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Key chuckled at the notion. There wasn’t even a Catholic church in Eden Pass. The few Catholic families in town traveled twenty miles to worship. They were treated with only a little more tolerance than the Jewish families and were looked at askance by the Protestants of his hometown, where most folks erroneously assumed that if you were American-born you were automatically Christian.
“I was raised a Methodist, but don’t hold that against them. They did their best. I was the scourge of every Sunday-school teacher unfortunate enough to have me in class. I eliminated any doubts they might have had as to the devil’s existence. I’m living proof that Lucifer is alive and well. When it comes to righteousness, I’m a lost cause.”
“I don’t believe that.” The priest raised his glass and looked through the rum as he spoke. “I’m not much of a priest, but I haven’t forgotten all my training. I can still see into a man’s heart and judge his character with a fair degree of accuracy. It took a man of courage and compassion to bring Mrs. Porter here, particularly when one considers her relationship with your brother.”
Key let that pass without comment and leaned across the table so he could whisper. Water was running in the bathroom, but he didn’t want to take a chance on Lara overhearing. “Since you claim to be a fairly good judge of character, would you say the soldier on the road was fooled by that crock of shit you fed him?”
The water in the bathroom stopped running.
The priest drained his glass. “No.”
Father Geraldo and Key exchanged a stare rife with unspoken meaning. Lara rejoined them, fatigue weighing down her small frame.
“Bedtime,” Key said, coming to his feet.
The priest led them through a maze of hallways. Entering a cloister, he smiled at Lara encouragingly and indicated the window. “It opens onto the courtyard. I thought you’d like that. But be sure to use the mosquito netting.”
She didn’t seem to notice that the cot beneath the crucifix was narrow, that the only lighting was a weak, bare bulb suspended from the ceiling, that the chamber was airless and hot, and that in lieu of a closet there were three wooden pegs extending from the wall.
“Thank you very much, Father Geraldo. You’re placing yourself at tremendous risk in order to help me. I won’t forget that.”
“It’s the least I can do, Mrs. Porter. More than once this church benefited from your generosity even though you aren’t Catholic.”
“I admired the work you were doing here. It superseded the arguable points of dogma.”
He smiled poignantly. “I remember when your daughter was born. I happened to be visiting the hospital wards that day, heard you had just given birth, and stopped by your room to extend my congratulations.”
“I remember. We had met socially on a few occasions, but you were wonderfully kind to visit me that day.”
“That was the first time I’d ever seen you smile,” he remarked. “And so you should have. Your Ashley was a beautiful baby.”
“Thank you.”
The priest took her hand. After giving it a brief squeeze, he said good night and left the room. Having been reminded of her daughter’s birthday, she looked forlorn and small, as though grief were shrinking her. Key wanted to alleviate her bereavement, to touch her with compassion and understanding as the priest had, but his hands remained at his sides.
“Do you still have the pistol?” he asked.
“I put it in the camera bag.”
The bag was hanging by its strap from one of the wall pegs. Key removed the large revolver and handed it to her. “Sleep with it. Don’t be without it.”
“Did Father Geraldo tell you something I should know? Are we in danger?”
“I think we should be prepared for our situation to get worse before it gets better. If we have no trouble, it’ll be a lucky break.” He nodded toward the cot. “Try to get some rest. Tomorrow will be a long day. We’ll start at the embassy.”
She held him with a puissant stare that made him increasingly uncomfortable. “Tell me th
e truth, Key,” she said softly. “Don’t talk down to me as though I were a child. You think this is a wild goose chase, don’t you?”
He did, but he didn’t have the heart to tell her so. Father Geraldo had confirmed what he’d guessed—that the soldiers had let them into the city because they were curious to find out more about them and what they were doing there, not because they’d believed the priest’s tale about a widow and her idiot brother-in-law.
Key believed they’d be lucky to escape Montesangre with their lives. He doubted very much that they’d fly away unscathed with the casket bearing Ashley Porter’s remains.
But while he didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth, he wouldn’t insult her intelligence with a fatuous lie. Compromising by avoidance, he said, “Get some rest, Lara. I plan to.”
Rather than go to bed, he returned to the kitchen, where he kept Father Geraldo company while the priest drank himself into a stupor. Leaving him slumped over the table soundly snoring, Key found a cot in the tiny room across the hall from Lara’s. He stripped to his underwear, lay down between the scratchy muslin sheets, and dozed fitfully, his ears attuned to any noise.
He must have slept more deeply than he’d thought, because he awakened with a jolt when someone shook his shoulder. Reflexively he grabbed the Beretta, released the safety, and sat upright.
