Now it was Yock's turn to hesitate. "He was stuffin' it in his pocket. Didn't want me to see it."
"But you're sure it was a mask?" said Father.
"It was white," said Yock. "Don't know what else it would be."
A handkerchief, maybe? Olenka expected Father Stanislavski to say exactly that. It was the obvious answer.
But he didn't. She was ready for him to shoot her a knowing wink, but he didn't do that, either.
"Bring him," he said to Dominick and Nicolo. "I need to hear his confession before he dies."
Men and women in the crowd cheered and clapped. Dominick and Nicolo looked confused, then followed Father when he waved for them to hurry. Stefan hung back, glaring, then ran out to walk alongside Father.
Olenka couldn't believe what was happening.
Was Father Stanislavski really going to let them hang Max? It went against everything she'd heard Father preach and everything she'd seen him do. Even if Max was a Klannie, Olenka couldn't imagine Father standing back and letting him be killed.
She couldn't imagine herself letting that happen, either.
"In here, please." Father led the way into the train station and held the door open for Stefan, Dominick, Nicolo, and Max. After Olenka crossed the threshold, he shut the door and locked it, cutting off the leading edge of the crowd from pushing in, too.
"Now then." Father turned and folded his hands. "Confession time."
Max swallowed hard. "I'm not a Catholic, Father. I'll take last rites if you'll give 'em, though."
Father shook his head. "That's not the kind of confession I was talking about. I just want you to answer some questions truthfully."
"Okay, sure."Max looked as worried as ever.
Father stood close to him and stared into his eyes. "Are you a Klansman?"
Max didn't look away and didn't answer, either.
"We can twist his arms a little, if you like," said Dominick.
"No thank you." Father didn't break eye contact with Max. "In fact, I'd appreciate it if you and Nicolo would let go of him."
After a moment's hesitation, Dominick released Max's arm. Nicolo did the same. They both stayed close to their prisoner, however, and Stefan moved closer than he'd been.
"That's better, isn't it?" said Father.
Max rubbed his wrists and nodded.
"Now, I'll ask the same question," said Father. "But there's something you should know before you answer."
"What's that?" said Max.
"If you tell us the truth, we'll let you go."
"Hey!" Stefan Volta grabbed Father's shoulder. "Says who?"
Father turned to Stefan. "Says the Roman Catholic Church, that's who."
Then, he flashed a wink, just quick enough for Stefan to catch it.
Olenka saw it, too, and for the first time felt a flicker of doubt in Father Stanislavski's intentions. Other people had let her down before, that was true.
Wasn't it possible that he could let her down, too?
"All right then," said Stefan. He let go of Father's shoulder and took a step back.
"As I was saying." Father spread his arms wide. "If you tell the truth, you'll be free to go."
"I won't get very far," said Max.
"We'll personally escort you to the train and get you safely onboard," said Father. "After that, well...if I were you, I might have second thoughts about coming back to town for a visit."
Max looked around the room, from Dominick to Stefan to Olenka to Nicolo. He ended up meeting Father's gaze again and holding it for a long moment.
Outside, the crowd was chanting something about stringing up the Klannie.
"Okay," Max said at last. He sighed and shrugged. "I'm with the Klan."
Father Stanislavski smiled. "Was that so hard?" He patted Max on the back and led him toward the station door. "Now let's get you out of here."
*****
Hand in hand, Olenka and Max ran down the street. Steadily, the footfalls of the townspeople who were chasing them grew nearer.
It had all happened so fast.
Father Stanislavski had walked out of the station first and talked to the crowd. "This boy has admitted the error of his ways. His sins have been forgiven in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit." While saying this, he'd made the sign of the cross in front of Max.
The crowd had watched silently as this happened, everyone looking annoyed and confused.
Father had turned to Olenka then and waved her forward. When she'd stepped up, he'd grabbed her hand, grabbed Max's hand, and pressed them together.
"Follow me," he'd whispered.
With that, Father had started forward. "Christ our Lord has already forgiven this boy. Now, we must follow Christ's example and do the same."
As Olenka had followed Father into the crowd, she had felt intensely conscious of the people around her. Mrs. Froelich from next-door had scowled with deep disapproval as Olenka passed. Mrs. Lorenzo from down the street had shaken her head and looked away as if she hadn't been able to stand looking at Olenka.
One familiar face after another had glared at Olenka, silently condemning her. She had never felt such shame in her life.
On top of all that, she still hadn't been sure if she was leading Max to freedom or death.
"We must give this young man the chance for a new beginning," Father had said. "We must grant him safe passage home."
That had been the moment when Olenka's father, Josef, had blocked the way.
"I've come for my daughter," he'd said. Looking at him, Olenka had realized he'd just finished a shift in the mine. Every visible inch of him had been covered with black coal dust--his helmet, his face, his neck, his hands, his coveralls.
"Yes, Josef," Father Stanislavski had said. "She'll be right with you."
"She needs to come home right now." Squaring his shoulders, Josef had moved his broad, muscular frame closer to Father. "It's too dangerous out here for a young girl."
"Olenka's helping me walk this young man to the train," Father had said.
"This young Klansman?" Josef had taken another step closer. "What's the hurry? He late gettin' to Cresson to burn another cross?"
The crowd had laughed nervously. No one had seemed eager to put themselves in the middle of the face-off.
For her part, Olenka had watched the confrontation with fascination. Until today, Josef and Father had always been friendly toward each other. Now, they were poised toe to toe, nose to nose, chest to chest, radiating tension.
The two most influential men in Olenka's life had looked like they were ready to come to blows. Not only had she wondered if they would really start swinging, but she'd wondered which one of them would win.
And she'd been surprised to realize she wasn't sure which one she'd wanted to win.
"It's good she's been helpin' you, Father," Josef had said, "but her safety comes first."
"She's perfectly safe," Father had said. "I would never endanger her."
Josef had moved closer still and lowered his voice. He'd spoken too low for most of the crowd to hear, but Olenka had caught every word. "You're using her," he'd said. "You don't think the crowd will go through her to get to him."
"She's acting of her own free will, according to her own conscience."
"Step aside," Josef had whispered.
For a long moment, everyone had stayed silent and frozen in place. Josef and Father had stared at each other, measuring. Olenka had looked from one to the other and back again, watching for any telltale sign of what was to come.
And then, Father Stanislavski had surprised her.
Olenka had expected Josef to make the next move, but Father had made it instead. He must have surprised Josef, too, because he'd managed to catch him off guard and knock him backward with a sudden tackle.
"Run, Olenka!" Father had said as he and Josef had hit the ground. "Get to the train!"
Olenka had obeyed him without thinking. Gripping Max's hand tightly, she'd charged into the
crowd, pulling him along with her.
Everyone had been too busy watching Father and Josef fight to try to stop Olenka. She and Max had darted between the bystanders and quickly burst out into the open street.
They'd only run half the way to the train, however, when some of the men in the crowd had shouted and started charging after them.
Now, Olenka heard their footfalls hurtling closer and wondered if she and Max could make it. Even if they did, could they board the train before the men caught up and dragged them off it?
Olenka ran as hard as she could, jet black hair flying behind her. She had the feeling Max was holding back to stay alongside her when he could have easily sprinted away.
She admired him for that. How many people, when running for their lives, would keep pace with someone slower whom they'd only just met?
Suddenly, a group of men ran out from behind the train. Max reacted first, changing direction and pulling Olenka with him down the street.
So they wouldn't make it to the train after all.
Where, then, could they go?
Just as Olenka was fighting for an answer, the new direction Max had chosen was also blocked. He kept running, hand in hand with Olenka, but the street ahead was packed from side to side.
Packed with ranks of Klansmen, marching back from Piper's Field.
*****
Chapter Fourteen
Sonoita, Mexico, 2006
"No photo," said Cary, trying again to sidestep the burro that was painted to look like a zebra. "Gracias, but no."
Again, the man steered the burro so it was staring Cary in the face. The burro wore a tall straw hat with a big red flower in it, but it wasn't making Cary laugh just now.
"You won't be sorry, señor," said the man. "Just one photo for your kids. Ten dollars."
At the mention of kids, Cary thought of Glo and Late and felt a renewed urgency to escape the burro photographer. "I have to go now."
Cary turned to duck away, only to find his path blocked by another man. Like the first man, this one wore a broad smile with a dark undertone, a palpable lack of friendliness.
As Cary smiled back, he wished he hadn't stopped to buy a map in Sonoita after crossing the border into Mexico.
It had seemed like a good idea, but now he knew it had been the exact opposite.
Danger was wrapping itself around him like the coils of a boa constrictor. He'd been worried about losing too much time getting to Rocky Point and the kids; now, he had the first inkling that he might not make it to Rocky Point at all.
"Oye, amigo." The second man was younger and more muscular than the first. He wore a gray flannel shirt with the sleeves cut out, showing off his huge biceps. Each bicep bore an amateur tattoo that looked like a Chinese character crossed with a musical note. "That burro told me a secret."
Cary braced himself to sprint away from the men. He rubbed the Starbeam Ring on his pinky, hoping it might finally activate his dormant super-speed powers.
Before Cary could move, the second man grabbed a fistful of his shirt. "The burro says maybe you want to buy something more valuable. Maybe something you already have but you're afraid you might lose it." The man leered and patted Cary's cheek. "What could the burro be talking about, amigo mio?"
Just then, a massive hand flashed in front of Cary and grabbed the wrist of the man who was patting his cheek. In a heartbeat, the man was wrenched away and let go of Cary's shirt.
What Cary saw when he spun to follow that massive hand was more strange and surprising than the zebra-striped burro with the straw hat had been.
The hand that had grabbed Cary's tormentor belonged to a hot air balloon of a man...tall, broad-shouldered, and obese. As much meat as fat, he wielded his girth and bloated strength as weapons, tossing around the tormentor like a ventriloquist's dummy.
Youth was not one of the weapons in his arsenal, though. A gray beard flopped in a steel wool tangle on his chest, betraying his age. Cary couldn't get a good look at his face, though, and not just because he was in motion, pounding his victim with a flurry of blows.
His face, from the tip of his nose to the top of his head, was concealed by a white mask.
The mask looked like it had been hacked from a bedsheet or pillowcase, with flared loops scrawled around the ragged eyeholes with purple magic marker. A purple loop also ringed the hole around his hair horn--a braided spike of gray hair, over a foot high, jutting up at a forty-five degree angle from his forehead.
His cape looked like it had been cut from the same bedclothes as the mask. It was pinned to the shoulders of his enormous purple sweatshirt and hung to just below the waist of his tattered chinos.
A symbol had been painted on the chest of his shirt--the letter "Y," slopped on in white paint that had spattered and dripped and dried in a speckled field like a scattering of stars.
Cary recognized the man immediately...if not who he was, then what he was at least. All the trademarks were visible: mask, cape, symbol, crimefighting.
He's a super-hero.
As Cary watched, the masked man lifted the tormentor over his head like a barbell. Howling triumphantly, he turned and gaped at Cary.
For an instant, Cary thought the masked man was going to toss the tormentor in his direction. That was exactly what the masked man did, but not until after he'd shouted a warning.
"Vaya a la izquierda," he said. "Go left!"
Instantly, Cary obeyed. The second he leaped to the left, he felt a rush of air as the masked man hurled the tormentor through the space where he'd been standing.
Then, Cary heard a thump and two muffled cries. Turning, he saw that the tormentor had been thrown into the burro photographer, leaving both of them in a tangled pile on the cracked pavement.
Grinning, Cary looked at the masked man, who was dusting off his hands.
"Habla Español?" said the masked man.
Cary shook his head. "No, sir."
"That's okay," said the masked man. "The burro keeper was sneaking up on you. I got two birds with one stone."
"Thank you." Grinning, Cary walked over to the masked man and extended a hand. "My name's Cary Beacon, sir."
"Nice to meet you." The masked man clamped Cary's hand in a tight grip and shook it hard. He gave off a strong smell of body odor. "I am El Yucatango."
"Wow," said Cary. "Nice to meet you, El Yucatango."
El Yucatango grinned and nodded. "That will be ten dollars, please, señor Cary."
Cary blinked twice. "What?"
"Ten dollars is my fee," said El Yucatango, "for a rescue from evildoers."
*****
The Mexican coffee Cary sipped was thick enough to chew and strong enough to etch the enamel off his teeth. For someone who'd been awake and on the move for two days straight, it was perfect.
After another swallow, he clinked the little cup down on its chipped saucer. Across the table, El Yucatango inhaled a greasy, rolled-up tortilla that dripped fried onions and emerald green sauce.
Though Cary knew he should get rolling again immediately, he'd felt compelled to linger with El Yucatango. He'd bought the masked man lunch in an outdoor café a few blocks from the zebra burro...after paying the ten dollar rescue fee, that is.
For some reason, he didn't mind the fee. He realized El Yucatango could have been working with the burro tender and his pal from the get-go, but it still didn't bother him.
It had been worth the ten bucks to meet a real-life super-hero. Tattered, bloated, and makeshift, but real-life.
"So what's with the fee?" said Cary, picking at a plate of rice and refried beans. "I didn't think super-heroes were supposed to charge for their services."
El Yucatango snorted. "Times are tough," he said, chewing with his mouth open. "Ever since they banned me for life."
"Banned you for life from where?" said Cary.
"From the ring. I was a luchador. A wrestler." El Yucatango gulped down half a bottle of beer in one swallow, then gasped as he banged the bottle down on the tabl
e. "Muy famoso."
"Why were you banned?"
El Yucatango scowled. "I was betrayed by someone I loved." For a moment, fire roiled in his eyes. A reservoir of rage strained to explode, rage enough to consume the entire city...and then it receded. "Same old story. Now I'm a caballero pagado."
"Caballero pagado?" said Cary, mangling the pronunciation.
"A paid knight." El Yucatango bit off another hank of tortilla. "Hero for rent." While he chewed, he pulled a crumpled hunk of paper from his chinos and threw it on the table.
Cary smoothed out the paper, which was about the size of a page from a book. One side was handwritten all in Spanish, which Cary couldn't read, but the other side was all English.
It was a rate card for super-hero services.
The first item on the list: "Rescue from evildoers, $10."
Cary smiled. At least El Yucatango hadn't gouged him.
"You make a living at this?" said Cary.
"Not so good, Beacon." El Yucatango hoisted the beer bottle and drained its remaining contents in one gulp.
"But you're famous, right? Wouldn't that bring you a lot of business?"
"Not good famous." El Yucatango banged down the bottle and belched. "Bad famous. That's how I ended up."
"What do you mean?" said Cary.
"I was a técnico--a good guy. My betrayer made me a rudo--a bad guy. They stole my campeonato, took my mask, and banned me for life." El Yucatango pitched the last bite of tortilla like a fastball into the street. "Disgraced me for life. I lost everything."
Cary nodded. "I know what that's like."
"No esperanza." El Yucatango smacked his palms flat on the table. "No hope, no nothing."
"I still have some hope." Cary stared into the distance. "I guess I'm lucky."
El Yucatango took a long look at him for what seemed like the first time. "Why are you here, Beacon?" he said, bloodshot green eyes gazing out from behind the pillowcase mask.
"I came to save my kids," said Cary. "To get them back from the people who took them."
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