Jose took several steadying breaths. He was certain this man would turn him over to la migra, then go looking for his father.
He moved back a couple of steps, scooped up the suitcase, and darted off toward El Camino Real. Olcott shouted, "Hey, come back here, boy."
But Jose and Sanchez were already out of sight, and Olcott hadn't run ten feet in twenty years.
He muttered, "I'll be double damned," and shook his head. "Crazy Mex kid." He went back to the service station and turned off all lights except the one over the cash register.
JOSE MADE IT several hundred yards along the Real and then stopped. The shoulder hurt, but it was his stomach that was giving him the most trouble. He felt queasy. He looked back toward the station. The stoop-shouldered man with the badge wasn't following. He went on.
When they were almost opposite the mission, he said to Sanchez, "I must rest. We'll hide until morning."
They went up the worn, uneven adobe steps and into the nave. It was dimly lighted by a bank of prayer candles near the confessional booth and the wooden statue of Christ. There were more candles near the railing before the tabernacle at the front of the church. Jose crossed himself and looked around, feeling safer already.
But he was worried about someone coming in. He glanced up at the choir loft and started for the steep steps, Sanchez trotting behind.
They reached the top, and the hand-hewn floorboards creaked as they moved to the far side. Jose lowered himself down, sprawling against the cold outer wall, his left shoulder extending over the last board, which was spaced about six inches from the plaster-covered adobe. Letting out a long, shuddering breath, he said weakly, "I'm sure I'll be all right in an hour or so, Sanchez." His voice sounded hollow in the empty church.
The dog lay down, massive head between his paws.
There were twenty or so chairs at the front of the loft, near the solid wooden balcony railing. An old foot-pumped organ stood behind them. Nothing else was up there. Suddenly, Jose longed for the safety of Colnett. He could picture Enrique out there in the lee of the cape, pulling the anchor up, ready to move on to another spot. The pelicans would be beating north; maybe some gulls working a school of anchovies.
With dull eyes, he stared off through the darkness to the Immaculate Conception over the tabernacle. There were wooden statues of the saints in the ornate retablo, the decorated framework. A flickering sanctuary lamp, hung on a chain from the ceiling to the left of the altar, casting a peaceful glow on it. He prayed soundlessly to the Virgin Mary to help him. In a few moments, he dozed off.
Blood, seeping slowly through his jacket and shirt from the small puncture, dropped down through the wide crack in the flooring. It splattered the ancient Indian-crafted statue of Christ on the Cross, which stood in the nave on a simple wooden box about twenty-five feet inside the church directly below the loft and against the left wall.
Drops rolled slowly down the gold-inscribed I.N.R.I., which was on the top of the cross. The letters stood for: "Jesus of Nazareth, King of The Jews." A thin rivulet landed on the shoulder; then ebbed slowly down His chest.
In a few minutes, with Jose resting quietly, the wound stopped bleeding.
2
THREE HOURS LATER, the light that had begun spreading softly down over the Gabilan Mountains to the east was chalky and pale gray. Josefa Espinosa, a woman of sixty-four, dressed entirely in black and wearing crumbling shoes, stalked down the middle of the Real. She was built like a stubby water tank.
At one point she mumbled to herself, "Manolo me esta agotando la paciencia." She continually lost patience with Manuel, her husband. Mainly, she was annoyed because he wouldn't walk the four miles to the mission with her each morning.
Josefa worked as a housekeeper for a Swiss-American family near San Ardo and took the first bus there each day after devotions. She had long ago given up hope that Manuel would provide luxury, but she had faith someday something would happen to lift the Espinosas to a life of ease.
She did a flanking left turn at the church steps. The door banged shut, and her heavy footsteps thudded down the aisle. Her head was covered with a thin, black shawl. She looked neither left nor right as she bore down on the altar.
Jose awakened at the noise, but it took a few seconds for him to realize where he was. He saw that Sanchez was already up—alert, and looking down. Sitting up, he felt stiff, and his shoulder throbbed.
He held his hand toward Sanchez to keep him quiet and crossed the loft in a crouch, hunkering down to peer over the solid wooden railing. He saw the old woman and heard her prayer, which was being delivered in little less than a shout, rapid-fire. More or less, it was the same request of years.
"...un buen esposo para mi hija Dorotea ... una casa chica para Manolo y mi ... una pequeña pensión para dos an-cianos que lo merecen..."
Jose got most of it: "I am not a selfish woman, so only ask for a good husband for my daughter Dorothy ... a small house for Manuel and me ... a small pension for two old and worthy people..."
Finally, Josefa strained herself up, made the sign of the cross over her great bosom, and began to pad back down the aisle toward the church entrance.
Jose moved with her retreating footsteps, wanting to make sure she'd left the church. A floorboard creaked, and he stopped, almost at the top of the stairs.
Down below, the statue of Christ on the Cross had caught Josefa's eye. There was something different about it in the soft candle shine this morning. Reaching for her gold-rimmed glasses, she put them on her nose and stared at the statue. Both wonder and alarm passed over her face. She breathed out, "Mother of God. Oh, Mary, Mother of God."
Mouth open, she backed across the nave until her heavy buttocks were squarely against the confessional booth, and there was no more room to move. She stayed against it, murmuring, "Oh, oh..."
Jose heard the faint sounds and frowned down at the timbered floor, wondering what she was doing. Then he heard the front door burst open. Her yell of "Milagro" cut through the dawn like an axe.
He stared down. "Miracle?" Had the old woman lost her mind? He stayed poised at the head of the steps a moment longer, then whispered to Sanchez, "Come on." He crossed the loft, grabbed his suitcase, and left the church, skirting around Josefa's sprawled body on the adobe stoop. Overcome, she had prostrated herself and was praying.
Jose ran directly across the street, pausing in front of the abandoned dry goods store. "We must hide, Sanchez," he said. He looked in both directions, and then his eyes came back to the storefront with its grimy windows and boards. "There!"
They went around the side and up to the back door. Jose tried it. One hinge was almost off, but it creaked open. He peered inside. It was dingy and dust-covered; empty boxes were scattered around. Sanchez, sniffing, followed him in, and he closed the door.
3
FATHER LEBEON was preparing for the early devotions when he heard the commotion. He was in the sacristy, the little room in which the vestments and sacred communion vessels were kept, dressing for the six-thirty mass. He had just finished putting on the alb, the long, white linen garment that covered his robe.
He ran into the gardens and looked around in the thin light. Seeing no one, he went on through the iron gate to El Camino Real. He thought there might have been an accident. As he moved toward the church steps, he saw the sprawled figure. Going to her, he lifted the black shawl.
"Josefa," he said, in surprise. "What's wrong? Are you injured? Did you fall?" Gently, he pulled her into a sitting position.
She mumbled, "Mary, Mother of God," over and over.
Lebeon shook her. "Josefa, Josefa," he said, sharply. "Stop that!"
"Milagro," she moaned. "Milagro."
The priest sighed and sat down beside her on the damp steps. He put his arm around her huge, soft shoulder. It was really much too early for this, he thought. But he said, tenderly, shifting to Spanish, "Josefa, miracles happen every day. Mostly, we don't see them. Now, you'd better get your bus to San Ardo or y
ou'll miss work. And I must finish dressing for mass." He glanced at the eastern horizon. It was barely yellow.
Josefa raised her head slowly and stared at him in disbelief. "A miracle! Inside!"
Lebeon nodded. "All miracles are inside there."
"Padre," she pleaded. "A miracle inside."
"All right, Josefa, where inside?"
"On His blessed body," she said, eyes glazed with excitement.
Lebeon looked at her a moment longer, then said, wearily, "All right, Josefa, show me."
"No! No! It is on His body. He bled for us."
Lebeon forced himself to be patient. It always seemed to be the very young or the very old who saw "miracles." "Stay here, Josefa," he said, rising from the steps.
He went inside, crossed himself, and then walked to the statue, his mouth opening suddenly, his forehead bunching in a frown. The stains, whatever they were, hadn't been there the previous evening. Father Lebeon usually spent a final moment of the day there.
He moved closer. It had come from above, that was certain. He examined but did not touch the dried stain on I.N.R.I. Yes, it could be blood, he thought. It was reddish-brown. But so were a thousand other liquids. He lighted another prayer candle, and in its flickering glow traced the flow of the stain from I.N.R.I. down to His shoulder and then to His chest.
Certain that there was a simple and quite scientific explanation for it, Lebeon muttered, "Forgive me," and with a square fingernail scraped a fragment of the dried stain off the shoulder. He sniffed it, hoping that it would smell of paint or turpentine, but the timbers of the mission had seasoned almost two centuries before. No paint had touched its inner surfaces since the Indian converts had mashed wild flowers in the late 1700s to gain color for designs where the beams sank into the stone and adobe and on the rounded surface of the ceiling. He sniffed again. There was no odor.
Lebeon looked up, examining the area where the choir loft was braced over the nave. He knew there was a six-inch separation between the wall of the mission, which was four feet thick, and the first floorboard of the choir loft. He'd never been able to understand why the original friars had left that opening, but there it was, nonetheless.
Staring up at it, a slow smile crossed his face. That was the answer! Gonzalvo, the mission handyman, had probably kicked over a can of colored detergent or some kind of cleaning fluid. He ran to the steps, cupping a hand over the candle to keep the flame from blowing out. It occurred to him that he should turn on the lights, but the switch was in the sacristy, and it would take too much time. He'd turn them on when he brought the brothers in to see a "miracle that wasn't a miracle."
He got down on his hands and knees and searched the wide timbers for signs of cleaning fluid or any other kind of liquid. There were none. Neither was there any indication of someone having been up there during the night. He let out a slow whistle, sitting back on his haunches.
A few minutes later, he descended the steps slowly and sat down in the last pew, crossing his arms. Now and then he glanced up at the loft or over to the statue. Finally, he gave up. He would bring the brothers in and awaken Gonzalvo, who had probably been the last person in the loft. He arose, genuflected, and went out. He would have to hurry. Mass was only fifteen minutes away.
He'd forgotten entirely about Josefa Espinosa, and on reaching lite steps found that she was gone. He let out a breath. All he needed was Josefa shrieking "Milagro" all over the valley before he had a chance to explain what had happened, and, perhaps, why.
He looked down the Real. Maisie Keeper was at the door of the Dinner Bell, opening up.
Sam Ramon was beginning to stir.
4
JOSE HAD EXPLORED the store. The counters and shelves were still in place. There was a lot of trash on the floor. Air came through the part of the front window that was smashed and boarded up. The rest of the window was still good but was so covered with dust that he could barely see out. The front door was also boarded.
In the back of the room empty wine bottles, old milk containers, empty cans, and bread wrappers were strewn around. Perhaps vagabundos, tramps, had spent a night or two there.
He sat down on a pile of carpet matting, trying to figure out what to do. Sanchez came over close and plopped down. Jose stroked the thick, coarse hairs on his back.
He knew that he should get some medicine for his shoulder. It did not seem any worse, but the ache was still there and it hurt when he moved his left arm. His father had warned him about taking care of cuts.
He'd opened his shirt and looked at the wound. It was a tiny hole, but already there was a circle of red around it. The back of his shoulder ached.
He wanted to let Giron know where he was so that when Maldonado finally got to Haines Main, they could find each other. He was also getting very hungry.
Finally, he decided to change the stained jacket and shirt, get something to eat, and feed Sanchez. Then he would walk out to the fields and locate Giron.
It was painful to slip out of the clothing, but he did it slowly and carefully, wincing as he put on a new shirt and tucked it in.
He considered taking Sanchez with him but decided not to. Someone from Haines might see them.
The dog trotted over to the door with him, and whined briefly as he closed it again. He slipped past the high weeds around the back door and out to the alleyway behind the row of stores, moving along it the whole block before turning out onto El Camino Real. The few people he saw were going into the mission for early mass. The old woman wasn't around; there was no one at the gas station.
He walked rapidly to the Dinner Bell and went in. There were two customers on the stools, both americanos and not from Haines Main.
Maisie Keeper, the bantam, dyed-blond wife of Neil Keeper, owner of the Bell, was behind the counter. Maisie smiled at Jose. "What'll it be, young man?"
Jose pointed at a round plastic case.
"Doughnuts, huh?"
"Si." He held up four fingers.
"Four."
"Si."
"Anything else?"
"Leche, por favor."
"Milk?"
"Si, señora."
"Togo?"
Jose frowned.
"In a carton like this?" She held up a pint.
"Si, señora. Dos."
"Okay, two milks to go."
Jose nodded.
"There you are."
"Muchas gracias."
She smiled. "You're welcome."
He gave her a dollar and got the change.
She watched him go, saying to one of the customers, "Cute kid, huh?"
JOSEFA HURRIED INTO the Espinosa house and practically fell over Manuel, who was groping around in his underwear for the coffee jar. Manuel, a small, birdlike man, was both frightened and pleased to see his wife. He was pleased because he couldn't find the coffee jar and frightened because something awful must have happened to send her back home again.
"Miracle," Josefa puffed.
Manuel examined her red face, which looked as though it were about to explode. "They gave you a raise and a day off."
Josefa swallowed and tried to catch her breath. She shook her head. "In the church. A miracle. I saw it."
Manuel shrugged and asked thickly, "What did you do with the coffee?"
"I saw blood on His body. On the statue."
"There is always blood on His body. It is on His hands and His feet and where the thorns..."
"There is new blood, Manolo," Josefa said. "Blood He sent. A sign for us all."
Manuel shook his head. "Josefa, you've missed your bus." He went to work at his own job in the dairy co-op at noon each day.
But Josefa had already gone. Through the windows he glimpsed her ponderously trotting over to their neighbors, the Panaderos.
5
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, Father Lebeon and Brothers Amos, Luke, Timothy, Noel, Anthony, Carlos, and Kevin were in the choir loft, studying absolutely nothing. They had been there for thirty minutes.
; Lebeon had brought a flashlight up and had ordered Gonzalvo, a hulking, silent Chicano, who had been on the mission staff for eighteen years, to rig a stand-light for illumination directly above the statue. So far, there was no indication of any fluids up there; no evidence that anyone had been in the loft during the night. They'd found some dog hairs, but Gonzalvo's hound roamed all over the mission. He'd even been caught sleeping in the pews.
Lebeon and the brothers were mystified, and although they did not commit themselves beyond stating the belief that a "miracle" was always possible, they had examined the area with growing uneasiness. Even if Josefa hadn't found the stain and spread the word, the incident would have been puzzling and unnerving.
Sharply questioned by Father Lebeon, Gonzalvo had sworn that he hadn't been in the loft since Friday and even then had taken no liquids of any kind up the steps. He'd simply swept it out and dusted the organ and the chairs. Yes, Mojo had been up there with him but was that a crime? He resented their accusing looks.
One by one, shaking their heads or shrugging, all the brothers except Amos, who was by far the oldest, left to go about their chores. In their excitement, they'd hurried the morning devotions, and Father Lebeon had transferred the early masses to the chapel, which he now realized was a mistake. It only helped the rumor sweep across the valley.
Lines of worry crisscrossing his face, he asked Brother Amos, "What do you think?"
Amos dug his sandaled toe around the timber of the loft and replied, "It isn't up to us to think, Father. If it is a miracle, we accept it gratefully."
Lebeon stared with annoyance at the round, soft monk's face. Senile old goat, he thought, and then regretted it. Amos had his capuche down, and the sparse white hair on his pink head stood straight up.
Lebeon said, "That is undoubtedly the most unsatisfactory answer I've ever heard from anyone on any topic. I didn't ask your acceptance, Amos. I asked your opinion."