Despite the creaking noises, she felt snug and cozy inside her insulated hideaway. Eventually, the blizzard would blow its way across the Sierras and eastward toward the Rockies. Electric heaters kept the bedrooms comfortable, and the large downstairs fireplace, which Walt had constructed of granite chunks found scattered over their one-acre property, gave her a sense of well-being.
During the summer she and Teddy had chopped and stacked wood from limbs that had fallen from a stand of pine trees behind the house last winter. On top of that, she had ordered an extra cord of firewood. They stored it under the overhang on the rear deck and covered it with a heavy tarp to keep the moisture out.
With the weather preventing outdoor play, Leah occupied the kids with an endless Monopoly game and a double feature of Raiders of the Lost Ark and Star Wars. Although the cabin was wired for cable, service often failed during storms, just when she needed the TV most. The VCR provided a reliable source of entertainment unless they lost all power. After supper, a reading from Treasure Island and a go at "Teen Trivia" helped pass the time.
"After ten, folks. Time for bed." Ignoring the retirees' mandatory grumblings, Leah nudged them up the stairs with a reminder to floss.
Normally, these trips to Heavenly Valley were Leah's happiest times. No thoughts of malicious dictators ordering the arrest and torture of domestic political opponents disturbed her enjoyment of the mountain air and scenery. Away from the City, she gave herself permission not to worry about raising the consciousness of complacent Americans.
Here, she was just Mom. The days provided memories she would cherish long after Teddy and Monica had moved into their adult lives. She'd have many stories to tell her grandchildren about the good times the family had shared in this special place. And, yes, a few not so good times, including this one. It saddened her to think there might never be grandchildren, that she might never tell those stories. Would anyone believe this real-life tale? Probably not. If she lived through this, the story might make page three of the Chronicle. Readers might remark at work that day, "Did you hear about . . . ?" then get caught up in the important business of the day, buying and selling whatever it was they bought and sold.
Was her job worth the effort, the long hours? If it were just a job, no, it wouldn't be worth what she and the children faced. But, being director of POCI/USA was more than that. Could she ever forget the faces of the Mothers of the Disappeared in Buenos Aires as she marched and wept with them in a mournful circle? Or the children orphaned by Salvadoran death squads?
I have no other choice. She had to go on prodding the American conscience with her lectures to campus, civic, and church groups, her monthly newsletter to the generous faithful, and her press releases on the growing use of torture as institutional policy.
For the first time since awakening early this morning, Leah was alone. She thought of Jay and ached to have him with her. Sleeping together Saturday night, making love, receiving the ministrations of his generous heart had reawakened her desire for a beloved's affection.
Motherhood gave enormous satisfaction, but it involved a lot more "give" than "get." As independent as she was, the needy woman inside craved attention. She loved being told she was beautiful and desirable by the man of her choice. Jay was that man. Will I ever hold him again in this life?
Leah waited by the phone, hoping he would call as he had the night before. She tried to picture him at the retreat house but couldn't. She had never been in one. Her imagination created a movie-set cloister. Praying monks. Total silence, except for a melodious chant floating in the air. A cold, forbidding chapel with strange statues of bleeding, unhappy-looking saints. She saw a tiny cell with stick furniture, Jay sleeping alone on a hard pallet, very unlike the bed they shared Saturday night.
Only hours ago? Impossible! It felt like years. What seemed even more impossible was the reappearance of her first love. To discover the old intensity and caring still there, undiminished by the intervening years and their separate life experiences, was joy beyond imagining. What if Jay had come and Walt was still alive? Would I have felt the same passion for him? Would I have been tempted to . . . ? She shut the door on this runaway train of thought. Mere speculation! Having reopened that long-sealed closet, she had to know what was inside. Then speculate!
She thought of Walt and the life they shared. She glanced at the photos of their children on the fireplace mantel. Next to them, Walt smiled at her from a gold frame. No, if Walt were still alive, I would not have been tempted by Jay's return. It was the truth. My love for him would have remained, as always, a highlight of my life, a treasure preserved forever from exposure to the light of open scrutiny. Without hesitation, she'd have chosen Walt and Teddy and Monica. But without Walt, there's room again for Jay. Leah's heart sang with delight at the possibilities that lay ahead, if-- Everything has a prefixing 'if' right now. My whole existence is a big 'if.' How she longed for the peaceful times, taken too much for granted, a past during which the Barton family's only prefix was an optimistic "when."
Leah spent the evening in anticipation of Jay's call, but by eleven-thirty no call had come. Disappointment seeped through the cracks in her optimism. The beginning quivers of faceless fear cramped her insides. Weary, she dozed in a leather chair, while the fire declined from flame to glowing coals.
Another hour passed before Leah awoke. She turned off the downstairs lights and lowered the thermostats on the baseboard heaters. She glanced at the silent phone on the counter, as she passed it. Before going upstairs, she lifted the receiver and put it to her ear.
Dead!
A shiver raced down the length of her body. She knotted her fists and tucked her arms defensively against her breasts. The storm? She hoped so. Leah was no wilting lily, but neither was she brave enough to venture outside in the dark to see if wires had been cut. If someone had cut the lines or messed with the fuse box, that person might still be out there, waiting for her to unlock the door.
It hadn't occurred to Leah to provide herself with some means of self-defense. The closest thing to a weapon in the house was a carving knife. A silly idea. I could never plunge a knife into another person's body. She shivered at the thought and tried to subdue her terror. Yet, she found herself in the kitchen opening the cutlery drawer. It would give her some sense of added security to have the long, razor-sharp utensil within arm's reach on her night stand.
Clutching the knife, she crept up the stairs and into her bedroom. She felt more maternal than unholy. These were her babies asleep across the hall. She'd protect them with her life. No sound came from the other bedrooms. She looked in on Monica who slept with the serenity of a cherub. Teddy lay sprawled almost sideways across his bed. One arm dangled to the floor. When Leah pulled the covers over him, he mumbled something in his sleep about a policeman.
"Poor kid. You must be waging this battle in your dreams." Good guys versus bad guys; cops chasing robbers. She wished the good guys luck.
In her own room, Leah placed the knife on the stand and removed her Irish knit pullover. Her breasts tightened and dotted with a rash of goose bumps from the cool air around her. Slipping out of her wool pants, she pulled her terry caftan over her head.
Whether it was fear of sleeping alone or her need to be the protective mother, she picked up the knife and returned to Monica's room. Nudging her daughter toward the wall, she arranged the weapon on the night stand and snuggled close to the child's warm, slender body in the narrow twin bed.
Although Leah's mind was anything but peaceful, sleep finally relieved her burden.
29
Except for meals and the concelebrated community Mass at noon, Jay spent the rest of Monday in his crudely furnished cell in the rear wing of the retreat house. He hadn't known such utter quiet in years. The first hours were torture. Instead of reading the Bible he found in his room, he read the Smith & Wesson owner's manual from cover to cover. Every door that slammed along the corridor made him reach for the loaded weapon under his
pillow.
By mid-afternoon he had relaxed a bit. With some degree of calm, his mind reviewed his current situation and the implications of "the gun," which had taken on its own persona. With the way back to Santo Sangre cut off, Jay considered asking for political asylum in the United States. Considering the current negative climate in America regarding Hispanic refugees, he doubted INS would grant his petition. How can I prove I'm under sentence of death at home? Will they give me time to demonstrate the validity of my claim? He wondered what effect marriage to Leah might have on his status. He needed a good immigration attorney to advise him and plead his case. What if they find a gun in my possession? What if Immigration deports me? Certainly prison, probably death.
Consideration of his future in the States had to be secondary. The immediate problem spasming his insides and loosening his bowels was how to protect the Bartons from Angel. And if the only way to do this is through force? Despite his decision to purchase the gun, Jay couldn't justify killing Angel, not even in self-defense. What other realistic option do I have? His love for Leah demanded that he do everything in his power to survive and save the Barton family from the peril he had brought upon them. He slid his hand under the pillow, felt the cool steel barrel and prayed he'd never have to use the unholy thing.
Jay considered the .38 a foreign object, only temporarily in his possession. He would never claim it as his own. His seminary philosophy classes provided a useful distinction, the difference between "ownership" and "having the use of." Religious Orders, bound by the vow of poverty, had long rejected personal ownership of material goods while allowing themselves the use of the things of the world, such as, cars, TV sets, clothes--a distinction lost on the layman. Jay was prepared to use the gun if he had to, but only if he had to. It will never be a part of me. Ideally, it would go back to Daley's Gun Shop, unused and no longer needed to provide its dubious protection.
After supper, Jay tired of the sterile loneliness of his cell. Slipping the revolver into his jacket pocket, he went out into the darkness to pace the private road that circled the retreat house. A lacy, starry tent stretched across a clear, moonless sky. The night was crisp and the air--an old friar told him at supper--purer than usual for the smoggy Pasadena area.
Jay's lungs sucked in oxygen as he picked up the pace of his stride. Perspiration broke the surface of his forehead. He opened the throat of his jacket to let the night air cool his upper body. Although the exercise helped him relax, he kept an alert eye on the road and parking lot. He listened for the slightest sound that didn't belong on these holy grounds.
Coming around the north side of the building, Jay heard footsteps behind him. He pretended not to notice. He quickened his pace and embraced the handle of the revolver. The steps matched and surpassed his picked-up tempo. He took an evasive step to his left and pivoted on his heel. Coming to a quick stop off the gravel path, he faced his "shadow." The short muzzle tented the material of his jacket pocket, pointing straight ahead into the menacing night.
"Is that you, Father de Córdova?" a young voice called.
"Who is it?"
"Brother Joel, Father." The sandal-shod friar came forward. His night-brown robe acted as a blackout shield, allowing only his bright innocent face to reflect what little light found its way to the path.
Jay relaxed his trigger finger and the bulge in his jacket slackened. You almost got your head blown off, son.
Brother Joel said, "A man came to the door asking for a Spanish-speaking priest to hear his confession."
Jay shrugged. "What does that have to do with me? I'm a guest here. There must be another priest who can help him."
"I suggested Father Sanchez," Brother Joel said apologetically, "but the man asked for you by name. No one else would do. Only you."
"Is it a priest?" It could be Pete Escobar or a brother priest referred by him.
"No, Father. A layman. Never seen him here before. Sorry to bother you. He's waiting in the chapel, in the rear confessional. I offered him an opportunity to go face-to-face in the parlor. He didn't seem to know what I was talking about."
* * *
On the way to the chapel Jay knew who awaited him. Reconciliation with God was the last thing on this penitent's mind. To send another priest in his place might endanger one more innocent life. He had too much indelible blood on his hands already.
He entered the dimly lit chapel by a side door. In the silence his heart pounded out a primal rhythm. Red and white votive lights threw wavy shadows on the opposite wall, creating an illusion of a building in motion. A moment's vertigo blurred his vision. He felt for one of the solid oak pews to steady himself and let his eyes adjust to the undulating interior.
Two confessionals were built into the back wall. Heavy maroon velvet drapes covered the entrances to the three compartments that comprised each unit. A small, shining red light over the far section of the confessional on his side of the chapel indicated where his penitent waited. In prayer or ambush? Jay pushed aside the middle curtain and slipped into the confessor's chair. No sound came from the other compartment.
Jay gripped the handgun and removed it from his pocket. Is this where my life ends? As a young seminarian, he would have welcomed Sister Death coming to him in a chapel. It seemed spiritually romantic. Tonight, nothing made sense. He, the pardoner, held a lethal weapon. He assumed his penitent was armed and eager to murder again.
This isn't how I want to die. A hail of gunfire at close range in the house of God? Confessor and penitent meeting their Judge at the same time, each with the other's blood to answer for? A forfeit of all the ideals he had cherished throughout his life. What difference does it make? I surrendered my values in Daley's Gun Shop. Stupid killings! Waste of irreplaceable human lives Yes, Angel's too. But, if it buys life for the Bartons, it's worth the price.
That was Jay's one remaining desire, his only consolation. Before he died he must see that Angel did no further harm to Leah, her children, or anyone else. At least he could approach God with an asterisk after the record of his act of murder: *In taking one life, he saved three others."
Jay breathed a long sigh and opened the slide. "Peace be with you," he said in Spanish.
"Father Javier de Córdova?" It came as an indictment more than a question.
Jay had heard this voice on the phone in a busy Roman restaurant and at Amsterdam airport. He strained to identify the face blurred behind the distorting plastic screen. "Who are you?"
"You surprise me, Father. Since when does a confessor demand that his penitent identify himself?"
A mixture of hatred and terror squeezed Jay's intestines.
Angel continued, "The president of the Republic of Santo Sangre, His Excellency Raúl Montenegro, has sentenced you to death for the crime of high treason against the State. I am under solemn orders to carry out your execution."
Jay raised the loaded .38 to the center of the screen opposite his executioner's face. Five shots in rapid succession would paint the opposite wall with Angel's brains. You have the element of surprise. Do it. Do it! Whatever punishment he might have to face for this crime, at least Leah, Teddy, and Monica would live the rest of their lives in peace and freedom. Leah could raise her children free of this beast of prey. Surely, Montenegro had enough humanity to be satisfied with the carnage already meted out against POCI.
"However," Angel went on, "there is something I must do first."
Jay's finger tensed on the trigger. He pressed the muzzle into the plastic barrier, furious at himself for lacking the guts to fire blindly into the screen.
"I want to make my confession," Angel whispered.
"If you think I'm going to absolve--!" In the shadows above the screen, the tarnished metal form of the Crucified One became flesh and gazed down at him, awaiting his decision. As we forgive those who trespass against us. The words of the Lord's Prayer challenged him to lower the weapon from the screen. "Make your confession, then." Sticky sweat plastered his shirt and windbre
aker to his body.
Jay listened in utter spiritual blackness to a schoolboy recitation of everyday human faults and minor sins, ranging in naughtiness from using bad language to "giving in to impure touches to my own body three times." Absence of light in the coffin-like booth deprived Jay of all sense of time or place. This could have been any Holy Saturday in the village of Santa Teresita, his penitent any of the men making his Easter confession. The metallic weight in Jay's right hand and the cramp in his unsteady index finger served as the only compass pointing toward reality.
When the agent finished without mention of either POCI murder, Jay couldn't refrain from a sarcastic, "Aren't you forgetting something?"
"No, Father."
"What about Rome? Amsterdam? Marcello Pontieri and Elli Vander Hoorst?"
"It was my duty! My conscience is clear, except--"
"Except what?"
What followed came forth in a guttural whisper. "I do confess to . . . performing certain acts . . . with the girl."
A wave of nausea rose to the back of Jay's throat. The inside of his head did a slow-motion, off-axis spin. "With her? I can't believe she cooperated."
"No."
Jay recalled Elli's pretty face and the blue eyes that shone in adoration of her gentle father. How he had envied Willie Vander Hoorst that day and craved a family of his own. "You raped her!"
"Yes, Father." The words were barely audible.
"She was hardly more than a child!"
"I am sorry for that. Forgive me."
"Why should I?" Jay raised the gun to the screen again. Do it! DO IT! "Why should God forgive a filthy butcher like you?" He clutched the weapon in both hands to steady its five missiles on course after launch. Up to a minute ago he would have killed Angel in self-defense and to save Leah. Now he considered it a privilege to stamp out this maggot to avenge the rape and murder of Elli Vander Hoorst and spare the world the contamination of this man's existence. If Angel justified killing in the name of his president, Jay justified it in the name of God and humanity.