The gun was still shoved into his abdomen, but at least it didn’t go off. Farmer de Oca watched suspiciously as he flipped through the booklet.
“Busco por piloto.” Ray hoped he’d just said he was looking for the pilot.
The farmer shook his head. “No está.”
“Well, obviously he’s not—” Breaking off in frustration, he searched the book again. “Dónde—” He turned a few more pages. “¿Dónde ellos ir?”
“Poza Rica.”
Ray’s mouth fell open. He’d just come from Poza Rica. “How did they get there? Did they say where they were headed?”
De Oca’s heavy brows twitched together. He shrugged. “No hablo inglés.”
Muttering, Ray looked it up. “¿Como?” How?
The farmer burst into guffaws. “En mi burro.” He pantomimed riding a horse. Mercifully, he lowered the gun first.
So they took off on a horse to Poza Rica. That still gave him no idea where to start looking.
“Gracias, señor.” He backed toward the Crown Victoria, keeping an eye on the shotgun. “I leave now. Adiós.”
The farmer was still grinning. “Apuesto que Jorge estaba soprendido.”
Ray halted. “Jorge? Jorge de Oca?”
“Sí, sí.” De Oca wagged his shaggy head. “Mi primo. Les dije que le compraran un carro de él.”
Ray understood the word car, and looked up primo. Cousin. He groaned. He should have known the family name wasn’t any coincidence. He had wasted nearly three hours on a wild-goose chase when his targets had been right under his nose.
If that didn’t just beat all.
Owen loved engines almost as much as he loved horses. The little blue car hit a sweet spot that nearly overcame his guilt at having abandoned Sunflower to the less-than-tender mercies of Cousin Jorge. Knowing how much money he was going to make when he auctioned it on eBay also eased his regret when he looked at the blank spot on his right hand.
Benny sat with her back against the passenger door, her long, curly hair blowing in the warm breeze coming through the open windows. Now that was a sight calculated to lift a man’s spirits. Maybe they were running for their lives or running to some unknown rendezvous—frankly, he still didn’t know exactly what was going on—but it was springtime on the coast of Mexico and he was driving a classic car with a beautiful woman by his side.
It’s all good, Lord.
But come to think of it, she’d been awfully quiet for the last couple of hours. Mostly she watched the mountains pass to their left, but every once in a while, she turned to look at him in a thoughtful way that made his skin prickle.
“What are you thinking about?”
“I was just wondering what made you decide to be a pilot.”
He relaxed and smiled. “Shingles.”
She blinked and laughed. “Shingles? You mean, like the disease?”
“No.” He chuckled. “Like on the roof. One summer when I was really little, maybe three or four, my mom went out of town for the weekend and left Dad in charge.” He grinned, remembering. “He was roofing the house and Eli must’ve been old enough to help. They nailed my pants to the roof with a tenpenny nail to keep me from falling off. I lay there on my back for hours, watching the planes fly over.”
Her eyes widened. “Sounds like child abuse.” Then she smiled. “I bet you were a busy little guy.”
“That’s an understatement. I never walked anywhere if I could run and never used my feet if I could ride. Horses, tractors, four-wheelers—whatever. I must’ve jumped off the roof of the barn five times before my mother wore out my behind enough times to convince me that wasn’t a good idea.”
She winced. “Broken bones?”
“Collarbone, left arm—which was a disaster, since I’m left-handed—and—” he tapped his cheekbone “—see this scar? I fell on a pitchfork one time.” He shook his head. “I could’ve killed myself, I guess, but somebody was watching out for me.”
“Apparently so. What did your parents think when you got your pilot’s license?”
“They didn’t know for a long time.” He shrugged. “You know how, when you’re a kid, you can rationalize all kinds of deception? Didn’t want to worry them, so I told just enough of the truth to keep them in the dark. When they found out I’d been working as a grunt at the airport—we were living in Laredo at the time—to comp flying lessons, I was grounded for six months. Eventually, though, they realized I was serious about it and gave me their blessing.”
She was quiet for a minute, staring out the windshield, and Owen let the miles roll past. How long would it take her to feel comfortable telling him about what had turned her into such a closed book?
Weird way to think of a woman who daily put herself on the line for other people. He’d seen her tenderness with children, the elderly, sick or wounded…emotionally scarred women. But he’d never seen her open her own personal box of limitations, and she generally walked a wide circle around men.
He was no psychologist, but that had to be a big glaring clue. Some man had left a scar on her that she’d never gotten over. Did the man they were running from now have something to do with it?
He glanced at her again. Her expression was pensive, her elegant hands folded in her lap. She could be so still. He supposed if he had an IQ like hers, he could entertain himself with his own thoughts, too.
“When did you decide you wanted to become a missionary?”
She jumped a little, as though she’d been miles away. “It wasn’t a conscious decision. While I was living in Mississippi, the Gonzaleses were always going somewhere or other on mission trips. They finally talked me into going with them to help paint a dormitory for a homeless ministry in Fort Worth. That’s where I accepted Christ as my Savior.”
“No kiddin’.” Now they were getting somewhere. Maybe she just had to be really, really tired before she opened up. They’d certainly had a long day.
“Yeah.” She sighed. “Seeing other people worse off than me—who could sing and praise God anyway—changed me in a way I can’t even describe. I fell in love with Jesus and couldn’t get enough of Him. I memorized—” She stopped, looking self-conscious. “I found I had an aptitude for learning Scripture quickly.”
Slowing to negotiate a pothole, Owen waited for Benny to finish her thought. She didn’t. “How much?”
“Hmm?”
“How much Scripture have you memorized, Bernadette?”
She shrugged, blushing. “I know most of the book of John and Paul’s letters. Big hunks of Genesis and the Psalms. All of the books of Esther and Ruth.” When he goggled at her, she wrinkled her nose. “It’s just a gift I have, like yours with flying.”
“That’s not a gift—it’s an affliction.”
Her husky giggle filled him with something so sweet it was almost tangible, like ice cream sliding over his tongue. He savored it for a minute until it scared him because he wanted to stop the car and kiss her.
And he knew how well that would go over. He cleared his throat. “So why Mexico? You could’ve stayed in the U.S. to work in an orphanage.”
“I know. And I almost did. In fact, while I was in seminary, I worked in a halfway house run by the Texas Youth Commission.”
“You worked with juvie criminals?”
“For about three years. But it was so frustrating when we’d lose one back to the streets. After all, I’d been—I mean, I could imagine what they were going through.”
Owen hadn’t missed her halt and redirect. Instincts on alert, he was more determined than ever to dig the past out of her. Where had she been? What had happened that she could so strongly identify with a bunch of teenage delinquents?
“Anyway,” she continued, “by the time I got out of seminary, there was a huge need for bilingual housemothers to work with the Texas River Ministry. I know you understand the problem with teenage prostitution in the border cities.” She glanced at him and he nodded. “Kids have kids and they get abandoned to the streets. I had the s
kills and a desire to do something about it, so…that’s where I wound up.”
“I guess you’ve been happy there, huh?”
“I can’t imagine doing anything else.”
Owen liked his job, too, but it wasn’t a passion that would make him give up living in America to deal daily with faulty electricity, chancy sewage and bad water.
At least, to this point it hadn’t been. The Lord seemed to be saying something that was either couched in terms Owen wasn’t familiar with, or that he simply didn’t want to hear.
Fortunately, he didn’t have to explore the feeling right then. A green road sign loomed.
“Hey, San Rafael’s coming up. What do you say we find someplace to eat supper and—”
“Owen, that’s a little bitty village. We don’t have any more cash, remember?”
“Actually,” he said sheepishly, “we do. A little.”
“What?” Benny sat up. “Owen, what have you done?” She gasped. “You traded your ring! I knew something looked funny.” She was staring at his hands on the steering wheel.
He flexed his fingers. “Yeah, so what? It’s just a ring. I’ll get another one.”
“That was a very expensive ring, wasn’t it? And I could tell it meant a lot to you.” She was frowning, big dark-chocolate eyes troubled.
Over his class ring. He felt his mouth curling. Pretty sweet.
The nakedness of his finger suddenly felt okay. “Look, we’ll be in the States by tomorrow morning. I’ll call Jorge, wire him some money and get him to mail me the ring. No big deal.”
“Owen, all this isn’t going to magically disappear when we get to the States. I have to get to Memphis somehow, without—without calling attention to myself.”
“All right, just don’t sweat the ring. It was mine to give up. It served its purpose and I’m okay with it. Now, what are you in the mood to eat?”
There was no way to argue with a man whose temperament ranged from sunny to partly cloudy, so she gave up.
“I’m thinking burritos,” she said with a grin.
SEVEN
Briggs reversed directions and hit Poza Rica just as Jorge de Oca was locking the gate on his car lot.
“Cerrado,” said de Oca firmly, jingling an officious-looking wad of keys.
But when Ray showed him a hundred-dollar bill, the gate swung wide open. “I keep the car,” he said in halting Spanish after looking it up in the book. “Another short trip.”
“Sí, no problema,” said the chubby car dealer. He all but pushed Ray out the gate again. The home fires were evidently burning.
“Wait!” Ray desperately flipped through the phrase book, trying to piece together the words I want to find my niece. “Yo perdido mi sobrina.” He glared at Jorge, who looked ready to call the men in white coats. “¿Usted ver ella hoy?” He brought out the picture of Bernadette Malone.
The dealer’s eyes widened as he grinned. “Caramba, sí, una chica muy bonita.” He glanced at Ray, looking skeptical. “Su sobrina?” Your niece?
Ray nodded. “¿Dónde?” Where?
De Oca shrugged and pointed. “Poza Rica Inn, tal vez.”
“You have got to be kidding.” What was a hit man supposed to do when his mark kept sliding out of his grasp like a wet bar of soap? He consulted his book. “¿Qué carro?” He gestured driving, hands on imaginary steering wheel.
De Oca beamed. “Un clásico. ’65 Dodge.”
“What color?”
“Azul.”
Ray looked that up and sighed in relief. A classic blue Dodge shouldn’t be too hard to find.
“This is such a cliché.” Benny peered around Owen’s broad shoulders into the black hole under the little car’s hood. As if she had any idea what she was looking at. “I thought you were a good mechanic.”
Five minutes ago, the front of the car had given a loud clunk, and black smoke had poured out of the hood like steam from the nose of a cartoon toro. Owen had barely managed to keep the car from jolting onto the steep shoulder of the road.
“I’m a great mechanic,” he muttered. “When I have the right parts.”
“You should have driven it before we took it off the lot.”
“What good would that have done? We came nearly three hundred miles before it blew.” He pulled out the dipstick and wiped it off on the bottom of his shirt. “We’ve lost so much oil it’s a wonder this didn’t happen way back down the road.”
“Great.” She folded her arms. “Now we have hardly any money and you don’t even have your ring as a backup.”
“I have my credit cards.”
She looked around at the desolate surroundings. Mountains to the left, open fields to the right and a long stretch of moonlit highway ahead and behind. “Oh, yeah, just whip out that Visa right here.”
He let down the hood and rested his hands on it. “When did you develop this sarcastic streak?”
“It just comes out when I’m tired and hungry and scared.” He had to be tired, too. They’d been traveling for almost five hours, and he’d done most of the driving. The sun had set like a big red beach ball over the mountains, and a full moon had bounced up to take its place. “I’m sorry, Owen. I can’t believe you’ve stuck with me this long.”
He really was the most amazing man. He’d done the best he could under the circumstances. It had to be killing him not to know what was going on. Not that she knew much. Ladonna had given her just the bare facts.
Celine. Tamika. Daisy. All dead. And Grenville had to be behind it.
She shuddered.
“What’s the matter? You cold?”
There was a nip in the air, now that he mentioned it. This climate could fry you to a crisp during the middle of the day, then send you looking for a sweater at night. Good thing Owen had brought his denim jacket and was willing to share. She’d had to roll up the sleeves three or four times, but at least it was warm.
“I’m okay. But if we’re going to make it to Ciudad Victoria, we’d better start walking.” She opened the car door and grabbed the backpack.
“Let me have that.” He took it from her without giving her a chance to refuse. Southern men, especially those in law enforcement, treated women with a courtesy bordering on chauvinism. She hardly noticed it most of the time, but tonight her nerves were on edge.
“Owen, I’m not some dainty little flower who’s going into a fainting spell if I have to carry a backpack.”
“I know you’re not.” He set off, pocketing the car keys. “Come on. Traffic’s been pretty light today, but maybe somebody’ll pass by and take pity on us.”
She trotted after him. “I mean it. You’re just as tired as I am.”
“Are you trying to pick a fight?” She couldn’t see his expression, but his tone was amused.
“Of course not.” She halted. “What was that?”
“Hmm?”
“That noise. I heard something grunt.”
“They should put your ears in the national registry. I didn’t hear anything.”
“Stop, Owen.” She grabbed his wrist. “It sounds like a—Whoa. That is the biggest pig I’ve ever seen in my life!”
About twenty yards away, an enormous sow sashayed toward them right down the middle of the highway. Moonlight bathed her hairy pink hide and gleamed off the wobbling teats. Her snuffling grunts got louder and more indignant the closer she got.
Benny stepped closer to Owen. She didn’t like the intent look in the animal’s small eyes. “What’s she doing out here all by herself?”
“I assume there’s a farm close by and she got loose. You want to look around and see? Maybe they’d put us up for the night like the de Ocas did.”
“If we leave the road we’ll just get lost.”
“I’m a professional tracker. I’m not going to get lost.” He gave Benny’s hand a tug. “But if you want to walk all night, it’s no skin off my nose. Come on, she won’t hurt us as long as we don’t bother her.”
But the pig veered off the road strai
ght at them, grumbling porcine imprecations with every step. Snout to the ground, she circled Benny and Owen, tail whipping back and forth like a windshield wiper. She was a gargantuan specimen, nearly as broad as she was tall, her back reaching almost to Owen’s knees.
“What is she doing?” Benny dove under Owen’s arm.
He pulled her close and she could feel his laughter rumbling under his rib cage. “Checking us out. Eli and I had a potbelly pig when I was a teenager. Raised her for the 4-H club. She was psycho, but she won the blue ribbon at the fair three years in a row.”
The pig had snuffled a complete circle around them. Apparently deciding they meant no harm, she waddled off in the direction she’d come.
“I think I’m insulted.” Benny giggled.
“Let’s see where she goes. I’m thirsty.”
“As long as she stays on the road. I’m not venturing off into the cactus.”
They set off again, following their fat tour guide. Though Owen ambled along at a relaxed pace, Benny had to take an occasional skipping step to keep up.
“I take it you never lived on a farm.” Owen hadn’t let go of her hand, and Benny didn’t have the energy to protest. His clasp was firm and protective, almost impersonal. Besides, it was dark and she didn’t want to trip.
“Are you kidding? I spent most of my time on the streets of Memphis.” At his dead silence, she realized what she’d said. “I mean, you know, I’m a real city girl.”
He still didn’t answer. Something about the brace of muscle in his arm set her nerves jangling.
“Owen?”
“I’m just wondering because you said you grew up in Collierville.”
“I did. Collierville is kind of a suburb of Memphis.”
“Oh. Okay.” After a minute, he sighed. “Just tell me when you get ready, Benny. Why don’t you sing me the rice pudding song? I didn’t catch all the words.”
Benny swallowed an unexpected thickness in her throat. Owen could surprise her with that sensitive streak. “Okay, but I’m no diva.” She cleared her throat. “Arroz con leche, me quiero casar con un mexicano que sepa cantar.”
On Wings of Deliverance Page 7
