“No, but—”
Through the entry’s towering paned windows came the distinct sound of a baby crying.
“The Señora must not be bothered.”
Mary Margaret raised her chin, taking a few steps closer to the door. “My business is urgent. It involves the man being held in the hospital—Everett Black.”
“Well, then . . .” The man with the cigar took it from his mouth to squat, grinding the glowing tip against the rock floor. “Wait here. I’ll see what I can do.”
Lingering sweet smoke turned her stomach.
The man gave Mary Margaret the heebies. He stared right through her.
Once his partner had gone inside, the other guard said, “My sister is a nun. She was shipped off to Bogotá. Can’t remember the last time I saw her.”
“I’m sorry.” Mary Margaret bowed her head. “That must be hard on your family.”
The man shrugged.
The door opened, and the pock-marked guard stood in front of it, gesturing for her to pass through. “Señora is waiting for you in her formal parlor. She said you would know where to go.”
“Si. Gracias.”
“De nada.”
Conditioned air hit Mary Margaret’s overheated cheeks like a blessedly cool cloth. The cold felt as unnatural and yet pleasurable as any garden variety sin—maybe more so. She hadn’t realized how sticky she’d grown beneath her heavy garments until now, when her fevered flesh cooled.
Led by the sounds of the infant’s fitful cries, Mary Margaret’s footfalls fell silent on the sumptuous rugs covering the rock floor. Stone walls supported an oil painting gallery lined with sober-faced men and women dressed in historic garb. Heavy wooden armchairs with ruby velvet upholstered seats framed ornately carved side tables topped with brass lamps and dozens of the crystal balls Señora Rodriguez collected. As long as Mary Margaret had lived in the convent, the nuns had joined in to gift the señora with a new piece each birthday and Christmas.
The closer she stepped to the formal room, the more her palms sweated and heart raced. She was doing the right thing in telling Señora what awful claims Everett Black had made, right?
. . . Arm yourself against naiveté.
The warning pounded inside her like drums. Was she being naive in believing anything Everett Black had to say? That had to be it. Because she refused to think this woman to whom she owed her very life might be anything other than the living saint she seemed.
Standing in the formal parlor’s wide, arched stone entry, Mary Margaret clasped her hands and cleared her throat. “Señora. Thank you for agreeing to see me.”
“Of course. I’m always happy to visit with one of my own.” She sat on a floral settee that had to be fifteen feet long. Jiggling the baby, cooing into his ear, she looked every bit the part of a mother. “Please, join me. I’m sure my son will soon drift off to dreamland.”
“Yes. Of course.” Still missing her own mother’s hugs, Mary Margaret’s eyes stung with unshed tears. Seated, not only did she find the room intimidating with its stone hearth that was big enough to house a small car, but the sweet scent of the coffee table’s fresh floral arrangement combined with Señora’s rich perfume made her gag . . . No wonder the poor infant was upset. He couldn’t breathe.
“My guard says you have something to tell me about our guest?”
“Yes, Señora.” If he’s a guest, why is he being restrained to his bed? “I know of no pleasant way to say this . . .”
“Please . . .” She forced a smile over the infant’s louder cries. “Feel free to be frank.”
“Everett Black said—” Mary Margaret fisted her skirt’s thick wool “—he accused you of kidnapping this infant.”
If Mary Margaret hadn’t been looking, she might have missed the hitch in Señora’s breath or the narrowing of her eyes. She averted her gaze only to spy a small handgun nestled beside the flowers. Why would Señora need a gun?
The señora cleared her throat. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
The baby’s cries echoed through the vast room. Was he missing his true mother? Could Everett Black’s story be true? If so, then the implications ran shockwaves through her entire life. When Sister Catherine had delivered her cryptic speech, could she have been trying to tell Mary Margaret that everything in the convent was not as it seemed?
“In fact, I’m very, very sorry.” Señora rose. Cupping the back of the baby’s head, she paced in front of the cold stone hearth. “Shh . . .” she whispered to the infant. “No more tears. You are safe. Home.”
“Señora?” Mary Margaret also stood, holding out her hands. “Would you like me to take him? I am good with the orphaned infants.”
“This is no orphan,” the woman practically spat. “But my son. Go. Never speak of this again or you will meet the same fate as your parents.”
What? Confusion clogged Mary Margaret’s throat. Why would the señora say such a terrible thing?
“Yes, Señora. As you wish.” Mary Margaret bowed her head, backing out of the room.
The infant’s cries now sounded more like terror-fueled screams. “Tell Sister Agnes to bring Dr. Garcia right away. My son is sick.”
“Yes. Right away.” Mary Margaret continued moving backwards until catching her tennis shoe against a rug’s edge. She tripped, but caught herself short of falling—not from the rug as she’d assumed, but something far more insidious. A man’s feet that had been bound with duct tape stuck out from behind a pair of armchairs.
A glance over her shoulder had her covering her mouth with her hands to keep from retching. His head hung at an unnatural angle—as if his neck had been snapped.
“Ándale!” Señora cried. “My son needs the doctor!”
Mary Margaret turned to run.
The baby screamed, fueling her frantic pace.
She should never have come. What had she been thinking? Clearly, she hadn’t been thinking. Faster and faster she charged down the hall, through the entry and out the front door. She should have called the authorities first. But then if Señora was powerful enough to have kidnapped a child with no one voicing the slightest protest, then who was to say she didn’t also control local policia?
As for the dead man lying in Señora’s formal reception room? Mary Margaret said a quick prayer for God to admit him to Heaven, then forever strike the image from her mind.
Upon her approach, the guards were at first startled to attention, but then laughed—a panicked nun was no threat.
They were wrong.
In the span of a heartbeat, Mary Margaret was naïve no more.
All of the money it took to keep this mecca in the middle of a jungle financially afloat had no doubt been earned by the same drug dealers who had killed her parents. For all she knew, Señora Rodriguez may have been responsible for their deaths. Everett Black had been telling the truth.
That knowledge turned Mary Margaret’s veins to ice.
She had to go to him. Everett. She had to enlist his help in returning this poor, frightened baby safely back into his true mother’s arms.
Would she ever find her own place in this foreign, upside down world? She was terrified she might never know.
5
“SWEAR ON YOUR eternal soul that what you told me about Señora Rodriguez’s baby being kidnapped is true.”
Having been knocked out by the contents of a mystery syringe, Everett couldn’t be sure if the pretty young nun actually stood at the foot of his bed, backlit by a yellow halo of light, or if she were merely a dream.
“Answer me. If it is true, we don’t have much time.”
Everett wanted to answer, but his tongue felt thick.
“Are you okay? What’s wrong?” She stepped closer. Close enough that with his newly freed hands, if he’d had the energy, Everett could have bolted upright to grab her—to see for himself if she felt as soft and kissable as she looked—not that he would kiss her. Just sayin’. He’d picked his cuff locks just prior to the needle-happy nun’s visit, then he’d clasped t
hem loosely enough around his wrists to slip free when the time was right. “Were you sedated?”
He nodded. At least he thought he had been?
She sighed, then tilted her face upward. “God, in the years I’ve spent devoted to You, I haven’t asked for much, but could You please make something during the course of this endless day go right?”
Taa daa! Everett yanked his hands free, wagging his fingers in what he hoped was an appropriately messiah-like way.
“I swear . . .” She made the sign of the cross on her chest. Under her breath, she muttered while unlatching the man’s leg restraints, “You will either be my savior or damnation. I had hoped you’d help with the baby, but in your current condition, you’re not much more aid to me than a small child.”
She maneuvered a wheelchair alongside the bed, then removed a bundle of clothes from the seat. “I brought jeans and a T-shirt, along with socks and shoes. I could only guess at the size. I can’t even imagine how much trouble I’ll be in for stealing them from the laundry.”
You’re beautiful, he wanted to say to his angel. Thank you.
Approaching the head of the bed, she tugged down his covers, then reached out to touch his shoulders, as if she planned on removing his hospital gown, but had second thoughts. As a nun, she couldn’t have seen many male chests. Not to be cocky, but his was a damned fine specimen.
Still not entirely sure this wasn’t all a dream, Everett found the energy to raise his arms, giving the gown a yank. It wasn’t tied around his neck, and when cool air kissed his pecs, the poor girl’s cheeks turned hibiscus red.
Averting her gaze, she held out a green T-shirt. “Think you can manage to slip this on?”
“Yeah,” he said with a painful grunt when his arms ached from having been forced into the same position for too long. He rode out the cramps, then got his head stuck in an arm hole. “Help?”
She leaped to his side, inadvertently skimming her warm, nimble fingers across his neck and biceps and abs. As much as he’d enjoyed her touch, she seemed traumatized by their brief contact. Usually women loved touching him. This pretty nun was hell on his ego. “I, um, didn’t think to bring undergarments.”
“I—” His mouth was painfully dry. His tongue still protested having to work. As if reading his mind, she poured water from a nearby pitcher into a plastic cup, then held it to his parched lips. After drinking his fill, he winced, then said, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. But we must hurry.”
“What time is it?”
“Late enough for most everyone to be sleeping, but that doesn’t mean danger isn’t everywhere.”
“W-why are you helping me?”
“I’ll explain later. For now, let’s get you dressed and to the van. Once I get the baby, we will leave and drive to Medellin. From there, we’ll plan our next move.” She tossed jeans onto the bed, gesturing for him to put them on.
He nodded. She was a smart cookie.
Just one more thing he found attractive about her.
The faded jeans she slipped past his feet and ankles were soft from no doubt many washings. She wrestled them up to his knees, then turned away. “I trust you can manage from here?”
“Sure.” It was hell working them over his bum knee, but if she hadn’t been able to deal with the sight of his bare chest, she sure wasn’t ready for his package. Still partially covered by the sheet and blanket, he lifted his ass to pull the jeans all the way up. After fastening the waistband button and pulling up the zipper, he said, “Done.”
As if he were a child, she slipped thick white socks onto his feet for him, and then tan leather work boots. “Do you think your leg has healed well enough for you to drive?”
“Sure—as long as it’s not a stick.”
She winced. “I’m afraid that’s all we have. It’s the van we use for outings.”
“It’ll be fine,” he assured her. Sort of. He was great at most things, but driving a standard transmission? Not so much. Toss in the added fun of his left knee being on fire, and it was a guaranteed shit show. Still, riding out a little pain was the least he could do in return for this woman’s rescue. “If you don’t mind my asking, how are you planning on getting the baby?”
She was back at it with crossing her chest. “Luck. Lots and lots of luck.”
Mary Margaret was amazed by how smoothly she’d been able to wheel Everett Black out of the hospital’s back entry, down the covered walkway leading to the convent’s small parking area, and then help settle him behind the van’s wheel.
She’d expected security to show up around every corner, but so far, they’d encountered no one. It was two in the morning, so she shouldn’t have been surprised, but as loud as her heart was beating, she’d assumed everyone within a five-mile radius would hear.
“Wait,” she said after handing him the keys she’d stolen from the cookie jar where Sister Catherine kept important things.
“Look . . .” Before she shut the door, he grabbed her forearm. Her sleeve had risen and the feel of his fingers against her bare skin wreaked havoc on her already panicked system. She knew she should pull away, but oddly lacked the wherewithal to perform the action. “Now that I’m coming out of my drug fog, let me help. We’ll get the baby together.”
The thick night air smelled of approaching rain. A lightning flash, followed by rolling thunder promised a coming storm.
“Impossible.” She shook her head, then finally managed to free herself from his pleasurable hold. “Security in Señora’s home is tight. When guards stop my entry, I will say I’m bringing medicine for the baby to sleep. Once inside, I will either be able to take the infant or not. Obviously, until reaching his room, I have no way of knowing how many guards protect him. Please watch for me. If I succeed, I will be running toward you from that direction.” She pointed over her left shoulder. “On the other hand, should you hear a commotion or God forbid—gunfire—then you will know I failed. At that point, save yourself.”
He arched his head back and groaned. “I don’t like this. I should be saving the baby and you.”
“I appreciate the offer, but in case you failed to notice, I just rescued you.”
Lightning cracked. Thunder shook the ground.
“See?” she found the courage to tease. “Even my boss agrees.”
“Do me a favor?”
“What?”
“I know we hardly know each other, but be careful.”
“You, too. And remember what I said—if you sense something went wrong, please go. Bring back help for your friends’ son.”
“Sister?” He was again reaching for her, but she backed away. “Geez, I don’t even know your name.”
“Mary Margaret. We will have plenty of time to get acquainted during the next leg of our journey.”
Before she chickened out by taking him up on his offer to help, Mary Margaret crept into the shadow provided by the orphanage’s bus. She’d tried her best to come across strong, but inside, she was a mess. Could she really do this? Take Señora Rodriguez’s baby boy?
Her dear parents’ smiling faces flashed before her mind’s eye.
Then, the empty gaze of the dead man she’d stumbled over.
Steeling her shoulders, more determined than ever to see this through, Mary Margaret reasoned that logically, this was a task she was uniquely suited to do. Even if both of Everett Black’s legs were in perfect working order, she sensed that he lacked the finesse to ever pass Señora’s personal army.
She clung to the garage’s shadows until reaching the convent’s main housing unit.
From there, she quietly entered, forced a deep, calming series of breaths, then plunged forward down the dark halls leading past the kitchen, offices, and chapel where they performed morning prayers. Mary Margaret craved to stop in for a quick pep talk from the Lord, but there was no time. The baby must be returned to his mother. The poor soul had to be out of his mind with fear.
Outside, lightning and growling thunder alerted h
er that the storm grew closer. Inside, a cyclone of broken emotions frightened her far more than mere rain and wind. If she accomplished returning this infant to his rightful mother, Mary Margaret would then have nowhere else to go. Our Mother of the Blessed Angel was the only home she’d ever known. She would be shunned by her friends and church. Was righting Señora Rodriguez’s heinous wrong worth the havoc this act would wreak upon her carefully ordered life?
Yes.
Wind-driven rain pelted the windows, propelling her into action.
Just outside the downstairs bathroom was a supply closet where basic medical items were stored. Aspirin and bandages. Antiseptic and soothing sunburn spray. She flipped on the overhead light to find a bottle of ear drops. They were meant for Sister Helen’s occasional bouts of swimmer’s ear, but the guard didn’t have to know that. She tore off the brown glass bottle’s exterior label, tucked the paper in her right skirt pocket, then the bottle in her left.
Operating on pure adrenaline, she exited the closet to find herself still alone.
Upon soundlessly closing the closet door, she tiptoed further down the hall, trying not to be creeped out by the play of lightning-strobed shadows springing to macabre life on every wall.
She’d almost reached the convent’s rear exit when a voice called from the darkness. “Mary Margaret? Why are you up so late?”
“I, ah . . .” While dreaming up an answer for Sister Agnes, Mary Margaret’s heart thundered louder than the storm. In her pocket, her sweating palm brushed the cool bottle. “Have an earache.” She waved the medicinal proof. “There’s hardly any left, so I thought I’d take it to my cell.” Ironic—the name of the small spaces where the nuns slept. For most of her life, Mary Margaret had considered her own closet-like space a sanctuary, but now, realizing how she’d been living under layer upon layer of lies, she truly had been trapped in a cell of her own making.
“I’ll say a prayer for you, my child.” She gestured for Mary Margaret to join her on the walk up the rear staircase to their cells. “Come. A good night’s rest is oftentimes the best medicine.”
Shunned (SEAL Team: Disavowed Book 3) Page 3
