Bobbie-kins, but there have been nights when you’ve been too angry about Purity to make love to me.”
Grant’s face went red at the thought of the temporary impotence he’d suffered due to Purity. “Does the Mexican know it has to look like an accident of some kind?”
“We didn’t discuss details. Yet.”
Robert replied with a confused cock of his head.
“Robbie, we only got as far as the donation.”
“Donation?”
“He’s using a charity as a dodge to make the fee look like a donation, which of course is perfect for us—the fee would look like any number of our other donations to orphanages. Only he doesn’t want money.”
Robert paled as his mind flicked through possible alternatives.
“Robbie, it’s nothing bad.” Dixie squeezed his hand, and turned it so that the buttery cross of Caravaca glimmered in the cheap Chinese lamplight. “He wants your ring.”
Grant pulled his hand away, thumbing the ring of my ancestor. “Why?”
Dixie laughed, briefly. “Robbie, who cares? You know how much money he could ask for? To take out Purity?”
“He must have said something about why he wanted it.”
“Well, darling, he had that story about an orphanage, in Mexico, and some sort of relic.”
Lightning flickered in the carp tank, the thrum of thunder in the distance.
Grant drifted back from the lamplight, his eyes glassy. “La Paz.”
At this point, our camera zooms dreamily into Grant’s eyes: La Paz, La Paz, La Paz …
From the dark mists and murk of Grant’s memory emerges the chapel tower of Nuestra Señora de Cortez against the night sky, a flash of lightning in the distance, the bells chiming midnight.
OK, so in reality the Nuestra Señora de Cortez bells stop chiming at nine, but only people in La Paz would know this. It’s much spookier with the bells chiming midnight, I think.
Inside, the chapel is alight with dripping candles, lightning flickering across the stained glass windows, illuminating the visages of dour and pious saints.
The camera looks slowly down to a heavy wooden door in the corner, which slowly croaks open to reveal eyes. The door croaks wider open, and we see that the eyes belong to two boys, one blond and thin, the other black-haired and of Spanish descent, their faces orange in the candlelight.
“Pasqual, I do not think we should do this,” the blond gulps. “Let’s get back to the room before we are discovered.”
“We are on a quest, Bobbie—do you not remember?” says the Spaniard.
“ You are on a quest.”
“Yes, I am on a quest, and you said you would come to help fulfill my destiny.”
“This destiny you speak of is in your head.”
Pasqual winked at Bobbie. “You have to earn your destiny, Bobbie. Does it matter where it comes from? Come on.”
The two rascals slipped out of the doorway and ducked between two pews. Reappearing in the center aisle, the boys scampered to the altar, at the base of the pulpit.
“This is crazy, Pasqual. We’ll go to hell for this!”
“What does the church need it for? The ring will help me find my destiny, and I will help you find yours.”
Bobbie watched as the Spaniard crept up through a gauntlet of candles, toward the altar, and to the carpeted sacramental steps.
Flickering stained glass saints loomed above the boys. Candlesticks and chalices on the altar rattled from a boom of thunder as the Spaniard crept toward the sepulchral cabinet in the altar’s base.
His fingers curled into the iron rings of the cabinet door and pulled.
The cabinet doors rattled but did not budge.
Back at the base of the pulpit, Bobbie was so frightened he fought back tears.
With a bent piece of wire, Pasqual’s trembling fingers worked the ancient iron lock.
Metal clanked, and the sepulchral cabinet doors jarred open.
Thunder boomed in the distance.
Candlelight wobbled into the dark recess of the cabinet to reveal a golden box, a shimmering reliquary.
Yes, it was the humidor.
Pasqual’s face glistened with
Grant’s face went red at the thought of the temporary impotence he’d suffered due to Purity. “Does the Mexican know it has to look like an accident of some kind?”
“We didn’t discuss details. Yet.”
Robert replied with a confused cock of his head.
“Robbie, we only got as far as the donation.”
“Donation?”
“He’s using a charity as a dodge to make the fee look like a donation, which of course is perfect for us—the fee would look like any number of our other donations to orphanages. Only he doesn’t want money.”
Robert paled as his mind flicked through possible alternatives.
“Robbie, it’s nothing bad.” Dixie squeezed his hand, and turned it so that the buttery cross of Caravaca glimmered in the cheap Chinese lamplight. “He wants your ring.”
Grant pulled his hand away, thumbing the ring of my ancestor. “Why?”
Dixie laughed, briefly. “Robbie, who cares? You know how much money he could ask for? To take out Purity?”
“He must have said something about why he wanted it.”
“Well, darling, he had that story about an orphanage, in Mexico, and some sort of relic.”
Lightning flickered in the carp tank, the thrum of thunder in the distance.
Grant drifted back from the lamplight, his eyes glassy. “La Paz.”
At this point, our camera zooms dreamily into Grant’s eyes: La Paz, La Paz, La Paz …
From the dark mists and murk of Grant’s memory emerges the chapel tower of Nuestra Señora de Cortez against the night sky, a flash of lightning in the distance, the bells chiming midnight.
OK, so in reality the Nuestra Señora de Cortez bells stop chiming at nine, but only people in La Paz would know this. It’s much spookier with the bells chiming midnight, I think.
Inside, the chapel is alight with dripping candles, lightning flickering across the stained glass windows, illuminating the visages of dour and pious saints.
The camera looks slowly down to a heavy wooden door in the corner, which slowly croaks open to reveal eyes. The door croaks wider open, and we see that the eyes belong to two boys, one blond and thin, the other black-haired and of Spanish descent, their faces orange in the candlelight.
“Pasqual, I do not think we should do this,” the blond gulps. “Let’s get back to the room before we are discovered.”
“We are on a quest, Bobbie—do you not remember?” says the Spaniard.
“ You are on a quest.”
“Yes, I am on a quest, and you said you would come to help fulfill my destiny.”
“This destiny you speak of is in your head.”
Pasqual winked at Bobbie. “You have to earn your destiny, Bobbie. Does it matter where it comes from? Come on.”
The two rascals slipped out of the doorway and ducked between two pews. Reappearing in the center aisle, the boys scampered to the altar, at the base of the pulpit.
“This is crazy, Pasqual. We’ll go to hell for this!”
“What does the church need it for? The ring will help me find my destiny, and I will help you find yours.”
Bobbie watched as the Spaniard crept up through a gauntlet of candles, toward the altar, and to the carpeted sacramental steps.
Flickering stained glass saints loomed above the boys. Candlesticks and chalices on the altar rattled from a boom of thunder as the Spaniard crept toward the sepulchral cabinet in the altar’s base.
His fingers curled into the iron rings of the cabinet door and pulled.
The cabinet doors rattled but did not budge.
Back at the base of the pulpit, Bobbie was so frightened he fought back tears.
With a bent piece of wire, Pasqual’s trembling fingers worked the ancient iron lock.
Metal clanked, and the sepulchral cabinet doors jarred open.
Thunder boomed in the distance.
Candlelight wobbled into the dark recess of the cabinet to reveal a golden box, a shimmering reliquary.
Yes, it was the humidor.
Pasqual’s face glistened with
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