Ginny frowned to herself. It kept coming back to the cartel.
For most of her life, Ginny had heard the horror stories. No amount of law enforcement had stopped the river of drugs. The violence had ebbed and flowed like the sea, sometimes spilling over the border, leaving broken bodies strewn on the beachhead.
They—the cartel—had no conscience. They would protect themselves. They had just suffered a massive blow to the checkbook and would be like angry bees, looking for a target to vent their fury on. And Grace was missing.
If Grace had gone to the cartel to obtain black market drugs, then Grace knew too much. And she wasn’t the kind of customer they could frighten into silence, not a druggie herself. So, either she was a member of the cartel—which Ginny had trouble believing—or she was in very great danger of being killed for her guilty knowledge.
Ginny turned over restlessly. She hated lying here, not sleeping, worrying. Was there anything she could do to help in the search for Grace? Was there anything she knew that she hadn’t already shared with the police?
She hadn’t yet told Detective Tran about seeing Grace in the Christmas Pageant video. It probably didn’t mean anything. Someone’s child had insisted everyone come and watch her perform. The place had been seething with families and those working the event. Ginny paused. There was a thought. Maybe Grace wasn’t there as extended family. Maybe Mater Dolorosa was her home parish.
Churches had cultures, just like other organizations. If Dolorosa was Grace’s home church, she might be well-known to them. She might be staying with one of the parishioners. Hiding out with one of them. Was there anyone Ginny could ask?
She sat up abruptly and looked at the clock. Ten a.m. He should be in his office by now, or at least reachable by phone. She climbed out of bed, looked up the number and reached a secretary. Yes, but not over the phone. He could spare her fifteen minutes if she could be there by ten forty-five. She could.
Ginny put her shoes back on and grabbed her purse. The hallway was empty.
“Fergus?” She wasted five minutes hunting for him.
“Mother?” No answer. Where was everyone? Well, she didn’t have time to wait. Himself would just have to understand. She scribbled a quick note, posted it on the refrigerator, and headed for Mater Dolorosa.
* * *
Thursday midmorning
Mater Dolorosa
Ginny knocked on the office door and was invited in. Father Ignacio looked up from his work and smiled at her, then gestured at the chair.
“Just give me a minute to finish this.”
“Of course.” Ginny settled into the chair and waited until he set the paper aside and turned to her.
“Now. How may I help you?”
Ginny explained about her suspicions, that Grace had somehow made contact with the drug cartel and might be in trouble because of it.
“And why did you come to me?”
“Because I think she is a parishioner here.”
Father Ignacio raised one eyebrow. “Did she tell you that?”
Ginny shook her head. “No. I saw her on the video.” She explained about the Christmas pageant and the two boys.
“I see.” Father Ignacio studied her for a moment, then pushed a button on his desk, asking his secretary to send someone in to them. He turned back to Ginny. “Yes, she is one of my flock.” His brow furrowed. “She came to me, on Wednesday, for guidance.”
Ginny held her breath. Anything Grace had said was likely confidential and she could not expect a priest to break the seal of the confessional.
“She told me a child had died because of her actions.” He spread his hands. “Unfortunate, of course. But I gave her absolution and penance.” He leaned forward, his expression earnest. “Because she is a good woman and was trying to do the right thing.” He smiled at Ginny. “Just like you.”
The door opened and Ginny saw a well-dressed man in a business suit enter. He looked vaguely familiar.
“This is Raul Santiago. You may have seen him here before, on the day Maria Perez was taken by the federales. He is a lawyer.”
Ginny nodded. “Yes.” One shoulder higher than the other. Scoliosis. She had seen him three times before this one. The first time was here, in the corridor, the day she met Father Ignacio. The second time was in the sanctuary, where she had seen Father Ignacio introduced to this man as if they were strangers. But she’d been too far away to hear, so perhaps they had merely exchanged pleasantries.
The third time—
She froze. The third time she’d seen this man was this morning, in the photograph of Phyllis and Grace fighting. He’d been under the bridge, a smile on his face, standing in easy comradeship with the drug dealer as they both watched the two women indulge in a cat fight. He was with the cartel. And she’d missed it.
Ginny rose, stumbling over an excuse. “I don’t want to keep you. Thank you for your time. Anything you can think of. Goodbye.”
Father Ignacio’s smile widened. “I don’t know what an organization such as ours would do without the Good Samaritans of the world. So willing to fight for a cause.”
The door opened again and Ginny could smell something sweet.
Father Ignacio hadn’t bothered to rise. He was still smiling at her. A very self-satisfied smile. “And so trusting.”
Ginny sucked in a breath, understanding flooding her with sudden horror. “It was you! You arranged the attack on me, Christmas Eve.”
“I arranged the shooting, but you weren’t the target. You just weren’t that much of a nuisance, until now.”
She turned to run, but the two men between her and the door grabbed her, one of them pressing a cloth over her nose and mouth. Chloroform. Sometimes the old methods worked best and they wouldn’t care if they got the dose wrong.
She struggled, but it was no use. The room was swimming and she was cursing herself for making another mistake.
This time, she was the one who would die. Only fair, but what a stupid thing to do. She was still kicking her captors, and herself, when the room went black.
* * *
Thursday noon
Brochaber
“Jim? Jim! Where’s yer heid, lad?”
Jim pulled his attention back to the kitchen. “I’m not sure. What were you saying?” He had given up on sleep and come downstairs to find his grandfather and Fergus discussing him.
“I was tellin’ Fergus here aboot young Williams.”
Jim looked at the other man, wondering just how much he needed to know about that. It felt private. Something he and Ginny shared.
“I was asking,” Fergus said, “whether there could be a connection.”
Jim shook his head. “I don’t see how.” He found Fergus watching him. “What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were supposed to stay with Ginny?” Jim didn’t mean to sound so peevish, but there was definitely something wrong with him today. Other than fatigue.
“Sinia’s on guard, lad. She’ll no let Ginny come tae harm.”
Jim looked at his grandfather, wishing he believed that Ginny’s mother could handle whatever the cartel decided to throw her way. “I think I’ll check on her.”
“Let her sleep.”
Jim met Fergus’ eyes, then dialed Mrs. Forbes.
“She’s here. She’s in her bedroom.”
“Are you sure? Would you go look, please?” Jim was feeling more and more uncomfortable. There was a pause during which Jim endured the increasingly skeptical gazes of both his grandfather and Cousin Fergus.
Sinia came back on the line. “You were right, Jim. She left a note. She’s gone to see Father Ignacio.”
Jim felt his gut clench. “Do you know what it was about?”
“That co-worker of hers who’s missing, Grace Edmunds.”
“Why did Ginny think he’d know anything?”
“The missing woman showed up in the recording of the Christmas Pageant. I think she was hoping someone at the church could provide a lead. I don’t know how she
got past me. Please tell Fergus I’m sorry.”
“I will.” Jim hung up the phone. “She’s gone to the Roman Catholic church, to see Father Ignacio.”
Fergus rose from his chair. “I’ll follow her.”
Jim was struggling, hard, his mind and his emotions locked in mortal combat. “Wait.” Both of the other men looked at him. “Wait a minute. There’s something I’m trying to remember, something important.”
“You can tell me later,” Fergus said.
“WAIT!”
Fergus turned, startled, then looked at Angus. The Laird was frowning at Jim, his sharp eyes riveted on his grandson. “Wait a bit, Fergus, ’til we ken wha’s goin’ on here.”
A tiny proportion, maybe two percent, of Jim’s brain was paying attention to Fergus. The rest was working on his problem. He didn’t know anything, not really, it was just that he had a really bad feeling.
The minute the words formed in his brain, Jim realized what was happening. It felt just as it had the night he flew to Austin. She’d been fine that time. Safe, just out of reach. She was safe now, he told himself. It wasn’t real, he told himself. That wasn’t even how the Sight worked, he told himself. But—
He grabbed his phone and dialed DeSoto. “What was the code name you got out of Luis’ father, the one that was supposed to be the head of the organization up here?”
“The Bishop.”
Jim let loose a very bad word. “Get your people together. I know who the head man is.”
“Who? How?”
Jim ignored him. “No sirens. I’ll meet you at the little park across the street from Mater Dolorosa. Fast as you can.”
“Mackenzie! Report!”
“Ginny went in alone, to talk to Father Ignacio.” Jim saw his grandfather’s eyes register comprehension.
“Fifteen minutes.”
Jim hung up the phone and looked at the other two. “Maria Perez and Grace Edmunds,” he explained, “both go missing and the thing—the person—they have in common is Father Ignacio.”
The Laird turned to Fergus. “Go, lad. Hurry.”
“I’m coming with you,” Jim said.
Fergus didn’t even pause, just threw the words back over his shoulder. “Come on, then. But if you slow me down, I’ll leave you behind.”
* * *
Chapter 52
Day 21 – Thursday noon
Mater Dolorosa
The first thing Ginny noticed was the cold. The second was the nausea. She clawed her way to consciousness, trying to get her eyes open, to get to a bathroom, so she could vomit. She didn’t make it.
There was a bucket sitting on the floor beside her. She grabbed it and vomited again, then heard a whimper from across the room and looked up. She was not alone.
“Grace?”
Ginny had heard that chloroform could make a patient so sick he could tear out newly inserted stitches with the force of the vomiting. She believed it. She vomited again, then pushed the bucket aside and gulped in air, grateful to find it (mostly) odorless.
“What are you doing here?”
The other woman crawled toward her across the floor, almost unrecognizable as the suave, sophisticated ICU nurse Ginny knew. Her hair was a mess, her clothes stained, her eyes haunted.
“I came to see Father Ignacio.”
Ginny had her head in both hands, trying to avoid moving it. “He told me.” She peered at Grace with one eye. “Why?”
“Why did I come?”
“Yes.”
“To make my confession.”
Ginny had both eyes closed again, but her ears were working. “A dead child.”
“Yes.” Grace started crying.
“Is he a real priest or is he just faking?”
“I don’t know.”
Ginny had settled into a stillness that seemed to be working to keep the nausea at bay. She took a careful breath, then opened one eye. “Tell me what happened.”
The old Grace would have refused. This one begged.
“At first, it was nothing. I heard some people talking about how hard it was for illegals to get good medical care in Texas. If they came for treatment, they got deported.
“Some of the stories were heart-breaking, but they were just stories. Then, one day, at church, I saw something I wasn’t supposed to. They were in bad shape. I could see how dehydrated they were. One of the women was holding a baby. Just holding it. It was dead.” Grace pulled in a ragged breath.
“I couldn’t do anything, but I couldn’t escape the feeling I should. I asked the woman I was with if there was any way I could help. At first, she said no. But I kept asking and eventually she told me they needed everything: food, water, clothes, medical care.
“I got hold of some of those brochures they’re always pushing at nurses, and gave them to her, explaining there were charities in Dallas designed to meet those needs. She took the flyers, but shook her head at me. ‘They won’t go,’ she said. ‘They’re afraid.’ So, I started bringing things in and giving them to my friend, to pass along. Little things, at first, then bigger loads, then one day she told me to follow her in my car.” Her face twisted at the memory.
“She took me to a part of Dallas I didn’t know existed. Not south Dallas. Here. In this upscale suburb. You wouldn’t believe the slum conditions. It wasn’t just malnutrition. They were infected and infested. I looked at a few of the children and asked what kind of care they were getting. I was told there were old women who were considered healers, and there were benefactors who gave them money so they could buy over-the-counter medicines. Better than nothing, but not good enough.
“I started spending time with the healers. Some of what they did was harmless and some of it effective. Tar works, you know, on skin conditions, but they had no insulin for the diabetics and no antibiotics. They understood the problem. They just couldn’t get their hands on the medications.
“I went home that day and started thinking. I didn’t have the right credential to prescribe either drug. I’m not a Nurse Practitioner, but I know people who are.” She brushed at the tears.
“I stole a script pad and forged a signature and used those to buy prescription drugs, out of my own pocket. And I kept urging the refugees to go to the free clinic. But they wouldn’t. When the script pad ran out, I couldn’t get another so I had to come up with something else. They were relying on me.
“About that time I overheard Lisa talking to the guy in Human Resources. They were in the cafeteria and I don’t think either one of them knew I could hear them. She was saying he needed to follow Phyllis to the drug drop, to get pictures of her breaking the law, so she could be fired. He was arguing, saying he couldn’t sell photos like that, not without losing his job.
“Anyway, I gathered that Phyllis knew where to buy black market drugs, so I followed her and got lucky. She led me to the dealer. I didn’t let on, just waited until she was gone, then made my first buy. It was almost too easy. You can get anything you want.” Grace shook her head.
“One night I was there, making a purchase, and Phyllis caught me at it. She thought I was buying recreational drugs and I didn’t tell her the truth. She lectured me on the evils of a drug habit. I told her to mind her own business. But she was really angry and grabbed my arm. She broke one of the vials. That set me off and the two of us indulged in a very un-ladylike brawl.
“Isaac, the HR guy, had taken Lisa’s advice and followed Phyllis, so he was able to get nice, clear shots of the whole thing.” Grace frowned. “He offered to sell them to me. Probably did the same to Phyllis.
“Last week, one of the healers asked me to get her some chemo for a child with kidney cancer. I should have said no. That stuff is poison. But I did it and handed it over, with the instructions out of the drug handbook and a package insert I got off the Internet. I tried to walk away, but they kept begging me to set up the IV, to tell them how much, how often. Their English wasn’t up to the task. I should have said no.” Grace put her head down on her arms.
<
br /> “He didn’t do well, even with me staying with him, watching the IV, giving him the antiemetic. He got weaker and weaker and I got scared. So I drove him to one of the clinics, dropped him off, with his mother, and told her to pretend she had no English. Then I ran home.”
Ginny watched the tears well up and spill down Grace’s cheeks.
“He died in the night. I couldn’t face going in to work, so I called in sick. That was Tuesday. By Wednesday, I couldn’t live with myself, so I called Father Ignacio and asked for an appointment. He heard my confession, and gave me penance and sent me out to the Lady Chapel. I was on my knees, going through the prayers, begging for forgiveness when they grabbed me.” She looked at Ginny. “Do you have any idea what they plan to do with us?”
Ginny took a careful breath. “If they’re feeding you, they want you alive.”
Grace frowned. “It looks like they think I’ll go to the police, but the whole point of confession was so I wouldn’t have to tell anyone else. A priest should know that.”
Ginny felt a stab of annoyance. “They may not want to take a chance on you following the rules, since you didn’t before.”
“But this is different,” Grace protested. “This is a promise to God.”
If the situation hadn’t been so grim, Ginny would have laughed. It was exactly the sort of naiveté that Father Ignacio had twisted to suit himself.
“I’m not sure they believe in God, but I’ll tell you what they do believe in. Money. And you, my dear, with your café au lait skin and your almond shaped eyes and your long, lean, lithesome body, will fetch a pretty penny on the sex slave market.” She saw Grace blanch, then swallow.
“I don’t think I’d like that.”
Ginny shook her head and found that she could do so without vomiting. Good. The drug was wearing off. It was time to think about getting out of here.
“Then we’d better do something about it.”
* * *
Thursday, twelve-thirty p.m.
Streets of Dallas
Fergus wasted no time moving through traffic. Jim was leaning forward, watching the road. “Turn here.”
“I know.”
Jim bit his tongue. Both of them had visited Mater Dolorosa exactly once. They both knew the way.
The Swick and the Dead Page 34