by K M Stross
“I meant the ride,” Cross said. “It’s too hot to walk anywhere today.”
The sheriff laughed, taking the squad car around the park, where two Mexican men were standing beside Father Aaron’s memorial. They watched the car pass. “Suffering is for sinners.”
Cross leaned back, then immediately shifted forward in the seat. He reached around then pulled his book, Principles of Flight, out of his back pocket.
“Whatcha got there?” the sheriff asked, turning down the radio.
Cross held it up. On the cover was a plane cut in half down the middle, dissected so that all of its inner wires were visible. The plane was a Boeing 737-300. “My favorite book.” He quickly corrected himself, “after the Bible, of course.”
“Airplanes?”
“I love them. Everything about them. It was my first calling.” He stuffed the book back into his pocket.
The sheriff grunted. “Flying always scared me. Boats, too. I guess I just like to have land under my feet.” His cell phone began ringing, and he pulled it out of his pocket. “Hello.”
“Sheriff Taylor,” said the voice on the other end. The volume was turned up high enough that Cross could hear it clearly over the squad car’s quiet engine. “This is Gloria Holt.”
“Well hello, Miss Holt,” Taylor said. “How are you this morning.”
“I’ve called your office three times this week,” she said. Cross imagined her in her seventies, maybe her eighties. She had a frail, frantic voice that he was quite sure was her usual way of speaking. “Someone is stalking our ranches.”
“I received all of your calls,” Sheriff Taylor said. “And I put the deputy on a night shift three times this week to patrol the ranches on the west end of the town. If anyone’s running around at night, we’re gonna catch them.”
The woman on the other line spoke frantically. Cross caught the word “Mexican.”
“Okay. All right, Miss Holt.”
“I don’t deserve this,” she said, louder. “I’ve lived here my whole life, and you understand that? This is my town, and I was here first.”
“I’ll take the night shift,” Taylor said. “I’ll catch whoever it is, sure as heck. I promise, Miss Holt.”
There was no response. Sheriff Taylor pulled the phone from his ear, looked at it, and stuffed it back into his pocket.
“It’s never enough, is it?” Cross asked with what he hoped was a sympathetic tone.
“Not anymore it isn’t.”
Cross watched Taylor rub his eyes one at a time. “If you’re not feeling up to this, we can do it another time, sheriff.”
“Oh, I’ll be just fine,” Taylor said. “Really, it ain’t no problem.”
“You look exhausted.”
“Always exhausted,” he said with a smile. “That’s just how it is now. Every day, it’s something new. Never quiet anymore. Last night, I had to stop by the Gunderson family’s ranch on my day off. Good family. Been here a long time. The boy’s unemployed. Twenty-seven. Spends his time drinking beer out in the hills at night and then he comes home and starts trouble. Pissed off about shit he can’t control.”
“Anger can be difficult to control.” Cross swallowed the sticky saliva in his mouth. He could have said more.
“I just wish the boy could find something constructive to do. He’s always got these stories about drug dealers crossing the border and kidnapping people, and he spreads them around town, and then I got a hundred voicemails to go through when I come in every morning.” He laughed. “Enough of that. You heard from the Vatican lately or what?”
“Not yet,” Cross said. He licked his dry lips. “I’m a little bit disappointed I never had the opportunity to speak to Father Aaron myself. From what people say, he sounds like a very wonderful man.”
“Oh yeah,” the sheriff said, smiling proudly. He continued west past cramped rows of thin red-bricked buildings two stories high. Past Cantrell’s favorite bar. “Best priest we’ve ever had in this little town, I can tell you that with all honesty. The man was a living embodiment of his passion, something that doesn’t come around all that often in this area. Most people in small towns like this have to rely on those damned televangelists polluting the TV channels with their pretend miracles and phony compassion, but Father Aaron was the genuine deal.”
Cross turned to look out the window, scanning the west end’s two-story buildings that resembled the east side of town only with fewer renovations, dirtier windows, brick that had developed dark vertical stains sliding down like stalactites. A couple storefronts looked clean, advertising their expanded hours in English and Spanish in bright yellow letters on the storefront windows as if they were rubbing it in. “Some of the people I’ve talked to would seem to disagree.”
Sheriff Taylor was silent for a moment, leaving only the smooth car engine to fill the empty space between them. “Oh yeah?”
Cross cleared his throat. “I… haven’t given much weight to their opinions.”
“You shouldn’t,” the sheriff said. “But I could probably guess one or two of ‘em off the top of my head. That bastard Cantrell is probably one of them. Lousy drunk never could stay in reality long enough to figure out what was going on. I would have given anything to be there for one of the miracles. Anything. Just to see our father up there calling on the very hand of God to reach down and perform the things no one else could do. Cantrell sees it and doesn’t even give a shit. You think him curing the blind was amazing. That was nothing. Word got around that there were others. Nothing the other priest from the Vatican could prove, though.”
“What other miracles?”
“Plenty. A Mexican kid with a lame leg who could walk rig. A prayer for rain and sure enough a storm sweeps in out of nowhere. That kind of shit.”
“Do you remember when Father Aaron first arrived here?”
Sheriff Taylor nodded. “I was at Mass when old Damien introduced him. God, Old Damien was a helluva nice guy. Maybe a little too hippie for my tastes, but I wasn’t like some people who wanted him to be more rigid. Who cared? Just because he enjoyed a good opera doesn’t mean I didn’t recognize his big old heart.”
“What else can you tell me about Father Aaron’s arrival?” Cross asked. “How long had he been here before he helped out on the first service?”
The buildings gave way to a more desolate expanse of dry land with only a handful of small homes and dark black cattle to break up the arid monotony. Grass grew in dark green clusters. An aluminum windmill pumped water into a long white trough at the edge of one of the ranches. Sheriff Taylor turned left on an unmarked gravel road. There was a single home far ahead, just off to the right of the road. “Shit,” he said. “I dunno exactly. Could have been days, could have been weeks. Old Damien has had nuns and assistants come and go without anyone even noticing.”
“Like Soledad?”
“Oh sure. She helped Father Aaron, though.” The sheriff stifled a hiccup. “She was the only one I remember who helped Father Aaron. Father Belmont tried to get some help before Father Aaron showed up. A lot of young kids. Couple nuns who wanted to feed the Mexicans for a month and then help somewhere else. I don’t think Father Aaron liked all that bureaucratic mumbo jumbo. Soledad was a sweet woman, though.”
“Did you ask Father Aaron about the disappearance of Father Belmont?”
Sheriff Taylor sat quietly for a moment, pulling the windshield visor down to hide his eyes from the morning sun. With his eyes squinted, the skin on his cheeks wrinkled and aged his face by a decade. “He was the first person I questioned,” he finally said.
“And?”
“Said the same thing everyone in town already knew. Old Damien liked going for late-night walks. He went out at approximately eight-fifteen on the night in question and didn’t return. Father Aaron didn’t notice until he stopped in Father Belmont’s room the next day.”
“It’s a shame,” Cross said. “I have to admit, if I hadn’t already taken a vow of poverty, I’d consider looking
for Father Belmont.”
“It’s a rich reward,” Sheriff Taylor said. “Lord knows enough people have dug around near the church. I myself took a walk or two out there after the church put together the reward. Course, those were darker times. Lotta bankruptcies.”
“I understand,” Cross said. He shifted in his seat, feeling the sweat beginning to accumulate under his legs, absorbed by his underwear. He needed more from the sheriff. He had to open up. “My grandmother died when I was young. For a while, I didn’t know what I was going to do. Then… well, I guess you could say I found God.”
“Hot damn,” Taylor said.
Cross glanced over, sure the sheriff was being sarcastic, but the large man was wearing a tight, pulled-back smile on his face.
“God doesn't always seek people out,” Sheriff Taylor said. “Sometimes, I guess He looks for someone. That was what Father Aaron liked to say, at least.”
Cross’s left eye twitched. “How so?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Damn, my ass is wet. You don’t mind if I pump up the AC, do you?”
“No, go right ahead.”
The sheriff reached over and turned up the air conditioning. They parked in the driveway of the small one-story ranch home. There was no accompanying barn, no livestock grazing on the thick blades of light green grass sprouting up like mange—just one small brown house, the paint faded and peeling from the harsh sun, the screen on the front door stapled to its frame. Sheriff Taylor pulled the gear into park and leaned back, groaning.
“Father Aaron was the kind of guy who thought if God was on your side, you could do no wrong,” Taylor said. “Now, that’s pretty hard to prove one way or the other, but I think he proved himself right. God picks some people, I think, and sometimes the people He picks do wrong, but it’s all part of God’s plan.”
“I knew someone who thought like that,” Cross said. “A guy I met in the Seminary. His name was Gabriel.”
“Gabriel, huh?” Sheriff Taylor chuckled. “What, was having a religious-sounding name a prerequisite for your seminary or something?”
Cross forced a smile. “Purely coincidence.”
“Ain’t no such thing,” Taylor said. He unbuckled his seatbelt. “You found God because He wanted you to find him. But God had something special in mind for Aaron Abaddon. I like to remember that, especially now. I like to think maybe God picked me to be here in town because he has a purpose for me. Lets me feel better about some of the wrong I gotta do to make sure things don’t get out of hand.”
He ran a finger over the steering wheel. The cool air blowing from the vents chilled the sweat on Cross’s shirt.
“You hear Miss Holt bitching at me?” Taylor finally asked.
“Some,” Cross said, shifting in his seat. “Hard not to. She has one heck of a voice.”
Taylor laughed. “Sure does. But there ain’t no fella stalking around her house. She just hears things from her neighbors, and they hear things from their neighbors, and everyone works each other up into a frenzy. I’ll take a night shift tomorrow and wait on the west end of town. I’ll catch an illegal coming across, and I’ll put on the lights outside her house and frisk him and read him his rights, and then I’ll call her tomorrow and let her know I got the guy. And then Miss Holt and her neighbors’ will be okay again.”
Cross swallowed hard. He knew what Sherrif Taylor wanted. “I don’t see anything wrong with that.”
Taylor nodded, grimacing. “Come on.”
Cross got out and let the sheriff lead the way up to the front steps, waiting patiently while he knocked on the side of the screen.
Sheriff Taylor glanced over his shoulder. “Try to speak slowly, no sudden movements.”
“Okay,” Cross said.
A woman came to the door dressed in a long red-striped dress and a rebozo around her head. She stayed behind the screen, eying first the sheriff and then Cross. She had a weathered, wrinkled face that was naturally darkened, her brown eyes hiding deep within the sockets. She stood with her head hunched over her shoulders, her round body taking up most of the doorframe.
“” she said in Spanish, stepping back and shielding herself with the door.
Cross looked up at the clear sky, at the white vapor trails that led northwest toward Phoenix.
Sheriff Taylor motioned with his hand to Cross. “
The woman unlatched the screen door’s locking pin. She held the door open, not motioning for them to come in, rather simply stepping aside and allowing the sheriff to take the lead. Her dark brown forehead and the thin dark hairs over her upper lip glistened with sweat. She stared at the sheriff, pulling the door back so his wide girth could fit through without touching her. The metal hinges squeaked.
Cross followed Taylor into the cramped living room, taking in the scent of steamed rice that permeated the air. The floor was littered with stacks of old newspapers, which surrounded a sofa and loveseat in the center of the room, both facing the small portable TV resting against the wall. The woman sat on the loveseat and motioned for Cross to sit on the couch. Sheriff Taylor stood next to the loveseat, taking his hat off and resting it against his stomach.
“Would she mind if I recorded the conversation?” Cross asked the sheriff, pulling the tape recorder from his pocket.
Sheriff Taylor rested a hand on the woman’s shoulder. She flinched. “
The woman looked at the tape recorder. “”
Sheriff Taylor shrugged to Cross. “She doesn’t seem to want to be recorded. I’m sorry, Father.”
“That’s okay,” Cross said. He put the tape recorder back in his pocket.
“I’m sure she could grab a pen and paper for you.”
“No,” Cross said. “Thank you though.”
“Yolanda here is the sister of Marianna Viscaino Reyes,” Sheriff Taylor said. “Marianna was the woman Father Aaron brought back to life. The second miracle.”
Cross nodded and looked into Yolanda’s brown eyes. “What happened on the day of the miracle?”
“
Yolanda nodded. Her breathing came out in a series of slow, sporadic wheezes, forcing her to speak slowly. “
“She says it was very hot that day. They had to walk to church,” Sheriff Taylor said.
Yolanda continued, “
“Her sister passed out and stopped breathing,” Sheriff Taylor said. “Father Aaron called for help while someone else performed CPR.”
“
“The CPR wasn’t working,” Sheriff Taylor said. “When Father Aaron returned, Yolanda begged for him to save her sister. He knelt in front of her and prayed.”
“
“Father Aaron continued praying in Spanish until Marianna heard him,” Sheriff Taylor said. He smiled. “All of the candles behind the lectern ignited. She woke up.”
“
“The paramedics were called off,” Sheriff Taylor said. He grunted. “Probably a good thing, since they would have charged us for the twenty-minute drive to town.”
Cross leaned forward. “What happened next?”
Sheriff Taylor frowned. “Father… I, ah, I’m not so sure we should continue. This is hard enough for her.”
Cross glanced up at the sheriff. “I need to get as much information as I possibly can. This… this will help convince the Vatican.”
Sheriff Taylor sighed and wiped the sweat away from his forehead and temples. “
Yolanda shifted on the loveseat, wheezing uncomfortably and taking a fresh breath that seemed to take forever to fill her lungs. “”
“They took Marianna to the hospital,” Sheriff Taylor said. “They said she was completely healthy.”
“And then what?” Cross asked. “Where is Marianna now?”
Sheriff Taylor hesitated a moment, licking his lips. “
Yolanda shook her head. “”
Sheriff Taylor looked down at her.
“What did she say?” Cross asked.
Taylor’s eyes centered on the crown of Yolanda’s head, seemingly lost in the designs in the rebozo. “Sorry. My Spanish is a little rustier than I thought. She said something about how she can’t remember much of Marianna’s death.”
