THE SECOND MILAGRO (n/a) Read online

  “Shh,” Patricia whispered. There was no one near enough to hear them speaking English, and she knew Rachel was trying to get her mind on other things, but she equated everything in this place to Max. Especially the possibility of death. She didn’t need Rachel’s macabre suggestions.

  Suddenly, those up ahead stopped. A crescendo of voices echoed around them.

  “What’s happening?” Rachel asked.

  “We must have reached the chapel.”

  “And you said there weren’t any people buried down here.”

  It’s not a grave. It’s a little altar. Miguel told me about it. Our Lady of Sorrows, they call it. People stop to pray for those who died in the mines.” Her voice trailed away.

  “And where do you think their graves are?”

  Patricia squeezed Rachel’s hand, shushing her again.

  People standing outside an arched portal leading into the mountainside waited their turn to enter. Some carried small sprays of white flowers like the ones they had bought; others, candles. Patricia studied the stone columns and decorative swirls and patterns of fresco that surrounded the doorway. A dedicated soul had spent many hours here in darkness and dust to create this way station for prayer. She tried to store the details to describe the chapel to Rachel later, who would no doubt want to know who did the work and why. The why was all Patricia could think about. Death. A memorial. When she looked into the faces of the women around her, she saw the pain of memories and wondered if her face had taken on the same look.

  Rachel tugged her arm. She was being pushed toward the niche. Not wanting to draw attention, Patricia moved with her and the flow of those who circled clockwise through the door along the wall to the end of the room. Over the scarfed heads of some women, Patricia saw a small houselike structure with a gabled roof. A tiny arched walkway rose up below and on each side of it. And slender, delicate columns. They framed a painting of the Virgin Mary. Below was a table filled with candles. The odor of burning wax mixed with the fragrance of flowers that lay all around. The hand that had seemed to follow her in the tunnel seemed now to grip her heart. She placed her broken blossoms among the others.

  She watched the women cross themselves, mumbling prayers for the dead. If they knew that it was in her own silver mine that the last deaths occurred, what would they do to her? She recalled Jorge’s words and shrank inside her ragged garments as if warding off anticipated blows.

  The space around her closed. The air seemed as heavy as the stones so close above her head. A pressure, the weight of the mountain, sagged her shoulders. She imagined the terror

  LINDA RAINWATER

  of beams splintering, rocks grinding, dust filling the air. Her lungs felt empty. These women around her knew real cave-ins. They had felt the mountain shake, heard the news, waited for the names of the dead. And many considered themselves lucky if the mines gave something back to them to be mourned and returned to the earth.

  She looked at the altar and stared at the figure in the painting as if it would lift an accusing finger and expose her. She saw only the face of a mother who had also lost a son.

  If she ever needed prayer it was now. Not being Catholic, she wasn’t sure of the ritual. She didn’t hesitate. She picked up a candle that was unlit, held the wick to a flame, then placed it on a wooden holder. The words, “Let me find my son,” seemed to come from outside herself. Then she heard herself whisper, “Daniel,” but did not know what words to pray.

  She had no sense of movement in the room, as if they had all become part of the stone carvings that surrounded them. In the silence of her mind she lived again through the days since this place had dragged her world down with its cave-in.

  She took a deep breath and marked the filling of her lungs. She was only in a tunnel. There would be the proverbial light at the end. The light of Real and Max. Someone near her sobbed. Patricia straightened her shoulders. These mountains would give her back her son, if she had to tear him away with her hands.

  “¿ Milagros, Señoras?” A wizened man brushed his hand over a small tray that he held in front of them. Fingering pieces of silver, he held up a small donkey and a miniature house. Patricia shook her head and tried to push past. He set his dark sharp eyes on Rachel and thrust a charm into her hand, then slid his fingers through the pile of shiny silver and handed Patricia a tiny figure. “Cinco pesos, Señora,” he whispered. He blocked their way, so she paid him. Clutching the thin talisman in her hand, she pushed their way through the crowd.

  “Well, what trinket did you buy me? Something silver?” Rachel asked when they were away from the others.

  Patricia took the milagro the man had given Rachel and examined it beneath a dim light, then pressed it back into Rachel’s palm. “It’s a little face. With closed eyes. Guess we’re not fooling everybody.”

  Rachel nodded and smiled. “Oh yes, these are like charms. Milagro means ‘miracle.’ The pilgrims place them at St. Francis’s feet and he sees to it their prayers are answered. Did you get one?”

  “Yes.” Her fingers shook as she slid them around the delicate edges of silver. “A little boy.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Patricia felt as if she were shoveling the mountain passage with each step, makeshift skirt catching against her pants, tripping her. Rachel coughed more deeply as the air became more stale. The roof of the tunnel lowered. The walls moved inward. The lights ahead were gone, but they walked in the darkness.

  The tunnel made a slight turn. In the distance, light silhouetted those who moved in front of them. At the tunnel’s end, sunbeams shot through a veil of dust, creating a gossamer gate. On the other side wavered the ghost of a once thriving city of stone houses, mountains, steep paths and throngs of people. Patricia wanted to describe the magical scene to Rachel, but all she could say in a whisper was, “Max is here!”

  Once out of the tunnel they were in a valley towered over by barren rocky peaks. Up the main street a background of pink and gray stone was splashed with brilliant colors. Bright charro costumes of pilgrims. Striped awnings lending shade to stalls. Tables spread with hundreds of things for sale. Patricia wondered how anything so wrong as a kidnapping and all the pain it had caused could take place here.

  At some distance up the street she turned back to stare at the tunnel. To confront at last whoever or whatever she had felt was following her. There was only the dark empty hole.

  Rachel pulled on her arm. “You know, a seeing eye dog would let me know more about where I’m heading. If you don’t tell me what’s up and why you’re so quiet, I may get me one.”

  Patricia tried to shake off the chill in her flesh. “I don’t believe what I’m seeing. Don’t know if I can describe it.” Reluctantly, she turned away from the tunnel. “The streets, they’re cobblestone,” she began.

  “No joke. I can feel those crazy things. Like walking on boiled dinosaur eggs. You’d better hang tight to me. Don’t want you to fall. What do you see?”

  “Stone buildings. All attached. Holding each other together. Only way to tell one from another is the stage of decline. Looks like some of them are being restored. New buildings being built on top of the old.” She was panting. The air was thin, as if they had ascended thousands of feet since they entered the tunnel.

  When they reached the first makeshift stalls, voices of vendors told more. Fruits and vegetables, hats and shawls, leather and silver. A dog barked at a burro tied in a doorway. Smells of sweet mangos and frying tortillas mingled with offal and rotting fruits. Rachel drew her scarf closer to her nose as they passed yellow chickens trussed by their feet.

  Patricia wanted to look into the buildings as they passed by, wanted to search people’s faces, but she kept her head lowered, the scarf drifting over her cheeks. She watched the uneven path for both of them. Steep steps. Potholes. Dung and trash.

  She yearned to be free to move quickly. Now that they were through the tunnel, she wanted to turn the town inside out and find Max herself, but she knew how unrealistic t
hat was and resigned herself to finding out more about the festival and when Max might be released. As soon as she could, she had to leave Rachel somewhere. She wouldn’t like it, but she’d understand.

  “We need to find somewhere you can stay, so I can look through the town.” Patricia said.

  “And just what do you plan to do? A house to house search? First time you open your mouth, you’ll give yourself away.”

  “I can still have a look around, keep my ears open. There must be plans for a finale, a big celebration. I’d think that would be when the Army would release Max.”

  “I hate to say this, Patricia. But do you really think Jorge told the truth, and that’s what is going to happen?”

  “I have to believe it.” Patricia answered without hesitation. “And I have to hope Jim will get your message and come barreling into town tomorrow and rescue us all. In the meantime, it’s up to us to learn what we can. So while I’m looking around town, you ask questions of anyone you meet. Be subtle and stay put.” Rachel sighed. “See any first class hotels?”

  “I don’t even see fourth class. Let’s sit here and rest a minute.” They climbed some steps of an old mansion and sat under its portal, leaning against the door.

  Patricia looked down over the town below and tried to paint a picture for Rachel of the once wealthy Spanish mining town. She scarcely heard her own words as she repeated what Miguel had told her of the old city. Great houses. A municipal band. A natural scientific club. A visit by President Diaz.

  Instead, her mind took in the story of time told in different shaped windows, color changes in stone, odd angles and roof lines. No architect had planned these changes. This town was a patchwork of necessity. Almost as much as her own life. No best laid plans for her. Only the twists of fate had led her here, searching for her son, running from Miguel and Daniel, watching for the evil she felt close at her heels.

  With her back to a crumbling house and the city where Max was hidden before her, the fear that had gripped her in the tunnel began to take a shape. It was not a man’s breath she felt on her neck. It was her past catching up with her. Oh Daniel, she thought, how could I have known I would be so wrong.

  “Must have been a really different place at the turn of the century when silver was king and forty thousand people lived here.” Rachel said.

  “There could still be that many here behind these walls and you couldn’t see them. Max could be hidden three feet behind us.” She looked around at the door they leaned against. “It’s beautiful, Rache. This portal. Must have been the entrance to a grand old house. The lintel is one massive stone carved with what looks like angels.”

  Rachel pushed at Patricia. “Well, I don’t want to become one. So, let’s get out from under it. From what you’ve been saying, every stone around could come plunging down any minute.”

  “This one has been here since the Spanish laid it.”

  “Well, it’s time is up, then. Please move.”

  “We have to find a place to stay.”

  “I don’t care where you desert me, but I need something to eat first. Anything but chicken.” She wrinkled her nose.

  “Okay. A tortilla stand is across the street. You order.”

  “Oh boy. The blind leading the dumb again. St. Francis has his work cut out for him. Come on. I’m starved.”

  “Maybe they’ll know where we can stay. Ask.”

  “Is there a man or woman selling?”

  “A man.”

  “Good. We’ll charm him.”

  They crossed the street to a faded red awning stretched between a wall and two wooden stakes. A dusty serape almost hid a small man standing behind a metal table. He was rolling steaming tortillas around pieces of chicken, scoops of beans, chopped onions and chiles.

  “Señor, su olor del tortillas delicioso. ¿Cuanto por cuatro con frijoles? No tenemos mucho dinero.”

  The man absorbed Rachel’s smile. He wiped his hands on his pants and shifted his gaze to Patricia. She dropped her head. Rachel held out her palm. “Tres pesos,” she offered.

  “No, no, Señora. Diez pesos.” His eyes asked Patricia’s help. She stared at him blankly.

  Rachel reached out with radar-like precision and found the man’s hand, pressing the coins in his palm. “Gracias, Señor. St. Francis para del pendecir del habia Ud.”

  Patricia reached for the tortillas, but the man grabbed her wrist.

  “Señoras!” The man crossed his beefy arms across his chest.

  A large woman carrying a pan with a great lump of maize eased through the doorway behind the man just in time to see the foiled purchase. Putting down her burden, she questioned her esposo, berating him that he was chancing the wrath of St. Francis by overcharging the poor women. Patricia felt sorry for the woman’s husband, clearly no match for the three of them.

  The woman directed them to a table and scowled at the man as he reached for a bottle of Dos Equis he had left there. In a moment, he reappeared from the building with two cold drinks. Pausing between bites, Rachel asked the woman if she knew where they might find lodging. As the woman’s eyes lifted to the window above her, the man had had enough. He took his sombrero from a peg on the wall and strode off up the street, mumbling something about saints.

  Patricia listened intently as the woman talked about the festival, the planned parade, the dignitaries that would speak. A commotion from the lower end of the street abruptly ended their talk. A truck rumbled up the narrow passage, and vendors were quickly taking in their awnings to let the vehicle pass. Patricia got up just before the woman moved her poles letting the red cloth collapse over their heads. As the truck neared, Patricia peered out, hiding behind the drooping fabric.

  The windshield of the truck was veiled in dust. The figures behind it obscured. Men in military clothes standing up in the back lunged forward as the vehicle screeched to a halt on the cobblestones in front of the great house where she and Rachel had rested earlier.

  The woman reset the stakes of her canopy, shouting Spanish epithets at the men who were piling out of the truck. The cover lifted from Patricia’s head.

  She froze. Miguel was climbing out of the cab. He mingled with the men as they waited for the weathered wood doors to open. Quickly, she whispered to Rachel.

  “Señora? Rachel called to the woman. “¿Tiene un cuarto por nosotros, por favor?”

  “Si, si, Señora. Venie.” The woman led them through the door into a corridor and beyond to a large courtyard. She made apologies as they went along for everything in the house, which must have been a glorious hotel in another time. They wound up a stairway, past several ornate doors, then entered a small room on the front of the building. What had once no doubt been a storage room was clean with two small cots, a wash basin, three crooked hangers on a peg, and a lamp. It looked as wonderful as the Willard to Patricia. The woman told them where the bathroom was and left with no demand for money.

  “Think St. Francis rewards this kind of hospitality?” Rachel asked, sitting cautiously on the hard bed.

  Patricia stood at the open window, holding the dusty lace to one side. She looked down on the table where they had eaten. Then up the street to the truck. The men were gone. Inside, she supposed. As she started to turn away, the door of the casa opened. She jerked the curtain almost pulling it from the rod. “What? What is it?” Rachel asked.

  “Down below. The truck. Men in uniform. And Miguel.” “What are they doing?”

  Patricia pulled the lace away from the window again. She watched as a small boy ran up with three beers. Miguel gave the child money, handed a beer to a man in a brown, freshly ironed uniform of an army officer. The sound of glass clinking accompanied their “Salud.”

  “They’re drinking.” Patricia felt her face getting hot.

  She stared hard and puzzled at the broad shouldered, dark haired man she had made love to three nights before in the ruins of the ancient hacienda. Just as she released the curtain, she saw him lift his eyes to the window.


  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  A distant, but distinct cry, snatched Miguel’s attention. He turned and looked at a building behind him. Stared at the cracked and weathered door panels as if the figures carved there had just reacted to the woodcutter’s knife.

  The building had once housed the royal mint. Easy to believe that ghosts haunted it. Ghosts of the workers who had inhabited its dungeons stamping out millions of gold and silver coins. The deserted fortress-like structure was the closest thing in town to a government office. The Secretary had suggested he use it. The army also had offices here, but no one was supposed to be here now.

  Another sound from beyond the doors. Miguel exchanged glances with Daniel who had just arrived. They cautiously climbed the stairs. As they reached the entrance, Miguel looked back at the window he had been watching. For years Patricia had haunted his dreams, now he saw her in the face of every Mexican peasant. He turned and hit his fist hard against the dry wood of the door, as if to warn away the sound that had interrupted his thoughts.

  Daniel more effectively leaned his shoulder into one of the panels and the door opened. As he stepped into the hall, Miguel grabbed his arm.

  “Stay here and watch,” he ordered, directing Daniel back outside. “Keep your eye out for the women. Have someone check to see if they are in that hotel across the street. Just make sure our people find them and someone has them in sight. Damn them both for the trouble they have caused,” he growled.

  The young man pushed against Miguel as if he would force his way into the building, but he said nothing. After a moment, he went back down the steps. The great door squealed a protest of its own as it swung shut again.

  Daniel is in enough danger, Miguel thought, after what happened with Jorge’s men. Better to keep him in the open. The kid had a stubborn streak as wide as the Rio Grande.