9

 

Tansy had read about Los Dominicos online. The former monastery was now a kind of open-air shopping mall, filled with the wares of local artisans. The size of the place surprised her. It was more like a college campus than a monastery.

Sebastian parked the car and was at her door before she had time to gather her bag and reach for the handle. He offered his hand as she exited the vehicle, then wove his long fingers through hers as they walked toward the entrance. Warmth curled in her belly.

The whitewashed adobe walls framed a veritable rabbit warren of rooms, outdoor walkways and three-sided chambers. Where Dominican monks had once lived and worked and worshiped, artisans of every kind now created and sold their wares. Behind a window, a man with a graying goatee carved a matchstick into a miniature sculpture of a painter standing at an easel. In another chamber, a woman seated behind a spinning wheel transformed a fluffy mound of alpaca wool into yarn. A huge wooden loom filled the space behind her. The fruits of her labor lined shelves along one wall.

Tansy couldn’t resist fingering the material, soft as a cloud.

“Those shawls are very popular,” Sebastian said. “Would you like one?”

Belatedly, she remembered she still hadn’t heard from Eva’s attorney. “I still have to get my traveler’s checks back. I should have said something. I can’t really do anything but window shop today.”

“I’ll buy it for you—” he started, but she reached up and touched her fingers to his lips, then jerked her hand back as if she’d been scorched.

“No. You’ve already covered enough.”

His lips burned with sultry heat where she’d touched him. “You are a stubborn woman.” His voice lacked his customary control.

“And you are a rich man.”

He grinned at her, and relaxed. "You’re right, I am." Then he tugged her hand to draw her deeper into the maze that was Los Dominicos. Children played at a fountain while their parents ate and socialized at nearby tables and benches. As Café Melba had been full of lively energy, this place was infused with peace, as if the lifestyle of the monks who’d lived here before still affected the atmosphere.

Sebastian led her past booths of handcrafted jewelry fashioned from the silver and copper and lapis lazuli for which Chile was famous.

Tansy paused at a display of children’s games and toys. The proprietor challenged her to solve a wooden puzzle. She tried, after watching his demonstration, and failed. She smiled at the proprietor, refused his offer of a sale on the piece, and ambled away to admire a selection of copper kitchen utensils.

Moments later, Sebastian’s hand settled on the small of her back with gentle pressure. “Come this way,” he urged, leading her along the cobblestone path.

The unmistakable smell of tanned leather goods wafted out of an open-air booth. The walls were laden with purses, briefcases, and bags in every conceivable shape, size, and color. A selection of wallets, coin purses, leather-bound planners, journals, and books graced a see-through cabinet.

Tansy placed her palms on the glass counter.

“Do you see anything you like?” Sebastian asked. He’d come up behind her, standing close enough she could feel the warmth of his body and smell his aftershave.

Before she could answer, an elderly man wearing a stained canvas apron tottered out of the back room on bowed legs.

“Can I help you find something?”

“Oh, no. I’m just admiring everything. Do you make it all yourself?”

The old man’s smile, a bright flash of surprisingly white teeth, transformed every line and crease in his leathery face into an aged version of Sebastian.

Tansy snapped her head around to look at Sebastian, and then turned back again. But whatever resemblance she thought she’d seen between the two men had disappeared.

“No, Señorita. I hire many craftsmen to fill my small shop. These are my only personal contribution...” He opened the back of the cabinet, withdrew one of the journals and placed it before her.

She slid gentle fingers over the embossed cover then flipped it open and exposed creamy pages of handmade paper. “You do beautiful work, Señor.” She stroked the soft leather cover, marveling at the skill with which the item had been crafted.

The old man pushed the journal toward her. “For you, Señorita.”

Tansy gasped, one hand moving to her throat. “Oh, I couldn’t, but thank you!”

“You can, and you will, or you’ll offend him,” Sebastian growled close to her ear, silencing her. “The Señorita is in desperate need of a new bag,” he said, lifting Tansy’s tattered messenger bag between two fingers above the counter where the old man could see it.

“I don’t...” She started to say, but Sebastian’s hand tightened on her arm.

The man pulled a pair of silver spectacles out of his shirt pocket and slipped them on his nose, then tapped them into place with one finger. “Oh, Señorita, a woman as lovely as you should carry something worthy of your beauty. This”—he dismissed her bag with a gesture—“this is not worthy of you.” His voice, rough with age, charmed her. Perhaps it wasn’t just the Sandoval men as Eva had noted. Perhaps it was a Chilean thing.

He turned and disappeared into the recesses of the small shop.

Tansy looked up at Sebastian. “You can’t buy me a new bag.”

“I’m buying you a new bag. And if you can’t accept it for yourself, then consider the blessing it will be to that poor old man.”

Tansy’s lips tightened. “I’ll pay you back.”

“Then you will insult me.” He tapped her under her chin with one finger.

She hissed and punched him lightly in the center of his broad chest. “You’re impossible!”

“So I’ve been told,” he replied, catching her fist before it connected with his breastbone again and using it to pull her into his arms.

 

****

 

Sebastian’s head dipped, and he kissed her.

Tansy’s world exploded. She had been kissed before, but not like this. A virtual galaxy of stars rotated behind her eyes. Her stomach fluttered, and her equilibrium faltered. She leaned into him, drawn like an orbiting moon to its home planet.

He tilted his head, silently asking her to open her mouth to him.

Tansy regained her faculties all at once and pushed away from him. He released her. She refused to meet his eyes, though she noted with primitive female satisfaction that he was breathing hard and his hands were clenched into fists at his sides. Tansy braced her hands on the counter, attempting to regain her balance. Sure, he’d kissed her, but that just reminded her that she had almost succumbed to the same kind of thoughtless passion that had driven Darcy St. John to her death.

The sound of laughter interrupted Tansy’s thoughts. She swiveled to meet the smiling gaze of the shop’s proprietor.

The wizened man held a beautiful leather bag the color of warm mahogany. He shuffled forward, still chuckling, and held out the bag. “I think this one would suit you, Señorita.”

“I... I couldn’t—”

“Couldn’t refuse,” Sebastian cut in. He reached around her and took the bag, then slipped her old bag over her shoulder. Before she could react, he was transferring the contents of her old bag to the new one.

“Hey!” she protested.

“I am honored that you will accept my gift, Señorita.” Sebastian said.

The old man handed Sebastian the small journal Tansy had admired. “A gift from me, as well.”

Sebastian took the journal and slipped it into Tansy’s new bag.

“Thank you, Señor,” Tansy said to the old gentleman, feeling awkward.

“It is my pleasure.” He inclined his head toward her, and then reached across the counter and clapped a sun-stained hand on Sebastian’s shoulder.

To Tansy’s surprise, Sebastian covered the hand with his own in a familiar gesture before stepping back.

Then the shopkeeper turned toward a group of approaching tourists and left Tansy and Sebastian alone.

Sebastian tossed her old bag into a nearby trash can.

“I might have wanted to keep that,” Tansy protested.

“Why?” He draped the strap of the new purse over her head and pulled her arm through, then adjusted the buckle so it was the right length.

Tansy sighed, conceded defeat, and admired the gift. The leather, imported from Argentina, according to Sebastian, was sturdy but flexible. The clasps and buckles were weighty and strong. It was the kind of handbag that might last a lifetime. She cuddled it against her side. It would provide a memory of her time in Chile—her days with Sebastian—when she returned home.

They walked together, side-by-side, past children clustered around the cages of rabbits and guinea pigs and birds in the pet store, past another fountain where a large white peacock strutted. She refused Sebastian’s multiple offers to buy more things. Guilt about the walking stick prickled her conscience. He might be flirting with her now, she thought, but when he knew she had deceived him, he would hate her.

 

****

 

He was falling in love with her.

They shared fresh empanadas, baked in a huge stone oven over a wood fire.

Tansy pronounced the pockets of dough wrapped around meat and vegetables her new favorite food and made him laugh when she insisted on taking a picture of the oven.

He asked her questions about her writing, carefully avoiding the subject of the St. Johns and the Sandovals.

She asked him, not about his business ventures, but about his childhood. He told her about the villa, about harvesting grapes off the vine alongside his abuelo, and about the games he’d played in the kitchen with his abuela. As easy as it was to leave out the names, he found himself wanting to tell her who he was, and that inner voice kept insisting he do so.

When she excused herself to visit the restroom, he considered the best way to tell her the truth. Hoping to ease the blow of his deception, he opted for gifts, and bought a pair of lapis and silver earrings and an alpaca wrap in an unusual shade of turquoise that would highlight her eyes. He checked his watch and realized she’d been gone more than ten minutes. Panic wrapped icy tentacles around his chest as he turned toward the small building that housed the restrooms.

 

****

 

“I don’t want to harm you, but you must cooperate.” Diego’s voice was cool and smooth behind Tansy’s left ear, and something sharp poked her in the side just below her ribs.

His friend, or accomplice, or whoever the man was, gripped both her arms and pushed her forward, away from Los Dominicos. Away from Sebastian.

The awkward threesome, with Tansy between them, wove a crooked path through the parking lot. They stopped at a small silver hatchback and opened the door.

“Get inside.” The larger man, the one she’d seen smoking the cigarette outside the restaurant, prodded her with thick, stubby fingers.

“What do you want from me?” she demanded, trying to turn to face her captors.

“Get in the car,” Diego reiterated.

Oily, she thought. It was the sole word she could think of to describe him. His features resembled Sebastian’s, but with an ugly, dark overtone. The sheer terror that had compelled her to run from the restaurant returned with a vengeance. She tamped it down and let anger take its place.

“If you’re planning to kill me you better do it here and now,” she said. “Because I’m not getting in that car unless you give me a reason to think it might save my life, not just delay my death.” She struggled against the arms that pushed her toward the open car door.

Diego muttered something in Spanish and shoved her into the backseat before she could manage more than a few misdirected punches and some futile kicks. She struggled to right herself in the seat. So much for all those kickboxing classes.

Diego leaned toward her, a menacing glare on his face. “Unless you wish me to give you to my friend when I’m through with you, I suggest you act more ladylike.”

The bigger man went around to the driver’s side and climbed in. Diego took the passenger seat, and the little car screeched out of the parking lot, away from Los Dominicos, and Sebastian.

 

****

 

When Sebastian reached the restrooms, he nodded to the woman who sold squares of toilet tissue for a few pesos. Had Tansy had any coins with her?

His mind flashed back to their evening at the pizza place, standing outside the ladies’ room waiting for her to emerge after she’d disappeared from the table. She’d taken care of herself then, despite her fear of Diego and unfamiliarity with Chile. Sebastian checked his watch after another five minutes passed. Dread began to coil around him like a python. He approached the woman outside, now chatting with a girl of thirteen or fourteen.

“Señora, have you seen a young woman? A mujar?” Sebastian described Tansy, down to her kaleidoscopic green and brown irises and the boots she’d been wearing.

The woman shook her head, but the girl laid a hand on the other woman’s arm and looked at Sebastian with wide, dark eyes.

“Sí, Señor,” the girl said. “She went with the men. Out the back way.”

A sharp streak of terror pierced Sebastian’s heart. “What men?”

The girl considered him. “One of them looked very much like you.”

Diego. Had she gone with him willingly? Or had Diego taken her against her will? Sebastian dug a handful of change and small bills from his pocket and tossed them into the woman’s bucket.

“¡Gracias, Señor!” she called out behind him.

But Sebastian was already headed for the parking lot, pulling out his phone as he went. He called Ben first. “Ben, where are you?” He snapped through clenched teeth, fighting his way through the foot traffic as he neared the exit of Los Dominicos.

“Headed home from Osorno, Señor.”

Sebastian inhaled. He’d forgotten Ben’s trip.

“Where would Diego take a woman to...to interrogate her?” He refused to consider the possibility that she had gone with his cousin of her own free will. Sebastian unlocked his car and slid behind the wheel, pressing the phone between his chin and shoulder.

“What’s going on, Sebastian?”

Not having an idea of where to search, Sebastian dropped his forehead onto the steering wheel. “The woman from the airport? Diego took her. At least I think he did...”

There was a long silence, then a whoosh of expelled air. “Why does Diego want the mujar?”

“She’s writing Eva St. John’s memoir. I think Diego believes she can get him the walking stick.” Sebastian put the car in gear. “He broke into Eva’s house in Colorado.”

“Does she know who you are?”

Sebastian's fingers clenched the steering wheel. “No, she only knows what I've told her.” Sebastian felt a flush of guilt and pushed it aside. He couldn't risk himself, or his family, to an unknown. Until he learned more about Tansy Chastain, he had to keep his true identity a secret. “I'll call the other drivers and see if they know anything."

“Thanks, Ben.”

“Sebastian? What does this woman mean to you?”

Sebastian caught his harried reflection in the rearview mirror. “I’m not sure, but she’s important.”

“We will pray for her safe return. I’ll be in touch.” Ben ended the connection.

Sebastian exhaled, knowing his driver would do everything he could. He regretted not keeping better track of Diego’s activities in and around the city. He’d considered his cousin little more than an annoyance, like a small, pesky insect. Now, when knowledge of Diego’s haunts and hangouts might have led him to Tansy, Sebastian found himself more or less helpless, dependent on whatever information Ben could unearth through his network of connections among the family’s employees and staff.

He debated returning to the artesanal, telling his abuelo the whole story, but rejected the thought. Abeulo was interested in answers and outcomes, not possibilities. The time to tell the old man what was going on was when it was over.

Diego knew Tansy meant something to Sebastian. If he were holding her for ransom, Diego would probably try to contact him, either via cell or by e-mail. Sebastian drove back to the aparthotel and headed to his own apartment. He stormed into his office, plugged his phone into its charger, lest he miss a call or a text from Diego, and booted up his computer. Then he shoved past his desk and stared out the window at the lights of Santiago. What he wanted to do to Diego was beyond illegal.

 

****

 

Diego turned so that he was almost facing Tansy, his gaze traveling up and down her body in a way that made her want to take a long soak in a tub of disinfectant. Then he frowned. “Give me what I want, and I’ll put you on the next flight back to los Estados Unidos.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you do, chica.” His smile was tainted by pure malice. “The walking stick the American bruja stole from my family.”

Tansy fought to keep her face expressionless, although terror clawed her spine. “Your family? Your last name is Vargas, not Sandoval.”

“Vargas is my father’s name. He married a Sandoval. But, pfft,”—he made a gesture Tansy assumed was derogatory—“we are more Sandoval than they are. Now, where is the walking stick?”

“Why would I have it?”

“Why else would you be here? You don’t need to come to Chile to write some old woman’s story. You are after the treasure.”

Tansy’s eyes widened. Treasure? Did he think the walking stick had some sort of magical power, or what? She knew she should keep her mouth shut, but curiosity overrode good sense. “What treasure?”

Diego’s eyes flashed, and his mouth tightened as if he knew he’d said the wrong thing. “The walking stick was stolen from my family, and I intend to return it to its rightful owner.”

“And who might that be?”

Diego slammed his fist against the narrow dashboard with enough violence to crack the vinyl coating. “My father has slaved under my grandfather’s tyranny for years. He deserves to be the heir, not that sniveling brat of the American whore.” Enraged, he began to rant in Spanish, sometimes turning to face Tansy, sometimes directing his tirade toward their driver, who flinched and jerked the wheel every time Diego raised his arms.

Tansy shrank against the door, as far from Diego as she could get, and gripped the seat with both hands.

The grating of metal against metal squealed through the car.

Tansy squeezed her eyes shut as the car skidded. When the car came to a stop, silence reigned. She wasn’t expecting the impact, but her death grip on the seat had kept her from being hurled across the vehicle. She opened her eyes, one at a time.

Diego was slumped against the dash, his face turned away from her view. He must’ve been thrown against the windshield; the glass was cracked into a splintered spiral. The driver was conscious, and screaming. The front of the car had buckled in on his legs, trapping him between the steering wheel and the driver’s seat.

Tansy looked outside the car. People were rushing to the scene. He’d have help. She scooted across the seat and opened the door, lunging out into the blessed anonymity of the growing crowd. She half-walked, half-ran, until she was out of breath and her throbbing skull demanded she stop moving. She surveyed her surroundings.

The pharmacia on the corner boasted an impressive set of bars over its windows. Next door, an appliance store, almost hidden behind armored grates, promised the best prices anywhere.

Tansy scooted her new messenger bag to the front of her body and turned in a complete circle, pausing when her gaze landed on the outline of a huge, ancient cathedral a few blocks away. The dusky stone monument to faith looked like a sanctuary, and right now, she needed one.

She crossed the street with a group of college students clad in sweatshirts bearing their alma mater’s logo, and walked down the sidewalk, head up, trying to look confident. She stopped at the bottom of the steps before a trio of enormous wooden doors with iron fittings. To her left and to her right, in every doorway, beggars crouched or sprawled on the steps, holding out cups and hats and baskets. Tansy’s heart constricted.

An older woman wrapped in one of the cozy alpaca shawls Tansy had seen at the artesanal pushed past her and pulled the heavy door open. Tansy followed her in.

The woman passed through the entry, pausing to dip her fingers in holy water and make the sign of the cross before entering the main part of the church.

Tansy held back, eyes opening wide at the vaulted ceilings, enormous marble statues, and glittering chandeliers. Dotted throughout the pews, the faithful knelt or sat to pray, heads bowed and hands clasped, suffusing the atmosphere with a sense of reverence and peace.

Her ears perked at the sound of American English, spoken in hushed tones, to her left. She turned, and spotted a small tour group, led by a lovely young woman with café-au-lait skin. Tansy moved closer.

“The Metropolitan Cathedral, built between 1748 and 1800, has miraculously withstood multiple earthquakes, several wars, and innumerable waves of social and political unrest,” the guide said.

Sebastian had mentioned bringing Tansy here.

The guide pointed toward another area and motioned for the group to follow.

Tansy padded along behind them, just close enough to listen.

They stopped in front of a flower-covered chapel dedicated to Saint Teresa of the Andes, the first patron saint of Chile.

The guide, seeing that her flock was gathered close, began to speak. “Saint Teresa wrote in her letters, ‘Why do you feel so alone? Aren’t we always really one in our Divine Master?’” The young woman kept talking, but Tansy wasn’t listening.

No matter what she was going through, she wasn’t alone. God was still God, and others had endured much worse than she was experiencing. She took a deep breath, the atmosphere redolent with the remnants of incense and melted wax and the prayers of the faithful. Exhaling, she slid into a pew near the back of the nave and began to pray.

 

****

 

Ben still had not called. Sebastian wiped sweat from his face, glanced at his watch, and stifled another wave of panic. He was no closer to finding Tansy, and he’d had no luck tracking Diego.

He logged on to his computer and opened his e-mail program. Tansy’s name popped up like an answer to prayer, and he clicked on the message. It was the manuscript for his grandmother’s memoir. He’d forgotten that she’d offered to share it with him. He saved the attachment, scanned the remainder of the messages, searching for something from Diego or his uncle, to no avail. Frustrated, he picked up his phone again and checked for messages from Ben. Nothing. He dropped the phone back on the desk and leaned back in the chair, staring at the icon that represented Tansy’s manuscript. His fingers toyed over the mouse, and he opened the document.

A full hour later Sebastian dropped his forehead into the palm of his hand and closed his eyes, traumatized.

Had his uncle conspired to have his own brother arrested, tortured by Pinochet’s guard, and thrown in prison, all to remove one more stepping stone in the line for the Sandoval fortune?

When the policia didn’t return Fabian from “questioning,” and told Darcy he’d fallen ill and died in one of their jails—although they couldn’t return the body for reasons unnamed—his mother had fled the country. She had been young, foolish, and naïve, and brokenhearted over the loss of her father and then her husband. By taking the walking stick, she had believed she was protecting her son from the machinations of his power-hungry relatives.

His phone rang, and he checked the screen. Abuelo. He let it go to voicemail. He wasn’t ready to talk to the old man about Diego, nor did he want to explain about the young woman Sebastian had brought to the shop that morning. He closed his eyes. “Father, protect Tansy. Return her safely to me, and I promise I will tell her everything. And I’ll see justice done for my parents and grandparents, with Your help.”