THE SECOND MILAGRO (n/a) Read online

  After awhile, he walked to the window and looked out at the brightening day. A movement on the hill above the house caught his eye. At first he thought he imagined it, but as he watched, a shadow came and went. Someone was walking down a path.

  A man stood on the other side of the iron fence surrounding the property. He hesitated for a moment, bent down, came up on the inside of the barrier. It looked like George, the gardener.

  Jim pondered what he had seen. It was a way out. If he could get out of the room. The windows were covered with wooden louvers. He examined them carefully for the first time. They had not seemed important before, because he knew he couldn’t get through the gate. He had tried that last night. His hand automatically went to the lump on his skull.

  He found a butter knife left on a tray that had been brought to him yesterday. The screws holding the louvers were rusted. Some of them broke off with just a little pressure, some he had to dig out. He laid the loose boards quietly on the floor. When there was enough room for him to squeeze through, he grabbed a jacket and a flashlight he had seen in a drawer. Even though he was on the second floor, it was only a short drop to the ground because the land rose on this side of the house.

  He was across the garden and at the fence before the first shot rang out.

  “Going somewhere Mainland?” George asked.

  Jim staggered back to the house, his head felt shattered by the relentless jackhammer. He sagged into a chair in the sala.

  “Never knew someone to dislike my hospitality so much,” the Chief said. Jim had not seen him sitting on a couch at the far end of the long room.

  Jim just glared.

  “I am sure you will be glad to hear that the time has come for you to leave. Juan will be around this morning. He will take you to where the Morelos boy is. That is where you would like to go, is it not?”

  Shaking his head to clear it, Jim measured carefully what he should say. Finally, he spoke. “I never like to overstay my welcome.”

  “Si. While you are still in my care then, we will have breakfast.” He made a motion to George, who brought coffee within seconds.

  Catera arrived while they were eating, and Jim was escorted back to his room for his belongings. By midmorning they were in a plane to Mexico City.

  Jim made two more attempts to get away. The first time he was tied up and thrown into the back of a van, the second he was given a shot of some kind of sedative.

  He awakened slumped against a curved wall. Cold, dark, and wet invaded his nostrils, his throat, his face. All but his eyes, which were warm beneath a coarse cloth blindfold. He put his hands out and pushed himself to his feet. A round bore of metal poked him in the back. He assumed it was a gun, so when it prodded him again, he started walking. He had to hold onto the walls on each side to stay upright. They were slippery and cold. He gagged at the piercing odor of mold and decay and the stench of urine.

  He didn’t talk. Opening his mouth meant tasting what he was smelling. Besides, he had already exhausted himself asking questions. He’d get even with Catera. There would be a way.

  His arm was jerked back, and he stopped walking. Sensing the area around him was larger, he cautiously extended his arms. Fingers grazed his forehead and snatched the blindfold from his face. Expecting any light to blind him, he squinted, then realized it was almost as dark without the blindfold.

  He was deep in a mine. He recalled the grade of his long walk, the increased cold, the odors. Above him the ceiling was high, a dark hole in the center. A shaft. He could feel a stir of air pressing downward from an unseen source. Looking around, he couldn’t resist staring at the walls as if a vein of silver might pop out at him.

  A chair, table and cot. Bars cut off passages in two directions. Between Jim and the way he had come were two beefy men, one armed with a .357 magnum, the other, a rifle. The rifle pointed toward the chair.

  “Such wonderful accommodations. I think I like El Partenon better after all,” Jim muttered as he sat down. “Quantas tiempo aqui?”

  Both men acted as though they heard nothing.

  “You fuckin’ bastards. Don’t even know your own language, huh? Don’t know English either. Stupido. Stupido. Your mothers worked in la huerta.” He watched for a reaction and was pleased to see a flicker in the eyes of the one with the rifle. He smiled. “Your sisters fuck 50 men a night and only pay you 50 pesos.” Another flicker. “Your padre is not your padre.”

  The rifle swung out at Jim and he caught it midair. He jabbed the butt back into the ample stomach of the Mexican. The man managed to keep his grip on the gun and shoved at Jim with the barrel. The two were rolling on the floor of the room when a loud crack split the air.

  Jim saw a flash of black. Then he felt the thrash of leather across his back. He was stunned by the pain that one lash of the thin material had delivered.

  “Handy instrument in a mine,” Catera said, rolling the riding crop. “A bullet might ricochet.”

  Jim knew the time to fight was over. He sat in the chair and rubbed his arm. “When the Chief said you were bringing me to where the Morelos kid was, I didn’t know he just meant to the same mountain.”

  Catera laughed. The sound echoed off the walls.

  “Glad you get such a charge out of my pain and ignorance,” Jim said, wincing at the stab in his chest where the tip of the rawhide had cut him deeply.

  “Mainland, you disappoint me. I thought I could count on you to make this deal work out. It is the best one you will get.”

  “Why should the Moreloses have to give up their mines to get you to stop trespassing on my land.” Jim tried to take the edge out of his voice when he saw Catera flex the hand holding the whip. “You know I’m going to marry Patricia Morelos soon. Then I’ll have control of the mines and other deals, better deals can be made,” he continued, buying time.

  “You’ve been playing Romeo too long, amigo. I don’t think she wants to be Juliet.” He smiled.

  “My God, man,” Jim rose from the chair, “Her son’s been kidnapped! You expect her to be off on her honeymoon now?”

  “I am sorry to be the one to tell you this, Mainland. When Señora Patricia goes on a honeymoon, it is more likely to be with Miguel Ramirez.”

  “What th’ hell do you mean?” Jim took a step toward Juan.

  “Maybe you can say better what it means when two people spend the night making love?”

  Jim flinched, then turned away. “That’s your story, Catera. Patricia probably has a different one.”

  “Perhaps. In the meantime, we will see that she signs the papers, or she will be lost forever in the Sierra Catorce Mountains. She and her son. Pity, wouldn’t you say?”

  Jim sank back in the chair. “What do you want me to do, Catera?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Patricia shook a large square of faded cloth. Dirt and lint gathered in a small cloud.

  “What in the world is that?” Rachel asked, coughing and pinching her nose.

  “Some rags and stuff I found in an old house yesterday.” Patricia emptied out the basket.

  “I’m almost afraid to ask what you wanted them for in the first place. I know I don’t want to know what you’re going to do with them now.” Rachel wrinkled her nose and folded her arms.

  “Wearing these was the only way I got as far as I did. I think I still have enough to disguise you. We’ll be peasants going to Real to see St. Francis.”

  “Do you really think that’ll help? How hard can it be to spot two women, one blind and the other all scratched up?”

  “Well, I can cover my scrapes, and you, my dear, don’t look blind to most people, and you know it. We’ll manage if we’re careful and I keep you alerted to things. So, you game?”

  “Sure. Just so I’m a pretty peasant,” she said, as Patricia took the cloth and wound it around her tiny waist, tucking and pulling at the ends until the swath of material passed for a skirt.

  “Does the color suit me?” Rachel turned in a tight circle when Patr
icia had finished.

  “Yes, you look great in chartreuse,” Patricia teased. “Here, tie this over your head.” Patricia knew how much pride Rachel took in being able to dress herself and she watched as Rachel fashioned a scarf out of a ragged cloth.

  “Let me look at you,” Patricia backed up a few feet and appraised the changes. “Need to roll up your pants legs and you’re all set.”

  “Good thing Annie and her friends can’t see me. They’d copy my outfit and claim it as a new fad.”

  “Well, it would beat those jeans your daughter wears with the knees that look like ragged windows.”

  They both laughed aloud.

  “God, that felt great. I don’t think I’ve laughed in a century,” Patricia said. She felt giddy.

  Rachel reached out and embraced Patricia. “You’ll be okay, you know. It’ll all be okay. You have to have faith.”

  “Oh, Rachel. How can you always be so positive? I’ve made so many mistakes. I don’t know how to make it all right anymore.”

  “Maybe it isn’t always your job to make right.”

  Before Patricia could respond, Rachel rubbed her hands down past Patricia’s waist to her legs.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Well, you seem to be having so much fun a minute ago, I wondered if you had me dressed in this `git-up’ while you were wearing your own clothes.” Rachel smiled. “Just checkin’.”

  They both laughed. Patricia wiped away her tears.

  “Rest assured that I look as ridiculous, no, as impoverished as you. Now, we better head up this mountain before it gets any later.” She took Rachel by the hand and guided her carefully over some rocks and between some scrub brush until they saw the road. The road to Real de Catorce.

  The lightness of their laughter left Patricia. She had been on and off this road to Max so many times, it was as though she were the pawn in some cruel game the gods were playing. Throw the dice and go back two spaces, three miles, get shot at, go through the desert, meet some crooks. At that thought, memories of Miguel and Daniel and the cabin surged up and she fought them back.

  Patricia helped Rachel down an incline to the edges of the dirt road leading up from Potrero. Indian women cooking over a small fire watched them with interest. Aromas from a sizzling pan stopped Patricia like a wall.

  “Heaven. I smell heaven,” Rachel whispered reverently.

  Patricia turned her back to the women to keep them from hearing. “It’s chorizo,” she said.

  “Ummm. On corn tortillas? Food of the gods. Buy some or I’ll start begging.”

  “You ask. You speak better Spanish. Remember? Here’s some pesos. And keep your head down like you’re looking at the food.” She placed some coins in Rachel’s hand, then steered her to the makeshift kitchen.

  “Tortillas, por favor,” Rachel said.

  One woman stood and stared at Patricia, then looked away. Patricia thought she saw the woman smile.

  Another one slapped a generous pile of steaming meat onto hot, flat bread. Patricia reached out for the food while the woman took several small coins from Rachel. “Vayas con Dios, Señoras,” she said as they walked away.

  Patricia moved them up the road, breathing deeply. They had passed their first test, for surely the woman had thought they were just two more poor pilgrims heading for Real to ask a miracle of St. Francis. And weren’t they?

  Despite the delicious taste of fresh food, Patricia ate slowly. Hunger was a necessary urge she didn’t care to acknowledge. As they paced themselves up the ever inclining mountain road, they passed more low fires. Around some, people still slept in rolled blankets. At others, women had set up stands offering coffee, tamales, tortillas and meats for sale.

  They rounded a curve in the road and Patricia stopped.

  “What is it?” Rachel whispered.

  “The tunnel,” was all Patricia could say. The mountain curved around a cul-de-sac of a courtyard. A dead end except for the dark, gaping hole. The entrance to Real de Catorce.

  “What does “ogarrio” mean?” she asked.

  “Ogre what?”

  “It’s written above the tunnel. O-G-A-R-R-I-O.”

  “Maybe it is ‘ogre.’ Rachel smiled. “For the monster that waits for us in the cave,” she said, using a Lon Chaney voice.

  “I doubt it.” Actually, Patricia thought, “Ogre” was a good name for the looming arch that seemed to take on a life of its own. She wasn’t afraid. The tunnel was beautiful. It was the passage to Max. She smiled and lifted her face to the morning sun as if in adoration of the day.

  “Sounds like a market place,” Rachel said.

  Patricia drew her attention back from the tunnel to the courtyard in front of it. People milled around an old hacienda. Food stands covered with striped shades ringed its crumbling walls. Vendors were putting out their trinkets. Dogs barked and chased each other through the stalls. Small children toddled around, rubbing their eyes in the hushed movements of morning.

  Guards stopped those carrying goods, pushing carts or leading burros laden with supplies. Sometimes they gave a cursory glance at what was carried, sometimes they poked their rifle butts into mounds of fruits, bruising bananas and toppling mangoes. Often they took a handful of fruit or a bottle of beer and laughed if the merchant held out his hand. One guard looked almost official in a dusty army jacket. The others had only their rifles to give them authority. No one defied them.

  What were they doing here, Patricia wondered. Miguel had told her that day in his office that no one but vendors were allowed through the tunnel before the festival began. She had lost track of the days. Figuring it up, she realized it was the second day of October. Just two days to the Saint’s day.

  She watched people disappear into the mountain. Some of them were not carrying any goods to sell. Maybe the soldiers stayed to keep order.

  Maybe they were there to watch for her. Tensions over the cavein and the kidnapping of Max might be the reason. Either way, she would get by them.

  One sentry no older than Max took several bottles of Dos Equis from a cart and hid them under his coat. Veiled by dust curling up from the pilgrims’ feet, he sneaked drinks, downing two beers. A cart pulled up. In the back rode several women dressed in black and carrying small bunches of white flowers. The young man waved them through with an unsure swing of his hand. Other women came in small groups, all carrying flowers. Each time it was the same. The women were waved on into the tunnel. The guards hardly gave them a second look.

  “Come on. I know how we can get in,” Patricia whispered to Rachel. Cramped from squatting so long, she stretched and groaned. Brushing her palms against her skirt, she cried out. One of the wounds where Miguel had removed the thorns was infected. It was red, angry-looking. For a moment she allowed herself to remember how gently he had cleansed each puncture that night in the hacienda. The thought became an emptiness, filling her, crowding out her breath.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Rachel said.

  “What?”

  “Make dying noises. Unless you’re going to tell me what’s wrong, don’t grunt and groan. What’s your plan?”

  Patricia swallowed a retort along with her pain. She helped Rachel over a low wall and led the way to a flower vendor’s stand, explaining what she’d seen as they walked.

  Rachel sniffed the fragrant blossoms while Patricia paid for them. “Now what?” she asked, her nose buried in the tiny nubes. “When some other people come along, we walk right by this kid that I’ve been watching. Hopefully he’s drunk by now. You keep looking down, smelling the flowers.”

  Soon a burro-pulled wagon passed, followed by a group of men and women. Herding Rachel along, Patricia stepped into the midst of the women, who chattered on as if not seeing them. She clutched Rachel’s hand until she heard a stifled moan. The arch of the tunnel rose ahead of them. Each step took forever.

  Suddenly everybody stopped. The official looking guard was questioning the man leading the burro. With the end of his ri
fle he lifted the tarp on the wagon bed, revealing yellow and green mangoes. He took several, pitched one to the kid who had been drinking. It hit the ground.

  Patricia dropped her head as the older man stomped by her. He was yelling at the young soldier. Empty beer bottles crashed and broke in a garbage heap. Patricia wanted to dart into the tunnel, but didn’t want to attract attention. Why didn’t the others move on? Why did they have to stand and gawk at the silly battle? She turned and drew up inside as she saw everyone in the street crowding around to see what was happening. She could almost feel someone’s eyes on her, not on the quarreling men. Her breath was shallow, filled with the musky odor of the rags she wore. She pulled Rachel in the direction of the mountain. They had come so far. Nothing was going to keep her from getting through that tunnel. She scanned the crowd as secretively as possible, looking for anyone that might recognize them.

  Several women ahead of them moved a few steps. Patricia tried to urge them on by pressing closer and closer, her eyes on the inscription OGARRIO that now loomed directly above her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  As they entered the darkness of the tunnel, the hair on Patricia’s neck rose as if detecting a breath of movement. As if a hand were reaching for her. She wished she could run.

  “I can feel the dark,” Rachel said and tightened her fingers around Patricia’s arm.

  “I know, but there are some lights along the ceiling.” She looked up at the few dull bulbs spaced far apart. Eyes straight ahead, she disciplined herself. Don’t look back. Don’t watch the shadows.

  A group of people shuffled along ahead, disappearing at times in the cloud of dust they created. The air was cold, stale and gritty. Rachel coughed several times. Patricia slowed their pace to let the dust settle more.

  “How long did you say this tunnel is?” Rachel asked.

  “Mile and a half.”

  “Feels like we’ve already been that far. Wonder how long it took them to carve this out of the mountain.” Rachel stretched her hand and let her fingers trail along the rough hewn rocks. “Smells like death. Must be people buried in these walls. ‘The Catacombs of Real’.”