While the authorities asked their questions of fact, Leah struggled with another, more fundamental puzzler. How could Montenegro target children for assassination?
* * *
It was after eleven p.m. on the Sunday following Thanksgiving. Dr. Vogel had given the green light for Teddy to go home. In the morning, they'd return to the Bay Area. Leah and Jay sat at the small round table in her motel room. Monica slept in one of the two double beds that took up most of the floor space. A melodic snore kept pace with her breathing.
"Montenegro didn't do it alone," Jay said. "Juana Santiago was the brains--no, the devil--behind it." He shuddered. "Just the mention of her name makes me sick."
"Montenegro gave the order."
Jay raked his fingers through his hair. "I wish there were a way to prosecute them in an international tribunal."
Leah's bile rose. "There's an even better tribunal."
"POCI?"
"You bet. Montenegro has stoked my fire. I'll do what I do best, but with even greater passion. I'll prod consciences on campuses and at civic and church groups. I'll talk to anyone who'll listen. I'll hound the press with news releases on the growing use of torture and terror as governmental policy." A satisfied smile spread across her face. "That's the best form of revenge I know of."
"I haven't seen that sparkle since last Saturday night," Jay said.
"Well, it's not often the victims get to punish the criminals. I intend to make the most of it."
Jay opened the door to his adjoining room and they embraced, holding each other with such desire that their bodies fused together.
* * *
When the solemn troupe returned to San Francisco, their first business was to get Teddy settled comfortably in his room.
"Where will you go?" he asked Jay.
The question surprised Leah. It revealed none of the male vs. male rivalry that had characterized Teddy's attitude toward Jay from the beginning.
"I'll find a place," Jay said. "I want to be nearby."
"You saved my life." Teddy grasped his mother's hand. Tears pooled in his clear, blue eyes. "Our lives."
Jay sat on the boy's bed. "I didn't know what else to do. I love you all so much. I--" Tightness in his throat cut off further communication.
Leah stood behind Jay with her hands on his shoulders. She, too, unable to speak. Monica, who had stood in the doorway, joined the group and wrapped her arms around her mother's waist. It was the first moment the four of them had had, just to be . . . and to be grateful for being alive.
* * *
Santa Catalina's casinos shone with bright lights and festive holiday decorations. It was a typical Christmas Eve, with one exception, the absence of tourists in the capital's gaming houses. In the aftermath of the POCI killings and the failed assassination of the Barton boy, the major cruise lines had dropped Santa Catalina as a port of call.
"What do I do now? It's been like this for a month," Montenegro said. The question had a pleading, almost whiny, tone. He stared out at the harbor like a castaway searching the horizon for a friendly wisp of smoke. Gone were the erect posture and arrogant jutting of the presidential jaw.
Ever the pragmatist, Juana Santiago stood by with a ready solution. "Give them what they want."
She had grown tired of making all the president's tough decisions and letting him pretend they were his. Besides, he hadn't been to her villa, nor had they made love since news of de los Reyes's death had broken in the world press. In fact, Montenegro seemed no longer interested in her.
It's the other way around, Juana admitted. She enjoyed riding shotgun on a shooting star. With that star spinning out of control, she wanted off.
"Do it," the president decreed.
Juana retreated to her office and made the necessary phone calls, first to the prison warden, then to the international news media.
Alone in her bedroom that night, her thoughts turned to de los Reyes, with neither sorrow nor pity, just bitterness. Prior to his POCI assignment, informants at Special Branch had informed the president--through her--of the Chief's secret villa in Mallorca and suggested their boss might be planning to disappear. The president had assigned two agents to shadow Angel throughout his mission abroad. They had orders to kill him if he skipped out after eliminating the targeted children. It was these agents who had first reported the bloody events in Heavenly Valley.
"Give the order," she had urged her boss, "have them kill the Barton boy."
Montenegro's response had been a curt, "It's over."
She understood clearly that his statement included her.
Although the murder of Elli Vander Hoorst had been Juana's idea, the thought of de los Reyes raping the child disgusted her. The pig! I'm glad he's dead. If only he had been loyal and completed his mission. His failure had ruined her chances to rise even higher in the Santo Sangrían hierarchy. It galled her that the pitiful Anastasia Montenegro might actually outlast her.
Juana reviewed her finances. She wasn't wealthy, but, like de los Reyes, she had stashed enough money in foreign banks over the years to live comfortably anywhere she chose. She studied her face in the vanity mirror. I still have my looks and my brains, if not as much of my youth as I'd like. I'll get by.
The merciless bashing Montenegro had absorbed from the media for the past five weeks rendered him altogether impotent as a leader. De los Reyes's death seemed to have drained him of all desire for preemptive strikes against his enemies. Juana doubted he would have the stomach to hunt her down and kill her. Besides, despite it all, the pitiful man is still in love with me.
* * *
Just before nine a.m. on Christmas morning, a disgruntled media corps gathered for a press conference in the main foyer of Santa Catalina's Cárcel Central. Bureau chiefs, notified that something big related to the POCI story was breaking, had roused their crews from bed or called them away from family celebrations.
As the giant bells atop the cathedral proclaimed the start of pontifical Mass, the prison warden led a confused-looking Arturo Valdez through a side entrance to a seat at a wooden table on which a cluster of microphones stood ready to record the event for later broadcast around the world.
To the clicking of cameras and the roll of videotape, the warden unfolded a prepared statement. "Merry Christmas, ladies and gentlemen. On behalf of His Excellency President Raúl Montenegro, I am pleased to announce an amnesty in the spirit of the season. Scheduled for release today is Professor Arturo Valdez, whom you will have an opportunity to interview, if you wish. By this evening, ten more prisoners will be reunited with their families in this benevolent gesture of good will."
* * *
A week after the Bartons returned home from Lake Tahoe, Jay moved into the upstairs guest room. It had been a family decision, with both Teddy's and Monica's full support. It was a time to get used to being together, to test the chemistry of their shared lives.
In the intervening days, the authorities had satisfied themselves that Jay acted in self-defense in the death of Juan de los Reyes and that he hadn't been involved in the Vander Hoorst and Pontieri murders. There had also been the matter of his visa status to deal with. He applied for political asylum in the U.S. INS granted him temporary permission to remain in the country, pending a formal hearing.
Leah stood at the stove, putting final touches on their Christmas dinner. Jay leaned against the sink, tossing his special Santo Sangrían salad.
When KCBS news radio reported Valdez's release, he invited her into his embrace. "Was it worth the price?"
Leah held him close and with such desire that it took an enormous act of will and two nearby, hungry children to keep them from making love right there.
"I thought a lot when I was in the hospital," Teddy announced, after they had cleared away the remains of the turkey and set a fresh pumpkin pie on the table.
Leah paused mid-slice, instantly curious and attentive. This new side of Teddy took some getting used to--a growth spurt of emotional
maturity that had emerged since his close encounter with death.
Teddy turned to Jay. "I don't want you to go."
Jay looked to Leah for guidance. "I won't leave San Francisco. I promise."
"That's not what I mean."
"What are you trying to say?" Leah asked.
"I want Jay to be part of our family . . . always."
Wearing a madonna smile, Monica cast her vote. "Me, too."
Jay grasped Teddy's hand, then Monica's. The children joined hands with their mother, completing the circle. "There's nothing I want more than to be part of this family."
"Me, too!" Leah echoed, laughing and weeping at the same time.
Jay wiped his eyes with a linen napkin. "I'll need a lot of help."
Monica's brow furrowed. "What help?"
"It's a long time since I've been part of a family. I don't know much about kids. All I know is, I already love you both as much as I love your mother. I won't even try to take your father's place, but I'm ready to be as much of a father as you need me to be, or as you'll let me be."
No one spoke, until Teddy broke the silence. "That's a start." With a gleam in his eye and a mischievous glance at his sister, he added, "We'll teach you the rest."
# # # # #
(Scripture quotation from the NEW AMERICAN BIBLE, copyright (c) 1970 by the Confraternity of Christian Doctrine, Washington, D. C.)
About the Author
Born in Santa Monica, California, I now reside and write in the San Francisco Bay Area where I am active in the Mount Diablo Branch of the California Writers Club. I also serve as a lay minister in my local Roman Catholic parish, coordinating adult faith formation programs, moderating bereavement and lector ministries, and offering private spiritual direction.
TO THE READER:
I am honored that you have read
Circles of Stone
If you enjoyed A Love Forbidden, I hope you will consider reading my other novels and my nonfiction book, The Wisdom of Les Miserables: Lessons from the Heart of Jean Valjean.
The following pages contain descriptions and sample chapters.
Novels and Nonfiction by Alfred J. Garrotto
The Saint of Florenville: A Love Story
A mentally damaged homeless man arrives at a convent gate in Southeastern Belgium. The nuns give him shelter, not recognizing him as the presumed murder victim
in a crime that involved one of their own sisters.
Two friends, a priest and a nun, are kidnapped and tortured in picturesque Bruges. What follows is a story of survival and faith; a celebration of love that cannot be bound by rules that humans impose.
Sample Chapter (The Saint of Florenville)
I'll Paint a Sun
A month before their Valentine's Day wedding, Libby O'Neill's fiancé and business partner walks out—taking all their money with him. Plunged into despair, Libby cannot foresee that God is about to send her an angel in disguise. (Genesis Press, Inc./ Kensington)
Sample I'll Paint a Sun
Finding Isabella
Analisa Marconi's adoptive parents perish in a plane crash that she alone survives. Devastated and now rootless, she returns to her native country to search for her birth mother and any siblings. (Genesis Press, Inc.).
Sample Finding Isabella
A Love Forbidden
Destiny brings human rights worker Leah Barton and Fr. Javier de Cordova together again. Santo Sangre's dictator, Raúl Montenegro, has lured the priest into a diplomatic mission to meet with rights leaders and plead his country's case. Javier agrees to represent this man he hates because it will give him one last opportunity to admit to Leah that he made a terrible mistake in rejecting her love more than a decade ago.
Sample A Love Forbidden
My nonfiction work includes
The Wisdom of Les Miserables: Lessons from the Heart of Jean Valjean.
What can a 21st century seeker learn about life, love and spirituality from a 19th century French novel? Plenty. Alfred J. Garrotto offers Victor Hugo's flawed protagonist as a model for anyone in search of practical wisdom for everyday living. One of fiction's most beloved characters, the former convict and life-long fugitive represents humanity in both its brokenness and its potential for selfless--even saintly--living.
Reflection topics range from forgiveness and the primacy of conscience to the joys and sorrows of parenthood. Each Reflection explores a universal theme, including the daily call to spiritual and moral conversion and the life-lessons parents impart to their children. Questions at the end of each Reflection invite you to use the book as your personal wisdom journal.
Praise for The Wisdom of Les Miserables
"Alfred J. Garrotto incorporates the text of Victor Hugo's Les Miserables and creates a workbook out of the lessons Jean Valjean taught through his life. I particularly admire the author’s pithy answer to the truth of fiction." Ron Hansen author of the bestselling novels, Exiles, Atticus, Mariette in Ecstasy, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, Nebraska and nonfiction works, including my personal favorite, A Stay Against Confusion: Essays on Faith and Fiction.
"Alfred J. Garrotto has succeeded brilliantly in distilling the wisdom of a nineteenth century classic novel and using it to illuminate our twenty-first century lives. This part autobiography / part spiritual handbook seems to me a classic in its own right, one that stands on the shoulders of another classic." Tom Savignano, Poet, A Time To Ponder, A Time to Sing and Prayers and Reminiscences
The Wisdom of Les Miserables
(Sample)
* * *
I invite you to visit my websites and blog at
Visit my websites and blog at
https://wisdomoflesmiserables.blogspot.com/
https://saintofflorenville.wordpress.com/
and
https://www.authorsden.com/alfredjgarrottohtm
Join me on
Facebook https://www.facebook.com/alfred.j.garrotto
Twitter https://twitter.com/#!/algarrotto
Linkedin https://www.linkedin.com/in/alfredjgarrotto
E-mail
[email protected] * * *
The Saint of Florenville: A Love Story
(Sample)
I rarely come here anymore. When I do, I get a sick feeling in my stomach. What's wrong with you? This city is Belgium's greatest treasure. The voiceover belongs to my husband. Or to me, cowering behind his vocal mask. On brisk spring days like this, Bruges's medieval charm transports visitors half-a-millennium back in time. I don't deny its mystic appeal, derived as it is from picture-postcard gothic architecture and willow-draped canals. Venice of the North, they call her, deservedly so. Housed within its gates are the works of Michelangelo--the Madonna and Child. Hans Memling, too, the greatest painter of the Flemish Primitive School. And who am I to dispute the claim that actual drops of Jesus' blood are preserved within the Church of the Holy Blood or that they liquefy on designated holy days?
All these treasures and I still become ill, as now. I hear tortured cries of pain and desperation echoing from a basement not far off the main tourist trails. I alone have been made curator of the full truth about a heinous crime committed here. Centuries ago? Barely three decades. Those cries remind me that sick minds still prey upon unsuspecting victims, leaving the lucky ones dead, while the living hope for restoration of defiled bodies and minds. I promised never to reveal my knowledge of those events, though they weighed as a yoke upon my shoulders. To gain relief from my burden, I’ve written a novel that has turned out to be quite therapeutic, not for the reader, likely, but for myself.
* * *
Stepping onto the platform, I wheel my maroon overnight bag like a leashed puppy through the crowded railway station. Waiting outside on cue is an author's escort holding a failsafe sign chin-high. Célèste GAUDIN, my married name, and Marie Thomasse, my pen name.
This being our first gig together, she's taking no chances. Her assignment from my publisher is to ca
ter to my every need until I depart for Brussels in the morning. Petite, mid-twenties, attractively Walloon and, I'm sure, an aspiring novelist and/or editor, she wears 'recent university grad' on her perfect features. Glistening chestnut hair swirling around her shoulders reminds me of a shampoo commercial. If she ever gets published, her jacket photo alone will sell a ton of copies.
"I'm Célèste." I smile and stretch out my hand. Hers is cool and moist, but eager.
"Emilie. Emilie Boncoeur." She retracts the handle of my case and hoists it into the trunk of an aging Toyota.
On the way to Bell Tower Books on Market Square, I establish a ground rule. "At the signing, call me either Marie or Mademoiselle Thomasse. I get confused myself when I switch back and forth."
"Of course," she says.
"Where will we be staying tonight?"
"They have you booked at the Egmond in Minnewater. It's small and quiet. I love the oak beams and ancient fireplaces. And the view--beyond spectacular."
I know the Egmond, an eighteenth century gothic manor house converted into an eight-room hotel. I'd never stayed there. With my publisher paying the tab, I don't have to feel guilty about the room rate. "And you? Will you be staying with me?"
She tosses me an 'Are you joking?' look. "My mom and dad live here. I'll spend the night. They complain of not seeing enough of me since I took the job in the capital. I'll let them spoil their little girl for a few hours."
"By all means, don't deprive them."
Emilie's inflection has assumed the cadence of doting parents, lonely for their--probably--only daughter. That voice, heard many times as a child, echoes in my memory with diminished frequency and guilt. Lately though, I've recognized it in a tone I sometimes resurrect with my preschool son.
"My mobile's on twenty-four-seven." Emilie eases into a line of traffic. "If you need me, just call. By the way, I got my hands on an advanced copy of your book. Loved it! Such a great story. Made me cry buckets."
"Thank you," I reply, "I suppose."
"No, it was a good cry."
"Then I feel better."
Emilie finds a parking space off Bruges's historic Market Square. "The shop's down the street and around the corner. I hope this isn't too far?" I detect a suspicion that a thirty-five-year-old mother might not be up to managing that distance.
A line has formed along the building's façade, leading to the front door. Someone must have recognized me from the window display. "That's Marie Thomasse!" ripples down the sidewalk. "Marie Thomasse!"