THE SECOND MILAGRO (n/a) Read online

  The dark narrow entrance way was suddenly alive with staccato shouts and cries. Miguel looked back, expecting the door to open and Daniel to rush in, but the thick walls had contained the sounds.

  The stale, oil-tainted air seemed as impenetrable as the stones that had over the years absorbed the odors of stamping machines. Miguel followed the phantom voices until he saw light spilling on to the floor at the end of the corridor.

  “¿Que?” he asked the ghosts. Stepping cautiously into a room, he saw two soldiers, their backs to the door. Between them a man’s legs splayed outward, the toes of his boots pointing at the ceiling. He was slumped in a chair, the only piece of furniture in the room. Beams from an oil lantern sitting on the floor chased dim shadows into the corners. The late afternoon sun squeezed between boards that covered the only window, making bar-like stripes on the far wall.

  Miguel tapped one of the soldiers on his arm. The man spun around, hands up, ready to strike. Miguel could see that the man in the chair had not been able to do the same for himself. Ropes across his chest pinned his arms and held him upright and helpless. Blood streamed from both sides of his mouth. A cut on his left cheek gaped. The glare in his eyes was bright and threatening. Jeff Winn was obviously tougher than Miguel had ever given him credit for being.

  “ Que pasa?” Miguel asked the men with ease and a grin. He had a healthy respect for the lack of allegiance some of the underpaid, unpatriotic soldiers felt. They knew he was in a position of authority, or he would have joined Winn on the chair. They didn’t know for sure if they had to answer to him, and before they had a chance to question anyone, he needed to know what was going on.

  The elder soldier, a sergeant, explained that they had caught the prisoner inside one of the mine shafts. One that opened near the entrance of the tunnel and connected through passageways to this side of the mountain. They had been ordered to learn why he was there.

  Before Miguel could ask who had given the order, Jeff cried out again as the other soldier slapped him, yelling, “Who sent you?” Miguel did not have much time. Taking a chance, he held his hand out. The soldiers glanced at each other, hesitated, then moved back slowly like two cats reluctant to give up their catch. Miguel leaned into Jeff’s face, their noses almost touching, the scent of fear and blood mingling. Searching his eyes for cooperation, Miguel asked who he was, what he was doing in Real. And no matter how urgent the question, the prisoner did not respond.

  “What has he told you?” Miguel asked the soldiers. “He has told us nothing; however, we will know everything yet,” the sergeant said. “He is obviously not one of the miners. His weapon . . .” He pointed to an expensive high-powered rifle propped against a wall.

  The younger soldier took over the interrogation. Miguel put his hand out and deflected a punch headed for Winn’s face.

  “I think I recognize him,” Miguel almost whispered, uncertain what he should say. “He works for Juan Catera. Isn’t this true?” Miguel stared at the bleeding face. Jeff’s own mother wouldn’t recognize him now. His eyes were mere creases between dark shades of blue and purple.

  “Yes, I think he does,” the sergeant agreed.

  If their prisoner really worked for Catera, Miguel thought, he would deserve worse than he had received from these two brutes. Thinking he was a henchmen of the “garbage czar” would make them think twice before roughing him up further. Catera was known to exact extreme vengeance.

  Jeff glanced toward the rifle. Miguel sent a torrent of questions rushing at the prisoner while he circled the chair and assessed his chances of freeing him. As annoyed as he was at the newsman sometime, Miguel considered Jeff a friend. When he had told Manuel to take care of him, he figured some false charges would keep him out of sight in jail for a few days. Guess something went wrong. Now, he had to get Winn out of here. The Army officials had made it clear that no one was to know they had Max. If they knew Winn was a newsman, he would not live to print the story, or at the least, he would disappear until they had used Max for their purpose.

  Miguel was only a few feet from the weapon. His hand reached toward it. Scurried movements of the soldiers stopped him. He expected an attack, but turned to see them snap to attention and stand at full alert, saluting. General Martine Ruiz stepped in from the shadows and gave the soldiers a half-hearted salute as he brushed past them.

  Miguel moved away from the rifle and breathed deeply. At least Ruiz was not a known enemy. They always had to wait until the last bribe was made to know where the General stood.

  Ruiz’s eyes held a questioning look. Muscles in Miguel’s face, arms and torso tightened. He forced himself to relax, to uncoil the springs that wanted so much to snap. He hated Ruiz with a passion that bordered on obsession, but now was not the time to show it.

  The General looked at the slumped form tied to the chair. The wounded man stared at this new oppressor with eyes still defiant, if less bright.

  Without saying a word, Miguel kicked Jeff’s shin, knocking his leg back under the chair. His shoulders came forward so sharply he almost toppled over. As he did, Miguel sent his head backward with a fist well placed on the man’s jaw. It was a smooth, almost choreographed movement. One Miguel had used before.

  “Meet Esteban Cervantes.” Miguel ran his fingers through Winn’s disarrayed hair, lifted his head and let it fall. “He works for Catera.”

  “What is he doing here?” Martine asked. “You must have all the answers, since you have made sure he is incapable of saying anything more.” He stared at Miguel.

  “I know that Catera is in Real. Although I do not know why. Do you?”

  General Ruiz smirked. Miguel wondered what pleased him. Had he set some kind of trap for Catera? The General and the Chief of Police were old enemies, and nothing would please Ruiz more than finally getting his hands on the allusive Catera.

  Miguel cursed under his breath. He felt as if he were walking in socks made of cactus needles, trying not to step the wrong way. If he got in the way of Ruiz’s plan, he would be out of Real in handcuffs.

  Ruiz gave the soldiers an order to remove the prisoner to another room. “Keep him tied, but do not touch him.” When they had left, he went to the boarded window and jerked one of the planks free. Dust fogged the room. Light struggled through cracked glass and a sea of motes.

  “Juan Catera is a fool, a dangerous one. We can not know what he might do. Fools are unpredictable, do you not think?”

  Miguel didn’t want to say what he thought. Instead he parroted the question, “He is after the mines, and he needs the boy to get them, do you not think?”

  “We have men everywhere. If Catera wants the boy, there is no way for him to get to him. Not where we have him. If Catera makes a move, we will deal with him.” Martine looked up and down the street as if searching for someone.

  Deal? Or make a deal? Miguel thought. He suddenly understood the General’s plan. He was using Max. He was holding the boy out as bait. Catera would need the boy and Patricia out of the way if he were taking over the mines. The papers the Secretary had would just be for show, after the fact.

  When Juan made his move, Ruiz would do one of two things. Kill Catera, exposing the plot and embarrassing the Chief, or cut himself into the deal. It was a toss of the coin as to which it would be.

  An uneven silence settled like dust over the room. Miguel thought about the woman he had seen in the window and wondered again if it were Patricia. He had thought she was safer wandering around in her disguise, as long as they kept her in sight. Keeping her captive as they had in the cabin had almost been a disaster. Now he had an uneasy feeling about his plan.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  October 3

  Rachel licked her fingers and hummed. “Aren’t these sweet tamales wonderful?”

  Patricia tried to make a similar sound, but her share of the raisin and honey flavored sweets was soaking through the paper wrapping and soiling the bed cover.

  Rachel stopped eating. “You just think you’re f
ooling me with that beehive roar. I know you haven’t eaten a thing. Haven’t even unrolled one of them. No paper sounds, Patricia. Come on. How do you think you can keep this up?”

  “I’m not hungry, Rache. Want mine? You’re welcome to them.” She crossed the tiny room in three steps and looked out the window again, which she had done for most of the night. The bed had been comfortable enough, especially compared to the ground she had tried to sleep on the past two nights, but how could she rest knowing Max had to be within a mile of her, no, maybe blocks. Or maybe even inside that imposing old building across the way that she knew Miguel had disappeared into.

  Although the light was still a rosy haze, it was long past dawn. Real de Catorce sat in a valley amid mountains that cheated the town on each end of the day. Fooled by the lack of light, Rachel had still been asleep when Patricia answered a soft knock on their door earlier. The landlady had sent a girl with a tray of tamales, papaya and strong coffee.

  Now Patricia was eager for Rachel to eat her fill so that they could leave. She didn’t feel safe in this room anymore. They were better off on the move.

  She looked up and down the street. There had been no sign of Jim or anyone else except the people setting up their stands. In the past few minutes she had watched a group of priests walking up the hill toward the church. Maybe she and Rachel would go there, too. After all, they did have silver milagros to offer to St. Francis.

  She checked the time. Already after ten, time they went out. She returned her watch to its hiding place and straightened her shabby clothes. Even though she and Rachel had been able to bathe, they had swathed themselves once again in rags.

  The need to be disguised was greater than ever. She still had the feeling Miguel had seen her at the window the afternoon before. And even though it had not happened, every noise during the night gave her visions of him breaking down the door.

  “I wish we could get out of this garb,” Rachel said. “I’ll never kid you again about being a clothes horse. If I ever get to wear my own things, I’m going to become one myself.” She tied the scarf around her hair.

  When they were ready, they made their way out of the old hotel and into the street. Tomorrow was the feast day of St. Francis and the streets were crowded with makeshift shops. They walked up a narrow street in the cool shade of two and three story buildings that stair-stepped up the steep incline.

  Patricia tugged her scarf close to her face as they passed the building she had watched Miguel disappear into the afternoon before. For all she knew he could be inside now, looking out the windows, watching her.

  They circled around the building and back to the street the church was on. An iron rail fence surrounded the grounds of La Parroquia de la Purisima Conception that soared above them. Statues of saints lined its front roof.

  “Well, we’ve found where St. Francis lives,” she told Rachel. “Reminds me of the old place I used to call the chocolate chip house that was down the street from the McFalls. Mixture of light and dark bricks. Strange looking on a church.”

  “Does it have a campenario?”

  That was one Spanish word Patricia knew, since it was the name of her favorite restaurant in Acapulco. “Yes, a bell tower and a dome.”

  Across from the church was a collection of the best restored buildings Patricia had seen in the town. Most of them had cafes on the ground floor and rooms to rent on the upper ones. Wooden tables and metal chairs covered that side of the courtyard. Men and women sat drinking and eating. This was obviously the heart of town. Colorful banners swung across the street from building to building. Festival preparations occupied groups of workers all along side streets. Music blared from a roof top speaker setting a festive mood.

  Patricia leaned toward Rachel. “We’re going to sit at a table, have coffee.” She took some coins from her pants pocket through an opening in her skirt.

  They sat down at a table near the center of activity and ordered. Patricia watched Rachel. Since the conversations that floated in the air around them were in Spanish, she waited for a sign on Rachel’s face that she heard something interesting.

  Two men sat close behind them, talking and arguing. When they left, making their way through the maze of tables, Patricia asked her what they had said.

  “Do you see a police station?” Rachel asked. “And `barandales’? Not sure what that is.”

  At the upper end of the street was a large yellow sign over a one story building. Palacio Municipal. “Is that it?” Patricia asked, after telling Rachel what she saw.

  “They were talking about the jail,” Rachel said. “This place doesn’t have problems with its citizens. They never use it. The walls are like `crumbling paper’, one of them said. They’re worried about possible arrests. Something about the miners. Wouldn’t you know Max’d be mixed up in their first crime wave of the century?”

  Patricia squeezed Rachel’s hand.

  “If that’s the police station up there, why don’t we just walk in and tell them who we are and why we’re here and demand they do their sworn duty to uphold the law?” Rachel asked.

  “Whose law? That’s the question. Who do you think they would side with in this place? The Moreloses or the miners?”

  “You have a point, I guess. What’s that hammering?”

  “On the other side of the church, near the fountain. I can just see it through the fence.”

  “Barandales. A fence. That must be the place they were talking about. They’re building something close to it, a platform, I think. Probably to do with the festival.”

  “Yes. I can see a plaza up there. And a fountain.”

  “So, if we can’t go to the police, what do we do?”

  Patricia had been watching groups of men and women enter the little street from all directions and go into La Parroquia. “We’ll go to church,” she said. “Come on.”

  Two enormous metal doors had been propped open, inviting the pilgrims in. An arched ceiling covered the nave. Clerestory windows filtered the bright sunshine, spilling a sheen of light over the pews that marched toward the altar in two single files.

  “What is this?” Rachel whispered, as she almost tripped.

  Patricia looked down for the first time. Uneven planks formed rectangles. As far as she could see the floor was covered with them. “Coffin lids,” she murmured.

  “What?”

  “The floor is wood. We’re walking on graves,” Patricia whispered.

  “My grandmother would have a fit. She taught me that was disrespectful. Not to speak of bad luck. No other path, huh?”

  Patricia didn’t answer. She was too busy taking in the silver candelabras, gold gilded statues and wonderful mosaics along the walls. The church was certainly the most prosperous place in town.

  The heady fragrance of incense barely camouflaged the musty odor of old cloth, dust and death. Murmurs and clicks of rosary beads, like the sound of summer insects, rose and fell as they passed small groups of people standing before glass encased saints. At the far end of the nave, at the apse of the church, stood a tall bearded figure. Its red cloak was faded. Plaster showed beneath pealing paint. An aged St. Francis. His hands stretched out to the mass of people at his feet.

  They moved at a snail’s pace from left to right. Each person held a gold or silver milagro. At some right moment the symbol of prayerful request was laid reverently on top of a multitude of shiny pieces. Men and women alike looked up into the chalk face of the Saint as hope replaced helplessness. Patricia watched the transformation again and again.

  Rachel reached out and touched the talismans. In her hand she held the silver face that Patricia had bought from the man in the tunnel. Her head lifted and her sightless eyes seemed to rest on the face of the saint. A smile dimpled her cheek. She dropped the milagro.

  Patricia quickly retrieved it from the table and stepped back from the crowd. Her milagro, the figure of the little boy, was clasped tightly in her other hand. A ledge jutted from the wall near the opening of the apse. Patric
ia placed the little silver boy and the face with no eyes on its dusty surface.

  She looked back at the ever growing pile of hopes laid before the saint. If nothing else, she thought, perhaps some priest surveying the bounty of the day might be touched by the two misplaced pieces and say a special prayer for their offerers.

  “Let’s sit over here,” Patricia said quietly. At the end of the transept was a small chapel with a short wooden pew against the wall.

  “Now what?” Rachel asked.

  “What I’d like to do is go out there and stand on that platform they’re building and scream until someone tells me where he is.”

  “Any sane suggestions?”

  “Shh,” she whispered. “A priest is coming this way.”

  “Buenos dias, Señoras.” A thin, dark-cloaked man, a bright twist of cloth around his waist and a rosary around his neck, bowed to them. “Bienvenidos a La Parroquia de la Purisima Conception.” He moved nearer until the coarse fabric of his skirt rubbed against Patricia’s hand. He glanced over his shoulder at those gathered behind him, then bent closer to her. She could smell garlic on his breath. And whiskey.

  “¿Tiene alguna cosa especialle para San. Francis?”

  Rachel answered him in Spanish. Patricia listened. The man was strange for a priest, she thought. He had rough skin, leathered by the sun. A gardener for the parish, perhaps, but his dark eyes held no benevolence, no compassion.

  “Si, si.” He nodded, then turned to Patricia. “¿E Usted, Señora?” Patricia shook her head, at what she didn’t know.

  “Perhaps you look for your son?” The man spoke low, in heavily accented English.

  Patricia and Rachel came off the pew. Stood only a breath away from the man.

  “What?” Patricia whispered. “My son?” She struggled with the words. Afraid not to take a chance.

  “Si, Max.”

  Patricia’s body went rigid, holding her still against the tide within her. She wanted to rush the man and demand all he knew.

  “Venie. Come. Rapido.” The man turned and walked toward a door at the far end of the transept. Only when he had opened it did he look back.