Catch Her If You Can (19 page)

The next challenge was to remember where or when I’d heard them before. I knew I had. Several times. The solemn cadence struck oddly familiar chords. I scrunched my forehead, trying to puzzle it out, and yelped.

“Yowza!”

The pain shot out of nowhere. As sharp and lancing as a spear, it bored into my left temple. I sucked a strangled breath through my nostrils and went stiff as a board.

“
Bueno
. You are awake.”

The cheerful voice came at me through the waves of pain and last, echoing bongs. With infinite care, I pried open eyelids that felt as though they’d been glued together.

At first all I saw was a low ceiling showing a spider-web of cracks. That expanded to include whitewashed walls and four iron bedsteads, one of which I occupied. Then a round, boyish face swam into sight.

“Duwyn?”

Good Lord! Had that hoarse, unintelligible croak come from me? I swiped my tongue over sandpapery lips and tried again.

“DeWayne?”

“DeWayne?” The face hovering over me took on a perplexed look. “What is this DeWayne?”

I had focused enough now to see now this guy wasn’t Junior Reporter. Which begged the question . . .

“Who . . . are you?”

The chubby-cheeked stranger broke into a beaming smile. “I am Fay Alfonz.”

The grit coating my eyeballs had obviously affected my vision. He didn’t look like a she. I swiped my cracked lips again.

“Your name is Fay?”

“No, no! I am
Frey
Alfonz. ‘Brother’ in your language. Here, let me help you to drink.”

Brother? I chewed on that while he slid a hand under my neck. “You’re a priest?”

There was that joyous smile again. The sheer magnitude of it made my head hurt. I tried to absorb its brilliance in small doses while reflecting on the fact that this chubby-cheeked adolescent didn’t resemble any of the friars or priests portrayed in flicks like
The Da Vinci Code
and
Doubt
. Those guys were all pale, ascetic-looking individuals with wooden rosaries dangling from their belts. This friar wore jeans and a frayed T-shirt with faded blue lettering that proclaimed 2008 as
Año de Santo Paulo
.

“How can you be a priest?” I muttered as he raised my head. “You don’t look old enough to drink beer, let alone communion wine.”

“I add the water to it.”

The fingers he slipped around my nape tangled in some strings. Strings to a hospital gown, I realized when I leaned into his hold. One of those open-backed jobbies that afford the medical types easy access and their patient no dignity whatsoever.

When he eased me up, my head flopped onto my shoulder. I couldn’t believe how weak I was. And how parched! My entire body shaking, I leaned forward to slurp from the plastic cup he tipped to my lips.

“Slowly,” he cautioned. “Drink slowly or you will become sick and disoriented again.”

“Again?”

“You have been delirious since Miguel brings you to the clinic.”

That explained the whitewashed walls and four beds. My gritty eyes made another sweep and took in a metal stand on wheels parked below an elaborately carved wooden crucifix depicting Christ in his final agony. A reminder to patients at this tiny hospital to keep their own aches and pains in perspective, I guessed.

“Has anyone come looking for me?”

Brother Fay’s two-thousand-megawatt smile dimmed. His baby face didn’t project solemn very well, but I could tell he was giving it his best shot.

“Three men have come here.”

“Who? And here, where?”

He answered in reverse order. “You are in the village of Tapigua. Miguel Samos found you. In the branches of a mesquite.” His voice took on a note of wonder. “Miguel thinks at first he sees an angel.”

My mother would have choked on that. Even I came darn close. Neither of us have ever considered me the least beatific.

“Miguel untangles you,” Brother Fay continued, “and brings you to me.”

“And you brought me to the doctor?”

“No, no. I treat you. I am physician to my small flock as well as priest.”

He was a priest
and
a doctor?

Permit me a small aside here. I have nothing against overachievers. I work with three every day. Four, if you count Sergeant Cassidy’s bone-deep devotion to physical fitness. For some reason, though, this twentysomething doctor/priest hit a nerve.

Maybe because I’d recently chalked up the big three-oh and all I could list on my resume were a string of car-hopping and waitressing jobs, a brief marriage, and twentysomething months as an Air Force lieutenant. Try comparing that to med school and Holy Orders.

“You said three men came looking for me,” I prompted. “Did they identify themselves?”

“Two were
Policia Federal
.” Brother Fay’s face clouded. “I know these two. They take money and turn a blind eye to many bad things. I did not tell them Miguel had found you. Nor did anyone else in the village. We decide to hide your presence until you recover enough to tell us who you are and why these bad men search for you.”

“My name is Samantha Spade. I’m a lieutenant in the United States Air Force. I was abducted by a slime named Rafael Mendoza.”

The padre’s breath hissed out. “He is evil, that one.”

“Very,” I agreed.

“We think . . . We could not prove it to the
policia
, but we believe Mendoza’s men are the ones who took little Angelina. She is but nine years old when she disappears. Her parents weep and pray for her still.”

The very real possibility little Angelina was now in a brothel on the other side of the border curled my hands into helpless claws.

“Why does Mendoza abduct you?” Brother Alfonz wanted to know.

“To exact revenge against a friend of mine.” I didn’t go into detail. I was more interested in finding out who else had come looking for me. “Who was the third man?”

“I do not know him, nor does anyone else in the village. But he offers much money to anyone who will tell him of the whereabouts of a
Norteamericana
lieutenant.”

“Did he give you his name?”

“Hector Rodriguez.”

No help there. He could have been a Mendoza hireling or one of Mitch’s associates from either side of the border. I took my lower lip between my teeth, wincing when enamel scraped raw flesh, and tried another approach.

“How long have I been here in, uh . . . ?”

“Tapigua.”

“In Tapigua?”

“Miguel finds you three days ago. You have the concussion, I think.”

“You
think
?”

My opinion of his accomplishments dropped several notches.

“I could not do X-ray. Our machine breaks months ago. So I leave you to sleep and cure yourself.”

“Thanks,” I said dubiously.

“
De nada
. If you feel strong enough to eat, I will summon Elena. She and her daughters have tended to you these days and nights.”

I’d like to tell you I didn’t really care who had tended to me. I’d like to, but I can’t. Doctor or not, the mere thought of baby-faced Friar Fay emptying my bedpan or tugging my hospital gown over my bare thighs made me distinctly uncomfortable.

“First things first,” I told him. “What I need right now is . . .”

A deep-throated bong interrupted me. Father Doctor Alfonz smiled at my startled expression.

“That is La Grande. The largest of our bells. You will hear La Mediana next.”

Head cocked, he listened with obvious delight to a second, mellower dong.

“What’s with . . . ?”

“Wait.” He held up a finger. “Now La Bonita. She is the smallest and had the prettiest sound until she cracks.”

I contained my impatience while Bonita did her thing. She clanged three times, sounding flat even to my untrained ears. La Grande and La Mediana joined in for a final chorus. Wincing, I waited for the echoes to fade to ask.

“What’s with the bells?”

“It is Sunday morning. They summon the people of Tapigua to Mass.”

Sunday? I tried to remember what day Pipe Guy and pal had snatched me. Thursday, I thought. I’d spent the rest of that day in Mendoza’a guest cell and escaped in the middle of the night. That tracked with Friar Fay’s assertion that I’d been at his clinic for three days.

I don’t know why reconstructing the timeline gave me a panicky feeling. Probably because of the blank spaces I couldn’t fill in. What happened after my frantic call to Mitch? Had he assembled a task force? Tracked Mendoza to his hilltop lair? Gone in with guns blazing?

Or had he tried to follow my trail? Was he looking for me, along with Mendoza and this Hector Whoever.

“I need to make a call,” I said urgently. “Do you have a cell phone?”

“No. Tapigua is too remote for such service. There is a phone in my office,” he added, “but I do not think you are strong enough yet to get out of bed.”

“I have to.”

Wrong answer. I didn’t realize
how
wrong until I shoved aside the sheet covering my lower extremities and swung my legs over the side of the bed.

My bare feet thumped the floor. My hospital gown bunched around my hips. Father Fay’s round, worried face blurred.

“You must eat and regain your strength,” he said when I sank back against the pillows. “Tell me the name and number of the person you wish to contact and I will make the call for you.”

My dizziness subsiding, I waited while he fished a pen and crumpled envelope from the back pocket of his jeans.

“Call Special Agent Jeff Mitchell.” I gave him Mitch’s cell phone number. “If for some reason he doesn’t answer, call the Isleta office of the U.S. Customs and Border Patrol in El Paso.”

I couldn’t remember that number.

“Tell whoever you speak to where I am and ask them to give Special Agent Mitchell the message. Make sure they understand this is urgent. Do you have that, Father? Er, Brother?”

“
Si
. Special Agent Mitchell, Isleta office of U.S. Customs and Border Patrol.”

I thought about asking him to contact one of my team members. Their numbers I could remember, but I didn’t have much confidence any of them would answer. Fridays and Saturdays Dennis competes in round-the-clock online chess tournaments, so he always sleeps past noon on Sundays. Pen attends a nondenominational service before junketing off to one meeting or another. Sergeant Cassidy clanks away on his Universal Gym and probably wouldn’t hear the phone. Rocky . . . Okay, I don’t know what Rocky normally does on Sunday mornings. I’m not sure I really want to.

“Please, let me know if you get hold of Special Agent Mitchell.”

“
Si, si
. And I will send Elena and her daughter to tend you.”

Crumpled envelope in hand, he hurried out. I had barely settled against my pillows when he hurried back in with two people hard on his heels. One was a woman in a dark dress and white, bib-like apron with a large bottle clutched in white-knuckled hands. The other was a giant.

I kid you not! The man stood at least six-eight, with shoulders so broad he had to turn sideways to get through the narrow door. If Tapigua boasted a village tailor, this guy undoubtedly kept him in business. No way he could have bought his starched white shirt and Sunday-go-to-Mass suit off the rack.

“This is Elena,” Father Fay said, worry stamped on his chubby face. “And Raoul. He tells me strangers approach. They bring an evil-looking dog that sniffs the trail.”

“The
policia
?”

“One wears a uniform of some sort. The others do not.”

I wanted desperately to believe the one in uniform was Mitch but couldn’t take the chance. Friar Fay agreed with my assessment.

“We must hide you until we know who these people are and what they want. Raoul will carry you to the bell tower. They will not search for you there.”

“Their dog will.”

“Not if Elena washes away your scent with antiseptic. We must hurry now. Let Raoul lift you.”

He was a gentle giant, I’ll say that much for him. I’m not exactly a lightweight, but he hefted me easily and precipitated only a minor shaft of pain. Unfortunately, he wasn’t particularly attentive to little things like gaping hospital gowns. Elena clucked and twitched the gown over my exposed posterior but it flapped open again as Raoul followed Friar Fay out of the clinic.

I got my first glimpse of Tapigua from the giant’s arms. It sat on a low ridge, with an unimpeded view of the desert surrounding it. The village itself reminded me instantly of Dry Springs. Same dozen or so crumbling adobe houses. Same dirt road bisecting the town. Only instead of Pancho’s bar/cafe/motel/convenience store, the heart of this community appeared to be its church.

I’m not Catholic, but I’ve spent enough time in the Southwest to appreciate the artistry that goes into even the smallest of these local churches. Tapigua’s was no exception. Its adobe exterior had been painted deep ochre, the window and door frames a brilliant turquoise. A gloriously ornate stone facade decorated the front entrance. A Virgin Mary in bloodred robes smiled benignly down from a niche above the double wooden doors.

The bell tower was entered from inside the church. The very crowded church. It was crammed with villagers in their Sunday best, every one of whom slewed around in their pews and no doubt got an eyeful when the giant carted me into the vestibule.

“Raoul will carry you up the stairs,” Brother Fay told me hurriedly. “I will change into my vestments and meet these men with the dog at the door. I’ll stop them if they try to enter the church.”

He spun off to the right. When Raoul went left, something long and snaky slithered across my shoulder. I smothered a screech and jerked away. Not a wise move with my head aching, but relief preempted pain when I identified the snaky thing as one of the bell ropes.

There were three of them, each thick and fat and shiny from long use, with faded signs on the wall behind identifying their associated bells. As Raoul maneuvered me up a set of twisting wooden steps I sincerely hoped no one would latch on to one of those ropes and set off La Grande or La Bonita.