by Niki Turner
“Señora, have you seen a young woman? A mujar?” Sebastian described Tansy, down to her kaleidoscopic green and brown irises and the boots she’d been wearing.
The woman shook her head, but the girl laid a hand on the other woman’s arm and looked at Sebastian with wide, dark eyes.
“Sí, Señor,” the girl said. “She went with the men. Out the back way.”
A sharp streak of terror pierced Sebastian’s heart. “What men?”
The girl considered him. “One of them looked very much like you.”
Diego. Had she gone with him willingly? Or had Diego taken her against her will? Sebastian dug a handful of change and small bills from his pocket and tossed them into the woman’s bucket.
“¡Gracias, Señor!” she called out behind him.
But Sebastian was already headed for the parking lot, pulling out his phone as he went. He called Ben first. “Ben, where are you?” He snapped through clenched teeth, fighting his way through the foot traffic as he neared the exit of Los Dominicos.
“Headed home from Osorno, Señor.”
Sebastian inhaled. He’d forgotten Ben’s trip.
“Where would Diego take a woman to...to interrogate her?” He refused to consider the possibility that she had gone with his cousin of her own free will. Sebastian unlocked his car and slid behind the wheel, pressing the phone between his chin and shoulder.
“What’s going on, Sebastian?”
Not having an idea of where to search, Sebastian dropped his forehead onto the steering wheel. “The woman from the airport? Diego took her. At least I think he did...”
There was a long silence, then a whoosh of expelled air. “Why does Diego want the mujar?”
“She’s writing Eva St. John’s memoir. I think Diego believes she can get him the walking stick.” Sebastian put the car in gear. “He broke into Eva’s house in Colorado.”
“Does she know who you are?”
Sebastian's fingers clenched the steering wheel. “No, she only knows what I've told her.” Sebastian felt a flush of guilt and pushed it aside. He couldn't risk himself, or his family, to an unknown. Until he learned more about Tansy Chastain, he had to keep his true identity a secret. “I'll call the other drivers and see if they know anything."
“Thanks, Ben.”
“Sebastian? What does this woman mean to you?”
Sebastian caught his harried reflection in the rearview mirror. “I’m not sure, but she’s important.”
“We will pray for her safe return. I’ll be in touch.” Ben ended the connection.
Sebastian exhaled, knowing his driver would do everything he could. He regretted not keeping better track of Diego’s activities in and around the city. He’d considered his cousin little more than an annoyance, like a small, pesky insect. Now, when knowledge of Diego’s haunts and hangouts might have led him to Tansy, Sebastian found himself more or less helpless, dependent on whatever information Ben could unearth through his network of connections among the family’s employees and staff.
He debated returning to the artesanal, telling his abuelo the whole story, but rejected the thought. Abeulo was interested in answers and outcomes, not possibilities. The time to tell the old man what was going on was when it was over.
Diego knew Tansy meant something to Sebastian. If he were holding her for ransom, Diego would probably try to contact him, either via cell or by e-mail. Sebastian drove back to the aparthotel and headed to his own apartment. He stormed into his office, plugged his phone into its charger, lest he miss a call or a text from Diego, and booted up his computer. Then he shoved past his desk and stared out the window at the lights of Santiago. What he wanted to do to Diego was beyond illegal.
****
Diego turned so that he was almost facing Tansy, his gaze traveling up and down her body in a way that made her want to take a long soak in a tub of disinfectant. Then he frowned. “Give me what I want, and I’ll put you on the next flight back to los Estados Unidos.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do, chica.” His smile was tainted by pure malice. “The walking stick the American bruja stole from my family.”
Tansy fought to keep her face expressionless, although terror clawed her spine. “Your family? Your last name is Vargas, not Sandoval.”
“Vargas is my father’s name. He married a Sandoval. But, pfft,”—he made a gesture Tansy assumed was derogatory—“we are more Sandoval than they are. Now, where is the walking stick?”
“Why would I have it?”
“Why else would you be here? You don’t need to come to Chile to write some old woman’s story. You are after the treasure.”
Tansy’s eyes widened. Treasure? Did he think the walking stick had some sort of magical power, or what? She knew she should keep her mouth shut, but curiosity overrode good sense. “What treasure?”
Diego’s eyes flashed, and his mouth tightened as if he knew he’d said the wrong thing. “The walking stick was stolen from my family, and I intend to return it to its rightful owner.”
“And who might that be?”
Diego slammed his fist against the narrow dashboard with enough violence to crack the vinyl coating. “My father has slaved under my grandfather’s tyranny for years. He deserves to be the heir, not that sniveling brat of the American whore.” Enraged, he began to rant in Spanish, sometimes turning to face Tansy, sometimes directing his tirade toward their driver, who flinched and jerked the wheel every time Diego raised his arms.
Tansy shrank against the door, as far from Diego as she could get, and gripped the seat with both hands.
The grating of metal against metal squealed through the car.
Tansy squeezed her eyes shut as the car skidded. When the car came to a stop, silence reigned. She wasn’t expecting the impact, but her death grip on the seat had kept her from being hurled across the vehicle. She opened her eyes, one at a time.
Diego was slumped against the dash, his face turned away from her view. He must’ve been thrown against the windshield; the glass was cracked into a splintered spiral. The driver was conscious, and screaming. The front of the car had buckled in on his legs, trapping him between the steering wheel and the driver’s seat.
Tansy looked outside the car. People were rushing to the scene. He’d have help. She scooted across the seat and opened the door, lunging out into the blessed anonymity of the growing crowd. She half-walked, half-ran, until she was out of breath and her throbbing skull demanded she stop moving. She surveyed her surroundings.
The pharmacia on the corner boasted an impressive set of bars over its windows. Next door, an appliance store, almost hidden behind armored grates, promised the best prices anywhere.
Tansy scooted her new messenger bag to the front of her body and turned in a complete circle, pausing when her gaze landed on the outline of a huge, ancient cathedral a few blocks away. The dusky stone monument to faith looked like a sanctuary, and right now, she needed one.
She crossed the street with a group of college students clad in sweatshirts bearing their alma mater’s logo, and walked down the sidewalk, head up, trying to look confident. She stopped at the bottom of the steps before a trio of enormous wooden doors with iron fittings. To her left and to her right, in every doorway, beggars crouched or sprawled on the steps, holding out cups and hats and baskets. Tansy’s heart constricted.
An older woman wrapped in one of the cozy alpaca shawls Tansy had seen at the artesanal pushed past her and pulled the heavy door open. Tansy followed her in.
The woman passed through the entry, pausing to dip her fingers in holy water and make the sign of the cross before entering the main part of the church.
Tansy held back, eyes opening wide at the vaulted ceilings, enormous marble statues, and glittering chandeliers. Dotted throughout the pews, the faithful knelt or sat to pray, heads bowed and hands clasped, suffusing the atmosphere with a sense of reverence and peace.
Her ears perked
at the sound of American English, spoken in hushed tones, to her left. She turned, and spotted a small tour group, led by a lovely young woman with café-au-lait skin. Tansy moved closer.
“The Metropolitan Cathedral, built between 1748 and 1800, has miraculously withstood multiple earthquakes, several wars, and innumerable waves of social and political unrest,” the guide said.
Sebastian had mentioned bringing Tansy here.
The guide pointed toward another area and motioned for the group to follow.
Tansy padded along behind them, just close enough to listen.
They stopped in front of a flower-covered chapel dedicated to Saint Teresa of the Andes, the first patron saint of Chile.
The guide, seeing that her flock was gathered close, began to speak. “Saint Teresa wrote in her letters, ‘Why do you feel so alone? Aren’t we always really one in our Divine Master?’” The young woman kept talking, but Tansy wasn’t listening.
No matter what she was going through, she wasn’t alone. God was still God, and others had endured much worse than she was experiencing. She took a deep breath, the atmosphere redolent with the remnants of incense and melted wax and the prayers of the faithful. Exhaling, she slid into a pew near the back of the nave and began to pray.
****
Ben still had not called. Sebastian wiped sweat from his face, glanced at his watch, and stifled another wave of panic. He was no closer to finding Tansy, and he’d had no luck tracking Diego.
He logged on to his computer and opened his e-mail program. Tansy’s name popped up like an answer to prayer, and he clicked on the message. It was the manuscript for his grandmother’s memoir. He’d forgotten that she’d offered to share it with him. He saved the attachment, scanned the remainder of the messages, searching for something from Diego or his uncle, to no avail. Frustrated, he picked up his phone again and checked for messages from Ben. Nothing. He dropped the phone back on the desk and leaned back in the chair, staring at the icon that represented Tansy’s manuscript. His fingers toyed over the mouse, and he opened the document.
A full hour later Sebastian dropped his forehead into the palm of his hand and closed his eyes, traumatized.
Had his uncle conspired to have his own brother arrested, tortured by Pinochet’s guard, and thrown in prison, all to remove one more stepping stone in the line for the Sandoval fortune?
When the policia didn’t return Fabian from “questioning,” and told Darcy he’d fallen ill and died in one of their jails—although they couldn’t return the body for reasons unnamed—his mother had fled the country. She had been young, foolish, and naïve, and brokenhearted over the loss of her father and then her husband. By taking the walking stick, she had believed she was protecting her son from the machinations of his power-hungry relatives.
His phone rang, and he checked the screen. Abuelo. He let it go to voicemail. He wasn’t ready to talk to the old man about Diego, nor did he want to explain about the young woman Sebastian had brought to the shop that morning. He closed his eyes. “Father, protect Tansy. Return her safely to me, and I promise I will tell her everything. And I’ll see justice done for my parents and grandparents, with Your help.”
10
Tansy didn’t know how long she sat in the hard wooden pew. She’d prayed for guidance, for protection, for a rescuing angel to swoop in and show her the way home, for a way to reconcile her heart to leaving Sebastian when her task was finished. That prayer had caused the backs of her eyelids to sting, so she’d started praying for Eva and Darcy—that justice and righteousness would prevail.
The light tap on her shoulder made her flinch. No one had bothered her or spoken to her since she had taken the seat. Turning, she recognized the young tour guide she had seen earlier. Was it closing time? Did churches close?
“¿Perdon, hablos espanol?” The woman asked, her voice pitched low in deference to the worshipers.
Tansy shook her head.
“¿Americano?”
“Yes, sí.”
To Tansy’s surprise, the young woman stuck out a hand. “I’m Toulouse,” she said. “Like the painter.”
Tansy accepted the proffered hand. “Tansy. Like the flower. Nice to meet you.”
“Mind if I sit?”
Tansy scooted over, and Toulouse dropped into the pew with a sigh. “My feet are killing me.” She leaned over, slipped out of her ballet flats, and began to rub the soles of her feet.
“You are a very good tour guide. I listened to part of your presentation,” Tansy said.
“It’s part of my training. I’m planning to work for the ambassador, eventually.”
“An admirable goal.”
Toulouse chuckled, a throaty sound that carried up the pews and made one person turn and frown in their direction. “Not really. Hey, let’s get out of here,” she whispered.
Lord, I’m trusting You, Tansy prayed silently as she followed Toulouse outside.
They bypassed the beggars, the rows of old women and children and wizened men lined up in chairs along the wall of the cathedral. Some offered crafts for sale, others just held out a hat or a cup. Tansy slowed, but Toulouse pulled her into a broad, open square filled with statues and fountains.
It was late afternoon, and the light was beginning to fade.
Tansy suppressed a ripple of anxiety as Toulouse tugged her to a bench and plopped them both down.
“So, you’re an American, and you’re obviously lost. Or in some kind of trouble. Can I help you?”
Tansy blinked. “Do I look lost?”
Toulouse laughed, louder this time. “Oh sister, as a goose in the fog. No one sits in that church all afternoon unless they’re lost, homeless, or hiding from someone.” She pinned Tansy with a clear brown gaze. “Which one are you?”
Tansy thought for a moment. “Lost and hiding, I suppose.”
“Bummer. You can come to my place.”
Tansy looked up, met Toulouse’s gaze. “Seriously? What if I’m dangerous or something?”
“Girl, nobody who prays all afternoon can be too dangerous. Come on.”
Tansy followed the brisk pace Toulouse set.
“You’re from New York, aren’t you?” she asked her new friend.
“How’d you guess? The accent?”
“No, your walking speed.”
Toulouse had an easy laugh, one that spoke of confidence and freedom.
“How long have you been here?” Tansy huffed.
“Three years. I squeaked through two years of junior college and knew I had to get out, see the world. Public school, it’s a soul-killer, you know? I ended up here. Once I finish the language program, I’m guaranteed an internship in the ambassador’s office. My uncle works there, so I have an ‘in.’ Which reminds me,” she said, looking at the sky, “he’s coming for dinner, so we need to hurry.”
“We’re already hurrying.”
Toulouse chuckled, then turned serious eyes on Tansy. “Hey, maybe he can help you out of your mess.”
Tansy smiled, and then started to laugh, joy bubbling up and overflowing as she scurried after Toulouse. Thank You, Jesus. God was well aware of where she was, who she was, and He was altogether in control of her situation.
Toulouse arched one elegant brow. “Something funny?”
“No. I’m sorry. I’m just happy to have met you. God does hear our prayers.”
Toulouse raised one elegant black brow. “OK, that’s a given, as far as I’m concerned. Let’s get food and go home.”
They stopped at an open-air market, where Toulouse bartered for her pick of avocados, the biggest grapes Tansy had ever seen, and some bananas. They stopped again at a café for take-out bouillabaisse—fish soup that smelled delicious but looked awful.
At Toulouse’s apartment, the booming bark of a large dog echoed behind the door.
“That’s Germaine. He’s relatively harmless, but let me go inside first.” Toulouse handed the bags of food to Tansy and unlocked the door.
Tansy had
no intention of intercepting the source of the vicious bark, so she stepped back and watched Toulouse be bowled over by a half-grown German shepherd upon opening the door. The dog pinned her to the floor and licked her face with abandon. She shoved at the canine, barking her own commands in Spanish and English. He dropped back on his haunches, tongue lolling to one side.
Toulouse got off the floor and turned to Tansy. “Germaine, this is Tansy, she’s a friend. Shake.”
Germaine lifted one paw. Tansy reached out her hand with caution. The dog dropped his furry paw into her palm, and Tansy smiled. She’d always wanted a dog to bond with, to share her secrets with. “He’s precious,” Tansy murmured.
“He’s a pill, but he’s an effective security system in this neighborhood, so I put up with him.” Toulouse rubbed the shepherd’s ears with an affection that belied her brusque tone.
The apartment was small, efficient, and ruthlessly tidy, in spite of the dog.
Toulouse arranged the meal on a tiny table set for three, moving back and forth between the small galley-style kitchen and the dining area. A knock on the door had Germaine barking again. Toulouse held the dog by the collar as she opened the door.
Tansy stood behind a chair at the table, suddenly nervous.
“Tansy, this is my Uncle David. Uncle David, this is Tansy. I found her at the cathedral today. I think you might be able to help her out, but let’s eat before we talk, I’m starved.”
Toulouse’s uncle, a distinguished-looking man with a full head of silver-white hair, grinned at his niece, then turned to Tansy. “It’s nice to meet you, Tansy. We’ll have to feed Toulouse before we can get anything else done. She gets…what’s that nonsense word you use?”
“Hangry,” Toulouse replied over her shoulder. She dragged Germaine into another room, out of sight. A moment later she reappeared, shutting a door behind her. “It means I lose my temper when I’m hungry. Hungry, plus angry, equals hangry. So let’s eat.”