She was a tiny woman, as her son had been small. She was very thin and her brown skin hung from her cheekbones, her scant white hair barely visible under her black mantilla. She looked up at me and clutched my hand. “Do you know why he was killed?” Her face was full of pain.
Startled, I opened my mouth but couldn’t speak for a moment. Then I said, “No. But I, too, want to find out. And if I do, Doña Medina, I will tell you what I learn.”
She looked at Tecolote, then at me again. “Señorita, por favor, venga a la casa,” she said, pressing my hand with hers.
“Oh, I couldn’t come to your house now, Doña Medina. It wouldn’t be right. I only met your son once, and we talked on the phone a few times. This is a time for you to be with your family and close friends.” I looked at Father Rivera.
He nodded approval.
Mrs. Medina also looked at Father Rivera. “Do you think we could have a moment together, we three women?”
Father Rivera looked at me with consternation, then menacingly at the curandera. He gave an exasperated exhale. “Certainly. I’ll go see about the car.”
After the father had left us, Esperanza spoke up, her eyes telegraphing in quick, black strobes. “Mirasol, you must do as the señora says. She has something for you.”
I looked from the bruja to Mrs. Medina. “For me? But…”
“Sí, it is something important,” Mrs. Medina said, making a loose fist and waving it between us to emphasize her point. “It is something he told me to keep safe for him. He told me…” She looked at the priest, who was only a few yards away, and stopped. She turned back to me and whispered, “Maybe you can help. At any rate, it is meant for someone else now… now that Ignacio is in heaven.” Her eyes filled with water. “Maybe it will help you find out why he was killed.” She released my hand and fumbled in the sleeve of her coat for the lace-edged handkerchief she had stuffed there.
Father Rivera approached. “We had better go now, Señora Medina. I think they’re ready.” He led her away. As he was helping Mrs. Medina into a black car at the road, he looked back at me across the cemetery. His blue eyes transmitted either concern or disapproval, I couldn’t tell which. And his lips were pressed together so hard they looked blue, too.
I turned around to see what Tecolote thought of this, but she was gone.
29
A large man stood like a sentry in front of the door of the Medina home. I recognized him as the driver who had come for Father Ignacio at the end of our meeting at the coffeehouse. “Señorita, you are expected,” he said as he reached for the door.
“Wait,” I said. “You were the one who came for Father Ignacio-”
“Sí, señorita. I have been close to you several times. You see, when Father Medina did not arrive at the school to teach his classes last week, I knew something was wrong. I tried to call you at your work, but I could not get in touch with you there, and the woman who answered said you did not have a phone. My friend Ignacio told me that he had given you some things to look for in your research, so I notified one of our Hermanas at the library to watch for anyone asking for them.”
“So you were the one following me that day in the Lexus.”
“Sí, señorita. I was the one. Because you had questioned Ignacio about Los Penitentes, we arranged for a group of Hermanos to examine your book-”
“You arranged to steal my book?”
“I am sorry. I-”
“One of your thugs hit me hard with something and…”
“We are so sorry for that unfortunate incident. I assure you, we did not-”
“Why didn’t you just approach me? You knew Father Ignacio had come to trust me.”
“When Ignacio did not come to the school to teach his classes, and no one could find him, we could not trust you or anyone else until we knew what had happened to our beloved hermano. We had to know what you were writing in that book, if you were involved-”
“Involved! You thought I-”
“Señorita, once we saw the book, we were satisfied that you meant the brotherhood no harm, and so we arranged to have your book returned. But we still do not know who has done this terrible thing.”
“So, did you call the BLM a second time, pretending to be my brother?”
“No. But we are concerned for your safety now, too. We have provided you with an ángel for your protection. He has been near you much of the time.”
“Was the angel the one pretending to be my brother?”
“No, señorita.”
Just then, the door opened. An immaculately dressed, darkly beautiful woman in her late forties or early fifties stood in the doorway of the Medina home. “Miss Wild?” she asked, before I could say why I had come. “I am Theresa Mendoza. I understand you knew my brother, Ignacio. My mother has something for you. Please come in.”
People packed the main room and both of the passages leading away from it, most of them eating from foam plates filled with beans, calabacitas, posole, and torta de huevo-a deep-fried omelet with red chili-the traditional Penitente feast foods for Lent. Theresa Mendoza led me through the narrow maze of add-on adobe rooms, past the woodstove, through a mudroom off the kitchen where brown-skinned women fussed with huge pans of food, through a bedroom with two beds on which several children were sleeping, and finally to a meager space at the back of the house.
Theresa Mendoza drew the thick, nubby Chimayo blanket across its wooden rod above the doorway. Inside the room it was cool, dark, and quiet-the space not much bigger than a closet and furnished only with a narrow, frameless bed, a rustic chest, and a crucifix on the wall. One small window faced west. We had to choreograph our movements so Theresa could get past me to the chest. She opened it and delicately extracted a large bundle, taking great care not to bump it against anything. The outside of this bundle was woven tan cloth embroidered with skulls. It was tied with ancient mecates, a painstakingly crafted horsehair rope that I had read about. Ms. Mendoza closed the chest, sat on the bed, the bundle on her lap, and nodded her head toward the place on the bed beside her.
I sat.
Father Ignacio’s sister wore a tiny gold cross in each ear, and her blue-black hair was pulled into a glossy, perfect bun at the nape of her long, slender neck. Like her mother and brother, she was small in stature, but not in demeanor. “I will show you what this is.” She lifted the bundle from her lap and looked for a place to set it. I scooted to the end of the bed, opening up space between us. She laid the parcel down like a baby. She closed her eyes, drew breath, and crossed herself. Her deft fingers began to work at the horsehair knots as she spoke. “This is something very old. Ignacio was given the great honor of caring for this only a few years ago.”
When the knots were untied, she pulled the rope away from the package and smoothed the fabric across the top several times with the palms of her hands, making it just so. Then she drew back the cloth. The box was the size of the object Mrs. Medina had been describing to Tecolote outside the church. It was made of hand-hewn cedar-large, perhaps eighteen inches by twelve, and six inches deep. The lid was like a three-dimensional retablo, with a beautifully detailed relief carving of the Last Supper, the multicolored hues of the wood creating the effect of shadows and light on the scene. At the center, the face of Jesus was disproportionately large, the carving deep-so that he seemed to be rising out of the box, emerging from the mortal plane, transcendent. His disciples on either side were caricatures of Hispanic villagers like the ones I’d seen all morning. Cracked, brittle-looking leather hinges held the top and bottom together, and a clever clasp had been made using two leather straps with slits that an antler tip passed through, securing the box shut.