Battle for His Soul

by Theresa Linden

  “You been giving dope to my son?”

  “Dope?” Rufino shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Espera. Now you wait a minute there, Ignatius. Do not be accusing me—”

  Papa’s face flinched. He released Jarret’s arm.

  Rufino’s hands shot up, and his eyes opened wider. He stepped back, looking like he might bolt. “No, amigo, it’s just pot, just marijuana.”

  “Just pot?” Seething, Papa stepped outside the barn.

  ❖

  Jarret tossed in bed. He’d taken more heat over the pot than Roland had taken for his disobedience. The rest of the night, everyone had droned on and on about “Roland the Detective,” praising him for catching the thief, as if he’d done it alone, as if Jarret and Selena hadn’t helped. As if Jarret couldn’t solve a mystery too. If he wanted to, he could. He had proven that at the Monastery. You’d think Papa would remember that day and give him some credit.

  Papa had stood about fifty feet from the winery, peering into a transit level on a tripod. He glanced up from under his cowboy hat and motioned for Jarret to move to the right.

  Jarret rolled his eyes, exhaled through his mouth, and stepped to the side. “Here?” he shouted, hands on hips. He stood about a hundred feet from Papa on the dirt road that ran through the monastery grounds. They’d been at it all morning, verifying distances with Papa’s new maps of the tunnels. As it turned out, a whole network of tunnels ran underground connecting one place to another, each of them blocked off from the building above it, but none of them having any secret walls or storage areas.

  “Yeah, that’s good,” Papa shouted back.

  Jarret rammed a stake into the ground then drilled a finger into his temple. The constant glare of sunlight had given him a headache. Maybe he should’ve accepted the hat Papa had offered before they’d gotten started. Why couldn’t they call it quits already? Maybe the monks were wrong. Maybe there was no hidden stash of valuables, and this was a big waste of time.

  Papa crouched next to the tripod and wrote something on the tunnel diagram that lay on his brief case. Papa needed some technology. He always wanted to do things by hand. If he had brought a laptop, he could be using the mapping program he’d recently ordered online. They’d be done by now.

  Jarret’s head throbbed. He strolled to Papa, rubbing his right temple. “Are we done yet? I’m tired of this. We checked everything there is to check. There’s nothing to find. Can’t we go home?”

  Papa grunted. “Something doesn’t square.”

  Jarret squatted down next to him and peered at the diagram.

  “These two check out.” Papa pointed with his pencil. “The tunnel from the winery to the chapel and the tunnel from the winery to the monks’ cells. But the tunnel from the winery to the refectory is off. I messed up either the angle or the distance. And this tunnel from the monks’ cells to the refectory ain’t right either.”

  Jarret straightened up and turned around. The storage building, refectory, church, and chapter room were all clustered in the same general area. “Maybe we’re wrong, and it’s not going to the refectory.”

  Still crouching, Papa squinted toward the cluster of buildings. “But that’s the only one with a cellar or basement.”

  “Is it? I’m betting you didn’t mess up any angles or distances. You don’t mess up like that.”

  “Sure, Jarret, I make mistakes all the time, but let’s say you’re right. Where do these angles take us?” He stood.

  “Let’s find out,” Jarret said.

  Papa picked up the tripod. “You take the measuring wheel from here. Go straight on toward the stake and keep going till you reach the first building over there.”

  Jarret turned around slowly, taking it all in. “Looks like the storage building or maybe the church is at that angle.”

  “Get me the measurements to both. I’ll go to the monks’ cells to get the angles.” Papa strode off, tripod in hand and the diagram under his arm.

  Jarret pushed the measuring wheel over the sandy ground and patchy lawn, into and out of shade from a few walnut trees.

  After getting the distances, he met up with Papa for the angles and studied the diagram spread out on the ground. It took him a second to figure it out. He looked up, grinning. “It’s the church.”

  “But the church is newer.”

  “Maybe they built it over something older.”

  Papa lowered a brow and came up beside him. He studied the diagram for all of one second. “Well, let’s go check it out.”

  They abandoned their equipment and jogged, racing each other for the church. Half way to it, the bell tolled.

  “Dash!” Papa skidded to a stop, his boots kicking up dirt. “That’s the monks’ call to prayer. We’ll have to check the church later.”

  “’Dash’?” Jarret grinned. “Never heard you use that one.”

  “We’re on holy ground. Best to mind your language, don’t you think?” Papa cracked a smile.

  Jarret chuckled. “Now what?”

  Papa turned away from the church. “Want to run up to the store, scare up some supplies?”

  “Can I get a pack of cigarettes?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  DO SOMETHING

  Roland

  “Come. On.” Selena spit out the words. She stood with her hands on her hips and head tilted, peering down at Roland who lounged on the couch. “Let’s do something already. It’s your last day.”

  “I know. I’d like to do something.” Roland sighed and returned his gaze to Jarret’s arm.

  Jarret lay stretched out in the recliner, one arm dangling over the side, his fingers resting on a plate of rhubarb and strawberry pastry things that Selena called empanadas. He had woken shortly before noon—unlike him—and put on shorts but didn’t bother changing the t-shirt he had worn to bed—sooo unlike him. When he’d breezed past the dining room, where Roland and Selena had been waiting for him, he glanced but didn’t give them so much as a nod. Not even Selena. He made a beeline for the entertainment room and swiped the remote from little Rosa, who had been watching some animated show. Now, that was like him.

  No, this vacation hadn’t turned out as Roland had hoped. And now it was over. Sure, he learned more about Papa—and he wouldn’t trade that—but he couldn’t help wanting more from Jarret. Why couldn’t they be friends? Weren’t vacations supposed to renew a person’s mind and spirit, give a new perspective on life?

  The ride out to Tucson had been something good, hadn’t it? Singing, laughing, a bit of brotherly bonding. And nothing draws people closer than sharing a crisis. Too bad Jarret never knew when to quit and go home.

  Roland shook his head and sighed. He shouldn’t have touched that gun. What else could he have done? He couldn’t let those guys beat up Jarret.

  Selena flopped down beside him on the couch. She folded her arms and propped her bare feet on the coffee table. The strings of her swimsuit hung out of her shirt. She must’ve asked him five times to go swimming. “I’m glad we found our thief,” she said.

  “Yeah, me too.” Catching the thief had been a highpoint of the trip. He hadn’t wanted to keep worrying over it, especially once Papa told him not to, but he sure couldn’t get it out of his mind. It had felt like quite the accomplishment, catching Laszio last night. Maybe he’d go into investigative work when he got older.

  Jarret huffed and muttered something.

  “What’d you say?” Roland leaned forward, the better to hear. Jarret hadn’t been himself lately. Something was bugging him.

  “Nothing.” Jarret turned and glared then snatched an empanada.

  “You seem like you’re mad about something this morning,” Roland said.

  Selena clicked her tongue. “It’s not morning. It’s after noon. We’ve wasted half the day. It’s your last day. Let’s do something.”

  “Are we going swimming?” Rosa turned away from the wall-sized TV and the spaghetti western Jarret had selected.

  “I seem mad abou
t something, huh?” Jarret peered over his shoulder at Roland. “Nothing about last night, the way Juan handled that, bothered you?”

  Roland shrugged. “Why should it? We found the thief and Señor Juan had a talk with him.”

  “What did you want him to do?” Selena said, sounding defensive. “Call the police? I told you, everyone he hires becomes like part of the family. He gives everyone a chance. Don’t you ever give anyone a second chance?”

  Jarret slammed the footrest down and got up, wiping his fingers on his shorts. “A chance to do what? Steal again? Is your father even gonna get his stuff back?”

  “My father has it under control. He is more concerned about Laszio than about things.” She turned to Roland, her expression softening. “Laszio has been putting his trust in a shaman over God, and he is a Catholic too.”

  “I assumed he needed money for medical bills,” Roland said.

  Selena shrugged. “Perhaps. But when a shaman provides spiritual services, gifts are expected.”

  “Hm.” Roland looked thoughtful. “So what’d you have in the box we used for bait? I heard something break last night when Laszio fell on it.”

  Selena bowed her head, giggling. “Only some things I made out of clay when I was a little girl: a palomino horse, a wolf, and a cactus. I never cared much about the cactus and the wolf. They didn’t turn out right. But I really liked my palomino.”

  Roland smiled. “I wish I had seen it.”

  Jarret strutted to the coffee table and stopped across from Roland. “And of course you’re happy. You got all the praise.” He whipped a half-eaten empanada at Roland’s chest. “I knew you would. You knew you would. All I got was a lecture from Papa about safety. ‘You’re the older brother. You need to watch out for him.’” He swiped Roland’s Coke and took a swig. “Give me a break.”

  Roland stood up. “You only got lectured because you were high.” The words flew out. Maybe he shouldn’t have said it in front of everyone.

  Jarret grinned as if he admired the boldness. “That ain’t the only reason. In Papa’s eyes, you don’t do nothing wrong. He told you not to worry about the thief. So why aren’t you in trouble?”

  “I got talked to.”

  Jarret stepped around the coffee table, staring him down with cold, dark eyes. “I got grounded. I’m seventeen, and he’s taking the keys to my car.”

  “Not for helping to find the thief. You’re grounded for—”

  Jarret shoved him.

  Roland fell backward onto the couch. He jumped up, wanting to shove back, tired of getting pushed around by Jarret, tired of trying to be a friend to him. Jarret didn’t want anything to do with him. Why should he waste his time?

  A grin of challenge stretched across Jarret’s face, daring Roland to push back.

  Selena got up from the couch. “Okay, children, stop fighting and let’s go do something. Who wants to swim?”

  “I do.” Rosa jumped to her feet.

  “Let’s do it,” Roland said, holding Jarret’s gaze. Jarret probably expected him to decline the offer.

  Jarret picked up Roland’s Coke again and returned to the recliner. “You guys go. I’m staying put.”

  Keefe

  Standing in front of the open refrigerator, Keefe pulled back the tab on a can of Coke and took a swig. Bubbles tickled his upper lip. The cool, sweet drink burned all the way down his throat. He hated Coke. Jarret loved it.

  It did cool him off though. And he’d worked up a sweat working on Roland’s mountain bike. He’d straightened the bent rims and fork and put it all back together. It looked good but he’d try it out later and make sure it worked like new. Roland would be happy to see it all fixed when he got back.

  Taking another sip, Keefe stared at the calendar that hung on the wall next to the refrigerator. Nanny’s handwriting filled just about every square. Keefe had jotted down a few notes of his own, and his gaze rested on them now. He’d written the same symbol on several dates, a letter “F” with a circle around it, “F” for Franciscans. The last “F” fell on today’s date.

  Keefe’s heart sank but seemed to beat harder, slamming with a sickening feeling against his ribs. Was he passing up an opportunity? Was he ignoring his calling?

  “Isn’t the air-conditioning enough for you?”

  Snapping from his trance, Keefe released the refrigerator door and turned around. “Huh?”

  Nanny puffed into the kitchen with an armful of folded dishtowels, her curly gray hair all frizzy and sweat dripping down one side of her face. “You boys hold that refrigerator door open like you’re fixing to cool the entire house.”

  “Sorry, Nanny.” Keefe took the towels from her and set them on a countertop. “But you do keep the house kind of warm for summer.” Nanny had never been one to waste anything, including the electricity, no matter how many times Papa told her not to worry.

  “Warm? You think so?” Nanny’s eyebrows slanted.

  Keefe smiled. If he hadn’t just come to a decision, he would’ve offered to help with chores. “Want the rest of my Coke?” He pushed the ice-cold can into her hand. “I’ve gotta run.” He flashed another smile and took off for the kitchen doorway.

  “Where are you going?” she hollered after him.

  “I gotta do something. Gotta say goodbye to some friends.”

  ❖

  Roland’s mountain bike humming beneath him, Keefe pedaled like mad down the dirt trail that ran parallel the long, gravel driveway. Would the Franciscans still be at the Brandt’s house? Maybe they’d gotten an early start on their journey and he’d miss them anyway. No, Father had canceled the prayer group so he could see them off today. So Keefe’s timing was good.

  When had he seen the brothers last? Not in days, not since the prayer group had met at church. He hadn’t spoken to any of them since that morning he’d fallen out of the tree and got caught spying.

  Keefe pedaled harder, a breeze cooling his scalp and sweat making rivulets down his neck and back. If he did get there in time, what would he say to them? He could at least get their contact information. Maybe they could keep in touch, send emails back and forth, until he felt free to join up with them. Did they even have email?

  He smiled inside, his heart spinning like the bike spokes. Was this his calling? Would he be wearing that blessed brown robe one day? Living by faith and going wherever God sent him?

  Forest Road came into view and a few cars zipped by. Keefe slowed and peered across the road to the Forest Gateway Bed & Breakfast. The neon vacancy sign flashed to the beat of Keefe’s heart. A blue twelve-seater van sat next to Mr. Brandt’s pickup in the two-car driveway on the left side of the house. Keefe had seen the van at church before. It belonged to one of the larger families, the Finns. Mr. Finn had probably offered to drive the brothers at least partway to their destination.

  Keefe glanced for traffic and raced across the road.

  The front screen door screeched open.

  Keefe’s heart skipped a beat. He rode up the driveway and out of view, keeping the long van between him and whoever had stepped out onto the porch. Heart racing now, he walked the bike forward and listened.

  The door continued to squeak, more and more people probably coming out onto the porch.

  “Oh yeah, we’re looking forward to it,” a man said in reply to some mumbled words Keefe hadn’t made out.

  “You never know what doors God will open up,” another said.

  “Mr. Finn’s van door is going to open up in a minute.” Peter had said that, his voice louder than the others.

  “You are one rude, dude, vato.” The Spanish accent gave that one away: Dominic.

  Several people laughed.

  At the end of the van, Keefe stopped. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, his eyes on the four-foot gap between the end of the van and the corner of the garage. Should he step out of hiding? He could always speed forward, hoping no one saw him, and get out of view again beside the garage. Then he could take off down the trails behind P
eter’s house. Why would he do that? Weren’t the Franciscan friars the whole reason he came over? He wanted to say “goodbye” and see if they could stay in touch. Did it matter one way or another? Had any of the brothers even asked about him? Was he wrong to think God was calling him to the religious life?

  “Well, we enjoyed getting to know every one of you,” Mrs. Brandt said, her cheerful, feminine voice very recognizable. The door squeaked again. Shuffling sounds and footfalls increased. “It won’t be the same around here without you.”

  Several brothers replied at once, mumbling things Keefe couldn’t make out.

  Keys jangled. “Well, I’ll get the van open.” Mr. Finn’s voice.

  Keefe put a foot to the pedal and stepped on it. He zoomed past the open area, glimpsing figures out of the corner of his eye. They didn’t stop talking and no one called after him, so most likely no one had seen him. Keefe didn’t look back. He pedaled harder than ever, making a trail through green grass and soon concealing himself in the cover of woods.

  Deeper and deeper into the woods he rode, turning down one path and then another, tears blurring his vision. God had spoken to his heart so clearly in Italy, had moved him so deeply. He’d wanted to make a return for that. “I will listen to Your voice,” he’d promised the Lord, and he had even cut his hair as a reminder. Then for months he’d felt the Lord nudging him, calling him to something more, something that he couldn’t understand at the time. But now . . . It all seemed so clear and muddled at the same time.

  The handlebars jerked to one side as the front tire twisted around a root. He tightened his grip to control the bike. Roots and rocks kept getting in his way. He was probably tearing up the tires and inner tubes of Roland’s bike. Roland . . . always trying to do the right thing.

  Keefe released his grip on the handlebars to drag one arm across his eyes. Salty tears made them sting. He was a failure, a mess, no good at discerning God’s will, useless in helping Jarret, and not even capable of making a respectful “goodbye.” He’d made a promise to listen to God’s voice and to obey. What was the matter with him?