THE SECOND MILAGRO (n/a) Read online

  Patricia whispered to Rachel to stay. To wait for her here in the church.

  Rachel held firmly to Patricia’s arm. “I’m going. You’re not leaving me here alone with a basement of dead people beneath my feet.”

  The priest was going through the door as if he didn’t care if they followed or not. Hesitating only a moment, Patricia grabbed Rachel’s hand and headed after him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

  Patricia ran her fingers along the rough, cold wall to keep her balance as they descended the dark, narrow stairwell. Rachel’s hand gripped her shoulder as she followed one step behind. The priest plunged ahead of them, heedless of the treacherous passage. By the time they stepped into a small dirt room, Patricia calculated they had dropped below street level. The air was damp, earthy.

  A lantern sat on the floor. Shadows danced on the walls as the man discarded his vestments. Beneath them he wore a pair of dark pants and shirt. He picked up the light and headed for what seemed the entrance to a tunnel.

  “Wait a minute,” Patricia called to him. “We’re not going any further until you answer some questions. You’re obviously not a priest. Who are you? Where are you taking us?”

  The man backed out from the dark and turned to Patricia. He held the lantern up to his face. Coal eyes shone as if with a light of their own. Gold teeth glittered. “If you want to see your son, Señora, you will follow, and do it quickly. The people who wish him dead are tired of waiting.” With those ominous words the eyes and teeth disappeared into the hole.

  Patricia grabbed Rachel’s hand and they followed in the dim light of the swinging lantern. The roof of the shaft was low. She told Rachel to keep her head down.

  Thin air and the acrid odor of damp earth made breathing difficult. Bending over and looking up at the same time soon made Patricia’s shoulders ache and her calves throb. They were also on an incline. She tried to visualize the topography of the town. Walking upward, but still underground, would mean they were going farther up the mountain, above Real.

  After it seemed they had walked a mile, she turned to Rachel. “You okay?”

  “If you call feeling like a hunchback earthworm, okay, I guess so. How ’bout you?”

  Patricia looked forward again. The light was gone. “Hey, wait!” she shouted and scrambled on, knees almost striking her chin. Blindly, her hands groped the way. Suddenly, a rectangle of light appeared. A door. Open.

  “Where are we?” Rachel asked.

  “Some kind of a basement. Small, high windows. Looks like gravestones outside. Must be a church.”

  “Not again,” Rachel groaned.

  “Stairs. Come on.” At the top, Patricia cautiously opened a wood door.

  “It was a church,” she said to Rachel. “But the saints all moved out. It’s deserted.”

  They went out an open side door. The sun struck like a blow. Patricia’s eyes adjusted to the scene of a small graveyard of ancient stones. Then she looked past the church. They were above the town. She could barely make out the square tower and dome of La Parroquia in the distance. The air was cooler. A mist was rolling up the valley erasing everything in its path.

  A rustling sound came from behind her. The man was standing by a crumbling wall, holding back some hibiscus bushes. Beyond them were shadows. She looked again toward the town. No one was in sight. No one knew where they were. This could be a trap.

  The man’s words about Max were beacons in the mist. Her only hope. Her only choice. She gave him one last sharp look. “Duck down, Rachel,” she said and led her under the bushes.

  Before she could straighten her back on the other side, an arm circled her in a tight embrace and lifted her off the ground. She lost her grip on Rachel. She struggled, slapping wildly with her hands. Then she saw who held her.

  “Jim! Oh, Jim!” You got our message!” She cried out in relief and embraced him as tightly as he did her. She sobbed against his shoulder.

  “My god. We went through that tunnel to find you on the other end?” Rachel laughed.

  Jim scowled at her over Patricia’s shoulder, but said nothing. He gave Patricia’s cheek a quick kiss.

  “Have you got Max already?” She looked past him. Searching. Women milled around an open fire where large pots hung on spits. Several men sat on the edge of a porch on the front of a large hacienda. She didn’t see Max anywhere. She strained against Jim’s hold. His grip hardened.

  “Where is he? You’ve found him, haven’t you? Tell me you have.” She beat her fists against his chest. He held her tightly, making the blows ineffectual.

  “Listen to me, Patricia.” He took her hands in his and held them. She struggled to get free. “Listen, I said.” His voice was quiet, edgy. “I’m working on a deal. There’s papers to sign. You’ll see Max . . . after. After you sign them.” He hugged her close to his chest.

  “I’ll do anything. You know that.” She struggled to raise her head. Why was he holding her? Then she saw the man that had led them here. Jim had put his back to him, trying to keep him from overhearing what they said. She shivered and wiped at tears, smearing her face with dirt.

  “I’ve got to see Max first, Jim,” she said into his chest. A ramrod of fear as hard as flint shot though her. She had to know Max was safe. Or no deals, no papers. “Where is he? Did you bring some men to help us? Where—”

  “The papers first, Patricia. They won’t negotiate.”

  She stared at the man and then at Jim. The flint rod within her had become daggers aiming out of her eyes. “What is going on here? Who are these people? Why did he bring us here? What do you mean ‘negotiate’? I thought the army had Max. What would they want from me?”

  “I’ve got everything under control. Promise. Just do as I ask.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her cheeks.

  It seemed Jorge had lied to her after all. What had she expected? With resignation she said, “Let me see the papers, Jim.” She jerked the cloth out of his hand.

  “It’s not that easy. They aren’t here yet.” He glanced back at the man who stood only a few feet away, watching them.

  “Not here?” she asked.

  “The men with the papers.”

  “B-but when?” She felt herself crumble. Her calves were weak from their trek in the tunnel. The adrenaline that had kept her going for days was depleted. She swayed. Jim caught her, steadied her.

  “You need rest. We have a room ready for you. You can wash up. Sleep. I’ll get you something to eat. Some clean clothes. No one knows you’re here. Let’s keep it that way. For our safety and Max’s. Will you do that, Patricia? Just trust me?”

  “Everything but the trusting part sounds great, Jim.” Rachel folded her arms, as if challenging him. “Lead the way.”

  He kept his arm around Patricia as they walked toward the house. She held Rachel’s hand. They were shown to a sparsely furnished room. Twin beds, a couple of chairs, a table, dresser and bath. It smelled clean, fresh. A young, dark skinned girl was putting towels in the bath. She frowned at Patricia and Rachel as she left the room. The priest man stood in the open doorway.

  “Jim, the clothes. Don’t forget,” Rachel said as she felt along the wall for the bathroom. As soon as she had shut the door, Jim tried to put his arms around Patricia. She would not allow herself to be hugged, but pushed away and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “I’m tired. So much has happened. I’m so disappointed.” The effort to speak drained the last of her strength.

  Jim bent down and slipped the scarf from her head. “You’ll feel better. I’ll be back later. Remember, don’t go out of the room or talk to anyone. Okay?”

  Patricia wasn’t aware that he was leaving. Didn’t hear the door close. Her head snapped up at a sharp click. It was the tumbling of the lock.

  * * *

  Jim put his hand out for the key. The man who had found the women only grinned, looking beyond Jim.

  “Gracias, Fernando,” Juan Catera said, sliding the key into his pocket.


  The three men walked across the porch and entered another part of the house. Catera ordered a young man to bring them cervasas.

  “Good job, Poncho.” Catera slapped Fernando on the back. “Now go clean up. You smell like a pepenadore.” They both laughed.

  Jim drank the cold beer and watched Catera go to a basin of water and wash his long slender hands and arms all the way to his elbows before he picked up his own beer. A clean freak who made his money off people who collected garbage. The “garbage czar”, what a joke, Jim thought.

  “What about clothes for them?” Jim asked, the beer giving him a little courage. After the incident in the mine, that had turned out to be a passage to this hacienda, Jim had been more cautious in his words to Catera.

  “I have sent for something better than the rags they wear. Maybe they will get the clothes, maybe not. Perhaps the way to keep them in their rooms is to keep them naked.” He threw back his head and laughed.

  “What about Max? When are you bringing him here?” Jim hated the belly-aching sound of his voice. He wanted to ask him about Patricia’s claim that the Army had Max. Oh God, what had he done? He reached over to a tin bucket filled with ice and beer and took another one.

  “Is the Señora going to sign the papers?”

  “I told her they weren’t here yet. I wanted to give her a little time. The more anxious she is about Max, the easier it will be to convince her.” Patricia’s words that she would do anything swirled through Jim’s mind. Catera couldn’t know she would need no coaxing once she saw her son. When her name was on those documents, Catera wouldn’t have any need to keep any of them alive. The thought made Jim sweat.

  “What will you tell her is in the papers?

  “She trusts me. I’ll tell her what she wants to hear.” He wondered what that would be, as he got up and looked out the window.

  The scene outside was straight out of a John Wayne western. Women in pioneer long skirts, cooking over a fire, a wagon and two horses under the shade of a lean-to shack. If he didn’t know there was a helicopter pad and a couple of jeeps on the other side of the house, he might expect the calvary to ride through the gate to save the day. Only he’d probably be the one swinging from a tree.

  “What if she wants to read them?” Catera broke into Jim’s thoughts.

  “I told you. She doesn’t speak or read Spanish. And unless you have them in braille, that bitch Rachel’s no threat.” He felt his anger rise as it always did at the thought of Patricia’s blind friend. How in the hell did she get to Real with Patricia? For that matter how had Patricia gotten here? Jim wasn’t sure he believed Catera’s story about Miguel helping Patricia, much less that they spent the night together. If that was the case, where was Miguel now? She had obviously asked Jim for help in a message she had left and he didn’t get. Now, she thought he had come through for her. He had to keep her thinking that.

  He turned to Catera. “She may not sign until she can see Max. What will I do about that?” Jim got another beer.

  “Well, you have two choices, Mainland. You can convince her to sign, and she can take her nosy kid back to the States. Or, you can join the two of them at the bottom of a mine shaft.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

  Patricia had been dreaming. Of home. She tried to hold onto the veil of sleep. Her body was exhausted. Her eyelids weighted. She wished that when she opened her eyes, she would see the mint green drapes hanging from the arched windows of her bedroom. The ornate armoire Tomas had shipped back from Madrid. Her collection of cats on the dresser, catching the morning light. And she wished with all her might that Max was asleep down the hall in his room.

  One lid fluttered, then the other. Brightly striped curtains hung at a window. Sunlight emphasized the coarse weave. A simple wooden table and a heavy chair stood in shadows. A narrow bed. Rachel. Mexico.

  Her nightmare lived. She shut her eyes.

  “You up?” Rachel asked.

  Patricia did not think she had moved. “Yes,” she answered and

  sat on the side of the bed. “I dreamed I was at home. In my bedroom. Then I opened my eyes and saw this place.”

  “Looks the same as home to me,” Rachel said.

  Patricia grabbed her pillow and threw it onto Rachel’s legs. “Hey! You deserved that remark. Wallowing in self-pity is not

  allowed, remember?”

  “You’re right, but wallowing sounds pretty good right now,”

  Patricia smiled. She hadn’t thought she would go to sleep when

  she and Rachel laid down, and felt guilty that she had. “God, I wish

  I knew what was going on. If Jim doesn’t come back soon, I’m going

  to break my way out of here.”

  “Do we have any clothes?”

  “No. Not yet. Guess we can wear sheets.”

  “How good are you at playing Scarlett O’Hara? Or don’t we

  have any drapes?” Rachel laughed. “I sure need more than a sheet.

  This wafer of a blanket did little to keep out the ole mountain chill

  during my siesta.”

  A knock at the door sent Rachel back under the covers. “The sheet will have to do,” Patricia said, jerking it from the

  bed and wrapping it around herself.

  The lock clicked and the door opened slowly. “Señoras?” a female

  voice called.

  “Yes?” Patricia answered from behind the door.

  The same girl who brought them towels and food earlier came

  in, arms full of clothes. Patricia pointed to the bed. The girl placed

  them there and left. A hand held the door open a crack. “Patricia?” It was Jim.

  She clutched the sheet to her and leaned into the opening. “Hope the clothes fit.” He smiled. Stared at her wrap. “As soon as I’m dressed, Jim, we need to talk,” she moved to

  close the door. He stopped her.

  “I have the papers,” he said.

  She almost dropped the sheet as she reached for the folder in

  his hand.

  “I’ll hold them for you.” He placed a page on top and held out

  a pen.

  She hesitated and he glanced, almost imperceptibly, to his left.

  In her peripheral vision she caught sight of the priest man on the

  porch. She leaned out of the room and stared at the man watching

  them. He turned his back. She studied Jim. Her friend. Her

  husband’s friend. One of the directors of her company. Something

  was wrong.

  “Jim, why have we been locked in?”

  “For your safety,” he answered. “And so no one would disturb

  you.” His eyes did not meet hers.

  “If I needed to be safe, why wouldn’t I have the key?” “Just sign the papers, Patricia.” His voice had that edginess again. “Where’s Max? I won’t sign anything until I see him.” “But you said—” He turned quickly toward the left again. Off

  his guard, he could not react before Patricia grabbed the folder.

  He reached for it, but she had shut the door.

  “Patricia, sign the papers.” His voice came from the wood panels.

  “Max will be here tomorrow. Just sign them. Now.”

  “If Max won’t be here until tomorrow, then I’ll sign them

  tomorrow.” She waited, hardly breathing. Nothing. Then the key

  and the tumbling of the lock.

  She sat on the bed. Stared at the papers. She recognized the

  document. It was just like the one she had found in Miguel’s pack

  at the hacienda.

  “Guess it doesn’t matter that I don’t know what it says. I’ve seen it

  before,” she said, as if Rachel knew what she was doing and thinking. “What do you mean?”

  Patricia told her about finding the paper in Miguel’s pack. “Was it a copy of this? You said there were no signatures.” “Jim’s job, I guess. To get me to sign. Doesn’t mean Miguel’
s not

  in on it. They could be in cahoots.” Patricia locked her arms across

  herself.

  “Miguel didn’t try to get you to sign anything, did he?” Rachel

  asked.

  “No,” she had to admit.

  “Well, you’re smart to hold out until Max is here. Jorge said the

  army had him, so who do you believe now?”

  “Jim said he would be here.” The words were like froth, no

  substance. Patricia dropped down on her bed. “Oh Rachel,

  something is wrong, terribly wrong, and you know it. You’re just not

  saying anything, for once. What is it?”

  “Jim Mainland. In a word.”

  “Of course, you’d think that. You’ve always hated him. Why, I

  don’t know.”

  “Being blind gives one an advantage sometimes. I’m not moved

  by looks. Voice. Words—they say more than people with sight hear.

  But, you’re wrong, I don’t hate Jim. I fear him.”

  Patricia stared at her friend. “Fear. That’s it! That’s what’s wrong

  with Jim.” She stood and paced the room. “I’ve never known him to

  be afraid of anything, but I saw it in his eyes. He kept watching that

  man, the one that brought us here. He’s afraid of something. Or

  someone.”

  “If that’s true, the answer may be in those papers,” Rachel said.

  “I’m surprised he let you keep them.”

  Patricia thought about that for a minute. “It can mean only one

  thing, Rache. They don’t care if I know what it says, only that I sign

  them.” That was a chilling thought because it also meant that they

  were holding all the cards.

  “Tell you what, you pick out my wardrobe and let’s get dressed.

  Then you read me the document. Spell the words if you have to.

  We’ll figure it out between the two of us.”

  The clothes were a considerable improvement over what they

  had been wearing, which Rachel said should be burned. They each