Sixty-five

Yuma, Arizona

As soon as she gave Croft the address where Vega had stashed Graciella Lopez and sent him on his way, Sabrina headed for her car. Instead of getting in and driving back to the station or going to find Santos to tell him that Alvarez was their guy and that he’d taken Ellie, she leaned in through the driver’s door long enough to retrieve the red silk pouch Phillip had given her before slamming the door and resetting the lock. Church was across the lot, talking to the quartet of uniforms she’d rescued from Father Francisco’s frightened flock.

Leaving her behind, Sabrina followed the path around the side of the building until she came to an unassuming door with nothing more than a shallow concrete slab to mark it as an entrance. Trying the door, she found it unlocked. Either what happened to the priest had come as a total surprise to him or he’d felt it was inevitable and taking precautions was a waste of time.

Or maybe the ol’ padre felt like he deserved what was comin’.

Pushing the door open, she revealed a cramped, dimly lit studio. A twin bed pushed against the far wall. Next to it a squat, three-drawer chest served as both dresser and nightstand, books and a kerosene lamp within reach of the bed. A few feet away was the kitchen area and the building’s only electricity. A minute length of counter housed a mini fridge, a bar sink, and what looked to be one of those toaster oven/coffeepot combos found in college dorm rooms. On top of it was a single-burner hot plate. Above the countertop was a shelf holding a table setting for one, stacked neatly, waiting for use next to a few sundry items. One of them was a box of loose-leaf tea.

Filling the coffeepot with water from the tap, she poured it into the tank and switched it on. A few seconds later, steam and hot water started to sputter and drip from the reservoir into the waiting pot.

What do you think you’re doing, darlin’?

“I’m shutting you up,” she snarled out loud, yanking the ceramic mug off the shelf. Setting it down, she jerked hard on the kitchen’s lone drawer, sending the items inside scattering and rolling around its bottom.

I thought we decided that’d be a really bad idea.

Ignoring the voice inside her head, she rifled through the drawer’s sparse contents. A spatula. A set of measuring spoons. Dangling from a short chain, set with a small hook at its top, was a stainless steel tea infuser. Pulling the last two items from the drawer she shut it before placing them next to the cup.

Think this through, now. You need me, remember?

Despite her shaking hands, Sabrina smiled as she reached into her pocket and pulled out the pouch. Using the tablespoon, she scooped a measure of tea from the pouch, filling the infuser before clicking it closed. She placed it in the cup, hooking the short length of chain over its lip. “Yeah, you keep saying that but you haven’t told me why. Why do I need you, Wade?” It was the first time she’d addressed the voice inside her head by name and doing so tipped her over the edge. She was acknowledging that he was more than a figment of her traumatized imagination. More than a PTSD-fueled hallucination constructed out of survivor’s guilt and fear.

She was admitting he was real.

The coffeepot let out a final, steamy gasp, signaling it was finished. She reached for it. “Real or not,” she said, carefully pouring the carafe of hot water over the infuser, “I don’t need you.”

Yes, you do. You need me. You get rid of me, you’ll never find him.

“I already found him.” She gave the tea infuser an impatient dunk. “I know who he is and I’m going to stop him, just like I stopped you.”

You don’t really believe that. You want to stop him? You need me to do it.

Instead of answering him, Sabrina took her tea and carried it across the room. Reaching out, she placed it on the dresser to steep before pulling out her cell phone and the card Ellie had given her when they’d met here earlier. Dialing the number listed as her private cell, she listened to it ring and ring before her call was directed to voicemail. She hung up without leaving a message. Not ready to give up, she sent a text to Church.

Put a trace on Elena Hernandez’s phone.

Don’t ask. Just do it.

Settling in to wait, Sabrina studied the spines on the stack of books next to her cup. The Bible was sandwiched between Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman and Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea. At the bottom of the stack was a book, its spine worn and without title. Pulling it out she flipped it open. It was a journal. The realization turned her stomach and she immediately moved to close it. Setting it on her lap she looked at its smooth back cover. Seeing it, she realized that this was the book Father Francisco had been reading earlier when she’d found him in the prayer garden. That forced her to open the book again and had her flipping through its pages. Snippets of prayers jumped out at her. Scattered lines of poetry, some recognizable, some not. Random thoughts, obviously private, crowded the book’s margins. Feeling like an intruder, Sabrina turned the pages fast, only half reading what was written. At the back of the book was an old photograph, taped to the inside of the back cover.

The picture was of a much younger Father Francisco. He was handsome, dark hair and eyes smiling at the camera. On either side of him were a pair of young women, arms wrapped around his waist, heads tilted, resting on his shoulders. The women were pretty, grinning widely for the camera. Behind them she could see the Vegas’s sprawling ranch-style house, its front door flung wide open. People littered the background, holding plates of food and plastic cups.

Despite the fact that the photo was at least thirty years old, she recognized one of the women instantly. She pulled the picture from its mount and flipped it over. There, in a faded, ball-point scrawl, she found what she already knew.

Magda with Frank Vega and Amelia Macias
Photo taken by Gracie Lopez ~ 1979