Cut and Run

by Fern Michaels

  “It’s just another mile or so, señora . . . I mean Myra.”

  Thank God, Myra thought. “Tell me, Padre Tomás, how does one get up the mountain these days?”

  The young priest laughed. “Very carefully. Padre Mendoza told me when the countess left years ago that the road, such as it was, became overgrown. One either arrives on a helicopter or one hikes the mountain. Two of our village boys are the only ones who have ever gone up and actually returned. One needs to be a mountain goat. Luis Ramon is off at the university, so it is his brother Franko who knows the way. Franko has shown his brother Berto, who is just thirteen, the way up and down. Padre Mendoza sends them up three or four times a year to check on the monastery. He then reports to the countess by phone.

  “Is it your intention to go up to the mountain, señora? If so, I must advise against it. You will probably need to go back to the Barcelona–El Prat Airport tomorrow and make arrangements to go by helicopter.”

  “I see,” was all Myra could think of to say.

  She occupied herself by taking in the scenery outside, or at least what she could see of it in the dark. They were just passing through a stone archway covered in clinging flowers. Beyond the archway was the small village, a cluster of stone buildings with wide arches and red roofs.

  “We’re here, señora,” said Tomás, after pulling past the smaller buildings and stopping the truck in front of a much larger and more imposing structure. “As you can see, it is very quiet and dark. Electricity here is a luxury. We try to conserve and use a lot of candles. I have a very powerful flashlight, so just follow close behind me till we get indoors.”

  The inside of the rectory proved to be a surprise to Myra. While small, it was so clean she was stunned. The furniture looked to be home crafted and polished to a high sheen. The word cozy came to mind. As she followed the young priest up a pair of what looked like hand-hewn steps, she sniffed. Candles and the scent of lemon followed her. It was not an unpleasant scent.

  The room was small—a single bed, a chest of drawers with a pitcher and basin for a quick wash. A bottle of water, the seal intact, sat next to a bottle of holy water. She looked around for any sign of a bathroom when she saw a folded towel and washcloth at the foot of the bed.

  “It’s in the hall,” the young priest said, and smiled. “Is there anything I can fetch you before you retire?”

  Myra whirled around. “This is your bedroom, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but it is no problem. There is a comfortable palate on the first floor. I will be more than comfortable. Padre Mendoza rises early. We usually have breakfast at six o’clock. Eggs fresh from the henhouse, our homemade sausage, home-baked bread, and fruit from our own groves. Simple fare.”

  “It sounds delicious. Thank you for going to all this trouble. Truly, I appreciate it.”

  “If there is nothing else, I will retire myself. It’s been a long day. The village bell will wake you at five o’clock. That will give you an hour to prepare for the day and to meet Padre Mendoza.”

  Myra wanted to tell the young priest she wasn’t going to sleep a wink and would be more than ready at five o’clock, but she kept quiet. When the door closed, she leaned back on the bed, surprised at how comfortable it was. She closed her eyes and was instantly asleep, jet lag finally catching up with her.

  * * *

  When the village bell rang at five o’clock, Myra bolted awake, shocked and stunned at the sound. Even more stunned that she’d actually slept through the night. She swung her legs over the side of the bed. Should she head for the bathroom, or wait to see if the elder priest got first dibs? She strained to hear any sounds coming from the hall. All she could hear was silence. She debated for a few minutes before she grabbed the towel and washcloth, believing that because she was a guest, the elder and younger priests would allow her to go first.

  But before she did that she had to decide what to do about her cell phone. She pulled it out of her bag. No bars. “This is not good,” she muttered. She whipped out the encrypted phone and did her best to get a connection but was unsuccessful. She struggled to remember what Tomás had shared about cell phone usage. She remembered him saying calls could come in easier than outgoing calls for some reason. She recalled having no problem calling the padre when she was back at Pinewood. A chill ran down her spine when she realized she was virtually cut off from Charles and the Sisters. The chill she was experiencing seemed to grow colder. That had to be why Annie hadn’t gotten in touch.

  What to do? When Charles didn’t hear from her, would he go into mission mode? She blessed herself, hoping that was the case. Then a thought struck her. The monastery was high on the mountain. Wasn’t there something about the higher you were, the better the cell phone reception. If true, why hadn’t Annie called? Because she’s being held prisoner on her very own mountain, Myra told herself. The chill she was feeling deepened.

  Myra sucked in a deep breath as she wrapped her arms around her chest before she headed out to the bathroom in the hall.

  When she returned to her room, she marveled that she’d just taken the shortest shower of her life due to the trickle of water that dripped from the showerhead. She sighed when she thought of the special rain forest showerhead back at Pinewood.

  Myra looked at herself in the small mirror over the dresser. She wasn’t happy with her appearance but realized it didn’t matter. She gathered up her belongings and stuffed everything into her travel bag. She left the room, certain she’d left it as she found it. In the kitchen, she saw a middle-aged woman at the stove. She smelled coffee and sausage. That’s when she realized how hungry she was.

  “Welcome, señora. I am Olympia. I cook for the padres. My daughter and I clean here and help out when we can. We bake the bread, and my daughter makes the candles that are used throughout the village. We try to conserve the electricity.”

  Myra nodded and held out her hand. “My name is Myra. I am a friend of Countess de Silva.”

  Olympia made the sign of the cross and smiled from ear to ear. “Our benefactor, sí. Yes, we love her. What can I prepare for you, señora?”

  “Whatever you make for the padres will be fine. Should we wait for them?” Myra asked as she eyed the round, little lady wearing a pristine white apron.

  “The padres never vary with their timing. They take their seat at the table and say grace just as I finish their toast. You will see.” She giggled, showing a mouthful of square white teeth that looked like Chicklets. Myra smiled, believing every word the little woman said.

  The table was set, the dishes plain and heavy, the silverware shiny and just as heavy. The napkins were soft as silk and had been laundered hundreds of times. Myra wondered if there was a washing machine in the village. She asked. The cook nodded and pointed to a doorway at the end of the kitchen next to a fireplace that was big enough to roast a whole steer.

  The air in the kitchen suddenly changed. Myra looked around to see Padre Tomás holding the door for the elder padre. He called out a cheerful good morning.

  Myra moved quickly to assist Tomás as he guided the elder padre to his seat at the table. He removed the two canes and set them aside. He looked like a little gnome, Myra thought. She corrected the thought immediately to a beautiful little gnome. He was no more than four feet eight in height, and his weight was probably under ninety pounds. Snow-white tufts of hair stood up in patches over his head. His eyes, which had once been cornflower blue, were now milky white with untreated cataracts. He wore round eyeglasses perched low on his nose.

  Padre Tomás made the introductions. Myra was careful not to squeeze the gnarled old hand that was red and swollen with arthritis. When he spoke in English, his voice was heavily accented. He thanked her for making the trip on such short notice. He waved his hands, then did his best to clasp them together so he could say grace. Everyone, even Olympia, bowed their head. The moment the last words were spoken was the moment Olympia set a platter of thick-sliced buttered toast on the table.

  “We c
an talk after we finish our meal. Food and the preparation need to be enjoyed when it is prepared with loving hands. Our hens delivered these eggs this morning just for you, Señora Myra,” the old priest cackled.

  Myra laughed as she looked down at the three eggs on her plate. In her life she’d never seen such glorious yellow-orange yolks that just begged to be sopped up with the inch-thick bread toasted to perfection. Two slices of sausage ringed the eggs, alongside a pile of figs dusted with sugar. A Maggie or Kathryn breakfast. There was no way in the world she could eat even half of the food on her plate. She fought with herself not to pull out her cell phone to take a picture of her breakfast plate.

  Thirty minutes later, Myra stared down at her empty plate and her empty coffee cup. Charles was never going to believe this. Never. She looked over at Olympia, and said, “Thank you for the most wonderful breakfast I’ve ever eaten.”

  Olympia beamed her pleasure. “That’s what Countess de Silva said when I made breakfast for her.” Myra nodded as she watched Padre Tomás help Padre Mendoza to his feet. “Follow us, señora. We will go to the office, where you and Padre Mendoza can talk. I will be outside waiting to take you back to the airport.”

  Myra did her best to contain herself. She itched to get things under way but had to respectfully wait for the old priest to settle himself behind his battered old desk.

  The old priest leaned forward and started to talk. He spoke haltingly at first, but the more he spoke, the easier the words flowed. “I want you to know I broke my promise to your friend Anna, who is this village’s benefactor. I asked God for a sign that it was all right for me to do as you asked when you called. I am sad to say I did not receive an answer to my plea, so I had to make an earthly decision.

  “Several months ago, three young men came here to the village. They wanted to know how to get in touch with Anna. They said if I did not tell them, they would come back here with more men and destroy the village and kill all the women and children. At first I thought there was something wrong with my hearing, but, to my dismay, that was not the case at all. They said they were Armand de Silva’s sons. They said their mother had just died and that’s how they found out who their true father was. They said they wanted their inheritance, and the only way to get it was to meet Anna and have her turn it over to them.”

  Myra gasped in horror. “But . . . but . . . that can’t be true. Annie would have told me. Was Armand married to someone else? Before he married Annie? She never told me. Oh, dear God! Did you believe them, Padre?”

  “Dear lady, I did not know what to believe at the time. In all the years I’ve known Anna, she never once hinted or alluded to anything like that. I married her and Armand right here in this village church. They both swore to me this was their first marriage. I had no reason to doubt either of them. It is entirely possible the young count had a dalliance or two and had children born on the other side of the blanket. Young men sowing their oats, as the saying goes. I could not discount it, so I had to give credence to the possibility it could be true. That’s why I called Anna. I am responsible for our village and all the lives here. I had no other choice. May God forgive me for breaking my promise to Anna and agreeing to help you when you called.”

  “But . . . but . . . DNA can prove if it is true.”

  “Even here in this small village I know as do our people what DNA is. What would we have to compare it to? Armand, Jonathan, and Elena are at the bottom of the ocean. Armand was the last surviving member of the de Silva family. Spanish law and the Spanish courts are not like your American justice system.”

  “There must be something we can do. Is Annie being held hostage on the mountain? Do you at least know that?”

  “I don’t know, señora. I met her at the airport and arranged for her to be helicoptered to the mountaintop. We talked at length at the airport. Right there, at the airport, she made me swear to Jesus Christ that I would do nothing until she got in touch with me. I asked her how long that would be, and her response was as long as it takes. I gave her my word. And I’ve broken my word.” Tears trickled from the milky-white eyes, down the wrinkled cheeks. Myra wanted to cry herself, but she held her tears in check.

  “But if she is being held hostage, that has to mean those men took away her phone. She would have no way to contact you, Padre. What made you decide to help me when I called?”

  “It’s been way too long. I have thought of nothing else during the past weeks. During that time, there have been many helicopter flights to the mountaintop. If they carried people or supplies, I do not know. The whole village is worried for Annie. Me most of all. I’m an old man who spends his days praying. I wanted to involve Tomás, but in the end, I did not. When you called, I thought I had found the answer.”

  “I know all about trust and how much Annie treasures loyalty, but, Padre, don’t you think that going to the proper authorities might help? They could send in SWAT teams or whatever the Spanish police do in situations like this.”

  “I did think of calling someone at Interpol, but in the end I tried to do what Anna would have wanted me to do. I gave my word, my promise. Right or wrong, I have to live with my decision.”

  Myra’s temper finally flared. “Annie could be dead for all you know! Oh, my God! I don’t believe this. You should have done something, Padre. It’s not like it was a confessional confession. You should have done something!” She cried as sobs caught in her throat.

  “Tomás!” Myra bellowed at the top of her lungs. “I’m ready to go!” she bellowed again. She looked down at the gnome-like priest. “This is on you, Padre!” she screamed. “If . . . If anything happened to Annie, I’m coming after you, and I don’t give a good rat’s ass if you’re a man of God or not.” Even as she ranted, Myra knew she would regret her outburst and beg the padre’s forgiveness, but right now she simply did not care. Right now, the only thing that mattered was finding Annie safe and sound.

  Myra ran from the room and barreled past Padre Tomás, shouting for him to move his ass and not caring if she was being politically correct or not.

  I’m coming, Annie. I’m coming.

  Chapter 3

  Myra climbed into the battered, old pickup truck. Her facial expression was one of red-hot anger and disbelief. “Do not talk to me, Padre. Let’s make this trip in silence. I don’t want to say something I’m going to regret later on.”

  “Very well, señora. Please, allow me to say one thing before we settle into silence. I know nothing about what is going on. I have my suspicions, but it is not my place to question Padre Mendoza. If there is any way for me to help you, I will. But until you tell me what is wrong, there is nothing I can do.”

  Myra’s mind raced as fast as her heart was beating. She heard the words, heard the young priest’s offer. What could he do? Nothing, she told herself. Her brain continued to race. What finally came out of her mouth surprised her. “Where can I get some duct tape?”

  Tomás laughed. “In the glove box in front of you. This truck consists of yards and yards of the magical tape. If you need it, please take it.”

  Myra had to bang on the glove box three times before it finally fell open. She saw small hand tools and a roll of duct tape. She reached for it and stuffed it into her bag.

  Tomás risked a glance at his passenger out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t like what he was seeing. “Señora, anger is not the answer to whatever it is you are seeking. I am a good listener if you want to talk. Please, I implore you to remember Padre Mendoza’s age and his special relationship with your friend, Countess de Silva.”

  Myra’s eyes narrowed to slits. She turned to the priest and said, “There is forgiveness, then there is forgiveness. He waited THREE months, and he’d still be waiting if I hadn’t called and traveled here. Annie could be dead for all he knows. He did nothing. Nothing!” Myra screeched at the top of her lungs. “If that’s your definition of a special relationship, I don’t want any part of it. If he cared about Annie, he would have gotten in touch with th
e proper authorities and let them handle it. Instead, he did nothing. NOTHING!” Myra screeched again.

  She wanted to cry so bad that she bit down on her lower lip, drawing blood. Finally, she blurted her last words of the trip. “And he’s a man of God! By doing nothing, he put Annie’s life in more danger. I am holding him personally responsible for her well-being, and I don’t care if he’s a priest or not.”

  “I wish I knew what you were talking about, señora, but I do not.”

  Myra shot the young priest a withering, scathing look that said it all. She closed her eyes and didn’t open them again until the rusty truck came to a stop at the far end of the airport, where four different helicopters were lined up outside a hangar that bustled with activity.

  “Come with me, señora. You must purchase a ticket and check your bag.” Myra nodded.

  I’m coming, Annie. I’m coming.

  The minute Myra stepped through the door of the make-shift ticket office was when mission mode kicked in. She wished the Sisters were here with her, but she was on her own. Well, she was up to the challenge. She could feel her pulse rate ricochet off the charts. She took a deep breath and opened her billfold for her credit card. She was told it would be thirty minutes before she could board.

  Myra withdrew some bills and stuffed them into Padre Tomás’s hands. “Thank you for all your help. You can leave now, I’ll be fine.”

  The priest held out his hand. Myra shook it. She attempted a smile but failed. “I can’t apologize, Tomás.”