by Cherry Adair
"One does not have to bite into a peach to know it's juicy, Miss Sullivan."
Now all Daklin could think of was what River might be wearing under that modest ladies-that-lunch dress. Marcus cleared his throat, breaking the tension that seemed to tighten like a silk thread across the table between Daklin and River.
"Where are Deifilia and the boys tonight, Franco?" Looking at Xavier, Marcus spread a crisp white napkin on his lap. From his round physique, it was apparent he enjoyed his meals, and his lack of T-FLAC's physical discipline was marked.
"I dropped Liseo and Delly in Santa de Porres to do some shopping before I picked up Bishop Daklin from the airport this morning." Xavier offered wine. No one accepted, and he poured a half a glass for himself. "Trini isn't feeling well. He might join us later."
According to intel, twenty-five year old Trinidad Xavier was a cokehead. He was probably upstairs sleeping off an expensive binge.
Xavier and his long-suffering, absent, wife Maria, had a dozen kids. Half were saints: a couple of nuns and several priests. The others, like Trini, and Salvador, who was currently enjoying the hospitality of a Turkish prison for drug possession, were on the sinner side.
Twenty-three year old Deifilia did clerical work at the plant. She spent most of her spare time shopping in the capital city. Both of Xavier's oldest sons, Eliseo and Trinidad, worked at the plant as well. Eliseo was in charge of the mining operation; Trinidad, in charge of the plant. Eliseo de facto ran things when his father was away.
T-FLAC intel indicated that extensive and expensive vacations with his wife and children were really a cover for Xavier's dealings with terrorists worldwide. The two sons weren't the sharpest knives in the drawer, and yet, according to intel, his business was thriving. According to Marcus, Xavier had returned to Los Santos ninety days ago. Ram's father had given them the head's up about the unusual mine activity just over a week ago and they'd hit the ground running. Marcus was a reliable source of intel. He lived and worked here. He knew all the players and he'd help them figure out if there was indeed someone above Xavier, so they could eliminate that player, too.
"Franco." Daklin realized he was watching River's hands fidgeting with the stem of her water glass, and dragged his attention to Xavier. "I’d like to visit the plant tomorrow to say prayers for the dead."
River's head shot up. "Who died? What happened?"
"The accident at the plant." Xavier told her. "Unfortunately, several men died that day. God rest their souls."
Your product, your fault, and sure as shit not an accident, you hypocritical asshat.
Eyes intent on Xavier’s face, River's voice was raw as she asked, "When was the accident?"
God, she was pretty. And so fucking out of her element. Daklin could smell her light tropical fragrance from across the table. He had the insane urge to bury his face in the curve where her slender throat met the slope of her shoulder.
For Christ’s sake, in seventy-two hours she wouldn't matter. He only had to keep his hands off her for two and a half fucking days. Or less, if she took the hint and hightailed it back to the airport in the morning.
"Three weeks ago."
"What day?"
"The seventeenth."
Her entire body seemed to sag with relief and she sucked in a sharp breath. "Was Oliver involved? Shi—" She closed her eyes for a moment, her throat working. "I'm so sorry about the people killed, but are you sure my brother wasn't hurt?"
"It was an explosion, but Dr. Sullivan was not injured, my dear.” Xavier leaned across the table, his tone earnest as he tried to ease River’s fear. “I saw him later that day. He was unharmed."
Sullivan's disappearance could possibly be attributed to guilt for causing the explosion. Daklin glanced briefly at a silent Ram standing beside the door. The five operatives in town were sure to have checked that possibility, but it was worth another look.
Just that morning, they'd discovered that five million US dollars had been moved from Sullivan's bank account in the Cayman's at about the same time as the explosion. It was something else they were looking into. Possibly, Sullivan had planned this disappearance and rerouted his money to start a new life somewhere else. Pretty goddamn cold to leave his sister wondering and worrying.
Not his problem.
If Josh had disappeared, Daklin would've left no stone unturned in order to find him. He wouldn't have given a flying fuck if his brother wanted to be found or not. Knowing how he would behave in similar circumstances made him very much aware of how River must be feeling and what she might be willing to do to find her brother.
He didn't have to know her for more than an hour to be aware of how tenacious she was. She’d flown halfway around the world, and driven, alone, through the jungle on what could barely be described as a road. And despite her dubious welcome, she’d ignored Xavier's suggestion that she leave.
Her hands were beneath the table out of sight, but Daklin got the impression her fingers were tightly clasped as she braced herself for bad news. Her lashes fluttered upward as she looked at Xavier. "Was Oliver responsible?"
He admired the unflinching way she asked. A less observant person wouldn't notice the muscle contraction around her eyes, how her entire body seemed to be clenched in anticipation of more bad news.
He'd loved Josh like that. Unconditional love for the brother he'd failed. Jesus, all this sturm und drang made him crave a fucking drink. Too bad, because drinking wasn't on his schedule until this situation was sewn up nice and tight.
Soon.
"He's our biochemist and deals with explosives, my dear, so it is, of course, possible. But I don't cast blame. It was an accident."
As one of the young women served some kind of meat and rice dish, Daklin observed Xavier's eyes slide over her, over her lightly swollen belly and heavy bosom. If she was seventeen years old, she’d just made it there. He wondered if the child was Xavier's. Intel painted him as the kind of man who had sex with women indiscriminately, and he doubted a young, under-educated household employee from the village would have the power or resources to reject him.
Dark brown eyes finished eye fucking the pregnant girl and found Daklin's. Despite the soul-sucking heat, Xavier was decked out in a suit, coupled with a freshly ironed, light blue open necked shirt. He gave no indication that he was as hot and uncomfortable as the rest of them. Tall, and well groomed, Francisco Xavier looked as benign as someone's favorite uncle, a favorite uncle who mined and manufactured perhaps the most deadly explosive in the world.
“Liseo will return in a couple of days and he can take you up to the plant and give you a tour of our facilities, Your Excellency.” Xavier frowned at the maid as she adroitly avoided his groping hand.
"I would appreciate that." Daklin shifted so the women could set his meal before him. "But I don't think it should wait. I don't need Eliseo to come with me. If I may borrow a vehicle, I'll drive myself up there at first light while it's still cool."
"You’re welcome to take one of the four-wheel drive vehicles, Your Excellency. But I will come with you to ensure you don't become lost."
"I'd welcome your company, Franco." No, I sure as hell wouldn't. Daklin had zero interest in the explosion. He wanted to go up there to get the lay of the land. As he picked up his fork, he felt someone’s gaze on him. Glancing up through his lashes, he found River's soft gray eyes focused on his mouth.
Fuck me.
Four
River lost her appetite. Damn it, Oliver, what have you done? Is that why you gave me all that money? Did you run away from the problem instead of facing it? Because now she had confirmation that her brother was very much alive. He'd called her two days after the explosion.
Alive but gone. Will you let me find you?
Father Marcus and Franco discussed a recent terrorist threat in Cosio and the political climate in their country. Bishop Daklin ate his meal and drank two glasses of lemonade, contributing little.
The two serving women came and went. River de
clined the bienmesabe, a honey, egg yok and ground almond Venezuelan dessert she'd read about on the incoming flight. The name translated to "tastes good to me" and it did look delicious. Too bad she didn't have the appetite for it. With a sharp pang, she thought that Oliver would’ve loved the decadent looking rich coconut cake with layers of cream and meringue.
"May I go with you to the plant in the morning?" She was careful to direct her question to Franco. Bishop Daklin had made it clear that he’d be glad to drive her to the closest airport or landfill. Unless she could find her brother there, or she had to catch a plane to his location, River had no intention of leaving.
"It's not a particularly pleasant trip, my dear. By necessity, the mines are high in the mountains, so the processing plant and offices are nearby. The road is narrow and steep. You're welcome to sleep in. Your car will be repaired whenever you're ready to leave."
Wow, he couldn't be any plainer than that. "Oliver told me the drive is beautiful. I love heights," she said cheerfully, "and I slept for hours on the plane. I'll be up bright and early, ready for an adventure. I'd like to see where my brother worked. Maybe I'll get a sense of where he might have gone. As for leaving tomorrow, thank you for having someone fix that tire, but I'd like to stay for a few more days. With any luck, Oliver will return while I'm here. I'd be more than happy to move into a hotel if my staying in your home isn't convenient."
River presumed Franco wouldn't want to look bad in front of his guests and waited to see if he'd direct her to a hotel, or extend his hospitality.
"We have no hotels in Los Santos, I'm afraid. But you’re welcome to stay another night, my dear. And if Bishop Daklin has no objections, it would be acceptable for you to accompany us in the morning."
Done and done. River smiled at him. "Thank you. You're very kind." You. Not your other guest.
Bishop Daklin gave her a look she couldn't interpret. She didn't care. What he thought had nothing to do with her. Unless he blocked her from finding Oliver for some reason. Then the gloves would come off.
"It's a lovely night," Father Daklin said when they finished their meal. "Would anyone like a stroll in Franco's beautiful garden?" He indicated the dimly illuminated inner courtyard beyond the French doors.
Franco rose, throwing his napkin down on his plate. "Your Excellency, I would be honored if you'd take my confession before retiring. I pray that my apparition appears tonight so that you can witness how I am being blessed."
"Apparition? As in a vision?" River glanced between Franco and the bishop.
"Yes, an angel comes to m—"
"The appearance of an angel is, as yet, unsubstantiated." The bishop lay his hand on Franco's arm. He had big, elegant hands. Strong. Not bishop-like at all. Not that River had ever met a bishop before, but maybe this one plowed the fields or did kickboxing in his spare time. His broad shoulders indicated he did some form of strenuous exercise.
She studied his wintery blue X-ray eyes, and his sensual mouth, made to whisper sweet nothings in a woman's ear. What a freaking waste. If this was what bishops looked like in the Catholic Church, she'd gladly sit through an hour of mass, in the first pew, so he could pray over her.
River wondered briefly if a lapsed Protestant would go to hell for having salacious thoughts about a man of God.
"The Church's approval does not come easily or quickly," Bishop Daklin said. "The Church never gives approval on an apparition without exhaustive and repeated investigation. It isn’t unusual for the Church to grant approval after the apparitions cease and/or after the death of the visionary. Apparitions are private revelations. You are free to believe in them without Church approval, so long as the apparition contains nothing which contravenes with faith and morals."
Wow, wasn't he cheerful? Franco went pale, as he gave the bishop a hopeful look. "I have given much money to the Vatican, Your Excellency—"
"Are you suggesting the Church accepted a bribe?"
"No. No. No, Your Excellency. Not at all."
"Do not believe every spirit," Bishop Daklin said in a voice that would make angels weep. Deep, and sensuous and, damn it, forbidden. "But test the spirits to see whether they are from God, for many false prophets have gone out into the world. 1 John 4:1."
"Yes, Your Excellency," Franco, face flushed, said earnestly. "But you'll bear witness yourself—"
"A walk in the garden will be pleasant." The bishop rounded the end of the table, and for the first time, River noticed he had a slight limp, favoring his left leg. Kicked by some dreamy-eyed church member, no doubt. Franco gave him an anxious look. "But you'll come—"
"That's why I'm here, Franco. Let's go out and enjoy the air before we go upstairs."
Side by side, the bishop and Franco set off down a wide path. Small landscaping lights flickered on to illuminate the path. The entire courtyard was flooded with bright moonlight, which left puddles of darkness in the shadows. The high walls of the hacienda surrounded the expansive inner courtyard on three sides, with a church with a bell tower on the fourth. The air, heavy with the smell of damp earth, carried the fruity-sweet scent of flowers. "Is that honeysuckle?"
"Yes, lonicera periclymenum. I always imagine I hear beautiful music when I smell their fragrance." Smiling, Father Marcus glanced up at her. "Over in that corner is a particularly spectacular bougainvillea. You have to come out and see it in the sunlight. The brilliant purple-pink color is remarkable. It's been here for at least fifty years."
The flowering vine the priest pointed at covered a large section of the stone wall. "Are you a gardener, Miss Sullivan?"
"River. No, unfortunately I have a black thumb. Besides, I live in a condo with a tiny balcony, and do a lot of traveling. But I love flowers, and this courtyard is spectacular. I'm sure it's even more so in sunlight."
"That it is. The whitewash of moonlight is beautiful, too. The bricks are a bit uneven. Do you need to take my arm?”
"Thanks, but I'm pretty sure footed. I wear heels all the time, over all kinds of terrain. But I'll grab you if I start to fall."
He smiled. "Are you always this cheerful, Miss River?"
"No, Father, I can also be impatient, outspoken, cranky, and a workaholic."
He laughed. "In other words, human."
A bright white half-moon illuminated banks of red flowers on either side of a well-tended brick path that meandered between tall shrubs and trees, and then opened to areas filled with what were probably brightly colored flowers that looked beige in the moonlight. "Did Franco really see an angel?" she asked, intrigued.
"So he says. That's why Bishop Daklin is here. He's an investigative bishop. He'll report his findings directly to the Pope."
“Does everyone who sees an angel get a visit from a bishop with a direct line of communication to the Pope?”
The priest chuckled. “Francisco Xavier is very persuasive, very pious, and very generous with the church.”
Understood. Not everyone who saw Jesus in a potato chip got a visit from a bishop. But this man donated a lot of money to the church, so the Vatican paid attention when he claimed to have seen an angel. Whether this had anything to do with Oliver’s disappearance was unlikely. The fact that Oliver worked for a man who was so wealthy that his sighting of an angel warranted a visit from a bishop was certainly interesting.
"Do you think he'd let me see it too?"
"You could ask. We're the only people who know about it—and now you, of course. He wants it kept quiet, and I’m encouraging him to remain silent on the issue. None of us want Los Santos to become a site of devotion unless Bishop Daklin authenticates the apparitions and the Miracle Commission accepts his findings.”
"So he'll probably be here for a while." River noticed men standing in the shadows along the path. She lowered her voice. "Are those bodyguards?"
"Franco is used to big cities. I'm afraid he's forgotten what it's like here in Los Santos."
"Oh? There are so many pictures of his wife and children throughout the house, I thought
he lived here."
The priest smiled again. "He spends a lot of time here. But Maria likes to travel, and he dotes on his family.”
“How many children does he have?” She stepped over a crack in the brick. “From the photos, it looks like quite a few.”
“Twelve now. He had a daughter who died in infancy, and a thirty-one year old son, Amadis, who has spina bifida. Tragic. Franco likes to keep them close. He and Maria travel all over the world in hopes of finding a cure. The family has homes in America and Europe."
"I wondered where his wife was."
"Maria and the youngest boy, Teodoro, are currently in Rome. Franco wants to give another child to the church. Teo is sixteen. He's their last. Do you come from a large family, River?"
"No, it's just Oliver and myself. Our parents owned a convenience store in Portland.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. It never got easier talking about them. Oliver was all she had left, the only other person who remembered their family.
Oliver, where the hell are you?
“They were killed twelve years ago in an armed robbery."
"I'm sorry."
"Me too. They were great, and I miss them every day. I was fifteen when they died. Oliver stuck around until I was old enough to take care of myself, then paid for my schooling when I wanted to get into clothing design." He was easy to talk to. "I haven't heard from him in weeks. That's unlike him. I'm sure you're aware that he has mild Asperger’s? He's a creature of habit and lives by his routines and schedules. This explosion, whether it was his fault or not, would throw him off. Since his ASD makes empathy problematic, being surrounded by grieving families would make him extremely uncomfortable.
"I was not aware of that diagnosis, but it explains a great deal. I just thought he was a brilliant young scientist who was extremely focused and serious."
River smiled. "Oliver's off the charts brilliant, but he doesn't have much of a sense of humor."
Father Marcus patted her arm. "Then it's a blessing that you have enough joy for two." He held aside a branch for her as they rounded a corner. Ahead, Bishop Daklin and Franco talked quietly and intently, but River couldn’t hear their conversation.