with no worries except what to make for dinner and the price of gas.
But he was not like them. The days of normality were far behind him. Now he was a man alone, forced to turn his back on his few friends for fear of drawing trouble to them—or finding out they weren’t such trustworthy friends, after all. Escobedo knew what could happen if one of Jessup’s men found out someone knew too much. So he spoke to no one and made his plans to leave the area. He did this carefully, but he understood the way his enemy worked. Jessup had secretive ways of sniffing people out, using his money and the men who worked for him. If they located Escobedo, his life would not be worth very much.
The US Department of Justice had promised him protection. That he would be safe under their watchful eye. He had believed them, trusted in their competence to do what they’d promised. And at first it seemed to have been working. But then everything changed.
His protectors had failed him. Not only that, but they had forfeited their lives.
He’d escaped with his own, but now he was an open target. He had made the fatal mistake of threatening to expose Seb Jessup.
Escobedo knew enough about his former employer to understand he had so much influence and money, so many people in his pocket, that even thinking about going up against him was like peeing on an oil rig fire. It was a gesture. Nothing more. The man would hound him. Push him around and stall any effort to make his accusations stick. Already Escobedo had been thrown to the wolves. His contact with the law had been severed. Two men were dead and he was isolated.
So he walked away. From his friends. From his home. From everything that could be connected to him.
He had taken a crowded bus into Mexico. An old vehicle with tired suspension, it had bounced over every rough spot in the road. He’d endured the dusty, noisy ride in silence. When the coach reached its destination, Escobedo grabbed his backpack and climbed out, then bought a ticket that would take him deeper into the country. The coach he boarded this time was even older. There was no glass in the windows and as soon as the vehicle chugged onto the potholed local road, dust drifted inside. The seat under him was poorly padded and oily fumes from the engine filtered up through the rusty floor.
Escobedo opened one of the plastic bottles of water he had bought, and took a mouthful. He sat back, channeling out the noise, and tried, unsuccessfully, to relax.
He did not fool himself into believing that once he’d crossed that border he would be completely safe. But he believed he’d have some advantage on home turf. He’d be better able to lose himself in a country he knew intimately than he would in the US. Here he could melt into the background.
That was his hope, though already he was considering the validity of the moves he was making.
He stared out the bus window, seeing only the dry landscape.
Escobedo checked carefully each time the bus stopped to let off passengers or take on new ones. He scanned the other riders for anyone who stood out, but saw only the expected locals. Still, he couldn’t relax fully. He couldn’t rid himself of the suspicion Jessup might already have his people in place.
The village appeared out of the haze. Escobedo knew it well. In the years he had been gone, very little had changed. The tired buildings, the uneven road. At one time he’d called this place home.
It was Ascensión.
The town he had left to go to America. And like many pilgrims who walked away, he was now returning, because in his time of trouble he could think of nowhere else to go.
The village square still housed the stone fountain surrounded by skinny trees. There were no new buildings, just the familiar, whitewashed ones he remembered. As Escobedo stepped off the bus, memories came flooding back. He settled his backpack and walked across the square to the church as the bus disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Escobedo stopped at the base of the worn stone steps that led inside.
How long since he had been inside a church?
Too long.
Now he hesitated outside the house of God and wondered exactly what he was doing there.
He paused for a second too long. About to walk away, he was disturbed by the deep voice that spoke to him from the shadows just inside the open door.
“Hermano Escobedo? Yes, it is you.”
Father Xavier stepped into the sunlight, arms extended. His creased brown face held an expression of delight as he looked down at Escobedo. He must be in his seventies now, but to Escobedo the priest had changed little over the years. He wore the brown robe and sandals he always had. He was a man of medium height, lean and agile, a man who reveled in his chosen calling and was imbued with an inexhaustible energy.
He reached out to Escobedo and embraced him, holding him close for a while.
“You remember me so easily?” Escobedo said.
“Mano, I would be failing in my calling if I could not recognize one of my flock.”
“Even after so many years? After I walked away from the church?”
Xavier smiled. “My son, because you have strayed from the path, God does not abandon you.”
“Still the persuasive words.”
“Mano, I have been doing this a long time. And by your tone I suspect you have much on your mind.” Xavier made a welcoming gesture with one hand. “Come inside so we can talk.”
Escobedo found himself following the priest. As he passed through the open doors he felt the silent calm reach out to blanket him. Felt the coolness within.
Father Xavier led him past the pews, pausing at the altar, then turned and headed to the rear of the church, where he had his living quarters.
“Nothing seems to have changed,” Escobedo said as he stood in the doorway. “It’s like I have never been away.” He paused then, guilt rising as he recalled something he had half forgotten. “Father, I ask forgiveness for not thanking you for what you did for my grandparents. How you arranged to have them buried, and let me know.”
“You sent me a letter in reply.”
“It was too little and too late.”
“But you did not forget. That is the important part.”
“Father…I…”
“Sit down, Mano,” Xavier said.
Escobedo slipped off his backpack and took a seat, watching as Xavier busied himself at the simple stove, boiling water to make coffee. He handed Escobedo a cup, took one himself and sat across from the younger man.
“Your journey here now has to be more than a simple desire to return to your home,” he said. “It has to be something important to bring you all the way back from America.”
“Perhaps I just wanted to make a visit.”
“Mmm.” Xavier nodded. “But something more than that, I feel.” He sipped his coffee.
“You’re
