Jarret stuck his head out. Bright light from the open garage door opposite the tanks made him squint. The ladder was gone and there was nothing else he could hold onto, but the cement floor wasn’t too far down.
He twisted his shoulders through and then wriggled his arms free. His palms hit the cement floor, which felt cold even through the gloves. Probably not the best way to go, now that he thought about it. He still had no room to bend his legs, and he was starting to feel pretty stupid with half his body in the tank and the blood rushing to his head.
“You’ll have to drop down from there.” Brother Maurus appeared nearby.
Unwilling to drop down and unable to bend even one leg, Jarret cussed up a storm.
“Just drop down. You can do it.”
“I hate being here!” He walked forward with his hands, the rim of the manhole scraping his thighs. “You guys are all crazy. I’m not gonna change. I wish you’d all leave me alone. I want out of here!”
“Just drop down.”
Jarret dragged his feet over the rim and abandoned himself to gravity. He fell to the hard cement floor and cussed a few more times at the fleeting pain.
“Very good. You did fine.” Brother Maurus hovered over him, grinning and reaching for his arms. “Now to the vineyard.” He yanked Jarret up and turned away.
“What? Why don’t we rest?” He should’ve saved his breath. Brother Maurus had already left the winery through the open garage door.
Jarret stripped off the gloves and the rubber boots and washed his arms in a concrete sink. He shook the water from his arms as he dashed through the open garage door. The sun made him squint, but the mid-seventy-degree temperature brought goose bumps to his wet arms.
Brother Maurus passed under a shady tree, heading for the dirt road to the vineyard.
Jarret jogged to catch up.
Brother Maurus walked with his head down, but as Jarret approached, he looked up. He carried Jarret’s report. “Your information is good. You must listen very well. I wasn’t aware I told you all this.”
“Thanks. But I don’t have to listen well, you repeat yourself.” He grinned, waiting for the monk’s reaction. None came so he tried again. “And you talk a lot.”
“What?” The monk looked up again, his forehead wrinkling. “I don’t talk a lot. Do I?”
“Yeah.” Jarret grinned, satisfied with the reaction. “You even talk during your silent times.”
“Oh, my, I guess I’ll have to work on that.” He picked up his pace. “We’ll take a little stroll through the vines. I want to check on them.”
“They barely have leaves. What’s to check on?” He followed the monk, wishing his time at the monastery were over, wishing he were home with his life under his own control. Everything about this place made him think of imprisonment, even the vineyard. The vines, all brown and twisted, made him think of prisoners too weary to stand tall, bodies sagging, arms outstretched along the wire.
“These vines have been here many years.” Brother Maurus’s half-moon eyes lit up as he gazed at them. “The new ones won’t bear fruit yet. It takes careful pruning, thinning, positioning the shoots, removing leaves. But then, God willing, they bear much fruit.”
“Are these grapes good to eat; I mean when they’re ready?”
“No, you would not want to eat these. They are bitter. When they are ripe, they are plucked from the vine and drained of all juice. They are crushed.”
At the word “crushed,” Jarret shivered. Maybe he’d gotten a chill from wearing damp clothes, but he sensed that the monk’s words applied to him as well as to the fruit.
“Then they sit for a while in the dark, where secret things go on, a secret transformation, and . . .” He paused, making eye contact before he said, “Then you have something wonderful.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SEEDS OF A PLAN
Jarret
Since before he could walk, before he could talk, he’d had command. Of himself. Of his goals. Of others. Everything he wanted he could get. He had merely to desire something and, with little effort, it came to be. So this nadir of powerlessness and influence that had become his life should’ve caused him a bit of stress. But actually, it felt kind of good.
Every muscle in his body relaxed, even the sore ones, as he sat with aloof coolness in a recliner in the Zamoranos’ entertainment room. He had a Coke, a plate of tortilla chips, and homemade salsa at his fingertips, a comfortable breeze from an overhead fan, and a wall-sized TV before him.
Most importantly, he hadn’t a single goal for the day. Getting high with Rufino a few days ago had changed his perspective on life. It was like time stopped, or at least slowed way down, and he could think, really think. He’d had a moment of clarity. Now, things that had been so important to him, he could face with indifference. He no longer cared what Keefe did with his life. His need for him had waned. Thus, his need to keep his cell phone within easy reach had gone too. Where had he left the thing anyway?
Selena flitted into view. She wore a white skirt and a flouncy shirt that was all lavender and purple with strips of lace on the chest. It made him want to stare but only for as long as she blocked his view of the television.
Now that he didn’t give a rap whether she liked him or not, he didn’t have to waste time in the bathroom trying to look good. He hadn’t shaved in two days. He hadn’t even bothered to change out of the gray cotton shorts and tank top he’d worn to bed.
Roland seemed to have had a transformation of sorts over the days too. Jarret had to do a double take every time he got a glimpse of him. He wore faded denim shorts and a stark white t-shirt, not his typical Goth colors.
About an hour ago, Papa had come into the room, called Roland aside, and mumbled something to him, didn’t even say hey to Jarret. So Papa liked Roland best, thought he was responsible and helpful. Who gave a continental hoot?
“Do you want a bolillo?” Selena slinked up beside him, a tray of warm bolillos in hand.
Jarret took one, stuffed it halfway into his mouth, and set two more on the end table, next to his plate of tortilla chips. He took the bolillo from his mouth to say, “Is this lunch?”
Selena smiled and flipped the hair from her face in that flirtatious way of hers. “Are you feeling better today?”
He gave her a strange look. “What?”
She touched her abdomen. “Are you still wearing the Ace bandage? Does it still hurt?”
Jarret twisted around to glare at Roland. “Thanks.”
Roland sat on one side of a brown leather couch, eyes round with his attempt to look innocent. “I didn’t say anything . . . to her . . . exactly. It wasn’t my fault she was standing right there when Papa sent me to fetch Eremita.” He shook his head. “I didn’t say anything.”
Selena laughed, looking from Roland to Jarret. “He didn’t say anything. Señora Eremita told me you were all bruised up. Did you get in a fight?” Her brown eyes sparkled as if she found some demented delight in his misery.
He shoved the rest of the bolillo into his mouth. He’d sooner eat live rattlesnakes for lunch than admit to her how three guys beat him up and Roland had to save him.
“Can I see?” she said.
“What?” he said with his mouth full. Was she for real?
“Your bruises, are they really bad?” She dropped her gaze and stuck her bottom lip out.
He swallowed and took a swig of Coke. “You really wanna see?” He couldn’t help but grin. Maybe she liked him after all.
She nodded.
Jarret kicked the footrest down and jumped up, stripping off his shirt so quickly that it made all the sore spots scream. Eremita had been taking care of him for the past couple of days. She’d placed strips of adhesive tape around the worst areas and then wrapped him with the Ace bandage. Slightly worried about renewing the pain, he reached for the end of the wrap.
Selena’s smile turned into a giggle. Her head dipped forward, hair cascading over her face, and she laughed.
As he snatched up his shirt, she touched his arm. “No, I’m not laughing at you. It’s just that . . . I don’t know. I’m sorry you got hurt.”
She looked sincere enough, the way she held his gaze. But still. “So, what’s so funny?”
“Nothing. I mean, I guess it shocked me the way you ripped your shirt off.”
“How else you gonna see the bruises?”
She smiled. She was gonna laugh again.
He pulled his shirt on and eased himself back into the recliner. “Why don’t you sit down and watch the movie? You put it on, said it was your favorite.”
She started strolling along the perimeter of the entertainment room. “I’m kind of sad. Tonight is your farewell dinner. I can’t believe you guys are leaving in two days.” She stopped at the outer boundary of his peripheral vision. “I’m going to miss you.”
No sooner was her sad declaration out of her mouth than she bounced on her toes and scooted over to the couch. “Guess who’s coming to the dinner party?”
Roland didn’t reply. He probably shrugged.
“We invited the same guests that came over the night of the first robbery.”
“Wow. Really? Why?” Roland said.
“It was my doing.” She sounded proud. “I thought it would be nice for you to meet them all.” She resumed flitting around the room while she talked. “It’s too bad we couldn’t figure out who did it.” She stopped at the edge of Jarret’s peripheral vision again and glanced over her shoulder toward the hallway before continuing. “Something else was stolen.”
Roland dropped a dish or something, and it clanked on the coffee table. “What? Really?”
Jarret kicked the footrest down and cranked his head around to see.
Roland scraped tortilla chips from the coffee table back into his bowl.
Selena was nodding in an exaggerated way. “Right from my father’s den.”
Roland stood up with the bowl of chips but then set it down and walked around the coffee table to her. “What was taken? When? Last night?”
She covered her mouth with one hand and giggled, lighting a fire in Jarret. Then she dropped her hand to her belly and laughed, fanning the fire. Composing herself she said, “Could’ve been days ago, but Papá only noticed it this morning.”
“Do you notice how she laughs at us?” Jarret got to his feet and put a hand on his hip. “She doesn’t take us seriously.”
Selena laughed again. “You are too serious about yourselves, you West boys.” She came up to Jarret with that blasted flirty look in her eyes. “But if you want me to be serious, I will do it.” She folded her arms across her chest and stared at him, plain-faced, almost pouty.
Was she flirting with him? He took her by the arm and dropped back into the recliner, trying to get her onto his lap. His bruised abdomen screamed.
She twisted away, laughing.
“Look,” he said, holding his ribs. “All I wanted was to ride with you. I like it out here. I want to see the land. But you have a hundred excuses. Can you even ride a horse? Or was that a lie?”
More laughter. Turning away. Trying to control it. “We can go out, the three of us. But don’t you still hurt too much to ride?”
He shook his head, more to show his annoyance than to say no. “I’ll go out for a ride. Before we leave. And I’ll go alone.”
“Can I go with you?” Roland sounded like a little kid. “I’d like to go riding.”
Jarret decided not to answer. He took a swig of Coke instead.
“Hey!” Roland’s eyes popped. “Hey, what about those footprints?”
Selena threw her head back, laughing.
Roland edged to the hallway, looked both ways, and came back. “Remember those dirty footprints Eremita was complaining about the other day? Did you see them?”
“Sure,” she said. “They were big cowboy-boot prints. Every man on the property, from Papá to Rufino, wears cowboy boots. But the hired hands only come into the dining room. They don’t usually enter Papá’s den or the rest of the house. That’s what makes it suspicious.”
“Except Enyeto,” Jarret said, the image of Enyeto cleaning a saddle fresh in his mind. Jarret would’ve never let dirty water drip all over his own shoes. “Enyeto doesn’t wear cowboy boots. He wears work boots. And every work boot has a distinctive tread on the sole. Real cowboy boots don’t have tread.”
Selena’s eyes grew wide and round. “That’s true. They’re designed for sliding into stirrups.” She dashed to the hallway, glanced both ways, and came back. “I remember. The muddy prints had lines through them, lines like on tennis shoes or . . .”
“Work boots.” Roland went to her, and their eyes locked in a gaze of mutual revelation. “Do you remember the print, the pattern?”
“No, and what if I did?” She stifled a giggle. “Do you want to check the bottom of Enyeto’s boots?”
Jarret slid from the recliner to his feet and folded his arms across his chest. He could play this game. “I remember what the footprints looked like. I saw one in the foyer.” He saw it when he was on the phone with Keefe, when he had slid down the wall and sat on the floor under the staircase. He’d stared at it for a long time, the muddy footprint with the crosses and lines. “I know exactly what the pattern looks like. I’ll go check out the pattern from Enyeto’s boots. He’s probably got footprints all over the stables.”
“I don’t know,” Selena said. “He keeps the place clean, very clean. I am surprised he would even have mud on the bottom of his boots.”
“It did rain,” Roland said.
“I don’t remember boot prints in the chapel,” Selena said.
“What about the tobacco juice in the chapel?” Jarret said. “Does Enyeto chew?”
Selena shook her head. Then she and Jarret said together, “Laszio chews.”
Selena turned away and peered out the window. “I can’t believe our thief is one of the stable hands. We treat them like family. I still think it’s one of the party guests, someone from outside.” She faced them.
“Let’s set a trap.” Roland’s steel-gray eyes held a calculating look.
She smiled and gave a nod.
“I know exactly what to do.” Roland gave them a crooked smile, a look that Jarret had never seen on his face before.
“I’m in,” Jarret said.
“Me, too,” Selena said, and this time she wasn’t laughing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
TO CATCH A THIEF
Jarret
Millions of celestial lights shone overhead in the blue abyss of space. The flat desert landscape, with its distant mesas and scattering of plants, underscored the night sky, drawing little attention to itself. He hadn’t given much thought to the stars before. Too many trees back home. But, now that he really studied it, he saw that some of them shone blue, orange, and red, and not just white.
Jarret leaned back against the stables, took a long drag off a joint, and let his gaze sweep across the sky from one horizon to the other. He rather liked being alone outside at night. And he didn’t mind so much that he had to take the first watch while Roland finished implementing his plan, setting the bait for the trap.
Jarret snickered.
Roland’s idea for a trap: hide a heavy box of—
What was in the box anyway? Nobody had said.
Anyway, hide it in the bushes on the stable-side of the house. Then join the dinner party inside and whisper about the box and where it’s hidden. Whisper loud enough so that everyone can hear. Act like the box contains valuable antiques. Act like Juan knows nothing about it, which he doesn’t, because he’d probably wig out if he did. Then pretend we plan to get it to a storage unit for safety, but later, so the thief would have a chance to snag it. One of us has to keep watch from the shadows—my job, at the moment.
No. He didn’t mind. Gave him time to think.
And with every hit off the joint, he could almost feel his mind opening and his thoughts gaining clarity.
He began to understand Roland. The kid had a devious side that no one saw or suspected. He wasn’t shy. He was calculating. Roland had always pretended he wanted to be Jarret’s friend, but that didn’t square. After all the mean things he’d done to Roland— No. Roland hated him. He had to. A person could only forgive so much.
Roland had himself a goal. And this act of friendship was only so he could get what he wanted: Selena. Seeing as how they’d be leaving soon, he was probably arranging some long-term correspondence with her right now. She’d probably come outside with him on his turn to keep watch.
Then there was Roland’s perpetual effort to get Papa to like him best. Why else would he spend his vacation cataloging Señor Zamorano’s antiques? Maybe he wanted Juan to like him, too. That would explain his obsession over finding the thief. If his little plan worked, he could take all the credit. If anything went wrong, Jarret would get the blame and stay on Papa’s you-know-what list, maybe get on everyone’s list. If Roland wanted revenge badly enough—
A sound came from the far end of the stable, a door opening.
Jarret straightened and slid into the dark corner where the apartments connected to the stables.
A figure in a Stetson hat approached, scuffing along at a leisurely pace, keeping close to the stable.
Jarret pinched the joint out and pressed his back to the wall. The dark corner wouldn’t draw attention. The man shouldn’t see him unless he really looked.
A stone’s-throw away, the figure walked into the light from one of the stable’s floodlights. Enyeto. His hard eyes stared straight ahead. As he passed Jarret, he neither slowed nor turned his stern, dark face. He went around to the front of the apartment units. A moment later, a light came on in one of the windows and reflected on the ground. Minutes later, the window darkened, but Enyeto did not come out.
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