by Zoe York
“Shit.”
It was impossible to make out the driver’s face with the shadows flitting across the road, but the colors of the license plate were clear enough. Not Belize’s black-on-white, but the bright-blue-on-white of a Guatemala plate.
Shit, shit, shit.
She revved the bike so high, Seth nearly squeezed the air out of her to keep from tumbling off the back.
“What?” he shouted over the engine noise.
She dipped her chin toward the mirror. “Leeds, or one of his men.”
She felt the weight shift as Seth twisted to look behind
“The cops, too!” he shouted.
What? She looked in the mirror again and cursed. The red car filled most of the crooked panes, but in the distance were a couple of jeeps, showing in triplicate. Everyone was closing in.
“Faster!” Seth urged, and she opened the throttle up.
The convent was a smudge of white at the end of a long green tunnel of magnificent banyan trees. A view she would have stopped at admire, if only she had the time. Instead, she swerved around an overhanging vine and sped on, eyeing the road where it narrowed ahead.
A minute later, she understood why. There was a stream and a tiny one-lane bridge ahead, forming a bottleneck.
“What now?” Seth uttered as she slowed down.
She pointed with an elbow. “It gets worse.”
Seth, to his credit, didn’t say the obvious: How can it get worse?
“They’re fixing the bridge,” she finished.
Even from a distance, she could see that the surface of the bridge was rutted and dotted with stacks of cobblestones waiting to be laid. A man walked toward the bridge from one side, leading a mule piled high with bamboo. Half a dozen men stood, kneeled, or hammered on the bridge, and a sign with a crooked arrow pointed left.
“What does Desvio mean?” Seth shouted into her ear.
“Detour.”
He cursed. “Like we have time for a detour.”
Definitely not. But maybe…
“Hang on,” she yelled to Seth.
Six faces looked up from the bridge.
“Watch out!” she yelled.
“Juli—” Seth started, and one of the men jumped to his feet, waving his arms wildly to shoo her away.
She beeped. No time for a detour.
“Whoa!” Seth yelled and held on tighter.
She slowed down just enough to swerve around the detour sign then rev onto the upswing of the bridge. It was a lovely, cobblestoned arch that must have dated to colonial times, like the convent.
The vehicles in pursuit honked their horns as shouts rang out, and the mule brayed.
“Watch out!” she shouted, unwilling to let go of the handlebars now. “Get out of the way!”
Bodies leaped out of the way as she slalomed left around a pile of stones, then right around an openmouthed worker. If Seth hadn’t thrown out his foot for balance, they might have wiped out when she twisted away from a gaping hole that appeared out of nowhere. Bump, bump, bump — the bike hammered over the stone path as a screeching sound of slamming brakes came from behind. The cars were stopping, unable to cross.
“Go! Go!” Seth shouted as she rolled the motorcycle down the other side of the bridge and lurched back onto the road.
There was more beeping and cursing, but at least there was no gunfire. Yet.
Her body gave a sigh of relief at the relative smoothness of the dirt road — smooth enough for her to peek in the mirror and see Professor Leeds gesticulating over the bridge. Apparently he’d gotten word that his $200,000 delivery hadn’t made it to its destination on time.
“How far you reckon the detour will go?” Seth shouted.
She prayed it was far enough.
All her focus was on the whitewashed wall of the convent, an imposing colonial-era building that was as graceful as it was decayed. Chunks of plaster were flaking off the walls, and for every roof tile that lay in place, three others were crooked or missing entirely. There was something proud about the place though, too, like an aging diva who knew just what a beauty she’d once been.
Julie revved right up to the entrance and looked up. There was a grand archway with a bell tower and a cross, and though they needed every second of lead they had, it didn’t feel quite right to drive into the courtyard at full speed, so she eased off the throttle and let the bike coast in.
Sun — shade — sun. The light flickered as they passed under the archway, then halted in the courtyard within.
“Wow,” Seth mumbled over her shoulder.
Wow, indeed. It was the quintessential cloister courtyard, quartered into tidy flower beds that radiated from a bubbling stone fountain in the center. A dozen heads turned their way, little dots of white popping up from among the rainbow of flowers that graced the central garden. The nuns were at work in their Garden of Eden — or had been, until she’d roared in on the bike.
Julie gulped. When she cut the engine, there was silence, then a sudden chorus of birds. The nuns, however, just stared. If she could have melted away then, she would have, because now she and Seth were the intruders, the ones breaking the peace.
Seth slid off the seat and she followed suit, pulling off her helmet then hanging it on a handlebar of the bike.
“Now what?” Seth whispered.
With a loud crack, the helmet dropped, and the nun walking toward them scowled.
“Now we find the head, um, nun. Sister. Mother. Whatever they call her.” Julie stepped forward, trying to steady the thumping of her heart. “Buenos días,” she started, trying to paste a smile on her face.
— TWENTY-THREE —
Seth looked on as Julie jabbered at the nun in Spanish. His back was still hunched from the rough ride, his ass was still burning from the bumps, and his balls, well… He shoved that thought away. They were in a convent, after all.
And he could feel it, too, because while the nuns regarded Julie as a curiosity from the modern world they had cloistered themselves away from, the looks they shot at him were more guarded, even hostile. He was most definitely not welcome here.
But Julie was doing that earnest head-dipping body language thing she did when she was really, really sorry about something. The way she gestured with her hands and fired off a hundred Spanish words a minute, he’d have pegged her as a local if it weren’t for her fair complexion and straw-colored hair.
The nun looked from Julie to him in open suspicion, and there was a silent moment of truth. A second ticked by, then another, each marked by the slow slide of sweat down his back.
“Bueno.” The nun nodded, motioned with an outstretched arm, and led them toward one of the archways surrounding the courtyard. Julie followed right on the woman’s heels, so close she nearly stepped on the woman’s habit. Seth put a hand on her shoulder. If there was one thing he’d learned about Central America, it was that you couldn’t hurry anyone up.
Not even with a band of bad guys closing in? Julie’s eyes seemed to ask.
He wavered for a second there. Those eyes were beautiful, hopeful, honest. He could wake up to them every day for the rest of his life if this somehow worked out.
If.
When they ducked into the shade of the breezeway, the temperature immediately dropped ten degrees. The distant rumble of engines faded as they stepped through a door and entered the building.
Stepping over the threshold was like crossing a time portal; he could have been stepping into the seventeenth century. Their feet scuffed across a stone floor. Their footsteps echoed through muted halls where shadow and light flickered in an endless wrestling match. Time hung in layers so thick, it blanketed the air like a heavy tapestry. Seth sensed it right away: this was a place of refuge. A contemplative place, where a man could think.
Like about how likely his ass was to land in a Central American prison by the end of the day. He could imagine his mother wringing her hands, wondering where her son had gone wrong.
“Por aquí,” the
nun said, leading them up a wide wooden staircase supported by thick beams. The whole place whispered of history and tradition. Maybe even a few ghosts, snooping from the shadows. Then they were upstairs, and she knocked urgently on a door. “Hermana Christina?”
Their panting breath was the loudest thing in the hallway as they waited for an answer. Then the nun held up a finger and disappeared inside.
Seth watched Julie watching him, knowing her cool exterior was just as much an act as his. He gave her a weak smile, lifted a hand to her cheek, and slowly traced the line of her jaw. His lips moved, though he couldn’t quite get any words to come out. So much to say, no time to say it.
Her eyes shone in his. I know what you mean.
The door creaked open and he jerked his hand away.
“Come on in,” came a gritty American voice he would never have associated with a nun. The first woman left them without a word, moving soundlessly down the stairs.
“Um, hello?” Julie said, leading the way inside.
Everything in the room was just as he’d imagined the head office at a convent to be: heavy curtains, oversized crucifix, vanilla-scented candles. Everything but the woman rising from a creaky chair to meet them.
“Come. Sit. Explain.” She gestured and spoke at the same time. If she’d been chewing a wad of gum, she’d have been the spitting image of a beefy Brooklyn waitress. He could hear it in her accent. Siddown. Have a cuppa caw-ffee.
“I’m the head here, Sister Christine. And who are you?” She folded her arms across her habit. Seth would have pegged her as a truck driver, an inner-city school principal, a short-order cook in a very busy diner. Anything but a nun.
“Um, I’m Julie, and this is Seth, and we’re here… I mean, um…”
The nun must have decided she liked Julie, because she smiled and extended a hand. “Let’s start again. I’m Christine Madeleine Kelly, from New York.” New-Yawk. “At least I used to be. Thirty years ago I came here because the big city wasn’t big enough for a girl like me.” She winked. She actually winked.
“I’m sorry,” Julie started. “I mean, we’re in trouble, and I don’t want to bring it to you…”
“But?” The nun raised an eyebrow.
Julie looked at him for help, but damned if he could explain this any better than she. “It kind of got out of control.”
As if to illustrate her point, brakes squealed outside, followed by the thump of car doors. A host of angry male voices carried up through the window.
Sister Christine’s eyes flicked to the window, then back to Julie. Seth felt very much a side character on a female-dominated stage.
“Life has a way of doing that,” she said, still studying Julie’s face as if she could judge the truth just by looking long and hard enough. “So what exactly brings you here?”
“Well…” Julie started, rummaging in the backpack. Seth could tell she was trying to stay cool even as her hand worked frantically. “I worked with Professor Leeds in Guatemala, and he gave me this to deliver here.”
Seth admired the way she worded it. Deliver here. No word of Roberto, the man the package had been addressed to.
“Gregory Leeds?” Christine raised a wary eyebrow.
The voices were closer now, rushing through the hallway downstairs. Seth could hear the thump of boots over stone as they approached.
Christine glanced at the door, then back at Julie. “I suspect we won’t have time to get better acquainted,” she said. Her gaze traveled up and down Julie’s light frame, and she squeezed her lips together. “Pity, really. But it seems there’s some kind of hurry.”
Footsteps — heavy footsteps — were already crashing up the stairs.
Sister Christine threw her shoulders back, looking every inch a queen. Just let them try to mess with me, her whole body said.
Seth stepped closer to Julie, ready for a fight.
— TWENTY-FOUR —
The door flew open and a man Seth immediately pegged as Professor Leeds stumbled in. He had that tweedy, academic look even if he wasn’t actually wearing tweed. The man immediately caught himself and straightened his tie as if he’d been led in by a butler and not let himself in.
Hernandez was right on his heels and immediately pinned Seth with his piercing eyes. Flanking them were several other men. The cops were the beefy ones dressed in brown who deferred to Hernandez and wouldn’t stop crossing themselves. Leeds’ gang was slightly less hulking, but more calculating in the glances they shot toward the furniture and antiques filling the room, as if they’d stumbled into a gold mine.
Leeds and Julie eyed each other like a couple of wary copperheads, while the others looked on, vultures at ringside. Then a man dressed in gardening garb pushed himself past the others, started jabbering in apologetic tones to the head nun.
Sister Christine waved an unimpressed hand, and when she opened her mouth to speak, the room fell silent. Like that.
The only part Seth understood when Sister Christine chastised the gardener in Spanish was his name, Roberto. The one the package had been addressed to.
Oh, shit.
Then the nun switched to English — whether to keep the others off-balance or for his benefit, Seth couldn’t tell. But Roberto slunk back behind the others, his eyes shooting daggers at Julie and Seth.
“Gentlemen,” Sister Christine began.
Julie’s eyes flashed at the word gentlemen, and Seth had to agree. Gentlemen was a stretch for these thieves. Hernandez and Leeds eyed each other like familiar adversaries that had been gambling at the same table for years. Seth imagined Leeds smuggling something under Hernandez’s nose one time then taking a misstep and having his money or an artifact confiscated. Not that Hernandez would turn it in. No, he’d turn his own profit on the artifacts and let Leeds go so the next round could begin. Cat and mouse. Predator and prey. Sometimes one won, sometimes the other. Either way, someone stood to profit.
Sister Christine stared down the intruders until everyone drew half a step back.
“My dear Leeds, always a pleasure to see you,” she said in a dry tone. She held a hand out to Julie, who handed her the Marlboro box. “What I don’t understand is why you’d burden your student here with a package when you could have delivered it yourself.”
“When I heard the gift wasn’t delivered, I thought I’d come check on you,” he babbled. “The roads can be so dangerous, my dear.”
The good Sister huffed. “She looks perfectly capable to me.”
Yeah, the nun was definitely not on Leeds’ side. More like closing ranks with Julie in a show of female solidarity.
She started to pop the box open and Leeds made a pained sound. He stepped forward. “There’s been a mistake.”
Sister Christine lifted her eyebrows and fixed him with a look that said, I dare you to go on, and he froze. Her finger was under the end flap of the box, easing it open.
“A mistake?” She arched an eyebrow then looked inside the box. Her eyes lit, not with surprise or fear, but recognition.
Seth knew there and then that Leeds had met his match. Sister Christine was bold, brassy, confident. She’d obviously been around long enough to know the score. Her gaze picked Roberto out from the back of the crowd, and Seth watched him shrink away. Yep, she knew the score exactly.
Did she know that Leeds was involved in illegal trade of antiquities and that Roberto was his funnel? Probably. But there were worse crimes in the jungle, other battles to fight. If Leeds made regular donations to the convent’s causes, what did it matter to the nuns if minor crimes slipped by?
Sister Christine shook the first bundles of American cash out the box without batting an eye. Her hand, though, went to her chest in an exaggerated display of surprise. “Oh! Professor Leeds! What on earth is this?”
She shook a little more and the rest of the money tumbled out, coming to rest in a green heap, right next to the beaded rosary on her desk.
The greenbacks reflected in the lenses of the professor’s wire-rimmed
glasses. “It’s…er… Madame, that is meant to be—” He shot Julie a look that squealed, What have you done?
Julie played dumb. “It’s a donation, right?”
The policemen leaned forward as one, all ears.
“Donation?” Leeds looked panicked.
“Your donation,” Julie cued. “To the orphanage.”
Leeds froze, chewed his lip, and looked desperately around the room. Hernandez and his cronies all but growled. His men were no help, keeping their eyes on the floor. The professor’s thin shoulders slumped as he muttered, “Oh, that donation.”
“We’re delighted, of course!” Sister Christine fluttered her eyelids like a woman half her age, then repeated her words in Spanish to the handful of nuns peeking through the doorway.
“Bless you, Gregory Leeds!” Christine announced.
The nuns chimed in like so many chirping pigeons. “Gracias, Señor Leeds!” A half-dozen habit-framed faces bobbed.
“The children in the orphanage will be so grateful! The convent! The bishop, too.”
Right on cue, the sounds of joyous children came bounding through the windows. Seth glanced outside, past the perimeter wall of the convent to where a couple dozen kids came pouring out of a small schoolhouse. From the look of things, recess was on. For a moment, he wondered if there was such a thing as holy intervention, but Sister Christine was just as likely to have a little red button wired to the underside of her desk. Right next to where she kept a shotgun. He wouldn’t put either past her.
Sister Christine glanced over and winked.
Leeds mopped his dripping brow with a handkerchief. “The bishop?”
“For your donation, brought to us by this wonderful associate of yours!” Sister Christine gushed. She had a gleam in her eye, like this was the best fun she’d had since leaving New York.
