THE SECOND MILAGRO (n/a) Read online

  Linda Rainwater

  Copyright © 2006 by Linda Rainwater.

  Library of Congress Number: 2005906894 ISBN : Hardcover 1-59926-255-X Softcover 1-59926-254-1 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book was printed in the United States of America. To order additional copies of this book, contact: Xlibris Corporation

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  DEDICATION

  To my wonderful husband, Ray, Who has made so many things possible.

  “The Second Milagro took me into the heart of Mexico and the soul of a woman on a quest for life and love. Miraculous!” Jeanne VanDusen-Smith, author, Sindrome “The plot of Linda Rainwater’s novel plunges forward at breakneck speed and is matched only by the urgency and desire of her characters. A great read!”

  Sue William Silverman, author, Because I Remember Terror, Father, I Remember You “With a fresh new voice, Rainwater weaves past and present into an absorbing tale of secrets, treachery and love.”

  Diane Chamberlain, author, The Bay at Midnight.

  Out of difficulties grow miracles.

  Jean De La Bruyere 17th C. French Philosopher

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Those who play with words speak of their inadequacy, but no one can deny the wonder of praise. Kudos and appreciation go to my sweet husband, Ray, my wonderful sons, Jason and Joey Thrower and their families, April, Mark and Luke, and Alicia, Benjamin and Cason, and my Rainwater family, Steve, Karen, Robin and Mark, Linda and Nelson, and Matthew.

  Unequaled thanks to writer friends Ann Allman, Diane Chamberlain, Jane Drewry, Sue Silverman, and a very special Jeanne Van Dusen Smith. God’s blessings on Martha Cortez and her family who taught me to love Mexico. And, a merited tribute to friends Cynthia Denham and Donna Crouch for their longtime support, and to Carolyn Walker Crowe for being my blessing.

  Those who love Mexico, and especially Real de Catorce, will recognize some author’s license of creating fantasy in a truly fanciful place. The story and characters are entirely of my own making, and I take responsibility for any and all mistakes of judgment.

  PROLOGUE

  Darkness circled Max, thicker here than there. Walls of the mine were near, he guessed. He stretched out to find them. As he moved, his head throbbed. Fighting against his sluggish, aching body, he crawled until he found the rough hewn, cold, damp rock. He slumped against it.

  Tears pricked at his nose and eyes like cactus needles. He breathed deeply the rank, slick air, whispering the words he had shouted at his mother, “I’m seventeen. I’m a man, I can do this.”

  Thoughts of her and how he had failed unleashed the tide, and he cried in sobs and pain. As he shook off the memory of his mother and how he had left home, the image of his father filled the black void around him. Even though Tomas had been dead for a year, Max could feel the man’s disapproval like a heavy arm resting on his shoulder.

  Not that Tomas would have said Max was wrong to come to the mines. No, he would have told his son to go, but for a very different reason.

  His father, a dark force of determination, would have stormed into the little town with an army of workers, pushing aside the wounded, the dead, and clearing the scene of the miners unfit to work. In a day’s time, silver would have again flowed from the mountain, and the cave-in would be unmentionable.

  Max had just wanted to help the people whose lives had been crushed by the mountain.

  His father was ruthless, but saw himself as strong; his son, weak. Max wiped tears from his cheeks and his scruff of a beard with the torn sleeve of his shirt. He wasn’t as soft as his dad thought. So why had he not been able to show his mother that he could handle himself? He picked up a loose stone and threw it into the hollow space that stretched out in front of him.

  Voices. Low, then louder. He stood slowly, sliding his back along the jagged wall. Light blinded him, and he jerked his head to one side. The sudden movement made him dizzy.

  A flash of black, thin and lightning quick, cut across the thick, shadowy air. Max thought “snake” for a moment. Then he heard a piercing snap.

  The whip.

  CHAPTER ONE

  WASHINGTON, D.C. September 24, 1989

  It had been a Tuesday, and she was preparing dinner, the last time Patricia Morelos saw Max, her son, her only child.

  Circling the butcher block island, he sneaked pepperoni slices as he questioned her about the mine that had collapsed in Mexico. For two hours they turned over the few details they knew of the cave-in.

  While their words blurred in her mind, the image of Max that night was sharp, painful. At seventeen, he was slowly metamorphosing into manhood. His face was shadowed and shaped by a day-old beard which partially camouflaged a new crop of pimples. His gait was unfinished. One minute he glided on skateboard feet; the next, he stalked with the assurance of a senator. He seemed all legs and arms as he folded and tucked himself into the breakfast nook.

  She picked at a salad while he dove into pizza.

  “Sure you don’t want any?” he mumbled, mouth half-full. A moment’s lull in his interrogation of her. “So, what do you think we can do? We are going down there, aren’t we, Mom?”

  Like the pepperoni he was eating nonstop, Max devoured every fact, savoring it, living it. His eyes seemed to reflect the falling rocks, the crushed bodies, the anguished faces. “Well, aren’t we going?” he demanded.

  “Max, honey. I’ve told you we’re sending supplies and men down. People who know how to handle these situations. Professionals.”

  “But they’re not Moreloses! We’re the owners. We should be the ones to go!”

  “Jim is going,” she half-whispered, regretting that she sounded afraid. It wasn’t that. She just knew the mention of Jim Mainland’s name would trigger another argument, and she was tired. Tired of Max’s efforts to wear her down.

  The next hour repeated the two before. The salad was wilted and warm; the pizza, cold concrete.

  Max stalked the length of the kitchen, with her captive in the little nook, arguing on and on that he was a Morelos and mature for his age. He was well-traveled, fluent in Spanish. He had friends in Mexico and had been there many times.

  She had laughed at his bravado, making him angry, but she had feared his foolishness, his bravery.

  Finally, she cleared the table. “I’m going to bed, son. I know you feel sorry for these people and so do I. We’re doing everything we can, I promise. But you’re not going anywhere, and that’s final.”

  That’s all a mother needed to say. Especially to a son who was usually obedient. She didn’t know when her final word had stopped being the last word, but it had.

  She took her motherly stance, and he stood his ground. They fought. The next morning, he was gone. He left a note saying she was not to worry.

  She had almost gone crazy with it. A week and a half and two phone calls. Then nothing.

  And, now, she knew why. He had been kidnapped.

  She pushed the thought away as she slipped into the chair at the head of a burl oak conference table and looked beyond the three men who flanked her. The oblong stretch of wood gave her the sensation of being on a boat where all the people had slipped to one end. It was su
rely sinking.

  She vaguely heard a murmur of greetings and felt the questioning looks. For the moment, she let them continue with their reports.

  “Eight dead, thirty-two injured. That’s the last count we have in both mines. Some miners are still missing in R-5. They haven’t reached that cave-in yet, but the other one’s cleared. Three rescue units are still in place. They’ll stay until it’s over.” Marco Cortina, the Director of Mining Operations for Morelos Industries, reported the latest grim news from Mexico. His voice droned on in Patricia’s head like a tape played at the wrong speed.

  “We’ll keep doing whatever is necessary to clear those sites and help the workers,” Marco continued, “but we also have the problem of a strike. All the mines are shut down now. The rest of the men walked off Friday and probably won’t come back to work tomorrow.” Marco rubbed the back of his neck hard as if to dislodge the burden of his rounded shoulders, slumped as if in image of the miners.

  “The worst thing is that production has stopped, and, as we all know, our contracts will be in jeopardy if these crazy miners hold out. How far are you willing to go to get the Mexican mines working, Patricia?” Luis Hernandez, Director of Finances, stared at her, waiting for an answer. He tugged at his expensive jacket, beefy arms ready for a fight. He would not have had to ask her husband that question.

  She looked up at the sound of her name. Everyone was staring at her. Her hand slid over the silver pendant that lay against her gray silk blouse, fingers hugging the cold metal of an intricately carved Mayan god mask. Its edges ridged her skin.

  Sole owner of Morelos Enterprises since her husband Tomas’s death the year before, Patricia had worked hard to gain the respect of the upper ranks of her husband’s empire. It had not been easy. They saw her simply as an attractive woman, good at hosting cocktail parties and arranging displays at the Morelos Galleries. To them she was the quintessential trophy wife. At thirty-nine, eighteen years younger than Tomas, they questioned her ability to run the company.

  The truth was that she had worked in the various departments of Tomas’s silver business since she was a teenager and long before she became his wife. Tomas had groomed her, molded her for what he knew was her future. If only he had thought to reassure his directors along the way, her move to the helm might not have been met with so much opposition. The Mexican machismo had been especially hard to fight. Now, after resisting her lead for so many months, they were expecting her to solve all their problems singlehandedly. And as effectively as Tomas.

  “Patricia doesn’t have to make that kind of decision this minute, Luis.” Jim Mainland, Director of Operations for all of Morelos, jumped to Patricia’s defense. It wasn’t the first time. Jim was always there for her. He paused and looked at her, as if to see if she would say something, then went on, “Tomas told us many times that we ought to think ahead to the possibility of a cave-in. These mines are old and we haven’t had time to bring them up to code.”

  “Tomas would not have expected us to fall all over ourselves about these lazy workers,” Luis said. “He would have taken care of this in a day. And if not, he knew how to ride out downturns and profit loss. We don’t have his expertise anymore, now do we? And calling us out to meet on a Sunday night in the middle of a hurricane isn’t going to help either.” Luis held Jim’s stare, defying him to deny that truth. Muscled, rigid, all square and on edge, the hardness in Luis went bone deep. His dark, harsh face mirrored his soul.

  “We are talking about men’s lives, not just the bottom dollar. All you think about is money, Luis, and it is not even yours!” Marco reared off his chair as if he might lunge at the taller, heavier man. “Three weeks ago these people had a major catastrophe in their lives. It happened in the Morelos mines. We are responsible.”

  Patricia listened as Marco reiterated in more human terms the disaster that had befallen the little town of Real de Catorce, a mountain village north of Mexico City. News was sketchy. The number wounded and dead still not firm. Rescue efforts were hampered by the inaccessibility of the site and by the lack of communication. Now the strike jeopardized the livelihoods of the impoverished families.

  It was all so horrible to think about, but as catastrophic as the cave-in was, to Patricia, it was only the beginning.

  “I have worse news,” she said, her voice a whisper. “That’s why you’re here.” She had to say it twice before the others heard her words. Her hands shook as she took something from a folder. A sheet of coarse unbleached paper with wide spaces between thin blue lines torn from a child’s notebook.

  “This was in my mail Friday.” She cleared her throat. The words came without rhythm, her eyes not on what she read. “Su hijo es raptur. No policia. Espara para instrucciones.”

  “Mi Dios! Max? Max has been kidnapped?” Marco cried.

  “Your son? In Mexico? What the hell was he doing down there?” Luis had no love for Tomas’s “spoiled brat.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” Marco asked gently.

  The questions came at her like buckshot. She retreated behind the wall of her thoughts. In the distance, Jim Mainland intercepted, answering for her.

  She let him.

  She didn’t give a damn what any of them thought about Jim taking over. Right now she needed him, and he was there. She didn’t give a damn about Morelos Enterprises or the silver, or the contracts. She cared about the people, hurt and dying. But now, at this moment, all she could concentrate on was Max. She had lived a lifetime in the past three days. Fifty-five hours had dragged by since the news first came.

  Su hijo es raptur.

  YOUR SON HAS BEEN KIDNAPPED.

  The spinning roar of those words had hollowed out her mind, her body and soul, until she was no more than a rigid shell.

  “Have you called the police? The FBI?” Marco asked.

  “We talked to the police and the FBI Friday and again yesterday,” Jim said. “They—,” he glanced at Patricia, “They’ll do what they can. Bad timing, one of them said.”

  Hurricane Hugo had just slammed into the coast of South Carolina three days earlier and the death toll was still rising. No one wanted any more problems to deal with.

  “Anyway, we’ll probably get Max out of there before they can write a memo.” He smiled. When no one commented, he went on. “We don’t want the press in on this. Max’s life could be in more trouble if these people get ticked off. It has to be handled carefully. We’ve received no ransom demand or instructions, but we know the note came from Real. It’s got to be about the mines. If we can get this strike settled, Max’ll be okay. In the meantime, I’ve hired some of the best men in Mexico to comb the mountains and get to Max whatever way they can. Pronto. I don’t care if that little mountain town’s closed up like a tamale. There’s no way anyone would dare hurt Tomas’s kid,” Jim nodded, as if at an unarguable fact. “Too many people down there owe their lives or at least their living to Morelos Enterprises. And frankly, some of them already lived to regret going against Tomas. They remember. Max’ll be okay. Trust me. Nothing else to do at this point. Until we hear something, it’s a Mexican standoff. I’ll be going down tomorrow if the plane’s okay. The winds are finally dying down.”

  So, Patricia thought, she would wait again. On the far wall a clock made of silver coin-sized ovals encased in dark wood marked the hours. One of two silver lines jerked forward. Then jerked again. Almost nine o’clock, three hours until tomorrow. The torments increased with each tick of the clock, but the stretch of time was perhaps the least painful. Relentless though it was, time had an order to it. No surprises. Just sixty more minutes. Twenty-four more hours. Another day.

  Words were a far worse torture, and that’s all she’d had. Simpering, condescending words from bureaucrats and high paid lawyers. She didn’t want to hear anymore. She wanted results. Wanted to wrap her arms around her son. Listen to his loud music until her ears hurt. Tousle his hair the way he hated for her to do. Hear him say, “Aw, Mom.”

  The sound of his v
oice echoed in her mind, and she shuddered.

  She tried to focus on what she should do. There had to be something. She had called the police when the note came from the kidnappers. When she finally got to talk to someone, he had called Max a runaway. Maybe he sent the note himself, he suggested. The kid was probably bumming on some Mexican beach and going to hit her up for a few bucks in a day or two. Right then, he had to go take some more calls. The hurricane, you know. The man from the FBI was all bureaucracy and no compassion. He’d not returned her calls.

  Her teeth clinched until her jaw ached. Her pulse at her temples seemed to beat out the words: To hell with all of them!

  She stretched her legs and arms. Something inside her stirred, wanting to move, to act. To do what? She was not Tomas. She knew it was not possible for her ever to be the powerful person he was. She wouldn’t want to be. Flashes of what she had thought of as cruelties committed by Tomas made her sick. No way she could fire people for petty reasons, or manipulate land purchases, or break promises for personal gain. She had learned more than she wanted to over the years of Tomas’s “powerful” ways.

  She was weak in comparison to her husband, but this was her son. Max. Her precious child. Her sweet seventeen year old. Her hard-headed brat who had disobeyed her. Her independent, caring, almost man, child who thought he could do anything. She had to do something.

  Then she knew.

  She should be in Mexico looking for Max, not sitting in the Morelos Silver Enterprises board room, hashing out the effect of Max’s kidnapping on the strike. She cared about the people who were hurt and the business, but not while the fate of her son hung in the balance.

  Her fingers curled around the necklace. A present from Max. His first attempt at silver designing, something Tomas had taught him. She thought of her child’s long slender fingers preparing the silver mold and rubbed the god mask again. Her finger traced the face. A nail ringed the wide, hollow eyes. Were they bulging to take in the horror of a human sacrifice? She lingered on the gaping mouth. Open as if in a silent scream.