I didn’t speak.
Jerry’s eyes studied my face, but now he looked down at the notebook. “Woman at the school says, let’s see…” He consulted his notes. “… Says you called at about one o’clock that afternoon.”
My skin was tingling, as if my whole body had physically gone to sleep, every muscle full of pins and needles and totally unresponsive. I remembered Father Ignacio’s vigilance at our meeting, his warning: There is something going on right now. I cannot speak about it. It is not safe… You must be very careful… I swallowed hard. I wanted to feel something, but I couldn’t. Instead, I spoke, almost mechanically. “I called to get a name from him. A name that he had given me before, but I had forgotten. The name was written in my book.”
“The book that got stolen?”
“Yes.” I went on, “It was a Spanish name-it was unusual. I’d never heard it before. I couldn’t remember it.”
“So this priest, he’s the one you mentioned Saturday night?”
“Yes. He’s the one who knew about my book, what was in it. In fact, he was the only one who had ever actually seen what I was sketching and writing. He hadn’t really read the whole thing, just a few things I sent him. And he looked at the maps and the drawings in the book, just scanned it, really.”
“And, let’s see, what was his angle?”
“You mean, why was I consulting him?”
“Yeah. Was he some kind of expert or something?”
“Yes. He had written a book about the Penitentes. I read it and looked him up. He hadn’t wanted to see me, but I persuaded him. I only met him the one time. The Catholic Church evidently did not look kindly on his research.”
“Oh? Who told you that?”
“He did. And another priest that I met in Agua Azuela just this morning.”
“This priest in Agua Azuela, is he working on the same stuff?”
“On the same stuff? Oh, no. No, he just held mass there. No, he said-well, actually, he told me that Father Ignacio was… that the Church did not approve of the work he was doing regarding the Penitentes. And then he said he thought my book was ill-advised.”
“Well, that makes two of us. So, this priest-what’s his name?”
“Father Ximon Rivera.”
“Father Rivera. So, he knows about your book, too?”
“No. Well, he didn’t. I mean he didn’t until Regan announced that I was writing it.”
“Regan?”
“Regan Daniels. She’s a friend of mine.”
“Regan Daniels,” he said, as he wrote the name in his notebook. “So, let’s see, she’s the woman from Agua Azuela you mentioned, and the priest from Santa Fe-that’d be the late Father Medina-they were the only ones who knew what the book was about.”
“Right.”
“So you don’t think she could have had anything to do with your book getting taken?”
“No. No, absolutely not. First of all, she is a friend of mine. And she’s the only local elder who has given me direct, firsthand accounts of Penitente rituals she has observed. She’s been a valuable resource. She’s told me dozens of stories.”
“Do you know if she knew Father Medina?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know, really. I’m just seeing if there’s a string that ties all this stuff together, but if there is, I can’t see it. So you called Father Medina to try to arrange to see him again, right?”
“Right.”
“But the receptionist told you he wasn’t there?”
“Yes. No. Actually what she said was that he wasn’t available right then. That’s what she always said when I called. The only difference…” I closed my eyes and replayed the conversation in my mind.
“The only difference?”
“Well, she hesitated before she said it. For more than a few seconds. And then when I told her I didn’t have a phone and couldn’t leave a number, but I really needed to talk with him, she covered the phone up and talked to someone else.”
Jerry was taking notes on his notepad. After a few seconds, he looked up. “And then what happened?”
“She just said she would leave a note that I called, and she hung up on me.”
Padilla looked up at the ceiling and he tapped his pen on his notepad repeatedly, beating out the rhythm of his thoughts. Finally he stopped tapping and said, “Okay.”
“Father Ignacio, when I met with him, he said something was going on with the Penitentes. He said someone was… let me think, how did he say it? He said someone was trying to ‘steal their power.’ And I think he was… I don’t know, expecting something to happen. He kept watching the door. He told me it wasn’t safe. He said no one trusts anyone, and no one would trust me.”
“He did, huh?”
“Yes. He kept checking the door, like he was afraid he was being followed. When I asked if he was expecting somebody, he just said, ‘Perhaps.’”
Padilla bit the end of his pen. “Is that right?”
“He said the Penitentes had been betrayed by traitors.”
The deputy’s eyes had thinned to two narrow cracks, his nose wrinkled almost in distaste. He didn’t speak.
“Jerry, what do you know about this crucifixion thing and Father Ignacio?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “I don’t know nothing. Like I said, talk to Christine Salazar. I don’t even want to know as much about this case as I do now. Whole idea, a priest-well, the whole thing gives me the creeps.”
I gave a heavy sigh. “Hey, whatever happened with that guy from the club, Manny?”
“Not much. Guy seems clean. He’s a decorated veteran, no record. Doesn’t have so much as a smudge against him. I don’t figure him for it. But we’re still looking into it.”
“But why did he say he was making sure I was all right? Did you ask him about that?”
“Yeah, we asked him. He said he didn’t think you belonged there. That was all he said.”
I put my hand to my forehead and closed my eyes, rubbing my temples.
“Well, I don’t have anything else. I’m gonna get out of here. You try to get some rest, okay?” He tucked his pen and notebook in his pocket and got up. “And you don’t know where that book of yours is now, right?”
I shook my head no.
“I think that’s probably a good thing. You be careful, Jamaica. I can’t prove it, but I still suspect that you were the target last night at that club. Until we figure out why they’re after you, or what they want besides that book of yours, I’m afraid that you are going to continue to be the target. You ought not to be alone.”
22
The next morning, I checked in at the Bullet Hole for target shooting. Armed federal agents were required to qualify on their weapons quarterly and present their targets and scores to their supervisor. I picked up ear protectors, goggles, and two boxes each of 5.56mm shells for my Ruger Mini-14 rifle and 9mm for my handgun.
I used the rifle first, my favorite, and ran the target out as far as it would go. I could only load five shells in the magazine at once, with another in the chamber, but it didn’t take me long to spend both boxes of ammo, drawing the slide handle all the way to the rear each time I had loaded the magazine, then moving the safety to off and pulling the trigger until the magazine was empty. I pulled the paper target up for review: I had drilled out a hole the size of a softball in the heart of the poor stiff on the paper, and nailed each of his ears and his forehead.
I loaded the clips for my Sig Sauer P229 9mm Luger next. Technically, resource protection agents carried a sidearm for protection from animals. We weren’t supposed to use them on people unless it was for self-protection. Mine usually languished in the glove box of my Jeep. I preferred the rifle for range riding, and I was good with it, even though I had only needed to fire mine twice in the line of duty-once to kill a snake, and the other time to scare off a mountain lion. I wasn’t as good with the pistol, but I was getting better.