Suicide Mission by William W. Johnstone Page B

do whatever he said, including answering his questions.
    â€œWhere are you, Catalina?” he asked.
    â€œI’m in church.”
    â€œThe traditional sanctuary for sinners.”
    Her voice bristled as she said, “Are you here to help me or to judge me?”
    That brought a chuckle from him.
    â€œI’m long past the point of castin’ the first stone, darlin’,” he said. “Which church?”
    She told him. It was a Catholic church downtown. That was actually a pretty good choice for a hideout, Bill thought. The cartel didn’t care about religion, but here along the border with its heavy concentration of Catholics, even their gunmen would think twice about shooting up such a place.
    â€œI can pretend that I’m saying prayers for a while without anybody bothering me,” Catalina went on. “How soon can you get here?”
    â€œNot long,” Bill told her. “Fifteen, twenty minutes, more than likely.”
    â€œHow will I know you?”
    Bill described himself, then asked, “And how will I know you?”
    â€œI’ll be the woman who looks like she’s been running for her life for the past sixteen hours.”
    â€œYou should probably be a little more specific than that.”
    â€œI’m wearing blue jeans and a man’s shirt. I have dark brown hair, and it’s pulled back in a ponytail. There’s nobody else here right now who looks like that.”
    â€œAll right, I’ll find you,” Bill said. “In the meantime, there’s one more thing you can do.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œMaybe you ought to do more than pretend to pray.”
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    Catalina sat on the pew with her head down, but she occasionally tipped it from side to side and shot glances from the corners of her eyes, studying the other people who went in and out of the church.
    At this time of day there were only a few of them, mostly middle-aged and older women, but from time to time a man would come in, too. None of them appeared to be threatening, and they paid no attention to her.
    Well, not much attention, anyway. Even drably dressed, with her hair pulled back and the makeup scrubbed off her face in a convenience-store restroom, she was a very attractive woman. Most of the men spared her a second glance and then went on about their business, probably feeling a little guilty at experiencing a moment of lust in such holy surroundings.
    Catalina was used to being looked at lustfully, of course. That hadn’t bothered her for years. Today, if a man looked at her and didn’t want to take her to bed, that would worry her.
    Because it could mean he wanted to kill her instead.
    She had left Eddie Velez’s truck in the truck parking area of a big convenience store on the edge of town, walked in, spent some time in the restroom, then bought a bottle of water and a candy bar. When she came out of the store she turned the other direction and simply walked away.
    After a few blocks, she had hitched a ride downtown, then walked around until she found this church. The smells, the hushed atmosphere, the stained-glass windows, all brought back faint memories from her childhood, from the days before she was on her own. That was a surprisingly comforting feeling.
    She was ready to get out of here now, though. Every time the sanctuary doors opened, letting sunlight slant into the gloom, she looked around as unobtrusively as possible.
    Finally, she saw a tall, lean figure silhouetted against the light in the doorway. The door swung closed, and she couldn’t see the man very well for a moment. As he came along the aisle between the pews, Catalina’s eyesight adjusted again, and she made out the rough work clothes the man wore. He could have been one of the ranch hands who worked in the area.
    Most of them were Hispanic, though, and this man was an Anglo. Catalina looked at the weathered face, the salt-and-pepper hair and mustache, and