Fallen Masters (35 page)

“Yes,” Rojas said. “I have a daughter—she is fifty now. When she was a baby, she was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer. This was fifty years ago, remember, and the treatment for cancer was not as advanced as it is now. The doctors told me that there was no hope.

“But I prayed to God, and I made a promise that if my daughter was cured, I would make this pilgrimage on the anniversary of her healing every year that she was alive, no matter what.”

Unable to let herself believe that there was any correlation to his daughter’s healing and his faith, nevertheless, slightly envious of it, she smiled indulgently.

Rojas showed a picture of his daughter, her children, and her grandchildren.

“I am glad you have such faith, Señor Rojas. And I am glad your daughter lived to provide you with such beautiful grandchildren and great-grandchildren.”

“Faith is a privilege to be shared, my dear. And God gives gifts all the times …
Milagros,
miracles are his calling card.”

Rojas grew quiet then, but his simple declaration of faith had left her feeling moved. She was also aware that there was something in great opposition happening inside her. Part of her wanted to hug this complete stranger for sharing his personal and intimate story with a complete stranger, but there was this weird swirling of hate and envy being nurtured inside her. She was in tune with her own feelings and she felt anger and hostility toward this man who, unlike her, had been given such a happy ending. She had been to more specialists and all concurred that her cancer was incurable. There was no happy ending for her. She was also acutely aware that for all the money in the world, success, and fame, none of it could give her that sense of peace, nor did it save her father or her husband.
What about me?
she wanted to cry out.
What about
my
life?

CHAPTER

63

Mexico City

When the door to the plane opened, Paul was standing there in the Jetway with a team of private security agents, waiting for her. Most people can’t even come to the gate anymore, and Paul was actually standing in the Jetway. She wondered how he’d gotten access until she saw some uniformed airline executives standing there with him, waiting to whisk Charlene off the plane. She couldn’t help but wonder if there was any limit to Paul’s ability to get things done.

Mr. Rojas was coming behind her, and because he was old and lamed by ancient knees and protesting joints, he needed assistance. She crooked her arm to let him walk with her.

“What are you doing, Charlene?” Paul asked. “We are going to be late.”

“Late for what, Paul?” Charlene asked. “Mr. Rojas was very helpful to me during the flight down, and the least we can do is help him off the plane.”

“Helpful in what way?” Paul asked, clearly irritated by the situation.

“Not in any way you would understand,” Charlene said. “In fact, I’m not sure I understand it myself. Come along, Mr. Rojas, just hold on to my arm and we’ll get down all right.”

“Thank you, Miss St. John,” Rojas said as the two of them moved slowly down the Jetway. There was a wheelchair waiting for Rojas when they reached the gate, and Charlene wished him well, then left the airport with Paul.

She was used to checking into hotels under assumed names, but she was quite surprised when she saw how Paul had registered her.

“Eva Perón?” she said. “Paul, you actually checked me in under the name of one of the most famous women in all of Latin America?”

“Yeah, well, that’s the only name I could think of,” Paul replied.

Charlene laughed.

Five minutes after unpacking and appreciating the courtyard of the Four Seasons Hotel, Charlene picked up the phone and dialed Paul’s number.

“This is Paul Maxwell.”

“Paul, I’m going to take a drive.”

“I can’t go right now, Charlene. I’m waiting on a call to confirm some details of the show.”

“I don’t mean to sound put-offish, Paul, but I didn’t phone you to ask you to join me. I’m going for a drive, by myself.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Paul said.

“Paul, my father is dead. I don’t need a surrogate father.”

Paul sighed, indicating that he knew he had been beaten. “All right, I’ll have one of the security men bring the SUV around.”

“Thank you.”

Charlene didn’t tell Paul, but she had no intention of going with one of the security men, so she didn’t even approach the SUV she saw parked at the far end of the curved driveway. Instead, she got into one of the hotel’s town cars that was parked around on the side. She felt she just needed to get away from the “madness” that always accompanied major tours and public events, despite Paul’s and the others’ genuine concern for her safety.

“Señora?”
the driver said.

“I would like you to take me to the Basilica, please.”

“
Señora,
it is nighttime. The Basilica is closed,” the driver said. Charlene knew that if she didn’t go now, she never would get up enough nerve to do this again.

“I know, but please take me there. I would like to see it, even from the outside.”

“Sí, señora.”
The man behind the wheel was more than accommodating to Charlene. After all, she was an American and she would tip him well.

“How far is it?” Charlene asked as the car pulled away from the hotel.

“Cinco minutos, señora,”
he replied. Then he translated. “Five minutes.”

As they rode through the Zona Rosa, Charlene looked around at the busy street, taking in all the buildings and apartment complexes. She recognized many of the American chains like 7-Eleven, Burger King, and McDonald’s … but so many signs were in Spanish and she had no idea what they were advertising.

The driver turned down a dark street and pulled in between two buildings and stopped the car. Charlene immediately sensed that something wasn’t right about this.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “Why have we stopped? Why are we in this alley?”

The driver started honking his horn, and five men appeared from behind one of the metal doors onto the alley. The door was marked with graffiti that read,
VIVA DOMINGO
,
and Charlene thought to herself that there might not be a “Viva Charleno” if this played out the way that she was seeing it.

“Get your famous
gringa
ass out of my car,” the driver said.

“What is this about?” Charlene asked. “Why are you doing this?”

“You think I do not know who you are? You are Charlene St. John, the famous American singer. And you are worth much money to my friends and me.”

When Charlene exited the car, she found herself standing in the middle of what seemed to be a very long, narrow alley that would only fit one car. There were two people guarding her behind the car, and four others in front. They were arguing in Spanish about what they should do with her. She knew the word meaning “to kill” was
matar,
and that was definitely used a few times. It was at that moment she realized how tall the buildings were on both sides and that they went straight up and formed great columns.

She smelled something very familiar and realized that it was McDonald’s french fries, a universal smell. Where there were McDonald’s, there were people, at all hours of the night. If she could get their attention, maybe they would help her.

But yelling for help would do nothing, this she knew instinctively. And though she knew the word for “help me” in Spanish,
ayudame,
she didn’t think shouting that would accomplish anything either.

She could scream. But, too often now, with the violence and evil—the Dark Forces—in the world, a scream would simply send people running in the opposite direction.

“Sing, girl, sing.” She heard her father’s voice.… “You know what to do.”

Did she actually hear this? Or did she imagine it? Whatever it was, it was inspired. She was told that the entire world recognized her voice, so that is exactly what she began to do. She sang an aria, her voice rising to magnificent heights of volume and power.

Charlene St. John might have been able to navigate a crowd without being recognized, but there was one thing that was undeniable and recognizable and that was her voice. When Charlene opened her mouth, her would-be captors were stunned, and by the time they were thinking on their feet again, a crowd of people had started to form to hear where her voice was coming from.

Within one minute there were enough people there for Charlene to be signing autographs, taking photos, all while singing as loudly as she could. Charlene grabbed two of her would-be kidnappers and pulled them into a photo with her, kissing one of them on the cheek.

But as she touched him, it felt as if, somehow, the gates of Hell had opened. She couldn’t explain it, not even to herself and certainly to no one else, but she felt the swirling pool of evil in his core as a “black force.”

She recognized that this feeling was not pure, and it certainly wasn’t positive. It was frightening, yes, but much more than frightening. It wasn’t just that the man was evil—evil itself became almost sentient.

As the crowd moved her down toward the main drag, she saw Paul standing there with a camera crew from the local affiliate. Her SUV and a security detail were waiting to take her back to her hotel.

“What are you doing here, Charlene, of all places?” Paul asked, surprised to see her coming out of the alley. He had been looking everywhere for her and gotten totally freaked out—nearly ready to call out the national police to find her.

“It just happened,” Charlene replied without being more specific.

“Come on. I’m going to get you back to the hotel.”

“No, not yet,” Charlene said. “I still have one more stop to make.”

“Charlene, don’t be silly,” Paul said. “I don’t know what you were doing here in this alley, but I have a feeling it wasn’t something you had planned.”

Charlene was not used to hearing the word no. She just found out she was dying a few weeks ago and she had just foiled a plot to kidnap her; she felt she was entitled to do what she wanted.

“Paul, I am going to do this,” Charlene said. “And I can either do this with you as my manager, making all the arrangements for the concert coming up, or…” She let the sentence hang.

“Or what?” Paul asked, concern in his voice.

“Or I can do it without you as my manager. It’s your call.”

“All right, all right,” Paul said. “I won’t try to stop you. But, there’s something I must insist upon—meaning that if you don’t agree, then you really will have to do it without me as your manager, because I will quit.”

Despite the intensity of the moment, or perhaps because of it, Charlene smiled. “All right, Paul, what it is that you insist upon?”

“You will take the SUV and a security guard.”

Charlene stepped up to Paul and kissed him on the cheek. “Isn’t it fun when we threaten each other and neither of us mean it?” she asked. “I’ll take the SUV and the security guard.”

“And call me when you get back.”

“Yes, Mama G,” Charlene said with a little laugh as she slipped into the backseat of the SUV.

Mama G? Where did
that
come from?
she wondered.… She had only meant to say
Mama
.

CHAPTER

64

Mexico City

As Charlene and her bodyguard walked toward the Basilica—which reminded her of the Space Mountain ride at Disney World—she noticed a church to its left that seemed to be lopsided and sinking. She had been told that the Basilica was closed, and pulling on a few locked doors seemed to confirm that. Not ready to give up, she approached yet another door where she saw a young Mexican priest who could not have been more than thirty years old. He was startled when he saw her, not because he was afraid, but because of who she was—or at least who she appeared to be.

“You?” the priest said. “Are you Charlene St. John McAvoy?”

Charlene started to deny it, but she was standing in front of a church, and he was a priest—so she couldn’t do it.

“Yes,” she said.

“Encantado. Que gran privilegio,”
he said.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish.”

“I am privileged to see you,” the priest translated. “Why have you come?”

“I’m not sure why I came,” Charlene admitted. “I am afraid that I have no faith. I have no particular belief. But I met a man on the plane. His name was Mr. Rojas, and he has come here every year for fifty years on what he calls a ‘promissory trip.’ It has something to do with his belief that prayer saved his daughter when she was a little girl.”

“There have been many miracles worked by Our Lady of Guadalupe,” the young priest said. “God has worked miracles through you, through your music, though you may not know it.”

“I’ve been told that,” Charlene said.

“And how does that make you feel?”

“It makes me feel uncomfortable. I’m not a miracle worker, Padre.” Somewhere she had heard that priests in Mexico were called padres. “I am merely a woman with a good voice.”

“And where do you think you got that voice?”

“I was born with it.”

“Does everyone have a voice so beautiful?”

Charlene smiled as she thought of Anna York in the Baptist church, back when she used to attend. Anna York had the worst voice she had ever heard, but seemed, somehow, to sing the loudest.

“No,” she admitted. “Not everyone.”

“God grants such gifts only to a few people,” the priest said. “And accepting that gift means also accepting the obligation to use it for His glory.”

“If you say so,” Charlene replied. The conversation was making her uncomfortable, and she was wondering now why she had come here in the first place.

“Do you want to go inside?” the priest asked.

“You can let me in?”

“Yes.” He opened the door just wide enough for her to enter. “Please remember to close the door when you leave.”

“I will, Padre, and thank you,” Charlene said.

CHAPTER

65