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They rolled into San Blas as the sun rose over the endless ocean bay.
There would be a doctor, but finding one at four a.m. wasn’t going to be easy. A quick search on his phone revealed a resort at the south end of the town. A hotel would have a doctor and medical supplies, but on the way there, he spotted the church and pulled the Jeep to a stop outside.
Leaving Francis, he hurried up the steps. The man inside wore casual clothes but also a priest’s collar, the universal language of Catholicism, and introduced himself as Padre Federico. Vitari asked after a doctor in Spanish, and Federico took him across the street.
A sleepy-eyed woman answered her door, and the rest happened in a blur. Vitari maneuvered the Jeep up alongside her house. Together with Federico, they guided a mumbling Francis inside, where Mia, the doctor, administered a shot of antibiotics, laid Francis down on her examination bed, and removed the sweat-slick bandage.
Vitari winced at the state of Francis’s thigh. A few painkillers weren’t going to fix the angry wound. Mia said a whole lot about tidying his leg up and getting his temperature down, then went to work. Francis was in safe hands, and with nothing to do but rattle around the tiny room, Vitari headed back outside, tossed a blanket over the bags of cash in the Jeep, and sat on Mia’s porch steps, watching the people of San Blas go about their morning routines while he fretted over Francis.
Maybe he should pray? The church was opposite.
Francis’s God would have to listen there.
And he deserved a break. All of this—the chaos, the murder, the blood—Francis hadn’t wanted any of it.
Fuck, Vitari had ruined his life.
“He’s going to be fine,” Mia said in Spanish as she joined Vitari on the porch. She tucked her long dark hair behind her ear and nodded at the Jeep. “But he needs to rest for a few days. I’ll give him another shot of antibiotics tomorrow, then watch him to make sure he’s healing up and the fever is gone.”
Vitari nodded. “Gracias.”
“You know—” She sighed and tucked her hands into her pant pockets. “—I’m obliged to report gunshot wounds.”
He tried to read her face and get an idea whether she’d take a bribe or if she was going to be a righteous pain in his ass. “Are you, though?”
“Depends.” She sat on the step beside him. “He doesn’t look the sort to attract trouble, but you?”
“What do I look like?”
“Like you thrive on it.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Two hundred American dollars might do a lot for your clinic, doctor? Buy some much needed medicine?”
She smiled and nodded at the church across the road. “Give it to the church.”
Her and Francis would get along like a house on fire. “Rough night?” she asked, reading too much on his face—everything he was too tired to hide.
He laughed dryly. He reeked, he was certain the crusted dark stuff under his nails was blood, and he had a few days’ worth of stubble on his chin. But it was his heart that hurt the most. If he could stop that part of him from aching, he might be able to think straight.
“He’s going to be okay. Really,” Mia said, sensing the route of his pain. “I’m making coffee, do you want some?”
“Thank you,” Vitari said again, revealing too much emotion in his voice. Shit, he was a mess.
“Come inside, Vitari.”
In his panic to find someone to help, he’d told her their real names. Hopefully it hadn’t been a mistake.
He nodded. He would join her inside, he just needed a minute on the steps, alone, so he didn’t fall apart in there as soon as she said more nice things.
The church doors beckoned. He stood and ambled across the street but didn’t climb the steps. He rubbed at his face, wiping away the grit and sweat. It wasn’t meant to be like this. If anyone should get sick, get hurt, it was Vitari. Maybe God would agree?
Inside, prayer candles flickered to the left of the altar. Father Federico had made himself scarce, which suited Vitari. He knelt in the first pew and clasped his hands together. The last time he’d prayed it had been for Francis too, in his English church. He’d prayed that Father Francis Scott should be given a chance to be free, because in the week before they’d met, the week Vitari had spent watching him, he’d obviously been trapped. Now, Vitari was praying that Francis would find somewhere safe, and maybe someone to keep him safe. Because Vitari couldn’t. These last few days were proof of that.
If things continued as they were, he’d get Francis killed.
Vitari opened his eyes and caught Father Federico in his peripheral vision. “Your kind have a knack for lurking.”
“My kind?” The older man chuckled in Spanish.
