Blessed are the Meek

by Kristi Belcamino

  My stomach lurches. That’s where Frank Anderson fled when we showed up at his house. I look in my rearview mirror at the line of cars behind me. The same length as the line of cars in front of me. Then I look at the clock in my car—­8:15. My plane leaves at nine o’clock. I’m already cutting it as close as I possibly can.

  “Are you still near the bar?”

  “Nope, I’m on the freeway right now, heading home.”

  “Okay. Thanks for the heads-­up.” I hang up without waiting for a reply and punch in three numbers.

  “Nine-­one-­one. What is the nature of your emergency?”

  I feel my face flush. What can I say? A man I think kidnapped and killed my sister twenty-­three years ago is sitting in an Alameda bar?

  “Hello? Nine-­one-­one? Please state the nature of your emergency.”

  “Um, I’m sorry. I want to report that a parolee who has violated his probation is in a bar having a drink right now . . .”

  Even to me, it sounds lame. I wish the detective assigned to Caterina’s case wasn’t such a jackass because I could sure use some help right now.

  “You should call your local police department or the jurisdiction where he was paroled.”

  “Yeah. It’s a bit more complicated than that. Can you at least send a squad car over there?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, this line is for emergencies only . . .”

  “Oh never mind!” I hang up in frustration.

  I call Moretti. He doesn’t answer. I leave a frantic message on his voice mail, telling him to go to the Salty Sailor. That Caterina’s killer is there. It sounds crazy even to me.

  Hanging up, I wonder whom else I can call? That lame Livermore detective. I try his number and leave the same information. I know nothing is going to happen.

  I know who I should call. Lopez and Father Liam. They both think I’m on my way back to the rectory. I’ll call them from the airport, as soon as I know I’ve made my flight in time. Conway’s message said, “Come alone.” I don’t want to scare him off. He might have the answers to clear Donovan.

  I look again at the traffic surrounding me, which has started to move forward. The exit to the airport is only a mile away. The next exit is about a hundred yards in front of me. If I’m really obnoxious, I can budge my way over to the right-­hand lane and get off the freeway. From there it will take me about twenty minutes—­if there is zero traffic—­to get to the Salty Sailor.

  I could do it. He could still be there. But I would miss my plane. I would miss my meeting with Tim Conway. If I miss it, he might become suspicious if he’s not already. He talked about its getting so hot he needed to go underground. If he does that, I might never find him again. I might never find why Donovan was going to meet with him. Conway was on the task force. I can’t help but think that task force is somehow connected to all of this. It must have something to do with the murders. And I need to find out what it was. If Conway becomes suspicious and hides, I’ve lost him for good because if someone wants to disappear, Mexico is the place to do it.

  I pound the dashboard. “Damn!”

  It breaks my heart, but I realize I have to let the demons of my past take a backseat to my life in the present. That means picking Donovan over Caterina. At least that’s how my decision feels to me as I get into the lane for the Oakland Airport exit.

  Chapter 46

  Baja California

  ARMED WITH A bottle of water and a giant latte at the airport, I gun my rented yellow VW bug and get the hell out of Cabo San Lucas—­a crowded beach town full of drunken American college students. I called Lopez and Father Liam during my layover in Phoenix. Neither was happy. I promised to call them both tonight.

  The paved road, laughingly called Highway 1, is narrow and has no shoulder for most of the drive. Each time a car or big truck comes from the other direction, I start praying to the Virgin Mary, anticipating a head-­on crash. Instead of a shoulder, a deep ditch lines each side. When I encounter my first pothole, I come to a screeching stop, my heart pounding. The jagged hole is big enough to swallow my car. I look behind me and throw the VW in reverse. Then, scanning the horizon for cars, I gun the car and pass the pothole from the opposite lane, swerving back into my lane as soon as I can.

  A few miles later, a big hulking truck barrels toward me, straddling both lines. At this spot, thank God, there’s a shoulder—­or at least some dirt I can swerve onto, kicking up a whirlwind of dust that doesn’t settle until the truck, horn blaring at me, for Christ’s sakes, is long past. My heart is thumping in my throat as I put my forehead down on the steering wheel for a few seconds, feeling dizzy and nauseous. I say a little prayer, thankful that I didn’t die on this godforsaken road in the middle of Nowhere Mexico.

  Small shrines of crosses, flowers, and stuffed animals mark spots along the road where other drivers weren’t so lucky. If I didn’t have a death grip on the steering wheel, convinced that my life depends on keeping my eyes on the road in front of me, I probably would enjoy the beauty surrounding me. In some spots, I pass fields of giant Cardon cactus majestically arching up nearly sixty feet into the deep blue sky. Other twists of the road give me glimpses of the azure sea to my left. Two hours after leaving Cabo, I see a sign that says I made it to Todos Santos. I make the sign of the cross.

  Chapter 47

  BARAJAS TACOS IS packed. Two sides of the restaurant are open to the air. A rattan roof shades diners from the blazing sun. Cheerful waiters in tie-­dye T-­shirts weave through the crowded tables, balancing round trays filled with food high above ­people’s heads. My stomach grumbles. I didn’t have breakfast. It’s 2:05, so I’m a few minutes late, but I don’t see anyone sitting alone at a table. I pull up a seat at one side of the bar, giving me a view of the rest of the restaurant, and order two fish tacos and a ginger ale to calm my stomach. Tim Conway will have to forgive me for ordering ahead of time, but if I don’t eat, I’m going to pass out. Or be the crabbiest person in Baja, California.

  Only a few of the tables are occupied by men who look American. One obviously American ­couple sporting big straw hats, sunburns, and designer beach duds are nuzzling each other. Another table of men looks too young—­surfers in their early twenties. One man looks like a possibility. He has graying hair slicked back and weathered skin that looks like he’s spent a lot of time outdoors. I give him a tentative smile when he looks my way, then remember that Tim Conway is expecting Donovan, not me. The man says something to his friend, who looks Mexican, and the guy looks over at me and shrugs. The men throw some bills down on the table and turn to the waitress. I hold my breath.

  “Thanks, Carla, see you tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Henry.”

  Damn. Not Tim Conway. Even if he were using an alias, he’d wait longer for Donovan to show up. Finally, I turn to the bartender who brought me my tacos.

  “I’m looking for an old friend. His name’s Tim Conway.”

  The bartender stops wiping the bar. “Mr. Conway has not been here for, oh, maybe two days. He likes to come for happy hour, but I haven’t seen him since Tuesday.”

  “Oh darn, maybe he didn’t get my message. Do you know where I might be able to find him?”

  The bartender gives me the once-­over. I slide a twenty-­dollar bill his way. He tucks it into his apron.

  “Camps at Los Cerritos Beach. Airstream trailer. San Francisco Giants flag on top.”

  Making my way through town, I pass an old butterscotch-­colored adobe church nestled in a patch of palm and pine trees. Most of the town is laid out on white dirt roads dotted with squat white or brick buildings. The downtown area houses several art galleries and more than a dozen restaurants.

  I follow road signs to Los Cerritos Beach and head for the campground area, which is on a plateau above the Pacific Ocean. The surf lies below the beach, down a steep incline. The beachfront is sprinkled with small
tents on the sand. Surfers dot the huge waves that roar in the distance.

  Several small trailers are parked where the parking-­lot pavement meets the sand. A woman with spiky red hair and a colorful sarong is near a small trailer with Canadian plates. She gives me a friendly wave as I pass.

  Then I see it. Conway’s silver Airstream with a tattered orange-­and-­black San Francisco Giants banner waving in the breeze.

  I park beside the trailer and bang on the door. “Mr. Conway? I’m Sean Donovan’s girlfriend. I need to speak to you?”

  Silence. I step back and watch the trailer to see if someone is peeking out the windows or if the trailer is swaying from movement within. It remains still. I knock a few more times. I walk over to where I saw the woman with spiky hair. She’s shaking out towels as sand falls to the pavement and pinning them on a makeshift clothesline.

  “Excuse me, I’m looking for a friend—­Tim Conway.”

  Her friendly smile fades.

  “Can I ask why you want to know?”

  I sense she isn’t going to buy any story I come up with.

  “My boyfriend is a police detective who is friends with Conway. His name is Sean Donovan. He was supposed to meet him down here but was delayed. I’m here in his place.”

  She looks me up and down again. Her scrutiny makes me nervous. After a few seconds, she nods and speaks.

  “Sorry to be so suspicious,” she says, taking a clothespin out of her mouth and fastening a swimsuit to the laundry line. “The ­people who flock to Baja are protective of one another.”

  I don’t get it.

  “If you spend some time here, you’ll find that a lot of the ­people living down here are either escaping their previous life or hiding from something,” she says. “I think in Conway’s case, it’s both. He warned us that some less-­than-­savory ­people might come looking for him one day.”

  She smiles at me. “You don’t fit that description. Plus, he’s mentioned your boyfriend, Sean Donovan. So I think it would be okay to talk to you.”

  I give her a grateful smile. “Thanks.”

  “My husband Arnt and I haven’t seen him for a few days. His girlfriend lives in La Paz, and he often goes to stay with her for a few days. He’ll probably be back in the next day or two.”

  I think about this. Maybe he didn’t get my e-­mail yet? “Okay. I’ll wait a few days, just in case. Can you recommend a place to stay in town?”

  “La Vista is nice. Good food, too.”

  “Great. If you see Tim Conway, could you tell him that Sean Donovan’s girlfriend is staying there? My name’s Gabriella.” I think of one other question. “Do you know how long he’s been living here?”

  “Well, let’s see? My husband and I drive down from Vancouver every winter to surf. Let me think back. I think we met Conway four winters ago?”

  I nod. So, he’s been here a while. I thank her.

  “Of course. Speaking of good food—­are you feeling peckish? I’m broiling some fresh clams and scallops we dug up this morning.”

  “Wow. It sounds wonderful, but I just ate. Thanks anyway.”

  I walk back toward my car, but instead of getting in it, I take off my sandals and step onto the sand toward the water. Mammoth waves crash in the distance like a wall rushing toward me. No wonder this is such a popular surfing spot. When I get to the edge of the small plateau overlooking the water, I sit, hugging my knees to my chest. The surf crashes on the shore some five feet below.

  The last few weeks have been a whirlwind. It feels like so long ago that my life with Donovan was normal. This search for the real killer is starting to feel a bit like a wild-­goose chase. I wonder what Tim Conway has to say that is so important? Maybe I’m wrong, and it has nothing to do with the murders. Maybe Donovan was going to meet with him and talk about deep-­sea fishing or whale watching, for crying out loud.

  But then I remember Conway’s e-­mail: There’s only one way to stop him.

  That line is why I’m here—­to make sure that happens.

  Chapter 48

  ON THE WAY to the hotel, I admire the flowering vines scattered on crumbling walls of the city. This time when I see the towering, butterscotch-­colored church, I pull over on the white dirt road. A plaque above the door says the Misión Nuestra Señora del Pilar de Todos Santos was built in 1733. It seems like a good place to ask for help.

  Inside, the way the sun is slanted makes the far end of the church, where the altar is, glow an otherworldly shade of gold that infuses every last corner, as if the white stone is lit from within. The altar itself has a small alcove with a statue and peach and pink roses framed by a sparkling stained-­glass window whose glowing blues, reds, and greens are almost too brilliant to gaze upon.

  Tours of the mission have ended for the day, but a small, locked box is set up for donations. I stuff twenty bucks inside and make my way to the altar. The wide aisle is made of polished marble, but the pews on each side are simple, well-­worn, wooden ones. At the front of the church, one life-­size statue of Jesus nailed to the cross is on my left, and to my right, Jesus stands on a pedestal gesturing to his crowned, flaming, and thorn-­wrapped heart as he looks down at the red roses someone placed at his feet.

  The mission is named Our Lady of Pilar Church, so I’m disappointed I don’t see any statues of the Virgin Mary. She’s the one I turn to the most. From the front of the church, I scan the recesses of the rest of the church before I spot her—­a smaller statue tucked into a shadowy back corner.

  This Virgin Mary statue has hair, a long blond wig that reaches to her calves, and is holding a baby Jesus. Both statues have deep grooves, almost like scratches through their blue-­and-­white robes, but the look on her lady’s face is beatific. I drop to my knees and clasp my hands together, looking up.

  I ask for her help in catching the real killer, so Donovan will be set free. I ask for her help in finding Caterina’s killer and that justice will be served. I hide my deep, dark thoughts of taking care of the man myself, but they are right there below the surface of my prayer.

  BY THE TIME I check into the hotel, I’m suddenly sleepy, having not slept on the red-­eye. I return to my room looking forward to putting on my pajamas and crawling into bed to watch movies when I notice the phone light flashing. The front desk clerk reads a message to me. Tim Conway wants me to meet him at a lighthouse up the coast. In less than an hour. So much for bed. Excitement races through me as I hurriedly throw on some jeans and sneakers and grab a sweater. Finally, someone who can answer my questions.

  Chapter 49

  THE SUN IS setting when I pull onto the dirt road toward the lighthouse, checking the map I got in the hotel lobby. The road is carved through chest-­high scrub brush and meanders along high cliffs overlooking the water below. I drive with my window down, and the brush rustles noisily and eerily as I pass.

  The white, sixty-­foot-­tall lighthouse looks like an upended flashlight perched on the rocks. My window down, I can hear the waves crashing below the elevated road. Eventually, the little dirt road dips, and I drop down to a dusty parking lot that is nearly at ocean level. One other car is parked in the lot, a small, beat-­up Fiat that must be Conway’s.

  I turn off the rattling VW’s engine and crane my neck to look up at the lighthouse. I don’t see any movement. I listen out the window but only hear the crashing waves. Am I supposed to go inside?

  I get out of the car, tugging my sweater on now that the sun is growing low on the horizon. The brisk sea breeze whips my hair and gives me goose bumps. Holding my hand up to shield my eyes from the setting sun, I peer up at the lighthouse again but don’t see a soul. The door at the base of the lighthouse opens a few feet with the wind, then slams shut again.

  “Hello?” I say, holding the door and straining to see into the darkness inside.

  Nothing. The only noise is an eerie sound of wind
whistling throughout the huge concrete structure. I step in and let the door fall shut behind me. When my eyes adjust to the dim interior, I make out the beginning of curving concrete steps.

  The creepy sound of howling wind makes me pull my sweatshirt tighter and keeps me from yelling out again. I’m almost tiptoeing as I make my way up the stairs. The scent inside the lighthouse is a vaguely familiar one, sort of like a musty basement, which makes the hairs on my arm stand up. The only light is a dim one that pours down in long fingers from windows high above me. I wish I had a flashlight.

  About halfway to the top, I pause at a little observation area with windows and an old, wooden bench. I try to see out the windows, but years of dirt and grime make the view a blurry one. The curve of the concrete steps makes it impossible to see what’s ahead. I jump when a gust of wind bursts through one of the old windows with a loose clasp, making it rattle and thump noisily.

  My heart is racing. I’m too frightened to call out. I trudge up to the next set of windows. What do I know about this Tim Conway guy? Maybe he’s the killer and lured Donovan down here to take care of him? What have I gotten myself into? I look back. Part of me is tempted to race down those stairs, get in my car, and peel out of here. But I have to see what Conway knows. It might be the only way to save Donovan.

  I glance out the window at my shoulder, which is not as dirty as the other one. Then I see him.

  A man on the rocky shore below. He’s in a small cove hidden from the parking lot. It looks like he’s loading gear into a rowboat tied up nearby. He’s wearing a baseball cap pulled low, windbreaker, and khaki shorts. Conway. I start back down the lighthouse steps.

  Behind the lighthouse, a steep dirt path inches its way between rocky crags down to the shore. The man is sitting on a big rock about ten yards from the water.

  “Tim Conway?”

  He doesn’t turn around. My words are probably lost in the wind. The man is playing with the rope that leads to the anchored rowboat, yanking it up and down.