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Francis almost laughed. Few people knew how to keep secrets as well as priests. Federico seemed nice, and he’d helped yesterday, but Father Davis had seemed nice too, befriending Francis right before hand-delivering him to Giancarlo.
Francis absently rubbed at the scar on his palm. He had no intention of making the same mistake twice.
“Mia told me your name, if you’re wondering,” Federico added.
That made sense, he supposed. “I uh… My friend was due to meet me, and it’s been awhile now.”
“I’m sure he’s around,” Federico said, unhelpfully. It wasn’t his fault. Why would Vitari be in danger? This priest had no idea who they were, what they’d been through, and everything they were running from. “Did you check the beach?” Federico asked, his kindly eyes smiling too.
“I’ve looked everywhere.” Francis didn’t want to sound whiny or desperate, but he was beginning to feel both. He couldn’t call Vitari—he’d left the phone behind to pin down the note—and couldn’t call the police.
He was alone.
“He’ll be along.” Federico tried to reassure him, then must have seen the panic on Francis’s face. “Unless there’s a reason he might be in danger?”
There were a thousand reasons why Vitari might be in danger, but none he could tell Father Federico. “I’m sure it’s nothing.” He flashed a smile. “You’re right, he’s probably around somewhere.” Francis thanked him and wandered back toward the hotel. He’d checked the Jeep once already, but as he approached it a second time, something metal sparkled underneath it. He knelt and fished the heavy metal thing out.
A gun.
He almost dropped it, then remembered his fingerprints were already plastered all over it and clutched it close. Nobody was in the parking lot; nobody had seen him pick up the gun.
Was it Vitari’s gun? He cradled it in both hands. It looked like Vitari’s gun.
Why would it be under their Jeep?
He scanned the parking lot, spotted some tourists, and discreetly tucked the gun under his shirt. The dirt and dust beside the Jeep did seem to be scuffed about, with long scrapes and arcs in the gravel. Signs of a struggle? A few dark spots caught his eye. He knelt and poked at them.
Blood.
“Oh no.”
Vitari had been taken.
It was obvious, wasn’t it? The note, his absence, the gun. He’d gone for a walk, and he wasn’t back, and the discarded gun was proof someone had taken hm, someone who had overpowered him, someone capable. Not just one… One person wouldn’t be able to bring down Vitari. More than one. And they had a few hours head start.
What was he supposed to do? He had no idea where to look or who to speak to, nobody to call—certainly not the local authorities. The police would probably arrest him, if they even cared at all.
Francis needed help.
He turned on his heel, jogged back to the church, pushed through the big door, and found Father Federico laying out rows of prayer candles. “So… uh… I need some assistance in a… difficult matter,” Francis panted out.
“Ah, Francis, back again so soon.” Federico waved him over. “Is this about your friend?”
“Yes, Father. It’s just…” The old priest gave Francis the same patient, mildly intrigued face that Francis often gave his own parishioners, probably expecting a menial ask or a spiritual query. “He really is missing. He’s been taken.”
Federico’s hands stilled over the candles. He turned and met Francis’s gaze, finally taking him seriously. “Taken? You are sure?”
“Certain.”
“Perhaps, the policía?—”
“No, no police.” Francis stared back.
Francis stood in the middle of the little town church, empty pews on either side, with the kindly eyed priest studying him, and he wasn’t sure if he belonged, or if he had any right to ask a man of God for help. But his church, the church he’d tried to serve, had been a sanctuary for all. Especially those in need. “It’s a really, really long story, but he’s in trouble, and I have to find him.”
“But you can’t ask the police?” Federico asked. Some of the lighthearted warmth had cooled in his eyes.
“No. Definitely not. It’s… complicated.”
