“But I am not here to babysit,” Benedicto announced. “I am here to kill the girl.”
Monnie coughed out creamy coffee, patting her chest, trying to stop the near convulsion. Frellan was equally horrified yet kept his visceral reaction inside. Really, in retrospect, he shouldn’t have been even surprised. At least not the kill part. But admitting that the priest had planned to kill the girl, that was surprising.
“And you told the Master?”
“Of course,” the priest said with a shrug. “We could have spun a tale of wanting to study her ourselves, but why? We both know she is a danger to my church.”
“The pope knows of this?” Frellan asked.
Again, the priest shrugged. “As your master knows everything that you have done or plan to do in the field?”
So true.
Frellan picked up his black coffee and drank half the scalding-hot liquid. “If you know where we are going, then might I ask why you need us?”
Benedicto nodded to Monnie. “We do not have what is in her head.”
“Why?”
“She holds the key to proving the girl’s divinity.” The priest seemed delighted by Frellan’s ignorance. “You did not know, truly? Well, I guess your master also knows more than she is sharing.”
Frellan turned to the watcher. “What is he taking about?”
The petite woman looked down at her cup.
“What?”
Before he could press further, a set of SUVs drove up to the alleyway, squealing to a stop. There was no way the large vehicles—much more suited to the US than to Spain—could ever navigate the narrow stretch where they sat. Benedicto rose from his seat.
“Please, does it not make more sense to kill me after I’ve helped you? It will feel far more satisfying, I assure you.”
Oh, the priest had no idea what Frellan had planned for him. Perhaps genital jewelry was too tame. Frellan had been itching for a subject to try dermal weaving. He’d seen the technique at a small, discreet body boutique in Singapore. The subject’s skin was flailed off the muscle, cut into strips, then woven as one might a basket. Of course, the man having the procedure had topical anesthetic and painkillers on board. How would Benedicto feel when Frellan put the knife to his cheek without the benefit of such numbing agents?
Satisfying only began to describe the feeling.
* * *
Rebecca exited the car with a bit of trepidation. Her last departure from the village had not gone well. There hadn’t been tar and feathers, but she was pretty sure that was only because the villagers didn’t have them handy.
Brandt put a hand on her back, ushering her toward the tiny church set off from the rest of the village. “You’ve got this.”
But looking toward the stone building, with a belfry topped by a cross poking out over the rest of the squat, whitewashed town, she wasn’t so sure. It was a small church, especially by Spanish standards, but it still demonstrated its dominance, the dominance of the Católico Apostólico Romano church. The afternoon sun beat on her back, practically pushing her into the shade of the church. Brandt opened the door. However, it wasn’t for her. It was for Levont. Their point man.
Even though it was a church in the middle of one of the most isolated regions in the world, they still observed protocol. And for that, Rebecca was thankful. There was a certain comfort in it. The men moved with military precision. Except for Lopez, of course. He stayed with the car, and Davidson had vanished as usual.
Although, the village offered very few spots for a nest. Her guess? The sniper was heading for the tree line. Well, their unofficial sniper was heading there. Talli was second into the church. Rebecca took Vakasa’s hand as Brandt brought up the rear.
The interior of the small church, unlike many of the great, sprawling houses of worship they had visited, was nearly spartan. Instead of gold chalices and thick red velvet, above the altar there was only a single wooden figure of Christ on the cross.
Brandt quickly dropped to one knee, crossing himself. Then he was up again, on the job.
A woman—who, from the look of her formless dress and cleaning rag, seemed to be the church’s caretaker—approached from the back of the church. Then her eyes narrowed as she spotted Rebecca. The woman turned on her heel and rushed back the way she had come.
Slowly, they made their way down the central aisle as the heat followed them in. Even the heavy stone walls could not keep the summer heat out.
A scrape of wood as the antique door opened announced the priest as he hurried to meet them. Clearly, he had hurried to don his formal robes. His biretta, a four-cornered hat, sat askew on his head. The black pom at the tip listed to the right side. He met them at the altar.
“Father Hernández,” Rebecca said as she held out her hand.
The man spit into her palm.
Okay, so that’s how this was going to go.
* * *
Brandt put his forearm between the priest and Rebecca. The guy was a man of the cloth, but no one—and Brandt meant no one—spit on his fiancée.
“I’d back that up, Padre.”
Hernández, however, did not seem to understand or care. While he kept his spit in his mouth, he went on a verbal tirade. Brant heard something along the lines of me cago en tus muertos, whatever that meant.
“Um,” Levont said as the priest went on and on, “my European Spanish isn’t all that great, but I think he’s—”
“Yeah, I think we get it,” Brandt said, not wanting Rebecca to have to hear the curses in stereo.
He glanced over, but instead of finding Rebecca looking hurt, there was that steel glint in her eye. Brandt had seen it before. Many times when he suggested they go to the sports bar for dinner. But this time it was even more pronounced.
“Borgoña,” she said quietly. Brandt vaguely remembered the name from the plane ride lecture as the sculptor who had first created the Black Madonna.
At first, Hernández didn’t seem to notice that Rebecca had spoken. Then he suddenly sputtered, his face glowing an unseemly ruddy red.
She repeated the name, “Borgoña.” Only, this time she put her hands on Vakasa’s shoulders. The priest followed her gesture, appearing surprised the little girl was even in the church. Then his eyes dilated to the point they seemed pitch-black. He stumbled back a step.
“Shiva.”
Rebecca frowned. “Shiva is the Hindu god of—”
“Creation and destruction,” Brandt finished. Seriously, didn’t Rebecca know by now his interest in world religion?
By the look on her face, Rebecca’s mind was not focused on Brandt whatsoever. She had that “I wish I had my laptop” frown.
“It is also means the ‘Auspicious One,’” she explained.
The priest stepped forward, placing a hand on Vakasa’s cheek. “Mari.”
The girl covered his hand with hers.
Rebecca raised an eyebrow to Brandt. “Well, Mr. Ancient Religions?”
He didn’t bother to answer. Basque pre-Christian beliefs were not part of his repertoire, and they both knew it. She flashed a grin at him before continuing. “Mari Urraca was the Basque goddess. The head of their pantheon. Their messiah.”
The priest’s hand dropped away from Vakasa’s cheek as he sighed. He looked none to happy about it, but he bowed his head to their group. In a thickly accented English, he urged them out of the church and toward his cottage. “Will you join us for el almuerzo?”
Lunch.
While Brandt was hungry, he wanted to get the hell out of here ASAP.
“We can talk here just fine.”
Rebecca nudged him. “We would love to, Father.”
Hernández, his hand on Vakasa’s shoulder, led them out the side door of the church.
Brandt hung back, gently catching Rebecca by the elbow. “What was that about?”
Rebecca kept her tone quiet. “These people are extremely traditional. If we don’t allow them to feed us…If we don’t break bread with them, they are not
going to give us the information we need.”
Brandt did enough work in foreign countries to understand the need to observe and interact in local customs. It didn’t mean he had to like it, though. However, with the rumbling above his belt, his stomach was pretty keen on the idea.
* * *
Rebecca sat on the hard wood bench, watching as the villagers piled plates and more plates on the table. Competing for their attention were bacalao al pil pil, tortilla con chorizo, jamon ibérico de bellota, and pretty much every imaginable kind of tapas you might encounter on a traditional Spanish Basque bar crawl, or txikiteo.
They had included both manchego and the more traditional Basque idiazabal cheeses, as well as black and green olives. The green ones were aceitunas rellenas de anchoa, or stuffed with anchovies.
Included in the beverage department were the Basque cider sagardo, the Cava sparkling wine from Cataluña, and sherry from Jerez. The meal was fit for a king—or in this case, fit for a little girl whom they were all clearly fascinated by.
And Vakasa returned the affection, taking nibbles of everything offered. Rebecca noted, though, that she was also hiding about half the food under her plate. Even supposed Messiahs didn’t like seso frito—fried pork brains.
Though Brandt had objected to the lunch, he was plowing through his second plateful of paella. Levont might have been on his third yet took heaping servings of any new dish put in front of him. Talli was the only one who appeared to have a discerning palate. It seemed he wasn’t all that fond of olives, which was a slight problem since just about everything had olives in it.
“Lopez and Davidson are going to be so pissed,” Levont said, shoving another forkful of food into his mouth. Brandt just grunted his acknowledgment. “This food rocks.”
Rebecca couldn’t argue. The bacalao al pin pin was her favorite from the last time she had visited the village. It was a soup made of salted cod, olive oil, garlic, and pinch of chili. Didn’t sound like it would be much to write home about, but when made with skill, it was mouthwatering. And not nearly as salty as one might think.
And was she just that hungry, or was the tortilla twice as delicious this time? She remembered the first time she had been served tortilla in Spain at a tapas bar. She had expected a round, flat cake made of corn or flour and had ended up with a savory omelet of egg, potato, onion, and heavenly chorizo—red sausage. What she had meant to be a side dish ended up being most of her meal after she had taken that first bite.
She noticed though that Hernández hadn’t touched his food. Instead, he stared at the little girl as if visual inspection would be enough to tell if she were divine or not.
“Has she performed any miracles?” he asked, obviously sensing her inspection.
Rebecca looked to Brandt, who blew a breath out through his nose as he lowered his fork. “The kid had a reputation as being an ajuogo, a female witch doctor.”
“But a miracle?” Hernández asked.
“Your gunshot wound?” Rebecca prompted Brandt.
Brandt leaned back on the bench. “I got shot. It hurt. It looked like it was bleeding a lot. She put pressure on it, and it stopped. No big deal.”
“That’s when the first earthquake hit,” Levont added, taking a huge bite of lentejas, a Spanish lentil stew. Brandt glared at his point man. Levont shrugged. “It was, Sarge.”
“A three-point one,” Brandt countered. “We barely felt it.”
Rebecca looked to her fiancé. This was her first time hearing about an earthquake. “Anything else you are holding back?”
“No,” Brandt stated, then leaned forward to take another bite. “Nothing at all.”
“Well…” Levont said, flinching as Brandt glared at him again. Still, he went on. “The witch doctor dude we left her with called her a mo-mo. That means ‘messiah’ in Swahili.”
CHAPTER 22
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Lennore, Spain
5:48 p.m. (CEST)
Brandt was seriously going to have to give Levont a refresher course on which glares to stand up to and which to back down from. Like don’t tell everyone the witch doctor had called the kid sitting next to him a messiah. Although, in this discussion, Brandt had the upper hand. All he had to do was point toward Vakasa, who currently had olives on each of her fingertips after sucking out the anchovies. She was now eating each one off at a time.
“Look at her,” Brandt said, shaking his head. “She’s just a kid.”
“That she might be,” Hernández said, nodding to one of the women serving them. The villagers began clearing off the table.
“Wait,” Levont said, scooping huge spoonfuls of guiso from one of the pots onto his plate. “Why are they taking away the food?”
Brandt wasn’t sure, but took a few scoops himself. Apparently, he’d pissed off the priest. Even though they had come here to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Vakasa was not in fact the Messiah so they could get the Disciples off their ass, Rebecca had warned them to keep the “This isn’t the Messiah” rhetoric to a minimum.
Quickly, though, it became apparent why they had removed the food. They needed the table for something else. On a large wooden platter, one of the women presented a burnt statue. Not any statue, but that of the Black Madonna. Even though half of her face was blasted away by flame, it was clear this was a treasured relic. And there was not doubt that the artist had meant for this Madonna to be dark skinned. From the striations, it was clear he’d used several different types of wood to complete the statue. Her features were also clearly African.
“Borgoña,” the priest explained, “dying, covered her with his body, sparing the Madonna for generations to come.”
The villager set the platter down in front of Vakasa. The girl stroked the wood, then laid her face against the figure. “Momma.”
“That doesn’t prove anything,” Brandt said.
Hernández actually agreed with him. “No, it does not.”
Rebecca put her hand on Vakasa’s arm. “We need your help to prove whether she is or is not the child of the Black Madonna.”
“Are we not all children of her blessed womb?” the priest asked, his accent thinning. The guy clearly spoke more English than he liked to let on.
“The Disciples commissioned this statue, didn’t they?” Rebecca asked.
Brandt watched the priest’s face as he clearly struggled with how much to share with them. In the end, he stood, smoothing his robes.
“There are some preparations to be made, but as much as we can answer, we shall.” His face softened as he looked to Vakasa and then the statue. “We owe her that much.”
Brandt wasn’t sure which “she” the priest was referring to, but he’d take it. The sooner they got out of Europe and back to the States, the better. The villagers left the room, taking the Black Madonna with them.
“So,” Talli asked. “are they really getting ready to help us or…?”
“Firebomb us?” Levont finished.
Brandt wasn’t sure which way that one was going to go, either. “Check the doors.”
The men set up on either side of the room, protecting the only two exits out of the room. Rebecca rose, keeping Vakasa close.
“If we do prove she isn’t the Messiah,” Rebecca asked quietly, “what happens to her once we get home?”
It was getting a little old not having any firm answers. “I don’t know.”
Rebecca crossed her arms over Vakasa. Like a mother would her child. “I was thinking…”
She didn’t need to finish the sentence. Brandt knew exactly what she was thinking.
* * *
Rebecca waited as Brandt studied her face. She knew what she asked was a lot. A whole lot. More than she thought she’d ever be ready for, but with Vakasa’s hands in hers, it felt right.
“I was thinking the same thing,” Brandt answered.
“Are you sure?” Rebecca asked, wanting to make sure he’d understood her unspoken question
. “What about your family?”
To her surprise, Brandt chuckled. “Are you kidding me? Vakasa wouldn’t be stateside a week before Mom had her entered into a beauty pageant, and trust me, the family Christmas letter would announce, ‘Three generations of beauty queens.’”
Rebecca smiled back. Could something so good come out of such a horrible set of events?
Before she could ponder the notion any further, Hernández returned. “Follow me.”
Vakasa didn’t hesitate, skipping after the man. Rebecca had to grab her hand and keep her in proper formation as they made their way out of the cottage and toward an older, overgrown monastery. The wooden structure had fallen into disrepair. Tiles hung down from the roof, and it looked like squirrels had set up housekeeping in the eves.
Ahead of her, Levont had to lower his head to make it into the broken doorway. Once inside the monastery, it seemed like they had stepped back several centuries. With no electricity and branches covering most of the windows, Levont and Talli turned on their flashlights, the beams cutting across stucco walls and leaf-covered floors.
Was it just Rebecca, or did the wind rustling through the vines sound like a monk’s devotional chant? Nothing, however, adorned the hallway. Not a single cross or painting. Had the monks taken everything with them, or had the place been looted?
Hernádez led them through an ivy-choked chapel and back into the living quarters. Here there was more filtered light through the broken windows. The priest pushed aside a large swath of moss from the floor and moved a board to reveal a stash of artifacts.
Silently, he brought them out one by one, laying them on the lone moldy bed.
The first item was a halarii—actually, it was a small pendant shaped in the image of a halarii, or Basque gravestone. The top was a disc shape that connoted the rising or setting of the sun. This disc sat upon a triangular base. Several ancient Basque symbols filled both the disc and its base.
Vakasa smiled as her finger traced the six-leafed rosette. The most ancient of iconry. Yes, primitive man drew bulls and horses, but those were meant to be literal. They were drawing animals. Many scholars tried to argue that these stylized flower petals were only meant to represent the plant and nothing more. Others argued that the sun-like disc and rosette were representational of the gods’ gifts to man. Sun and foliage. The two things man needed to survive. Included inside the base were several lines of ancient letters and a crude symbol for running water.
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