The Swick and the Dead

by Maggie Foster

  She stepped inside and looked around. There was no electricity. Propane lanterns hung from hooks in the ceiling, and a log fire burned in the massive stone fireplace. A line of camp stoves were in use, making stew or soup, and boiling water for drinking. She’d taught them that. Texas wasn’t a hot bed of dysentery, but the water still needed to be treated if it wasn’t coming from the approved water supply.

  “He is over here.”

  The curandera took her hand and led her to a pallet in the corner of the room.

  The boy’s eyes, dark in their sunken sockets, studied her without interest. The skin across his cheeks looked paper thin and taut and pale. Dehydration, she thought, and malnutrition. Probably, he couldn’t keep anything down. A woman lay beside him, her arms around the child.

  They had hung discarded curtains around the makeshift bed, in an effort to make the corner warm for the child. The curandera placed her palms together and dipped them in Grace’s direction. “Gracias. Thank you for coming.”

  Grace handed over her bag. “This has everything you will need. I’ve included written instructions, in Spanish, so you will know how to administer the medication.” The old woman had started an IV before, with Grace watching, so she knew how. “Just follow the directions.” She smiled at the boy's mother. “Rezaré por ti.”

  The woman kissed the child’s head, murmured something to him, then climbed to her feet and came over. She grasped Grace’s hand and kissed it. The curandera translated.

  “She says, you are a good woman and she thanks you.”

  “Please tell her I’m happy to do what I can.”

  The healer nodded. “I am happy, too, that you are here.” She held the bag out toward Grace. “I cannot do this. You must.”

  Grace tried to back away. “No. I got you the drugs. I can’t do more.”

  The old woman caught her eye and held it. The fire glowed in the black depths of her gaze and Grace found herself unable to turn away.

  “You are the enfermera. It is you who must save this child.”

  Grace tried again to make an excuse, to break away and escape this painful scene. “Take him to the hospital. That’s your best hope.”

  The old woman shook her head. “They will take him and send us back.” She held out the bag again. “You are the enfermera entrenada. It is you who must give the drug that will save his life.”

  Grace looked at the child on the bed. He was barely breathing. “It may kill him.”

  The mother gathered her son into her arms once more, then looked up at Grace and spoke, the curandera translating.

  “She says, she understands, and if it is God’s will that he die, then that is God’s will. But at least you will have tried.” She held the bag out again.

  Grace stood motionless, trying not to see the child, or the tears in his mother’s eyes, or feel the weight of her vow to serve the sick wherever she might find them. Very slowly she reached out her hand and took the bag, then moved over next to the pallet and went down on her knees. She held out her arms to the mother. “Give him to me.”

  * * *

  Chapter 44

  Day 19 – Tuesday midmorning, Third Day of Christmas

  Eternal Care Cemetery, Dallas

  In the dead of winter, the dead, if they knew what was good for them, headed to Texas. Here the trees still rustled in the wind and lawns were green and winter roses bloomed. On this particular winter day, the weather was mild, with a soft breeze, azure sky, and blindingly white clouds billowing towards Heaven.

  The population of the largest cemetery in north Texas had just grown by two. Lisa had succumbed on Christmas Day, quietly, in no pain and with no struggle.

  It was Texas, so there were still many square miles of undeveloped land where one could plant a dead relative, but it was no longer legal. One had to go through channels and there weren’t so many businesses devoted to dying as there once had been.

  Therefore, Lisa Braden and Marjorie Hawkins (née Eloise Quinn) were both here, enjoying the weather and the impressive number of mourners assembled to say goodbye. By a quirk of fate, they would lie close to one another and, though the number of friends and family for Marjorie could be counted on the fingers of a man with no hands, the number of the curious was much greater.

  Lisa, of course, had the usual turnout, supplemented by her own fame as the victim of a tragic accident, or mistake, or whatever it was, on Christmas Eve, no less, on the roof of the hospital, right here in Dallas.

  Ginny had put on her little black dress and the sober jewelry she reserved for such occasions, and allowed the Mackenzies (and Cousin Fergus) to escort her to the graveside service. Lisa was unchurched and her memorial service had taken place on the grounds of the cemetery. Marjorie Hawkins was unclaimed and had been taken in, as an act of charity, by an ecumenical service held in the hospital chapel. Nice enough, but the real show was here.

  Ginny looked around, estimating the crowd. The media was out in force, and so were the crowds of onlookers. Ginny didn’t really object to strangers at funerals. It was something all mortals had in common. All would die and all were curious about it. She objected to the snickering, though. They should at least pretend to behave.

  Lisa’s family was genuinely bereaved. Funny how one didn’t even think about the people who shaped the people one knew. A co-worker or a classmate was just that, no more. The extended families were invisible. But it was the extended family, especially the parents and grandparents, that resulted in the person you knew, with their manners and attitudes and opinions. Adolescent rebellion aside, every human being was the result of his heritage.

  Ginny stood among the Hillcrest staff, flanked by Jim and Himself, Fergus prowling the edges of the crowd. Most of the night shift was here. They tended to bond over the midnight coffee and crises. Grace was missing. So, come to think of it, was Isaac. Odd.

  She pulled her mind back to the draped coffins. The service was starting. Ginny shivered and Jim slipped his arm around her. How close she had come! It could so easily have been her they were burying.

  Instead, poor Lisa, ill and frightened and alienated from those who could have helped her, lay in the nearer coffin. It would be a long time before Ginny forgave herself for the ill will she had felt toward Lisa Braden.

  In the farther coffin lay the liar, the one who had killed sixteen years before and stolen her victim’s identity. She had fooled them all for years and might have gone on much longer had not Phyllis decided to study nurse imposters.

  If Ginny was right, Hawkins had killed Phyllis to make sure her secret remained a secret. But with her death died any chance of a confession. Neither Ginny nor Detective Tran had the solid evidence necessary to put the guilt to rest with the body.

  Ginny frowned. She hated unfinished business and this case looked to be already cold, the solution to the puzzle buried six feet deep and no way to dig it up again.

  * * *

  Tuesday noon

  Forbes residence

  Ginny heard the doorbell from her seat in the kitchen. She listened as Fergus opened to Himself and Agent DeSoto. “We’d like tae speak tae Miss Ginny, if ye’ll allow.”

  She rose at the Laird’s entrance.

  “Ginny Forbes, I require yer assistance.”

  She nodded.

  “It seems wee Luis willnae set foot outside th’ shelter withoot ye. No even tae go tae his mither.”

  Ginny blinked. “I thought you were using an agent to escort him.”

  DeSoto answered. “That was the plan, but the boy won’t cooperate.” He scowled. “I can’t have a hysterical child at the rendezvous, but if his mother doesn’t see him, she won’t come close enough for us to catch her. He needs to be there, and he needs to be kept quiet. Can you do it?”

  Ginny looked from the Laird, to the DEA agent, then turned to Fergus. “Is it permitted?”

  Before he could reply, there was a violent disturbance on her doorstep. The bell was rung repeatedly and she could hear a fist hammeri
ng, then a voice. “Let me in!”

  The Laird’s eyes drifted toward the ceiling, then he nodded. Fergus went to go unlock the door and admit a furious Jim Mackenzie.

  He strode over to Ginny, then stood, fists clenched, looking down into her face. She could see fear in his eyes. He spoke without preamble.

  “We talked about this. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Wha told ye, lad, tae come here?”

  Jim turned to face his grandfather. “Rose MacGregor called me when she couldn’t get you on the phone. She explained what was going on.”

  Himself pulled out his phone and frowned down at it. “Th’ battery’s deid.” He shook his head and slipped the device back in his pocket. “Weel, ye would hae found oot eventually. Speak yer piece.”

  Jim turned back to Ginny. “I don’t want you anywhere near that church.”

  “I know.”

  “You’ll be a sitting duck. All they have to do is bring in another sharpshooter.”

  “I know.”

  He reached out and put his hands on her arms, lowering his voice. “I have already been subjected to the lecture on how a laird must put the good of his people over the wishes of his own heart, but you won’t do the clan any good if you’re dead. And this cause is none of ours. Not Homestead. Not our people.”

  “Are you suggesting I break my promise to Luis?”

  “All you promised was to find his mother. You didn’t promise to die for him.”

  “He won’t go without me and we need him to draw Maria out.”

  “She’ll come no matter who’s with him. They don’t need you.”

  “Luis does.”

  “Why are you being so stubborn about this?”

  Ginny sighed, then reached up and laid a hand on Jim’s cheek. “You already know the answer to that. Because it’s the right thing to do.”

  * * *

  Tuesday midafternoon

  Mater Dolorosa Roman Catholic Church

  It was midafternoon on the Third Day of Christmas and, true to its nature, the Texas sun streamed through the clerestory windows, caught the dust motes, and turned them to powdered gold. Ginny watched as they drifted over the gallery rail, glittering as they sank toward the stone floor. Some completed the journey and were at peace. Some drifted out of the sun and were lost. Some caught a rising column of air and rode it back to the rafters, returning to darkness and dust.

  Closer to earth, the sun pierced the jeweled panels and brought forth the promise of resurrection. The stained-glass saints glowed on the flagstones, their colors as rich as their stories. Ginny’s eye lingered on the familiar images, her mind on the never-ending struggle between good and evil.

  She and Luis were in the back pew of the main sanctuary at Mater Dolorosa, tucked into a corner of the nave with a stone wall behind and another flanking them. She could hear the wind forcing its way past the edges of the massive west portal. The doors had been shut for this meeting, but the building was old and drafty, and it was the last week of December. She pulled the little boy closer.

  Luis looked up. “Is she coming?”

  “I hope so.” Ginny gave the child a squeeze.

  She looked around the cavernous space. There were DEA and FBI agents hidden in a dozen places, and police outside, under cover, waiting to close the trap once Maria was inside. They were prepared to wait all day, but Father Ignacio had specified a time and left the lights on so Maria could see her son when she arrived. The padre was waiting too, on his knees in front of the high altar, no doubt praying for a peaceful resolution to this dangerous plan.

  Ginny could feel the cold creeping into her bones. If this went on much longer, she would be too stiff to move when the need arose. She stretched a bit, rolling her shoulders and head, then abruptly forgot her discomfort. She could hear the sound of the narthex doors being pushed open. Someone was coming in.

  She put her hand over Luis’ mouth, gesturing to him to be absolutely silent, then held him still, watching the strangers enter the nave and make their way up the main aisle toward the sanctuary, their footsteps echoing on the stone floor. Father Ignacio made the sign of the cross, rose from his prayers, then turned and came forward to greet them.

  It wasn’t Maria. It was a trio of men, the one in front wearing a heavy leather jacket and a crimson scarf. He walked toward the priest, seeming relaxed and sure of himself. He was accompanied by one of the policemen and another man, this one a professional of some sort. Ginny looked at all three figures as they advanced up the aisle and wondered what was niggling in the back of her brain. To her knowledge she’d never seen any of the three before.

  The policeman spoke to Father Ignacio, appearing to introduce both men, then returned the way he had come. The second man, the professional, took a portfolio from under his arm, opened it, removed a sheaf of papers, and handed them to the priest. Ginny watched as Father Ignacio produced a pair of reading glasses from his pocket, put them on his nose, then held the documents under one of the altar lamps.

  He took his time, turning the pages over slowly, asking questions. Ginny could see he was stalling and could see the first man growing impatient. The second laid a soothing hand on his sleeve. At length Father Ignacio sighed, nodded, and returned the papers. The second man, the one with one shoulder slightly higher than the other, put the papers away, then all three men turned to face the back of the nave, their eyes searching, finding, fixing on her and the child in her lap.

  * * *

  Chapter 45

  Day 19 – Tuesday afternoon

  Mater Dolorosa Roman Catholic Church

  Jim’s heart was beating as fast as if he had run up three flights of stairs. He cursed himself for a fool and peered out from behind the reredos, watching the scene unfold.

  The sacred space in which he hid was fronted by a magnificent example of the sculptor’s art. The massive gold cross drew the eye upward and served as a focal point for the rapture of the marble angels that surrounded it.

  Jim did not share the angels’ sentiments.

  It had been the hostage negotiator’s idea to put Ginny and Luis in that corner. It had solid walls on two sides and was tucked up under the loft staircase, which shielded them from casual view, and anyone approaching them would be seen, so they would have plenty of warning. But it also meant they had no easy escape route. To be free to run, they would have to slide to the end of the row and out into the main aisle, or crawl under the pews and wiggle out that way.

  When the three humans on the other side of the altar turned to face the rear of the church, Jim felt goose-flesh rise on the back of his neck.

  “I’m going with them,” he whispered, but found his grandfather’s hand on his arm.

  “Ye’ll stay put ’til told ye may move.”

  Jim turned to look at his grandfather. Even in the dim light he could see the determination in the Laird’s eye. He tried to explain. “We have no idea what’s going on. She may need help.”

  “There’s a score o’ special forces round th’ kirk. Let them do their job.”

  “But—”

  “Haud yer wheesht, lad! I’ll no hazard th’ both o’ ye.”

  Jim subsided, turning his eyes back to the trio headed toward the far corner. Ginny had apparently come to the same conclusion he had. She’d scooted all the way over to the aisle and was climbing to her feet, blocking access to Luis.

  Jim watched Father Ignacio speak to Ginny, and her wary attention. She looked from one man to the other, then was handed the same papers Father Ignacio had examined. Even from here Jim could see her frown, then a half shake of her head, then puzzlement and a question. She was answered, but not to her satisfaction.

  Jim felt a growing unease as he watched. He knew that look. He could tell from her expression and the way she held her head she wasn’t going to cooperate. Father Ignacio waved the strangers off and spoke to Ginny in private for a moment, then drew her aside, allowing the man in the jacket to start down the pew toward Luis.

 
; “What’s this?” Himself asked.

  The man had settled down in the pew facing Luis, speaking to him. The boy had backed up against the wall, almost disappearing from Jim’s view as he tried to hide from the stranger.

  “What’s going on?” DeSoto had come up quietly behind them and was peering around their shoulders.

  “No idea,” Jim answered him. “Any news on Maria?”

  “Nothing so far.”

  “Who’s the man?”

  “According to the police, that is Luis’ father.”

  “Auch! Is’t true?”

  DeSoto shrugged. “He told the policeman he came to take his son home and showed him a birth certificate. I assume those papers he’s been waving around give him the legal right to claim his abandoned child.”

  Jim frowned. By dropping her son off at Hillcrest and disappearing, Maria had given the State of Texas both the right and the responsibility to take the child and care for him as it saw fit. Unfortunately, this happened often enough that there were well-established guidelines for custody disputes across the Texas-Mexico border.

  “Ginny is not going to like that.”

  “Apparently, neither does th’ bairn.” Angus nodded at the corner where the small drama was playing out.

  The man who claimed to be Luis’ father had taken the child’s arm and started to pull him toward the aisle. Up to this point, the voices had been too low to be more than a murmur. Now Jim could hear the boy whining. He watched as Luis tried to pull free. Ginny, too, could be heard, arguing with Father Ignacio, the pitch rising as well as the volume. The third man had retired to the back of the church and pulled out his cell phone.

  Señor Perez had made it to the aisle, pulling Luis behind him. The boy was screaming now, crying, in Spanish, but the meaning was clear to everyone watching. They were headed for the door when Luis started shrieking, “Mama! Mama!”