Obsession (9 page)

Isabel whirled on him, eyes narrowed, fists on hips. “If it were my kid, I’d make damn sure I was with the rescue team, too.”

“Be reasonable. We have
zero
intelligence on a cold, rough area of the country, dangerous for experienced hikers and hunters, much less for a tenderfoot gringo. If this operation goes sour, we could bring down the wrath of the US government and Homeland Security. I doubt you want them all up in your business.”

Isabel glared at him. “Do you have a death wish? You’re doing this my way—or you know the drill.” She ran her red-tipped index finger across her throat. “And, at this rate, the way you’re going, I may just take care of you myself.”

The red-haired Amazon in question filled the doorway. “Tenderfoot gringo? Seriously, did you just say that?”

Now two women—strike that—two
mothers
—were really pissed and snarling at him. Angie stomped into the office and came toe to toe with him. “I’m betting the only tenderfoot in this room is you, my flabby friend.”

Flabby?
His hand flew to his abdomen.
Was he gaining weight?

The redhead continued, “I’m betting I can out run, out climb, and out kick your ass in the great outdoors.” She put her hand out. “Do we have a bet?”

Alejandro shrugged and extended a palm.

She surprised him with a bone-crushing grip.

“Yes, fine, we have a bet.” He jerked his hand away, but she wouldn’t let go. What was she, part wrestler, part pit bull?

“All right, enough. I give up.” He shook his aching digits. “Let me do some research. Then we can start planning our search for the treasures of the Sierra Madre.”

****

Angie stormed back to the guest room suite and slammed her fist against the rough stucco wall. Tiny flecks of white paint fluttered to the floor and speckled her scraped knuckles.
How dare he mock her?
Damn straight she was going to search for her treasure, her son, hidden, God only knew where, in Copper Canyon. The cult follower had given her that scrap of information just moments before he died in her arms.

She had a right to be there when they found her son and her sicko father. Angie closed her eyes and imagined the old man on his knees, bloodied, beaten and begging for his life. His lips would move but no sound would come out—only faint grunts because her hands would be around his neck—crushing his larynx with her thumbs, silencing his sadistic voice forever. Zeke Edmonds was hers and hers
alone
to destroy. No one was taking that away from her, not even a beguiling, intriguing, ridiculously handsome cartel underboss.

Thug. Pig. Disgusting dealer of drugs, disease, and death
. Where did he get off acting so high and mighty, ordering her to stay back? Since when did she take orders from criminals? The room was too damn hot. She was too damn hot. No. Alejandro was too damn hot. She needed to take a run, blow off this steam, or she’d tear the silk drapes and smash the gold framed mirrors in the suddenly too small room. Where were her athletic clothes? She found them in her duffle bag, along with her shorts and tee shirt, miraculously clean despite the multiple aggressive searches, first at the border, then at the mercy of Raul’s filthy paws. Raul.
Where the hell was he?
And what had Isabel done to him? One could only hope that he’d been at the receiving end of some form of medieval torture that left the man crippled and impotent.

Running clothes on at last, she flew out a side door into the pool area and smack into that damn man, Alejandro. Half-naked. Despite her verbal jabs about flab, his six-pack abs and sexy scar made her fingers itch to touch his skin. He wore a tiny, tight Speedo that left absolutely nothing—
nothing
—to the imagination. Had he no sense of modesty? Were there no laws about indecent exposure or just plain lewdness in this freaking country? Or unconcealed weapons of Miss and Mrs. Destruction? The man was, without a doubt, a humongous danger to anyone with a vagina.

At last she tore her gaze away from the man’s groin and up to his smirking face. She hadn’t even worked up a sweat, and she was already breathing hard.
What the hell was wrong with her?
Did she have altitude sickness?

“Are you following me?”

“No.” He frowned and gave her a slow once over. “Are
you
following me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She tossed her head, and her ponytail smacked her in the face. For God’s sake, even her hair was attacking her now. She grabbed her eye.

He touched her wrist. “Need first aid?”

“No.” She swatted him away. “I need you to leave me alone.” She turned to get away from him, from his smarmy good looks, and his teeny-weenie swimsuit.

“Hey.”

She turned. “What is it? I really need to get some exercise.” She jogged in place, then stopped when she saw his eyes moving up and down in sync with her bouncing breasts. She folded her arms over her chest and glared at him. “You have my full attention.” She struggled to keep her eyes on his face and not below the belt. She pretended he had a giant python in his pants. That helped. Sort of.

“Look, I didn’t mean to upset you before. I had your best interests in mind. If your father’s cult is in the mountains or valleys of the Sierra Madre, we’re going to be traveling over rocky terrain, some of it at high altitudes and steep grades.”

“And?” This was not news to her.

“Goats have no problem making their way around there. Well, goats and the Tarahumara.”

“Pardon me?”
What the hell was he saying?

“Indigenous people, here way before the Spanish arrived. Subsistence farmers, goat and sheep herders, tireless runners. As in they can run thirty to fifty miles a day without breaking a sweat.”

“Cut to the chase. What does this have to do with me?”

“You’re not a goat. Or a native of the area. I’m worried about your stamina. The days are hot, the nights cold and windy. It’s a desert in areas, wooded in others, and generally uninhabited except for a few thousand hardy Indians, Mexicans, mixed bloods, and Mennonites.”

“Skip the travelogue. Here’s what I hear you saying. You think I’m going to slow you down and be a burden. Is that right?”

He had the grace to look sheepish.

“Okay, Mr. Hot Shit. Put on some clothes.”
Please put on some freaking clothes and cover up that snake
. “And your running shoes. I challenge you to a race.”

He put his hand up. “That’s really not necessary.”

“I insist. And, how about a little friendly wager to make it fun?”

“Sure.” He grinned. “What’s the prize?”

“Loser gets to ask Isabel where we can find Raul’s body parts.”

His face fell. “That’s not a good idea.”

“What are you? Chicken?” She flapped her arms and clucked.

He laughed. “No, I’m more of a rooster. But that was an impressive imitation.”

“I grew up on a chicken farm. I also do roosters and lawnmowers, but that’s only when I’ve been drinking, and I don’t do that anymore. Aw. C’mon, let’s go for a little race.”

He tossed her a puzzled look. “Give me five minutes. I’m going to whip your ass.”

In her dreams.
She enjoyed the view of his nice tight buns as he walked into the changing room. Her feet itched to take her in the same direction.
Stop, woman
. A two-year dry spell didn’t give her permission to hop into a bathhouse with the first cabana boy she met. She ordered herself to do some stretching exercises. Mid-lunge, Alejandro appeared. In khaki shorts, a white T-shirt and sneakers, he still looked too freaking hot. The shorts did a terrible job of hiding his pet python. She swore the damn thing looked larger released from its Speedo captivity.

She cleared her throat and licked her dry lips. “You know the area, you go ahead of me.” A reasonable suggestion. Plus, she’d get to see that nice tight ass in motion.

“There’s a trail around Isabel’s property, a few hills, some rocks—”

“Shut up and run.”

He started with an easy jog, red dust kicking up behind him on the well-traveled running path. A few scrub pines and boulders dotted the landscape. A hawk circled over head, diving down, then up again, riding the air currents. She welcomed the strike of her foot on the hard ground, the pounding of her heart, and the mesmerizing rhythm putting her into a semi-hypnotic trance. Running brought back memories of the only times she felt free and easy as a child, back when a young woman named Janice had joined the cult.

Angie had been ten years old when her mother drove up to the house in the muddy pickup truck and announced that she had found “this poor young thing” outside a grocery store, panhandling and crying. Nineteen years old, abandoned by a boyfriend she’d followed to the Eastern Shore, Janice had no family, no job, and no prospects. Her father’s initial wrath at the arrival of the intruder subsided as soon as he saw the young woman. With her corn silk hair, big blue eyes, and freckles, Janice looked as if she belonged in heaven, not on earth. The following year was the best one of Angie’s young life. Janice told her stories about life outside the farm and the cult, about how women could be equal to men, and how there were some very bad people in the cities. Away from her parents disapproving eyes and ears, Janice taught Angie forbidden rock and roll songs, how to braid her hair, and how to run for the sheer joy of it. Then Janice disappeared.

Angie had cried for weeks. Her mother told her the girl had gone back to the Devil’s playground, and that Janice didn’t deserve her tears. That only made her cry harder. She wondered if she’d done something wrong and driven Janice away. Tightlipped, her father thrashed Angie with a leather belt, shouting, “I’ll give you something to cry about.”

Angie glanced up at the clear blue sky and saw dozens of turkey vultures circling overhead, diving and weaving in an erratic elliptical pattern. She ran harder, passing Alejandro, pushing herself past her pain, past the stitches in her side. Alejandro called after her to slow down, but his warnings only served to spur her on faster, toward whatever dead creature was being picked apart on the other side of a tin-roofed shed. Had Guillermo Goat met an untimely demise? She loved animals, and that creature had the personality of a pet dog. Her breath rasped in her ears, and as she rounded the shed, the stench of rotten meat hit her. A swarm of huge vultures gathered around a mound of dirt and fought over bits of flesh and bones. She screamed and stomped her feet at the hideous creatures, crying and shrieking at them at the top of her lungs. In that moment she was eleven years old again, struggling to drive buzzards off the body of her beloved Janice.

Chapter Six

Miriam gazed around the village square of El Paradisio and wondered how anyone could have named this flyspeck on a map Paradise. Beady-eyed chickens and roosters scratched in the dirt near a trading post. A band of brown-skinned children with stick-thin legs ran barefooted through the square, shrieking and chasing each other in what appeared to be a game of tag. A young girl watched them from the sidelines, her black hair wild, a brown-eyed baby in a sling on her back. The girl’s assessing gaze slid over Miriam, sizing up this outsider, another
chabochi
in their village. Yes, this was a poor village by anyone’s standards. But were they
desperate
?

She tore her gaze away from the little urchin. “Sister Anne, where will we find the nun in charge of the orphanage?”

Anne pointed to the dust cloud left behind by the roving band of children.

A woman in a head covering and dress the same color as the sand in the village square materialized on the steps of the church. Sun reflected from the mission’s stained glass windows and bathed the nun in a rainbow of colors. A feather of doubt tickled at the back of Miriam’s mind. Was this a sign from above that the Lord was protecting this Papist? She shook her head and the multihued vision disappeared, leaving only an elderly woman in a traditional nun’s habit in its stead.

The nun called out,
“Hola! Es usted perdido?”

Sister Anne translated. “She wants to know if we’re lost.”

Miriam chuckled. “Tell her no. We think we can help her and her graduates find their way to a better life.”

“That’s a little pushy, don’t you think?”

“If they really are Sisters of Poverty and Mercy, shouldn’t they be looking for opportunities for their flock?”

Sister Anne nodded, “You’re right. Without us, these girls would lead such dismal lives. With Father, they can play a great and glorious role. Their children will be the select leaders of the future world order.”

“Exactly. Let’s go choose the future Mothers of the Twenty-Four.”

Sister Teresa, a short compact woman with olive colored skin and gray hair peeking out from beneath her wimple, led them down the narrow hallway, chattering in Spanish as she walked. Sister Anne translated as they went along, indicating points of interest like a tour guide.

“Our boarding school and orphanage have been in continuous operation since the early nineteen-forties. We had a fire in the late fifties, but thank God, we were able to rebuild and re-dedicate ourselves to taking care of our girls.”

Sister Teresa opened one of the doors. “Girls sleep two to a room, and we have a total of a hundred beds, not all occupied. Some leave the school and go back to their villages before graduation because they miss their families.” The stocky nun shrugged and looked upward. “God only knows what the plan is. I took a vow of obedience. It’s His will, not mine that is done.”

Sister Teresa waved the two women into hard wooden chairs in a tiny, book lined office. Everywhere Miriam looked, a crucifix with a tortured Christ stared back at her. She tore her eyes away from the graven images and shuddered.
Idol worshippers.