Day 18 – Monday afternoon, Feast of Stephen
Ginny’s residence
Ginny set down the phone feeling frustrated. She wandered over to the window and peeked out, being careful not to disturb the blinds. The gallóglaigh had spent the afternoon inspecting the house, making adjustments both inside and out, behaving almost as if she wasn’t there.
“Step back from the window.”
Ginny started, turning guiltily to find the man also moved like a cat, silent even on the staircase, which should have creaked to warn her of his approach. She stared at him, breathing hard, then moved to her computer and sat down, pulling up the genealogy files.
“Fergus Stewart.” She dug into her database, but ten minutes of searching failed to find the man who stood absolutely still, absolutely silent in the doorway. She turned to face him.
“What am I overlooking?”
He lifted an eyebrow, but did not answer. She turned back to her machine.
“Starting with the shared ancestor, James Edward Stewart, my mother’s grandfather, I find three boys and two girls. Of the three boys, the eldest died without male heirs. The second is my mother’s father, my grandfather, Alasdair Stewart. The third is his youngest brother, Donald Mor Stewart.” Ginny looked over at the gallóglaigh. “Your grandfather.”
A nod.
Her eyes narrowed. “Mor, in Scots, means ‘great.’ I never met him. Was he a great man?”
“He was.”
“What made him great? He wasn’t christened ‘Great,’ was he?” She saw the man’s mouth twitch.
“He weighed nine pounds at birth.”
“Oh!” Well, that made sense. A baby that big might impress his mother as being worthy of the epithet. Ginny turned back to her files. “Donald Mor Stewart had three sons, John Edward, Alasdair Mor, and Donald Brian. Which of them was your father?”
“John Edward.”
Ginny focused on John Edward Stewart. “No Fergus here.” She spent another fifteen minutes sifting through the online databases, looking for a link, finding nothing. She swung around and faced the gallóglaigh. “If you're an imposter, Himself will have to be told.”
The man smiled at her, then turned his back and went downstairs. Ginny frowned. Neither Himself nor her mother could make a mistake on a family connection so close to Sinia Stewart Forbes. There was a secret there, and he wasn’t telling, and the others might not know.
Ginny crossed to the window again, in defiance of orders, but lingered for only a moment, then retreated into the center of the room. Her eyes ranged over the four walls and came to rest on a photograph of herself at one of the Scottish Country Dance Balls. It was full dress. She was in a floor-length ball gown of dark green velvet with her Forbes tartan flying behind her as she turned. Her partner was in dress kilt, complete with lace jabot, and looked good enough to eat. The next Tartan Ball was this Friday, followed promptly by the Hogmanay celebrations on Saturday night.
Ginny’s eyes narrowed. She was not going to miss those parties! Even if she had to bring down the drug cartel by herself, she was NOT going to be locked up this weekend!
She metaphorically rolled up her sleeves, and went back to work. If the only way to be free was to do the professionals’ job for them, then she’d better get busy. There was a lot to be done and not a lot of time left to do it in.
* * *
Monday evening, Feast of Stephen
Grace Edward’s Residence and beyond
“NO! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout at you, but I can’t come in tonight. You’ll have to find someone else to cover for Ginny.” Grace Edwards shook her head at the phone. “Personal business. No, I can’t move it. Look, I’m sorry, but I CAN’T. Goodbye.”
She hung up the phone wondering if they dared fire her. It wasn’t as if she was just hanging around, doing nothing. She had to meet her supplier, then take the drugs to the curandera.
It would be full dark in another twenty minutes. She had just enough time to wolf down a sandwich, then get in the car and get over to the rendezvous point.
An hour later she was headed back, the precious drugs in the special bag she used for such things. It already had the rest of the items they would need: chemo gloves, IV supplies, antihistamine, antiemetic, more fluids. The latest supplies had been ‘liberated’ from the Hillcrest Medical ICU stock. She would have to find a way to replace them, but the need was great and urgent and the hospital could afford to lose one or two things. They could consider it a charitable donation.
She drove slowly along the narrow street, giving the neighborhood ample opportunity to look her over and identify the car. Just as she was about to run out of paved surface, a shadowy figure detached himself from a tree and sauntered over. She slowed to a stop, then reached up, and turned on the inside light, so he could see her clearly. He looked, then gestured for her to park the car and get out.
“Por aquí.”
She followed him across the yard, along a dry creek bed, and into the shelter of a dense stand of old oaks. A few minutes walking brought her into the presence of a very old farm house. She hadn’t been here before, and it was a mark of respect that she was being allowed to see this place. Her guide held the ancient door open for her.
She stepped inside and looked around. There was no electricity. Propane lanterns hung from hooks in the ceiling, and a log fire burned in the massive stone fireplace. A line of camp stoves were in use, making stew or soup, and boiling water for drinking. She’d taught them that. Texas wasn’t a hot bed of dysentery, but the water still needed to be treated if it wasn’t coming from the approved water supply.
“He is over here.”
The curandera took her hand and led her to a pallet in the corner of the room.
The boy’s eyes, dark in their sunken sockets, studied her without interest. The skin across his cheeks looked paper thin and taut and pale. Dehydration, she thought, and malnutrition. Probably, he couldn’t keep anything down. A woman lay beside him, her arms around the child.
They had hung discarded curtains around the makeshift bed, in an effort to make the corner warm for the child. The curandera placed her palms together and dipped them in Grace’s direction. “Gracias. Thank you for coming.”
Grace handed over her bag. “This has everything you will need. I’ve included written instructions, in Spanish, so you will know how to administer the medication.” The old woman had started an IV before, with Grace watching, so she knew how. “Just follow the directions.” She smiled at the boy's mother. “Rezaré por ti.”
The woman kissed the child’s head, murmured something to him, then climbed to her feet and came over. She grasped Grace’s hand and kissed it. The curandera translated.
“She says, you are a good woman and she thanks you.”
“Please tell her I’m happy to do what I can.”
The healer nodded. “I am happy, too, that you are here.” She held the bag out toward Grace. “I cannot do this. You must.”
Grace tried to back away. “No. I got you the drugs. I can’t do more.”
The old woman caught her eye and held it. The fire glowed in the black depths of her gaze and Grace found herself unable to turn away.
“You are the enfermera. It is you who must save this child.”
Grace tried again to make an excuse, to break away and escape this painful scene. “Take him to the hospital. That’s your best hope.”
The old woman shook her head. “They will take him and send us back.” She held out the bag again. “You are the enfermera entrenada. It is you who must give the drug that will save his life.”
Grace looked at the child on the bed. He was barely breathing. “It may kill him.”
The mother gathered her son into her arms once more, then looked up at Grace and spoke, the curandera translating.
“She says, she understands, and if it is God’s will that he die, then that is God’s will. But at least you will have tried.” She held the bag out again.
Grace stood motionless, trying not to see the child, or the tears in his mother’s eyes, or feel the weight of her vow to serve the sick wherever she might find them. Very slowly she reached out her hand and took the bag, then moved over next to the pallet and went down on her knees. She held out her arms to the mother. “Give him to me.”
* * *