THE SECOND MILAGRO (n/a) Page 9

  “Señora Morelos.” He nodded. His voice seemed to come from somewhere outside the room. He started to put out his hand, but not wanting to feel her touch, he pointed to the chair instead. She hesitated, looking at the sagging cane bottom and he almost smiled. That chair would hold an elephant.

  She did not look like the typical American business woman. The owner of a multimillion dollar corporation had no right to look like a young girl. Her flowing hair and rosy cheeks belonged too much to the one he had known so long ago.

  He realized that was probably her plan.

  “It is an honor to have so important a person visit my humble office.”

  She stared at him as if his words were an insult.

  “Did you not expect it to be so?” he continued. “The offices of Morelos silver would have been much more comfortable for you. But I have never been welcome there.” He made no attempt to withhold his sarcasm, but her silence turned the point of his knifesharp words onto himself. He watched confusion etch her face, then something else. Hate? Disgust?

  “I didn’t come to compare interior designs,” she said softly.

  “Nor to discuss the advantages of wealth. I apologize.”

  She nodded, her gaze fixed on the wall above his head, as if caught up in a thought or memory. “Obviously, graft and corruption hasn’t lined the hallways of your department,” she said, smiling slightly. Her voice chilled him. It was as cold and hard as the terrazzo floor she continued to scrape with her sandals. He stared hard at her. They had fought this battle before and he had no desire to arm himself again.

  Custom demanded that he offer her some refreshment and idle gossip before getting down to business. Obviously, she would say no to any such overtures and he was in no mood to make them. Instead, he picked up the blue folder and held it out to her.

  “Everything I can tell you about your son is in here.” Her hands shook as she took it from him. He watched her eyes scan each document quickly as she flipped the pages. She said nothing, but clutched the papers to her chest. He could hear her breath beneath the sounds of birds in the courtyard. Suddenly, she threw the folder onto the desk.

  “I had hoped for more from you. I guess I shouldn’t have. This is the same thing I heard this morning from the miner’s henchmen.” Her voice broke, then exploded. “Max is a head-strong teenager, but he came to Mexico with good intentions. What right have these workers who hold out their hands for Morelos money to take my son? Working in a mine is hard. I can appreciate that. I empathize with the families of the men who died in that cave-in. If it were not for the mine, how would any of these people survive?” She had come out of the chair and stood leaning almost into his face, but she looked back down at the papers, as if she would not let him hold her gaze.

  Many arguments came to his mind about what better lives these people could have without the mines, but he said none of them. Anger rose inside him as he realized that she had always been rich and had no concept of what life offered that money could not buy. He said only the words she wanted to hear.

  “Efforts are continuing to find your son. I do not know what the representatives told you this morning, but if you read these documents carefully, you will see the ones who hold your son are probably not the workers of the Morelos mine. There is another group of men who have been miners but now band together in hopes of reclaiming the mines for themselves. Perhaps they are responsible.”

  “I can read. That doesn’t tell me why Max is still there. He’s just a boy! Are you telling me no one has any power over these men? Can’t the police go in there and just take him?” She struck her fist hard on the table.

  He winced, feeling her pain, then struggled against the sentiment. Her attack was personal. As if this kid were his responsibility. His duty was to his people. Max was her son. Why had she not kept him at home? He should laugh in her face at Tomas’s teenage runaway being kidnapped.

  She had not moved. The fire that came from her eyes burned through him. Battle drums beat a double cadence inside his heart. Images of her full red lips meeting his blurred his view of her. He shook his head more to clear it than to answer her. “No, they cannot storm the place where your son is. Have you ever been to Real de Catorce? No? I did not think so. It is in the mountains. There is only one way in, through a tunnel which they control. They know everyone.”

  He stood up and moved to the window while he talked. A little boy bounced a ball against a tree in the courtyard. Thump. Thump. Was it the ball he heard or his heart?

  “What else can be done?” she asked quietly.

  He looked back as she cleared her throat. He watched her bite her lip and blink back tears. Her fist pressed her stomach in a remembered gesture. She would not let him see her weak. She would not beg. He knew her that well.

  He walked to the bookcase and drew down a map of Mexico. Please do not cry, he pleaded silently. He must tell her what he could quickly, and she would leave.

  “Here is Real.” He pointed with a pencil to a place north of Mexico City. “The Sierra Catorce mountains surround the city.” His hand shook slightly and he dropped it by his side. “The fourth of October is the feast day of St. Francis at the church of La Purisima Concepcion. Many people from all over the country come to pray to the Saint for favors—riches, health, the return of a loved one. Or give thanks for miracles he has given them. They buy milagros, little silver medallions, to give him in offering. It is a beautiful cathedral. It was the old Spanish custom to permit miners to take each day out of the mine as large a piece of ore as one could carry in his hand. They gave it to the priest to build the church.”

  Mi Dios, I’m rattling like a tour guide, he thought. She had moved closer and stood only a step or two away. The scent of her perfume surrounded him with each turn of the fan.

  He leaned toward her. “Preparation for the festival begins this week, the last week of September. Vendors are moving through the tunnel now. To set up stands to sell goods to the pilgrims. The miners let them pass, but they search the people and watch them carefully. After the festival measures can be taken to get to your son.”

  “That’s another week! We can’t wait. We have to get Max out now.”

  “It is not possible. Before the festival it is too dangerous for the people.”

  She stepped closer to the map. “How do you get to Real? Can you drive through the tunnel?” She drew a line with her finger from Mexico City to Queretaro, to Matehuala and Cedral, then up the winding mountain road to Real. She smiled for the first time.

  His heart withdrew from the blow.

  “The tunnel is closed to motor traffic until after the festival. The miners search any service vehicles and wagons for those who do not belong.” He knew she was not listening. Knew where her thoughts were. He had to stop her.

  “Patricia, you cannot think to go there yourself.” It was the first time he had spoken her name. The sound was like a sweetness on his tongue. He wanted to taste it again.

  “Patricia?”

  “It’s a free country, Miguel. I can go anywhere I please.”

  “Damn it, you cannot go there.” He slapped the pencil down onto the bookcase. The map slipped, streaked upwards, flapped on its roller. His hands moved toward her, but he stopped them and skirted around her to his desk. He shook the blue folder at her. “I told you these men are not the miners of Morelos. They have no loyalty to you and do not respect you. You do not know them. Many people could be hurt besides your son. It is dangerous!” He drew his brows together so harshly the furrows felt like cuts.

  “And you don’t know me very well, Señor Ramirez, if you think I am going to sit still, wringing my hands, while nothing is being done to get my son back.”

  The creaking fan filled the silence.

  “No. I have never truly known you, Patricia.” His voice felt weak, vulnerable, but she jumped, as if he stabbed at her with his words. He recovered quickly, strengthening his resolve and his voice. “But that is not important, is it? As I said, you do not
know these men.”

  “All the more reason I have to go and get Max myself. They don’t know me either.”

  “What can you do alone?” he asked, a sliver of fear for her and her determination edged under his skin.

  “Once you know exactly how things get done down here, you can accomplish anything by yourself. As long as you have money. I certainly got that message this morning. All I have to do is use some good old-fashioned dollars. Pay ‘la mordida.’ The bribe.” Her words came at him like machine gun fire, but her fingers trembled as she took her billfold from her purse and pitched it on the desk.

  He stiffened as he watched it slide toward him as if it were a live grenade. “I guess I should not be surprised at such a statement from the wife of Tomas Morelos. So he taught you everything. Even how to buy your way through life.”

  “If that’s what it takes, yes. And I’m sure he would not care if I spent every dime to find his son.” She gave a little choking sound. Her last words came out muffled.

  He could handle her anger, her spite, her hatred, but not her tears, or her mother’s words of a son. He wanted her to rage again, so he shouted, “You will not go, Patricia.”

  Her stare, her silence said she was not listening, but contemplating how she could defy him. “I will see to it that you do not get to the tunnel, Señora. Do not try it.” His words were even, firm, final.

  She said nothing, picked up her purse, replaced the billfold, and walked to the door. With her hand on the knob, her back to him, she spoke softly. “I will get my son back, Miguel.”

  “Go to Acapulco. Stay there, Patricia. For your own good, stay there.”

  Miguel. Miguel. The name ricocheted about her in the hall outside his office. She struggled to put one foot in front of the other.

  At the end of the hall she saw the faded letters DAMAS. She fell against the door, praying it was not locked. A hot blast of stale air pushed her back as it escaped the room, but she hurried to the grimy sink that hung precariously from the wall.

  When her body had ceased its convulsions, she washed her face and rinsed her mouth with the water that dribbled from the faucet, inviting the germs lurking there to attack her. She didn’t care.

  A piece of broken mirror propped on a rusted shelf gave back the image of a tear stained face twisted in grief, anger, and shame. Tears begat tears and she mourned her son, loud and laboriously.

  She also mourned her lost love. The passion. The innocence. It all ended so long ago. Admitting this, she also had to acknowledge that it was she who destroyed the love she and Miguel had known. Destroyed it by the very truth that she had not been innocent.

  She washed her face as anger took over. She should have known Miguel would not help her. Widow of the man he had hated. She was a fool to come to him. He had not changed. That shabby, dingy office. The portrait of his mother. He still worshiped at the feet of poverty. He still hated money and those who had it. Max was just a spoiled rich kid to him. The son of a man who worshiped riches.

  The son.

  Shame washed over her anger. Rachel had counseled her to tell the truth. “And the truth shall set you free.” The laugh she heard must have come from someone else, but she was alone.

  She imagined herself going back to Miguel’s office. She could feel the sagging chair beneath her. Hear the whirring fan. See Miguel’s face, his angled jaw, dimpled chin, distinguished Mayan nose. The image changed to the memory of him at twenty. No. It was Max she saw. A young Miguel. An older Max. The images blurred.

  The truth.

  There was no need for her to tell Miguel anything. He would know soon enough. When he came face to face with Max, he would know that he, not Tomas, was the boy’s father.

  The truth would not set her free.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A broad-winged frigate soared in the blue sky over Acapulco Bay. Below, waves slapped and swirled in white foam. Rocks dunked, popped back. Between sea and sky jutted a pink house, a giant shell against the blue. Sitting on the balcony, Patricia watched as the bird’s long black wings winked, then caught a draft and disappeared into the sunlight. Leaning forward, she rested her head and arm against the cool metal rail.

  “Patricia? Are you there?” Rachel’s voice drifted from the cavernous house.

  “Yes.” She stood and cleared her throat. “Any calls?” She wiped her eyes with her palms, and dried her hands on her shorts.

  “No. You okay? Marta told me you were out here. Why didn’t you let me know you were back?”

  “You were asleep. Didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “Siestas. They’re habit forming.” Rachel’s hand drifted along a hammock, then reached across open air for the railing.

  Patricia took her hand, squeezed it, then placed it beneath hers on the iron bar.

  Cries of birds filled the air.

  Rachel turned her face toward the breeze. “What are they?”

  “Pelicans.”

  “They must be the ones I hear going toward Pie la Questa Lagoon every afternoon. How many?”

  “Twelve, fifteen, maybe. They’re flying in a “v” shape.” She listened to what Rachel could hear. “I’ve been watching this frigate circling Roqueta Island. It’s always alone.” Just how she felt. She leaned into the breeze and wrapped her arms against her sides. “Have you talked to Annie?”

  “No, she still doesn’t answer. I hope Roger doesn’t forget to check on her. He may not even remember where she is.” Patricia laughed. “Annie will remind him.”

  “Want to tell me what you found out today?”

  “Nothing to tell. Zero. Nada. I told you about the thieves in guayabara shirts. And Miguel, well, I’m not sure about him. I think he may be worse.” She had labored over their meeting, picking at each phrase he’d uttered. When she had scratched away the surface, the stark bones of what he’d said frightened her. He knew the kidnappers. She was sure of it.

  “What did he have to say?” Rachel asked.

  “Well, I’ll start at the end. He yelled at me to stay in Acapulco and stay out of Real. And ever since I left his office, I’ve had doors slamming in my face. Can you believe the plane is grounded unless we’re leaving the country?”

  “Can he do that?”

  “That and more. I called around to rent a plane, and there’s not one to be had. For any price. I can’t find a parrot to fly.”

  “I’d say you made him a little mad at you. What’d you do?”

  Patricia looked at Rachel, willing her to feel the intensity of the stare. “I didn’t ‘do’ anything.” She sat down and got back up like a jack-in-the-box. “All I did was try to get some answers.”

  “And did you?”

  “Well, he tried to tell me some renegade miners are holding Max. And since they don’t like anyone named Morelos, I’d be in danger going there. If that’s so, what about Max? Doesn’t it make sense that we need to get in there and rescue him? Now?”

  “Miguel refused to do that?”

  “Oh no, he will. He says. On his own timetable. He’s waiting for the festival to be over.”

  “The festival?”

  Patricia was suddenly very tired. She gave Rachel’s arm a little squeeze and said, “How about I tell you all about it at dinner? I need to make a couple of calls, and then maybe I’ll try on one of those siestas. You mind?” She summoned up a smile because she knew Rachel could hear it in her voice.

  “Course not. I’ll give the hammock a ride. Let me know if you need me.”

  By dinner time, Patricia had not slept, nor had she found a way to get to Real. A car or jeep and a good map looked like her only hope. She had accomplished one thing, a stronger determination.

  She spent the cocktail hour on the balcony telling Rachel about her meeting with Miguel.

  Marta called them to dinner and they sat down to a table heavy with food: ensalada, chile rellenos, arroz, and biftec tampico. They ate in a small sitting room just off the garden. The night air carried the fragrance of flowers.
>
  While Rachel ate, Patricia raved on about Miguel. “He may think he has me cornered, but he ought to know me better.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I haven’t a clue,” Patricia muttered and absentmindedly chewed on a piece of cheese from one of the chiles.

  “Well, I may have an idea.” Rachel put her fork down. “While I was sitting around doing nothing, I talked to Roberto. It seems he has a cousin that knows these mountains near Catorce. You might could hire him to go there and look for Max.”

  “What?”

  “If you’d like, you could ask Roberto about this cousin.”

  “Roberto?” Patricia said, picturing a mud-smeared Mexican boy running through the spray when his father, Mario, was watering the plants. Mario had been the Morelos’s gardener even before she married Tomas. She had not seen the child in several years.

  “Yes, I think he’s around somewhere.”

  As if summoned by Rachel’s quiet words, an equally quiet voice called from the garden, “Señora?”

  “Come in,” Rachel said.

  Patricia saw that Roberto was still a child, probably eleven or twelve, and still unwashed. He was small boned, but wiry and muscled, a miniature of his father. His eyes watched her, but he moved closer to Rachel.

  “Did they find him?” Rachel asked, her hand on his arm.

  “Max? Someone found Max?” Patricia almost screamed, standing abruptly, Roberto pulled himself away from Rachel’s grasp.

  “Roberto, come back,” Rachel held out her hand. “And Patricia, will you listen? Did they find your cousin?” she asked the boy.

  Patricia sat back in her chair.

  “Si, Señora. The n—news, he is good. M—maybe. He say—” The boy gave Patricia a glance.

  “Despaccio. Slower, Roberto,” Rachel coaxed, “And you’ll not stutter. Now, what did he say?”

  The boy rammed his hands into his pants, thrusting the pockets below the ragged hem. He stood straight, official. “Mi primo—cuzine, say gringo, uh, Americano, he in mountains. Silver there, mucho long ago. Now, only leetle.”