Where There's Smoke

“The water is supposed to be sterilized, but I boil it anyway,” he said as he removed a pitcher from the refrigerator. He placed lemon slices in their glasses. There was no ice. He also set a bottle of Jamaican rum on the table. Only after Key had helped himself to it did the priest pour a glass for himself.

“It helps me sleep,” he said sheepishly.

Lara was polite enough to wait until they’d finished the meal before broaching the subject of her daughter’s grave. “Where do we start our search, Father Geraldo?”

He looked at them uneasily. “I thought you might have a plan. All my inquiries have led to dead ends. This doesn’t mean that no information exists. It simply means that no one is willing to impart it.”

“The result is the same,” Key said.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Lara, however, seemed undaunted. “I want to start by searching the American embassy.”

“There’s no one there, Mrs. Porter. It was looted and has remained vacant these past years.”

“Do you remember my husband’s aide and interpreter, Emilio Sánchez Perón?”

Key had traveled extensively in Central and South America and was familiar with the custom of tacking on the mother’s maiden name to establish an individual’s identity.

“Vaguely,” the priest answered. He refilled his glass from the bottle of rum. According to Key’s count, this was his third drink. “As I recall, he was a quiet, intense young man. Slight in build. Wore glasses.”

“That’s Emilio. Have you seen or heard from him?”

“I assumed he was killed when the embassy was raided.”

“His name didn’t appear on the casualty list.”

“That could have been an oversight.”

“I realize that,” Lara said, “but I’m clinging to the hope that he’s still alive. The embassy library fascinated him. He spent most of his off-duty hours there. Do you know if the library was ransacked along with the rest of the building?”

Father Geraldo shrugged. “The rebels have very little time for recreational reading,” he said with a wry smile. “But I wouldn’t expect to find anything there intact, including the library. I haven’t seen it, but from what I’ve heard, the building was destroyed.”

The discouragement that settled on Lara’s face was heartbreaking to see. “What about Ashley’s death certificate?” Key asked. “Wouldn’t a doctor have signed one before she was buried?”

“That’s a possibility,” the priest conceded. “If the certificate wasn’t destroyed, if the doctor’s name was recorded, and if we can locate him, he might know where her body is buried.”

Lara sighed. “It seems hopeless, doesn’t it?”

“Tonight it does.” Key came to his feet and assisted her out of her chair. “You’re exhausted. Where is she sleeping?”

“I need a bathroom first, please.”

“Of course.” Father Geraldo indicated a narrow passageway. “Through there.”

While Lara was in the bathroom, which fortunately had plumbing, Key and the priest shared another drink. “If you’re so limited in the work you can do here, why don’t you return home?” Key asked. “Getting reassigned shouldn’t be a problem considering the number of missionaries who’ve been slaughtered.”

“I made a commitment to God,” he replied. “I may not be very effective here, but I doubt I’d be much more effective elsewhere.”

He raised his glass of rum and drank deeply. Father Geraldo knew that in the States he would be committed by the Church to an alcohol-addiction rehab facility. Staying in war-torn Montesangre was his self-imposed penance for his weakness.

“You might die here if you stay.”

“I’m well aware of the possibility, Mr. Tackett, but I’d rather die a martyr than a quitter.”

“I’d rather not die at all,” Key said somberly. “Not yet.”

The priest looked at him with renewed interest. “Are you Catholic, Mr. Tackett?”