“Na.” Peter plopped onto the bed, knocking over the pile of t-shirts in the suitcase. “Have you ever pulled a prank on him? He’ll know it was me. He’ll suspect as soon as he gets the note.”
“Where’d you put the note?”
“It’s on his dresser, right where his car keys were.” He glanced at the open bedroom door. “I’m surprised he hasn’t gone to the rec room for them already.” He stood. “Come on. Let’s get outta here. I don’t want to be nearby when the confetti falls.”
With a few shorts and socks in hand, Roland returned to the suitcase. “What if it doesn’t work?”
“It’ll work.” Peter scooted to the doorway and peeked down the hall. Rock music blared from Jarret’s room.
He faced Roland again, folded his arms and leaned against the dresser, a smug grin stretching across his face. “I tied fishing line to the key ring, put the keys on the desk in the rec room, and ran the line around a hook in the back of the desk. The line goes right up to the ceiling. So when he picks up his keys, it’ll pull the line and tip the overhead tray. Then colorful glitter will shower down . . .” He wiggled his fingers. “. . . and get stuck in his lovely black curls.”
Peter combed his fingers through his blond hair, grinning. “I can’t wait. I’d like to see it happen . . . but from a distance. Maybe we can watch from outside, through the windows in the family room.”
Peter pushed off the dresser and strolled to the bedroom window. “Think we could? If we can’t see inside the rec room from there, at least we’d see him coming out . . . all full of rage, sparkles in his hair.”
Roland shook his head. “He’ll kill you, you know.”
Peter laughed. “He’ll try.”
“Besides, I thought you were doing something with Limburger cheese.”
“I did. Before I set up the confetti, I hid Limburger cheese in his car. He’ll find it when he gets back from Arizona.” Peter paced, gazing up at the ceiling. “Let’s see, you’ll be gone a few weeks, right? His car ought to smell like an outhouse by the time he discovers it. I wonder how you get that smell—”
Peter’s eyes grew wide at the sound of footfalls, but it was only Keefe stomping up the stairs.
Monettello greeted Ellechial with a nod and then raised a brow at Ellechial’s tunic. He had no doubt grown accustomed to seeing Ellechial in the long robes.
Ellechial smoothed his short tunic, happy to be wearing the garb of an angel with permission to travel. “The prayer group. Keefe prayed especially for Jarret. I am thankful.”
“Ah.” Monettello smiled. “I am happy for you.”
“I’d hoped the two of you would arrive soon,” Ellechial said. “Has Keefe come to speak with Jarret?”
“He has.” Monettello did not stop at Jarret’s door but continued down the hall toward the open doorway of Roland’s bedroom. “But first, there is something he must hear.”
Keefe stopped and stood still as a statue at Jarret’s door, his fist poised to knock. A second later, he faced Roland’s bedroom doorway.
Roland and Peter’s conversation had turned from Jarret to the guests at the Brandt’s bed and breakfast. A group of Franciscan brothers was scheduled to arrive soon.
Monettello smiled, watching Keefe. “Well, come on. You know you want to hear more. Come.” He made a welcoming motion toward the doorway as if Keefe could see him. “Ask Peter.”
Keefe took a step in that direction but then stopped and rubbed his forehead.
“You know, brown robes and bald heads,” Peter said to Roland. “Do you think they’ll all be bald? You know, with that little strip of hair? What’s it called?”
Roland gave no audible answer.
Peter continued talking. “Anyway, there’ll be half a dozen of them, I guess. And they’re staying free. You can thank Father Carston for that. He must not think it costs money to run a bed and breakfast. But I guess he knows them, the brothers or friars or whatever, and he told them . . .”
The music in Jarret’s room ceased.
Keefe’s gaze snapped to Jarret’s door. He immediately lifted his fist and knocked with his own unique beat that Jarret would undoubtedly recognize.
Monettello closed his eyes and shook his head. “Jarret still has quite a pull on Keefe. I hope Keefe has heard enough, that the seed has been planted.”
“Seed?” Ellechial said.
“What d’ya want?” Jarret said through the closed door.
Keefe opened the door and strolled into the room. His gaze fixed on the luggage. “So you’re really going, huh?” He sat on the bed. Monettello sat beside him.
Jarret shrugged, not bothering to look up from his laptop.
“Does Keefe want Jarret to stay?” Ellechial said.
Monettello gazed at Keefe before answering. “I believe he does. I believe he sees the same opportunity that you do, should the two of them be alone here for a few weeks. He is anxious to regain Jarret’s friendship and trust.”
“What made you change your mind about going?” Keefe said.
Jarret glanced. “I need a change of pace.”
“Trying to get away from me?”
“Maybe.”
Keefe sighed and shook his head. “I was hoping you’d stay. I wish you weren’t so mad at me. I never did anything to you. I just see things differently now.”
Ellechial nodded, thankful for Keefe’s words. But Jarret hadn’t even blinked an eye.
“You sure hold a grudge for a long time,” Keefe said.
“Grudge? I ain’t got no grudge against you.” Jarret shut off and closed his laptop with one hand, reaching for the case with the other.
“You don’t talk to me anymore. And I think you avoid me. Like you see me coming and you go the other way.”
Jarret managed a crooked grin.
“I wish you’d get over it,” Keefe said. “And I see what you’re up to lately. It’s like you’ve got a death-wish or something. I saw Roland’s mountain bike. What’d you do to wreck it like that? Were you hurt?”
Jarret snickered and slung the strap of the computer case over his shoulder. “Just having a little fun.”
“I saw your speeding ticket.”
Jarret’s eyes darkened. His gaze snapped to the ticket lying on the dresser. “You snooping around my room?” He stomped to the dresser and stuffed the ticket into a drawer. Then he reached for the corner of his dresser, where he typically kept his car keys.
A note, not the keys, lay there.
He snatched the note and read it, a scowl twisting his face. He spun around with an accusing glare. “Did you write this?”
Keefe stepped closer and read the note. Looking for your keys? Try the rec room. “No, I didn’t write that.”
Jarret shook his head, distrust in his eyes. “Why are my keys in the rec room?”
“I don’t know. But before you go, let’s talk.”
“Talk? Let me guess, you want me to think like you do. Want me to give up doing what I want. Want me to think about my soul. You want me to be you.” He laughed coolly. “No thanks. If you want to be friends, come back to my side.”
At his words, Deth-kye appeared now as a small, sooty cloud near Jarret’s ear. “Controlling. Restrictive,” he whispered, “Keefe has become your enemy. Close your ears to him.” Hissing filled the air as his form stretched and grew to its regular height and lanky shape.
“Why do we have to be on sides?” Keefe said as Jarret bolted from the room.
Jarret stormed down the steps.
“You need to think about the direction your life is taking,” Keefe said, his voice cracking. He followed Jarret, a few steps behind. “Are you the least bit happy?”
Without slowing or even glancing at Keefe, Jarret stuck a hand in the air and flipped Keefe the bird. As he rounded the corner, Deth-kye flew up and alighted on his shoulder.
Ellechial prayed.
“Remember the talks that Papa gave you?” Deth-kye whispered. “Remember the one at the prison-monastery? Restr
ictive. Controlling. Remember . . .”
Jarret
Papa gave him the talk that first day on the monastery grounds when Jarret had wanted to go for a walk alone. They strolled down the gravel path near the guest quarters. A bell tolled. Jarret turned to locate the bell tower.
“We’ll need to get used to that.” Papa said, packing his pipe. “The bell tolls seven times a day for prayer. Hopefully, we won’t wake at the 3:00 AM toll.”
“3:00 AM?” Jarret shook his head and sneered. Could it get any worse?
“Yeah, they pray at all hours.” Papa looked at his watch. “They’ll be eating soon. But don’t worry, we won’t eat with them. They keep silence during their meals. We’ll eat in the guests’ dining room.” He nodded toward a building behind a huge black oak tree.
The monks took good care of the grounds, Jarret would give them that. Mowed lawns, flowering bushes, manicured trees, and a little fishpond with sparkling water behind some chapel-like building. Mr. Digby, their family’s groundskeeper, couldn’t have done it better himself, not even with his obsessive-compulsive bent.
“Over there . . .” Papa pointed with his pipe to a long, brick building with several garage doors, off in the distance. “That’s the winery.”
“Winery?” Jarret perked up and gave the building a good long look. He would definitely check it out . . . if Papa ever gave him some space.
“And the monks’ cloister line runs on this side of the winery.”
“Cloister line?”
“They maintain silence most of the day in the cloister. So if you come across a monk, just nod. Don’t ask him anything. If you have any questions, we’ll have to ask Brother Mario.”
“Brother Mario?”
Papa lit his pipe and carelessly dropped the match. “He’s the one we met already.”
They strolled toward a dirt road that cut through the vineyards.
“So,” Jarret said, “you wanna tell me what we’re doing here, exactly?”
“Sure. The monks discovered a room or part of a tunnel behind one of the walls in the winery cellar. They believe there are more tunnels. An older monk remembered some rumors of an underground hiding place where valuables from ransacked churches were once hidden. Those items are blessed, sacred. So, they want us to investigate.”
“Sounds like an odd assignment to me.” Papa often worked with archaeological excavation teams or did geological surveys and that sort of work, but this? “They’re paying you to find this stuff?”
Papa smiled at the orange sun hanging low in the sky. His graying hair and weathered skin made him seem old and tired, but he also had a youthful, ready-for-any-challenge look about him. “No, Jarret, I’m not getting paid for this one.”
“What?” The blood rushed to his head. A vein in his forehead throbbed. Papa’s generosity irked him sometimes, but to make him a part of it . . . “Not getting paid? You don’t know these monks. Why are we here? I mean, for real. This is about me, isn’t it?”
Papa puffed on his pipe and exhaled a cloud of smoke. They turned down the dirt road. Papa finally spoke. “You’re right. I thought the trip would be good for you.”
Jarret glared at him, not ready for the talk that he full well expected to get on this trip, but knowing it was about to begin. He wouldn’t be on this trip at all if Papa hadn’t come up to school unannounced and happened to see Zoe with her seven-month-pregnant belly. A month earlier, Papa had threatened him and his brothers about respecting girls.
“You’ve made some bad choices lately.” He paused, his gaze flicking toward Jarret’s waist. “For example, I know you smoke.”
Jarret gulped. His hand shot to the back pocket of his jeans. Had Papa seen the pack of cigarettes?
“But that’s not what bothers me the most.”
When Papa directed his gaze to the sun again, Jarret pulled out his pack. Since Papa already knew, why bother hiding it? After all, Papa was smoking. Maybe they could bond over a smoke.
“Jarret, you’re seventeen. You’ll be a senior next year and a legal adult in a few months. It’s time you start thinking about where your life is headed. Sometimes it helps to get away from things. Without all the distractions . . .” He gestured at the surroundings. “. . . maybe you can think more clearly. Pray. Ask the Lord—” He turned as Jarret lit up.
Jarret took a long drag off the cigarette, calming instantly. He took another step before realizing Papa had stopped walking.
Papa squinted at him and then snatched the cigarette from his hand. “What in the Sam Hill are you thinking, Jarret?” He crushed the cigarette under his boot. “I said I know you smoke. I didn’t say I liked it. I didn’t say it was okay. Are you trying to get my back up? You need to show some respect. You’re not going to smoke right here in front of me.” He glared hard for a long moment.
Jarret averted his gaze.
“Now listen. I’m not going to search you or your luggage for cigarettes. I’m going to trust you to get rid of them. Do you understand me? I want you to quit.”
Jarret stared at the wasted cigarette on the ground, then he met Papa’s gaze. “I’m gonna be eighteen in less than year. And when I’m eighteen, I’m gonna smoke in front of you. I’m gonna smoke with you.”
Papa’s eyes twitched, but he made no reply.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WELCOME TO ARIZONA
Jarret
The hot morning air slapped Jarret in the face the instant he stepped out of Tucson International Airport. Bald mountains rose up in the distance under a hazy sky. Papa and Roland loaded luggage into the rental car, but Jarret had no interest in helping. He stood gaping at the mountains. He had expected Arizona to have a dry, boring landscape, but the utter lack of greenery came as a shock.
He slid into the back seat of the air-conditioned rental car and slammed the door. “Why did I ever agree to go on this trip?” he muttered. In this heat, he’d be trapped indoors. And how big was their house? Big enough to accommodate him, Roland, and Papa, along with the Zamorano family of six? What if he didn’t like them?
He leaned his head back and groaned.
An hour later, they finally turned down a residential street. They passed a few rundown ranch houses and a long stretch of nothing but clumps of dry grass before the Zamoranos’ house came into view.
His spirits lifted at once.
The Zamoranos did not live in an ordinary house. Their home was more like a mansion: balconies decorated with potted cacti, fancy wrought iron grills on all the lower windows, pale stucco walls, a red-tile roof, and an archway over a front porch flanked with thick columns. Yeah, the Zamoranos’ sprawling, two-story Spanish Colonial home even made the barren landscape attractive.
The rental car pulled up the long drive. Jarret jumped out first, ready to explore the place. Roland got out next, mumbling to himself. He turned full circle, still mumbling to himself, saying something about the great weather and the pale dirt.
Papa unfolded himself from the car, stretched, yawned, combed a hand through his hair, and adjusted his cowboy hat.
“Let’s go,” Jarret said with a jerk of his hand. He followed Papa to the carved front door.
A wrinkled Mexican woman, who hadn’t the hint of a smile, opened the door to them. She spoke to them in Spanish as she led them through the foyer.
Her words went back and forth in Jarret’s mind. Mama used to speak Spanish all the time, years ago. The words began to make sense. “Señor Zamorano will be with you shortly,” the woman had said.
They entered a spacious, vibrantly colored sitting room. Jarret breathed deeply and grinned.
Large paintings of Mexican scenes—a bullfight, women in colorful dresses, and a fiesta—placed high on the pale walls, gave the room an old-world feel. Light streamed in through tall windows and refracted through the crystal prisms of a chandelier, casting patterns on the leather and dark wooden Western furniture in the middle of the room. Tall vases and spiky plants stood in the corners.
Papa took
a seat on a couch, propped a boot on the coffee table, but then slid his boot to the floor. Scuff marks on the edge of the table suggested he wasn’t the only one who made himself at home in this room.
“I think I’m gonna like it here,” Jarret said to Roland. The two of them stood outside the arrangement of furniture, sizing up the place. Three sets of double doors came off the sitting room: the one that they had come through and two others with colorful, painted doorknobs.
“Yeah?” The half-open door on the far side of the room held Roland’s attention. He took off the black Stetson he had bought at the airport and ran his fingers through his hair. “Why’s that?” Roland said. “You’ve been complaining since the jet touched down.”
“Are you kidding me? This place is the bomb. Servants, stables, a big pool . . . Yeah, I’m gonna like it here. It’s like a deluxe resort. I’m gonna kick back and have myself a good old time.”
Roland jerked his head toward the half-open door again.
Jarret looked, too, and glimpsed a girl in a yellow sundress. Roughly their age and with long dark hair, she reminded him of Zoe. “Who’s that?”
Roland blushed and glanced at Papa. “How should I know?”
“Well, you were staring—”
The other set of doors opened and Señor Juan Zamorano breezed into the room with an attractive forty-something woman on his arm and a little girl behind him. Tall with wide shoulders, tidy black hair, a trim mustache, a strong jaw, and a bolo tie, he was older now but Jarret recognized him at once.
Papa jumped to his feet and met him in the middle of the room. “Juan.” Papa spoke with a hint of emotion. He squeezed Juan’s hand and pulled him into a bear hug.
“Ignatius, my friend, I am happy to see you.” Señor Juan’s voice boomed. He couldn’t have been more than ten years older than Papa, but the composed way he carried himself and his teary eyes made him come across like he was Papa’s adoptive father or a mentor or something.
Señor Juan turned to Jarret and Roland. He smiled and shook his head as if in disbelief. “Bienvenido. I remember you both as little boys. You, Roland, were still in diapers.”
Roland’s face flushed. He shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans as Señor Zamorano reached to shake hands. “Sir, I mean Señor,” Roland stammered, jerking his hand from his pocket.
Battle for His Soul Page 6
