THE SECOND MILAGRO (n/a) Page 8

  Near the center of the manicured lawn was a stone Altar of Skulls. They stood in its shadow.

  “Tell me about your visit from the journalist.”

  Miguel gave a short version of the encounter with Winn, leaving out the personal part. “I told Manuel to take care of him,” he added.

  “Buena. Now. Señora Morelos and her son.”

  Cold crept through Miguel as if the ancient stone he leaned against had extracted his blood. “I do not know if the Señora is coming here. Winn’s information is not necessarily correct.”

  “It is.”

  “Well, she will not be a problem,” Miguel answered quickly. “She will only want assurances that her son will be freed.”

  “And will he?”

  “Yes. When the time is right, the miners will help us.”

  “I do not have to tell you what this would mean if things should get out of hand. Or if something should go wrong. As sure as the hearts sacrificed upon this stone beat no more, other lives will be lost.” He placed his palm on the altar, caressing one of the skulls. “It is in your hands, my friend, more than in any other. We depend upon you.”

  Miguel stepped out of the shadows and stared into the face of the Secretary. He met him eye to eye, resolve to resolve. Then the two men shook hands and walked separately into the dark.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SEPTEMBER 27

  Patricia slept better that night than she had in weeks. After a breakfast of huevos Mexicana and toast, she dressed in a mint green cotton skirt, white blouse and sandals. Something cool and clean feeling for the hot, dirty city. She twisted her hair into its usual bun at the nape of her neck, then thought of Max. Brushing the curls out, she clipped them with a silver clasp high on the back of her head. Just the image maybe to present to these macho Mexican men. She had made the mistake of dressing in a suit, heels and hose on other occasions. The men she had dealt with were not impressed with the power look and the lack of adequate air conditioning in a lot of offices made it too uncomfortable.

  The phone rang. She said “Hello” before she had lifted the receiver to her ear.

  “Buenos dias, Señora.”

  “Elena. What do you have for me?”

  “Representatives for the miners will meet you at 10:00 in your office. Is this okay?”

  “What do you mean, ‘representatives’? What about Mr. Carrera and Tomas’s old school chum, the head man in the Foreign Ministry?”

  “Mr. Lopez? I called each of the men on your list, Señora. They all returned my call and said the same thing. The representatives of—”

  “Okay, Elena. I understand. They’re presenting a united front. That’s strange. These people are usually not good team players. I guess they don’t want me to have a chance to call in my personal markers.”

  “Markers, Señora?”

  “Never mind,” she sighed. “So they’re coming to see me. This way they can give me one sand-bagging speech and leave on their own terms. Well, we’ll see about that.” She tapped her fingernail against the window as she looked out over the smog-strangled city toward Chapultepec Park. “What about Ramirez?” She braced her hand against the window.

  “Señor Ramirez will see the representative of Morelos Enterprises in his office at 11:30 this morning. No later, no earlier.” She announced, accenting each word.

  Patricia leaned against the back of her hand. “Well, bless him,” she said, a little too loudly. After giving Elena some instructions for other correspondence, she called for Jaime to pick her up.

  The conference room next to her office had been set up for the meeting. A silver urn of cooling coffee and sugar frosted galletas waited on a credenza near the windows. Six empty chairs circled a marble-topped table. Patricia paced the floor between the two rooms. It was already 10:30. Her appointment with Miguel was an hour away. He had said he wouldn’t wait. As unlikely as that was, she didn’t want to take a chance.

  “Guess you’d better reheat the coffee, Elena. But wait ’til they show. Of course, that could be mañana. If they’re not here by 11:00, we’ll have to reschedule.”

  “I am sorry, Señora.” Elena took the coffee urn back to the kitchen.

  Patricia dropped into the chair behind her desk. She had spent almost eighteen years married to a Mexican and she still didn’t understand their Latin attitude toward time. She couldn’t say it made them less successful, though. Tomas certainly got things done, and he was as bad as the next about being late. He had his own philosophy of time: The past is hallow, the present malleable and the future illimitable. After years of complaining, she had stopped trying to change him. Today the old frustration had come back in volumes. Damn them. Didn’t they realize how precious time was for her son? She tried to make herself read some reports and be patient. It was 10:45 when she heard voices in the hall. She waited until they had time to sit down.

  When she opened the door, four men waited for her. An exchange of looks told her wagers had been made as to whether she was meeting them personally, and someone had won.

  “Good morning.” She went straight to the chair at the head of the table and sat down, giving no one the chance to rise or greet her with an outstretched hand. She leaned forward, arms on the table, hands folded. She held them tightly to stop their shaking.

  “Buenos Dias, Señora Morelos,” each said in turn. Dressed in various hues of native guayabara shirts, sporting various size moustaches, smiling and nodding their heads, they looked like caricatures, sent to mock her. She knew from Tomas about equipos, groups of followers sometimes attached to a man of position since his childhood. This bunch took the concept to a new level.

  “I am Juan Sanchez,” the oldest of the men spoke up. He had salt and pepper hair, kind eyes, and a too quick smile. “I speak for the unfortunate miners of Real de Catorce. We welcome you back to Mexico. We still mourn the loss of our friend, Tomas Morelos; however, it is a pleasure to see his widow looking well.”

  Lingering odors of tobacco smoke, bacon grease and musk cologne filled the air. Patricia pushed against her stomach and took a deep breath.

  “I have come here, Señor, for my son,” she said to Sanchez. His reference to the “unfortunate miners” had caught her by surprise and taken the strength from her voice. It was clear who owned his sympathy. They would not get to her. She would learn what she could from them and throw them out.

  “Si, si. Of course. We regret the problems at your mines, Señora. And surely you know the safety of the son of Tomas Morelos means much to us. Morelos Silver is an important industry of Mexico and in these troubled times for the peso, well, we need our industries to be prosperous.” He glanced around the table and the men nodded again.

  “Señor Sanchez, Max is my son and he is being held against his will by your people.”

  “Yes, it would seem the boy has trouble for himself. A boy so young. He should still be in his home. Why did he come to Real?” He kept smiling through the obvious rebuke.

  “He came to help the miners after the cave-in,” Patricia said. She would like to have wiped that smile away with some lye soap. “That’s not important. Getting him freed is. My negotiators have reached an impasse. What are you doing to free my son?”

  All the strength she drew together not to shout the question pooled in her hands and twisted her fingers until they hurt. Tired of talk, she felt guilty sitting around drinking coffee and having cookies while her son was a few hundred miles away probably hungry and thirsty. She had felt the same guilt for weeks with every bite she ate. These men gave no indication they felt anything. She wanted them to tell her the lies they were given to deliver and leave. Then she could go to Miguel. He was the only one, she was sure, who might give a damn. And if she couldn’t make him care, what then?

  Sanchez cleared his throat and reached across the table to pat her hands. She drew them back into her lap. He rubbed his hand across the cold marble instead, as if polishing it. A large silver ring on his little finger scraped the surface, making th
e sound of a fingernail on a blackboard.

  “Surely the Señora knows we are doing everything that can be done. Everything. The miners of Real de Catorce have much sadness. They have lost loved ones in the cave-in. They would not hurt another. They know too much of suffering.”

  “I am very sympathetic to the miners, too, Señor Sanchez. I have offered to go to any measures to make the mines safe before they’re reopened and to take care of the families of those who died or were injured. As unfortunate as the cave-in was, holding my son will not give the miners more. I don’t understand what they hope to gain by kidnapping Max.”

  “Kidnapping is a very harsh word, Señora. We understand the young man came there to help and wants to stay. Perhaps the men only agree that he stay with them until they are sure of what is to be done.”

  “That is preposterous. And you all know it.” Anger roiled inside Patricia like water in a hot kettle. She swallowed hard and leaned closer to Sanchez. “If Max were allowed to leave, he would have been home. I won’t even discuss that fact with you.”

  The man continued to scrap his ring across the marble. “Whatever is the case, these miners are good persons, Señora. I assure you that we can work something out with them.”

  “I am glad to hear you are so certain. You can assure me then of getting my son back? Unharmed? And if so, when? Tomorrow? That wouldn’t be a moment too soon. Where? Here? I’ll be waiting.” She stood up and looked at her watch. She felt like a hundred flying insects were trying to get out through her skin. She couldn’t possibly sit still another minute, couldn’t say another civil word to these men who did not care if she ever saw Max again.

  Standing quickly, Juan Sanchez’s hand captured hers and squeezed. His thumb rubbed across her palm. “Señora, as much as I would like to make this promise, I can not. Tomorrow may not be possible. As I said, these people have so little. The silver goes through their hands and they have nothing. Perhaps—”

  “How much, Juan?” She jerked her hand free, wiped it on her skirt, and stepped away from the table. “I’ll get a check.”

  “Señora, Señora. Not now.” His moustache twitched as he looked down at his hand. “You go to your home in Acapulco. Or maybe better, back to Washington. We will negotiate with the workers for you. We have been talking with your Mr. Mainland already. Your son will be safe. I am sure Morelos Silver will be willing to give some little thing to the miners. We will let Mr. Mainland know what you can do to help the people.”

  Patricia looked into each of the men’s faces as if memorizing them. Then she spoke to Juan in a soft voice. “If one hair on my son’s head is harmed, I’ll use every dollar of Morelos money to bring—”

  “Oh, Señora.” Sanchez raised his hands as if to ward off evil. “There is no need for threats. The money of Señor Morelos will only be needed to pay for the suffering of the miners. I assure you.” He grinned, his thin moustache, a shaded line, stretched across his face.

  “You’ll get your money. All of you.” She swept them with her eyes like dust before a broom. “Only after I get Max, unharmed.” She stared at Juan until she was sure her words had left their mark, then turned and walked away. She shut her office door behind her, leaving them to find their own way out.

  “Greedy bastards,” she said to Rachel when she got her on the phone. She had washed her hands until they were red. Still shaking, they vibrated the receiver against her ear. “They made no bones about what they wanted. I would give them every cent I have, but I know they can’t get to Max. If they could, they would not be negotiating.”

  “What next, then?”

  “What choice do I have? Miguel is my only hope.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Gena pecked at the old, manual typewriter sending staccato notes like a telegraph key through the open door to Miguel’s office. Sitting at his desk making notes, he tapped his pencil in sync with her rhythm.

  He looked at his watch. Ever since Elena called this morning about a meeting with a Morelos representative, a war had waged inside him. He refused to believe Patricia would be the one to show up despite the Secretary’s confirmation that she was in the city. Coming to his office would be the last thing he would expect of her. Coming to Mexico at all had put her in more danger than she could know. She would be able to do nothing to help her son. Not here. She should have stayed in Washington where she was safe.

  He stopped tapping and hit the desk hard with his fist. Why should he care what happened to her? He rubbed his palms together. My God, they were sweaty. From the heat. Certainly, it had nothing to do with any feeling he had for Patricia Morelos. Not after eighteen years. Not after what had happened between them. Unbidden, images of the first time he had ever seen Patricia assaulted him, shoving aside all other senses and thoughts.

  It was December 1967. Tomas had ordered him to Washington. Kicked out of UNAM for participating in student demonstrations, he had no money and, he thought, no choice but to go. He carried a chip on his shoulder the size of a Mayan temple.

  Tomas’ home, on a tree-lined boulevard not far from D.C.’s Embassy Row was a symbol of all Miguel had been protesting against in Mexico. The rich, the oppressors, the enslavers, the Moreloses of the world. He betrayed his conscience just walking in the front door.

  Patricia Wellington was his enemy before he arrived. Miguel knew she was still going to the university, but listening to Tomas, he got the idea she ran Morelos Silver Enterprises single-handedly. Tomas bragged about her accomplishments in the same sentences that he condemned his young step-brother’s failures. Miguel had envisioned a titan, a bespectacled automaton of unending energy and intelligence, a social climber with an eye on the Morelos fortune. His first meeting with her confirmed this image, but time changed everything. How disarming to find her helping the cook in the kitchen on her day off. Her slender figure, dark curls, soft chocolate eyes, and quiet voice haunted him every time they met. For all her business acumen and stamina that he came to know, she had a vulnerability, a softness under a hard crust. He set out to uncover her secrets and was shattered by them.

  The upshot was she lied to him and he returned to Mexico. There, social unrest drew him closer to the ideals of his parents. Poverty equaled purity, wealth equaled wickedness. Yet the poor wanted theirs. He marched and led and raged against the establishment. He and thousands of others tested the fiber of President Diaz Ordaz’s regime that summer of 1968. The eyes of the world were on Mexico because of the upcoming Olympics. Dissidents thought the government would not want to be embarrassed and would cave-in to demands. They calculated wrong. On the second of October, ten days before the Olympic flame illuminated the Aztec Stadium, the final clash took place at the Plaza de Tlatelolco. Two hundred people lost their lives. Many were Miguel’s friends. He could still hear their cries. See the blood streaming like banners as they ran. More clearly, he could hear the clanging of iron jail doors shutting on his freedom. He spent three years locked in hell.

  Tomas could have had him freed, but then he might have come back for Patricia, and Tomas did not want that. Perhaps Patricia had never known where he was. Many people disappeared forever that terrible night. Had she cared? His teeth clenched, muscles constricted, as if warding off blows. That was all long ago. He had survived. He would not blame her. He would have to feel something even to hate her.

  It was almost 11:30. If she or he or whoever did not arrive on the dot, he was leaving. He stepped to the office door and got Gena’s attention. “No appointments for me tomorrow. Cancel what I have this afternoon. I’m going to Cuernavaca.”

  He shut the door to his office and clicked the fan control. It creaked as it whirred faster overhead, sending new found dust into the corners. Mi Dios, it was hot. He walked to the window, forcing himself to think about swinging in the balcony hammock at his house. The aroma of tortillas frying at a courtyard tienda made his stomach churn.

  He saw the gray limo before it stopped and watched the chauffeur open the back door. Patricia. He knew befor
e he saw her face. She crossed the courtyard below in swift steps. Her hair swung full and loose behind her, like a curried mane. She bounded up the steps and under the far archway. Either she was going to see someone else or didn’t know where his office was. She stopped a man coming out a door. He pointed across the way. Shading her eyes with her hand, she looked straight at Miguel.

  He stepped back into the shadows, cursing. At his desk he opened a drawer and pulled out the blue folder. It is all there. As much as she needed to see. The paper trail of what government agencies had supposedly done to free the Morelos boy. There really had been nothing anyone could do. The miners who took the muchacho had someone behind them. And the identity of that person was locked into that little mountain town as tightly as the kid was. Not that they did not have suspects. But what did you do when that included the chief of police?

  The only thing everyone agreed on was that the last thing Mexico needed right now was to piss off the U.S. So far the little that had been in the papers was about the cave-in. If the truth got out about the kidnapping, it could fuel the fires of those who wanted to halt more loans to Mexico or demand repayment of some of their monstrous foreign debt. In just a few months the grace period for paying principal on $23 billion dollars in loans would end and renegotiations would begin. Mexico needed no bad publicity.

  He wondered why Patricia had not gone to the press. Obviously she had not or the American media would be screaming in outrage. Anybody in the government would have given her the same information he had in the folder, yet she was coming to him. Was she expecting him to remember, or to forget?

  The door opened. “Señor. Someone to see you. Señora Morelos?”

  “Show her in, Gena.”

  Patricia stood four feet away for the first time in a lifetime. Neither of them spoke. She looked slowly around the room, stared at the painting of his mother. One just like it had hung in the gallery in Tomas’s home. He wondered if she had kept it.