closet there were three wooden pegs extending from the wall.
“Thank you very much, Father Geraldo. You’re placing yourself at tremendous risk in order to help me. I won’t forget that.”
“It’s the least I can do, Mrs. Porter. More than once this church benefited from your generosity even though you aren’t Catholic.”
“I admired the work you were doing here. It superseded the arguable points of dogma.”
He smiled poignantly. “I remember when your daughter was born. I happened to be visiting the hospital wards that day, heard you had just given birth, and stopped by your room to extend my congratulations.”
“I remember. We had met socially on a few occasions, but you were wonderfully kind to visit me that day.”
“That was the first time I’d ever seen you smile,” he remarked. “And so you should have. Your Ashley was a beautiful baby.”
“Thank you.”
The priest took her hand. After giving it a brief squeeze, he said good night and left the room. Having been reminded of her daughter’s birthday, she looked forlorn and small, as though grief were shrinking her. Key wanted to alleviate her bereavement, to touch her with compassion and understanding as the priest had, but his hands remained at his sides.
“Do you still have the pistol?” he asked.
“I put it in the camera bag.”
The bag was hanging by its strap from one of the wall pegs. Key removed the large revolver and handed it to her. “Sleep with it. Don’t be without it.”
“Did Father Geraldo tell you something I should know? Are we in danger?”
“I think we should be prepared for our situation to get worse before it gets better. If we have no trouble, it’ll be a lucky break.” He nodded toward the cot. “Try to get some rest. Tomorrow will be a long day. We’ll start at the embassy.”
She held him with a puissant stare that made him increasingly uncomfortable. “Tell me th
e truth, Key,” she said softly. “Don’t talk down to me as though I were a child. You think this is a wild goose chase, don’t you?”
He did, but he didn’t have the heart to tell her so. Father Geraldo had confirmed what he’d guessed—that the soldiers had let them into the city because they were curious to find out more about them and what they were doing there, not because they’d believed the priest’s tale about a widow and her idiot brother-in-law.
Key believed they’d be lucky to escape Montesangre with their lives. He doubted very much that they’d fly away unscathed with the casket bearing Ashley Porter’s remains.
But while he didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth, he wouldn’t insult her intelligence with a fatuous lie. Compromising by avoidance, he said, “Get some rest, Lara. I plan to.”
Rather than go to bed, he returned to the kitchen, where he kept Father Geraldo company while the priest drank himself into a stupor. Leaving him slumped over the table soundly snoring, Key found a cot in the tiny room across the hall from Lara’s. He stripped to his underwear, lay down between the scratchy muslin sheets, and dozed fitfully, his ears attuned to any noise.
He must have slept more deeply than he’d thought, because he awakened with a jolt when someone shook his shoulder. Reflexively he grabbed the Beretta, released the safety, and sat upright.
Lara stood beside the cot, washed and combed and dressed, her hand arrested in midair near his shoulder. The muzzle of the gun was only inches from her face.
“Jesus.” Key exhaled shortly. “I could have killed you.”
She was shaken and pale. “I’m sorry I startled you. I called your name several times. It… it wasn’t until… I touched you…”
They stared at each other through the morning gloom. It became increasingly difficult to breathe the heavy, humid air. Her breasts rose and fell with the effort.
Sometime during the night, he’d kicked off the top sheet. Sweat trickled through his chest hair, rolled over his ribs, down his belly, and collected in his navel. An erection like a telephone pole had distended the front of his briefs.
“It’s seven o’clock.” She sounded as though she’d just run a mile uphill. “I’ve made coffee.” She turned and fled.
Key dropped the gun and covered his face with both hands, dragging them down his haggard, bearded cheeks. Morning erections weren’t uncommon, but this one was unusually hard.
As he pulled on his clothes, he stared at the open doorway through which Lara had hastily retreated.
“You were right. There’s nothing here.”
Lara kicked a chunk of ceiling plaster out of her path. What had been done to the American embassy library defied description. The crystal chandelier lay shattered on the quarry tile floor, which had been robbed of the Aubusson rugs that had once adorned it. The bookshelves had been stripped. Piles of ashes were mute testimony to the fate of the volumes.
The flag that had once stood in the corner was in tatters. Epithets to the United States had been spray-painted on the paneled walls. None of the tall windows remained intact. Apparently guns had been fired into the ceiling, because loose plaster and sections of molding were scattered over the floor. The furnishings had been confiscated. Rodents and birds now nested in the rubble.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Porter.”
“It’s not your fault,” she told Father Geraldo, who was hovering nearby. He was wan; his skin looked pasty, and his eyes were bloodshot. His hands were shaking so badly that he could barely drink the coffee she’d brewed before their departure from the rectory. She pretended not to notice when he laced his coffee with rum. “You tried to warn me that this was what I’d find.”
“Is there anything else you’d like to see?”
“Randall’s office, please.”
“Make it quick,” Key said.
He stood near a window, flattened against the wall. He could see out while remaining hidden. They had dressed in the clothing the priest had provided the night before and had parked the jeep off the main street before entering the building. Nevertheless, both he and Lara doubted that their disguises could fool anyone who looked closely at them.
Key was carrying the rifle. His handgun was tucked into the waistband of his pants. From the moment they’d entered the ravaged building, he’d been more interested in what was going on in the streets than in what she might discover inside.
He turned his head away from the window. “The same jeep has driven past three times. There are two soldiers in it. They’re flying El Corazón’s flag. I don’t trust their nonchalance.”
“We’ll be quick,” she promised as she and the priest picked their way through the litter to the doorway of the library. Key followed but continued to glance over his shoulder as they made their way up the staircase to the room that had been the ambassador’s office.
“Wait!” he cautioned as Lara reached for the closed door. She yanked back her hand, and he approached with the rifle. “Stand aside.” She and the priest stood with their backs against the wall, out of the way of the door. Key pressed himself against Lara, then used the butt of the rifle to nudge open the door.
He hesitated a moment longer, then explained. “It was the only door in the building that was closed. It could have been booby-trapped.”
Stepping around him, she moved into the office. At one time furnished to befit a United States ambassador, it had been ransacked as completely as the library. The desk was still there, but it had been bashed until it was barely standing. The top had been scarred by a knife, probably the same one used to slash the leather chair. White cotton stuffing sprouted from the gashes. The liquor cabinet had been raided; Waterford decanters and glassware had been shattered against the far wall.
Father Geraldo heaved a sad sigh. “It appears that your husband’s office suffered the same fate as the other rooms.” He headed for the door, but Lara reached out and caught his sleeve.
“Wait. Maybe not.” She moved to the far wall where there was a credenza that appeared not to have been disturbed. She opened one of the compartments and uttered a small exclamation.
“Look. Papers and files.” She scanned one of the documents. “They’re written in Spanish, but they look official.”
Father Geraldo read them over her shoulder. “It’s a trade agreement.” He read further. “Basically, unrefined sugar in exchange for weapons. But it’s dated several months before the coup was staged, so it can’t be of much interest.”
“It is to somebody.” Reaching deeper into the credenza, she pulled out a pair of reading glasses and held them up for the priest to see.
“That looks like—”
“The kind that Emilio wore,” she finished, her voice excited. “I knew it! I knew that if he was alive—”
Suddenly Key stepped forward and covered her mouth with his hand. He also motioned the priest to silence and angled his head toward the door, which they’d left open.
“Someone’s out there,” he mouthed.
He signaled Lara to crouch behind the credenza. She adamantly shook her head and headed for the door. He grabbed the back of the loose dress and brought her up short. Furious, she spun around and glared at him. But her glare fizzled beneath his, so she did as he instructed and crouched down at the end of the credenza. Father Geraldo knelt beside her.
By now she, too, heard the faint rustling of footsteps beyond the door. Key crept closer to it. He had propped the rifle against the desk, but was holding the handgun out in front of him as though he fully intended to use it.
What if they had caught Emilio off guard? What if he’d heard their approach and, fearing for his life, had hidden in another room? He was barely more than a boy, and he’d been loyal to Randall and her. He might know the location of Ashley’s grave. Key, with his trigger-happy reflexes, could shoot him the instant he appeared in the doorway.
Lara held her breath and listened. Unmistakably the footsteps were coming nearer, although the one making them was trying to go undetected. His approach
was halting, as if he, too, was pausing occasionally to listen. Finally the footsteps ceased. Unless her ears were playing tricks on her, the person had stopped just beyond the door, exactly as they had done before Key forced open the door with the butt of his rifle.
Lara watched in dread as he aimed the gun at the doorway.
There was movement in the opening.
Lara surged to her feet and rushed forward. “Emilio, look out!”
Chapter Twenty-One
Startled by her shout, Key spun around and backhanded her, knocking her to the floor. Then, hearing a sound in the doorway, he dropped, rolled, and fired three times.
The blast echoed in the empty building, causing Lara momentary deafness. She tasted blood. Woozy and stunned, she struggled to a sitting position and looked toward the doorway. On the threshold, one side of his body opened by gunshots, lay a goat.
“Fuck!” Key yanked Lara to her feet and shook her hard. “What the hell were you thinking?” He shoved her toward the door. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Come on, padre. In a minute or less this place is going to be crawling with troops.”
Stumbling from the room, she barely avoided stepping in the gore. Key splayed his hand on her back and pushed her ahead of him down the staircase and through the formal reception halls on the ground floor. Her lip was throbbing; she knew it was rapidly swelling.
When they reached the rear door through which they’d entered, Key jerked her to a halt. Cautiously he poked his head outside and surveyed the immediate area. Lara glanced at Father Geraldo. Breathing heavily, he was supporting himself against the doorjamb. Sympathetically he passed her a handkerchief. She blotted her lip with it; it came away stained with blood.
Key said, “Let’s go. But keep your head down and be ready to run for cover. There could be snipers on the roofs.”
He gripped her hand and made a dash for the jeep. He hoisted her into the passenger’s seat, then ran around to the driver’s side, taking over Father Geraldo’s position as driver. The priest didn’t seem to mind. Without argument he scrambled into the backseat only seconds before the jeep lurched toward the nearest alley.