THE SECOND MILAGRO (n/a) Page 28

  had a long skirt, off the shoulder blouse and sandals.

  “I feel like I’m going to a Mexican costume party,” Rachel said. “Probably the standard dress for the festival. At least it’s clean.

  Let’s sit at the table where I can get more light.” By the time the

  sun had gone down, they knew what the document said. “Do you think we really have it right?” Patricia asked. “It’s hard

  enough to read these things in English, much less decipher legalize

  in a foreign language.”

  “We’ve got it, Patricia. Face it. Jim Mainland has sold you and

  the Morelos mines, not to speak of Max, down the river. Or rather

  the mine shaft.”

  “Who do you think Catera is? What if it’s a name for the union

  of miners or something?”

  “Patricia, it says ‘Juan Catera’. Now do you really think that’s an

  anagram for some organization?”

  “No.” Patricia paced the room. She must have walked two miles

  in the last hour, sixteen steps at a time. “I do think that Jim is being

  made to do this. He has to be.”

  The door rattled, then opened.

  “It’s about time they fed us,” Rachel said. “Smells good.” Patricia watched the door, looking for Jim. She paid no attention

  to the girl who slipped in carrying a tray.

  A voice whispered, “Señora Rachel.”

  Patricia looked around in time to see the girl give Rachel a quick

  hug and move away.

  “Gena,” Rachel said in a hushed voice.

  Patricia shut the door and leaned against it. Gena put a finger

  to her lips. She lifted one of the plates filled with chicken and rice.

  A piece of paper lay under it.

  Someone knocked on the door then pushed it into Patricia’s

  back. She moved. The priest man stepped in and motioned for

  Gena. She ducked her head and hurried out. The man stared at

  Rachel, then Patricia.

  “The papers, Señora.” The man held out his hand. Patricia’s heart tripped. For a moment she thought he meant

  the note Gena had left. Then realizing what he wanted, she snatched

  up the legal document and shoved it at him.

  He smiled, closed the door and locked it.

  Patricia leaned against it and waited. When she didn’t think he

  was coming back, she grabbed the paper from under the plate,

  scanning it. “Spanish, damn it!”

  “Well, if we can figure out something a lawyer wrote, something

  Gena wrote won’t be a problem. I’m so glad she’s okay. The shack.

  She might have been in it.” Rachel’s voice quivered. “I know,”

  Patricia said and hugged her.

  Patricia read the note, spelling a couple of the words. Gena

  would be back some time before daybreak. As they waited, Patricia

  expected someone to come barging in with those papers again.

  What had happened when they saw she had not signed them? It

  was maddening not to know what was going on, they agreed. How

  had Gena found them? They speculated about everything and were

  more confounded by the little they knew. They finally stretched

  out on the bed with their clothes on.

  “I couldn’t sleep if we weren’t waiting for Gena,” Rachel said.

  “I’m freezing.”

  “I know. Me too.” Patricia didn’t want to talk. She wanted to

  listen. As if the silence would bring Gena sooner. Despite the cold,

  Rachel slept, snored softly. Hours passed. Patricia wished she had

  Rachel’s braille watch. Not that time mattered, she thought. Gena. Gena. Her name was like a mantra, calling for her. She

  thought of Daniel. Was he behind Gena’s coming here? Did she

  know where Max was? If she wanted them to go with her to Daniel,

  what would they do? She didn’t trust Jim. She faced that. For

  whatever reason, he was on the wrong side now. Did she trust Daniel?

  Just the thought of his name put her mind in a circle of thorns. She jumped out of bed like a jack in a box at the sound of a key

  in the lock. She must have gone to sleep. The door creaked. Gena. They sat on Rachel’s bed, as far from the door as possible and

  talked in whispers.

  “Señor Miguel, Daniel look everywhere for you,” Gena said. “How did you find us?” Rachel asked.

  “In market, a man named Fernando buy clothes. He say it not

  matter the color.” She dropped her head. “It is bad Señora Rachel.

  He laugh and say you are blind.” She became animated again.

  “When I hear, I catch up and say to the man I bring clothes to him

  and he say yes. He not know I still here. I look for Daniel before I

  come. No time. I go now and tell him,” she said, proudly, and got

  up to leave. She held a key up to them. “You want? Or I put back?” “Wait, Gena.” Patricia put her hand on the girl’s arm, taking

  the key as she did. “Do they have Max? Is that the reason Daniel and

  Miguel are searching for us?”

  “No, but—”

  “No buts,” Patricia expelled her pent-up breath. “Why should I

  trust them? They’ve both let me down. God, I don’t know what to

  believe.” She hugged herself, shaking from cold. And fear. “She has to go and tell them, Patricia,” Rachel whispered. “Not yet.” Patricia tried to pull herself together. “First, Gena, you

  must tell me everything you know. If Miguel and Daniel don’t have

  Max, what do they want with us? And what happened at the cabin?” “Daniel was to make you safe in cabin. Jorge, the problema. Some

  miners, they have family in cave-in, they know you there. They follow

  Jorge. Daniel not stop one when he make blow the cabin.” “How did you get away?” Patricia asked.

  “Señor Miguel and others come. The miners run away.” “We thank you for our lives, Gena.” Rachel reached her hand

  out, found Gena’s and held it. “If you had not helped us—” “Oh, Daniel tell me help you out window. I so afraid, you know.” “No, you were very brave,” Patricia said, taking her other hand. The girl looked at their entwined hands. Her eyes shone brightly

  in the moonlight streaming through the window.

  “Gena, what do you know about Max?” Patricia tightened her

  grip on the girl’s slender fingers.

  “Señor Miguel say Army release him mañana.”

  “The Army?” Patricia bounced off the bed. “Then they do have

  Max?” She twisted around in a circle as if to unwind her swirling thoughts. “That must mean he’s safe. They wouldn’t harm him. And they’ll give him up to me, if they know I’m here.” She could hardly contain her excitement. Then, she looked at Rachel. “That

  also means Jim has been lying to me, doesn’t it?”

  Rachel’s hand went out and Patricia clung to it.

  “Sorry, Señora. Not so easy. Some miners not want boy to go. Say

  that `reyes de pepenadores’, very bad man, he have mines now. Some

  say you sell mines to him.”

  “Does that mean ‘garbage king’?” Rachel asked.

  “Who the hell is that?” Patricia quickly put her hand over her

  mouth to muffle her rising anger.

  “His name Juan Catera.”

  Rachel took in an audible breath. “The papers.”

  Patricia understood what it all meant. “I have not sold the mines,

  Gena. To anyone!” she yelled in a whisper.

  “Señor Miguel say you not. That is why he need you. He have

  many people watch you. You go in church and you not come out,

 
you know. He is, how you say, go in circle? You must tell people you

  not sell mines. If not, . . .”

  “What?”

  “The boy. Maybe miners stop Army and not let him go.” Gena

  dropped her eyes.

  “Gena,” Patricia took both the girl’s hands in hers. “We will all

  go. You show us the way. It’s not safe for us here.”

  “Señora, is not possible. Guards see you. Maybe in morning, when

  people come to sell cosas.”

  “Then how were you going to leave?”

  “Tunnel. Under church.”

  Rachel groaned. “The one we took to get here?”

  Patricia released Gena and paced the floor.

  “What are you thinking?” Rachel asked.

  Patricia looked at her friend and frowned. She wasn’t sure

  about her plan. She just knew she had to find Daniel and Miguel

  quickly.

  “I’ll go through the tunnel,” she announced. “Gena, you hide

  Rachel. As soon as it’s safe, bring her to the church in town.” “Can’t we go back through the graveyard together and get to

  the street around the guards?” Rachel asked Gena.

  “Someone see you. Army men in streets at night, and you not

  know who to trust.”

  Patricia sighed. She certainly didn’t. She thought of the dark,

  smelly tunnel. Would she be able to find her way even through the

  hibiscus bushes?

  As if reading her mind, Gena said, “You want, I lead you to

  Panteon, graves. You go in old church, how you come. In town ask

  for Casa Moneda. Señor Miguel there. Señora Rachel and I hide at

  edge of Panteon. In day and people come to sell, we go.” She went

  to the window and looked out. “Light come from sun soon. We go

  now.”

  “Rachel, you okay with this?”

  Rachel was still sitting on the bed. “I think this is one time that

  you would be better off without me. I’ll stay with Gena. Meet you in

  front of St. Francis.”

  Gena put her arm around Rachel. There had been a bond

  between the two of them since they were in the shack. Patricia

  hated the thought of leaving Rachel, but she knew Gena would

  take care of her. She pulled Rachel to her feet and hugged her

  tightly. “Don’t get into trouble. Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Patricia picked up a candle and matches from the table, put

  them in her skirt pocket. She took the blanket from Rachel’s bed

  and draped it around her like a shawl, then did the same with hers. Gena looked outside, motioned for them. They shut the door,

  locked it and pocketed the key. Gena led the way across the dirt

  courtyard to the break in the hibiscus.

  “Buena suete, Señora,” Gena said.

  “Take care of Rachel,” Patricia answered back. The bushes closed

  around her.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  October 4

  The old church shone like a beacon where soft shades of dawn lit its whitewashed walls. Patricia crouched in the shadows of the hibiscus hedge surrounding the cemetery. She tried not to think about where she was, alone in the dark. When she heard a scratching sound, she ran. Her skirt caught on the uneven edges of a gravestone, pulling her to the ground. Righting herself with the help of a marble angel’s wing, she brushed gravel from her palms and shut out the macabre image of hands reaching out of graves.

  Once inside the church she took deep breaths and slowed her pounding pulse. She looked back across the cemetery. Nothing moved. No one was following. There were only stone shapes that she was sure would dance as soon as she turned her back.

  She made her way down the steps to the room beneath the sanctuary. The high windows allowed enough light for her to see the opening of the tunnel. She wished she had the lantern the priest man had carried. At least she had the candle. The match flared. A tiny light flickered. Went out. She tried again, then gave up. Better to wait until she really needed it.

  She took a deep breath, and held it, as if she would not find air again until she came out the other side. Darkness surrounded her like black water. She inched forward, her hands seeking, head lowered, stroking the walls for balance. She took shallow sips of rank, earthy air.

  They had climbed up the mountain through this passage on the way to the hacienda. Now she descended. Down, deeper, as if into the bowels of the earth.

  She worked her legs hard, crouching, back bent, arms flailing until they touched surfaces. Sometimes damp, slick walls. Sometimes jagged cold rocks that scrapped her skin. When she straightened her knees and stood too tall, spider webs caught her hair. She pulled the blanket over her head. The dirt-tinged air filtered through musty wool.

  The first heavy clod of earth was just a thump. Then waves of vibration circuited her body from her feet to her teeth. Muffled booms like crashing surf rebounded from the dark. Dirt and rocks rained on her. She put her hands over her head and screamed. The echo hurt her ears. In terror she ran through a gauntlet of missiles. When the earth shook, she braced against the walls, as if to hold them in place, and absorbed trembles through her hands.

  She stopped running. Only a spray of dirt fell against her outstretched arms. She stood still, not breathing. The word “cavein” struck her in its full horror. Thoughts of the tragedy that had brought Max here, of the altar in the tunnel, of the families who had lost loved ones in the mines flashed around her like psychedelic lights. Urgency beyond her control made her move. Without allowing herself to think if the passage was blocked behind her or ahead, or even whether she was still going in the right direction, she kicked and dug through fallen dirt and climbed through narrow holes like a single minded mole.

  Stepping over a fallen beam, she shut her ears to the sound of creaking above her. Debris on the floor lessened and she walked on a smoother earthen floor. La Parroquia had to be near. Some light should be coming through the opening. The room beneath the church where the priest had shed his robes had not been totally dark, even without the lantern. High windows must have let in sunlight.

  She walked more slowly, expecting any moment to step out of the tunnel. Sensing something in front of her, she reached out, touched wood. Her hands patted the entire surface. There was no knob, no latch. She pushed with all her weight, but it didn’t move. The tunnel had been sealed.

  She took the candle and matches from her pocket. Three tries and the flame stayed. In the faint edge of sight, she noticed something above her, sticking out from the wall. She held the light high and saw part of a wooden box. Then, she remembered the floor of the church. Coffin lids. When they dug this tunnel, the floor must have given way beneath one of them. It hung from the earth precariously.

  Maybe she could reach the end and pull it down. Wouldn’t that bring down the whole casket, lid and all? Leaving a gaping hole in the floor? It might just rip open and dump a rotting corpse at her feet. She shuddered.

  If the top of this coffin was the floor above, why had she not heard people walking? It was still early, maybe no one was in the church. She tried to visualize what part of the floor this would be. The pew at the far end of the transept where she and Rachel had encountered the priest was near the door. To their left had been where the people came to leave their milagros for St. Francis.

  She stared up at the protruding coffin and knew what she had to do. The only place to find what she needed was where the tunnel had caved in. In the glow of the candle she found it. A rock she could climb up on. She rolled it over on her blanket and tugged and pulled it down the incline.

  Once she had it in place, she stepped up closer to the casket, examining it in the feeble light. The lower edge was rimmed with a board two inches wide. Her fingers dug in. She lifted herself almost off the makeshift step. A shower of clod
s fell from where the box was lodged in the wall.

  She tried again. A creak. More dirt. Encouraged, she grabbed the boards, her back to the wall, and swung her weight up and out, landing on the floor beyond the stone step. She cried out as her nails caught in the wood, ripping them into the quick.

  Ignoring the pain in her fingers, she reached higher the next time and caught hold of the boards placed in an elongated “x” on the side of the coffin. This time a crash reverberated above her. She ducked, shielded her head, expecting bones, or ashes, or wood to cover her.

  Something jingled. She opened her eyes. Light glittered above her in a shower of silver. Milagros! Falling through the floor. Hundreds of them.

  She scooped some from the dirt and laughed.

  Footsteps thundered and she heard voices. She called out, “Help! Ayuda! Help!” Through grunts and groans, sounds of something heavy scraped the floor. Light spilled though and wide-eyed faces stared at her. A babel of Spanish filled the small space. Several men came into the tunnel. She stumbled past them toward the stairs and set down hard on one of the steps.

  From somewhere she heard the name “Morelos.” She looked up into dark eyes staring at her. Without thinking whether she trusted any of them, she whispered, “Miguel Ramirez. I have to find him.”

  The room was silent as a tomb. Then a man bent over her and tried to help her to her feet. She hesitated. “Come,” he said, “We go to Casa Moneda.”

  She remembered the name. Gena had told her that was where she would find Miguel. She stood, her legs like willow branches, bending under her weight. The man placed his arm around her and half-carried her into the church.

  A great commotion was going on inside. The table in front of the statue of St. Francis was tilted. The pile of silver offerings was falling to the floor in an avalanche of tinkling sounds. Some had already found their way into a hole surrounding the table leg.

  Patricia only glanced at the people scurrying around on the floor trying to pick up the tiny charms. She leaned heavily on the man who was taking her to Miguel.

  * * *

  The old woman was almost incoherent. Something had happened in the church. The milagros were disappearing. Maybe someone was trying to steal them, Miguel thought. He had other worries.

  He was returning to Casa Moneda from the police station, when the woman had grabbed his arm in hysterics. He was about to ask if she wanted him to do something, but she took off up the street, calling out “milagro.”