The Lady From Heaven

By Paul S Cilwa

You are alone in your cabin, about to eat the dinner you've just cooked. You take a bite—but the meal is cold. You return it to the oven, but that's cold, too. You check the clock, and then, in panic, the telephone operator. The answer is the same: somehow, two days have disappeared, and you have no idea where they went. Your only clue: on your leg, a new, blood-red scar.

The Lady From Heaven follows three individuals as they come to grips with their participation in the world-wide phenomenon of alien abduction: A CIA analyst who’d rather be indoors, a young South American boy who believes he’s met the Virgin Mary, and a gay cowboy who wants to kill himself.

Although their stories seem like science fiction, Midnight Harvest is based on true experiences shared by tens of thousands of Americans—and untold millions world-wide.

Paul S. Cilwa is himself an abductee. When not communing with non-humans, he has been a computer programmer, trainer, and the author of four books on Windows programming as well as two other novels. He lives in Chandler, Arizona.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul S Cilwa
• Release date: Jun 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301671175

Paul S Cilwa

Paul S. Cilwa was born in New Jersey but at seven years of age informed his parents he was moving to Vermont and they could accompany him if they wished. It was in a small, three-room schoolhouse in the Green Mountain State that Paul began to write—first numbers and letters, then stories. He's lived in Florida, Virginia, Nebraska and New Hampshire, before settling in Arizona. That's where he lives today with his partner near a preserve of hiking trails called Dreamy Draw. Paul has written four technical books in computer programming including the bestseller Windows Programming Power with Custom Controls, and many articles on the subject as contributing editor to Windows Tech Journal. His published fiction includes several humorous shorts and two novels in addition to In The Abode Of Angels.

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The Lady From Heaven

Paul S. Cilwa

Copyright 1996-2018 Paul S. Cilwa

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Table of Contents

Forward

Chapter 1: A Stolen Life

Chapter 2: The Miracle Boy

Chapter 3: A Handful of Pills

Chapter 4: The Longest Night

Chapter 5: Message In An Envelope

Chapter 6: Bodybuilder From Another Planet

Chapter 7: The Great Hypnotist

Chapter 8: Death In The Jungle

Chapter 9: Tourists and Travelers

Chapter 10: Down Argentine Way

Chapter 11: Dash Into Darkness

Chapter 12: Rescue Mission

Chapter 13: It Happened One Night

Chapter 14: Student Driver

Chapter 15: Riding Bareback

Chapter 16: Jungle Manhunt

Chapter 17: Heaven

Chapter 18: Escape

Chapter 19: Atlantis, The Lost Continent

Chapter 20: The Lady From Heaven

Chapter 21: Boom

Chapter 22: The Miracle of Our Lady of Fatima

Chapter 23: The Falling Of The Sun

Chapter 24: All Is One

About The Author

Forward

The abduction phenomenon is real. I know, because it’s happened to me. That first night I awoke, paralyzed, being dragged off my bed, is one I will. Never. Forget.

In trying to figure out what was happening to me, I did a lot of research. I read no fewer than 68 books. Some were by abductees, some were by so-called debunkers; others were by psychiatrists and hypnotists and even military men who’d retired and wanted to make sure that the forbidden knowledge they possessed did not die with them.

None of these books, however, presented the information in a docudrama format. And all of them were filled with questions, but no answers.

As a flabbergasted participant in this phenomenon, I wanted answers. And, thanks to the members of the CompuServe forum I joined, abductees all, we even worked out a few.

I’m not saying I have all the answers. I don’t even have all the questions! But we have, tentatively, come up with a few and you’ll discover them, along with Terry, Pepe, and Abel, in the pages of this book, which takes place over the course of a few weeks in...

August, 1992

Chapter 1: A Stolen Life

A slight sound, no more than a rustle of fabric, told Terry Brandt that he was no longer alone. A shadow on the cool blue, fabric-covered partition that separated his cubicle from the others, moved slightly, as if its owner were surveying the rows of books and atlases, or noticing the 1930s movie posters and carefully-chosen, non-political cartoons he had tacked to the cloth. By focusing beyond the rows of green letters glowing on his computer screen, he could see a reflection, the outline of a woman, standing at the entrance to his cubicle. He finished typing the query he had been composing and pressed the Enter key with finality before he swiveled in his chair, jaw clenched, to face the intruder.

Then he inhaled sharply and his eyes widened. He had expected Mrs. Mikan, the office manager, or perhaps one of three other female analysts. But this woman was a stranger—one with captivating, unworldly eyes that drew him into them in a way he’d never before experienced.

Mesmerized, he noted her jet, straight hair; her smile, displaying perfect teeth; her fashionable yet modest attire. He realized she was of Asian or perhaps Native American ethnicity; the lack of epicanthic folds added to the exotic beauty of her wide-set eyes. But it was more than that. There was a joy and wisdom there that called to him louder than words.

Terry, in his mid-thirties, had long ago realized he would never fall in love. Women were too unpredictable, too willful, too...uncontrollable. But if he were to believe in love at first sight, he would have to believe he was experiencing it now.

Terry Brandt? she asked, finally. He started guiltily, realizing that he had been staring. He smiled back, worried that he might smile too hard and look like an idiot, or not enough and appear aloof.

He must have nodded; at least she seemed to see something that she took to be an admission of identity. She held a manila folder out to him. For a moment he hesitated; coming to a decision, he suddenly grabbed at the folder a split-second after she began to withdraw it.

Mr. Lockwood asked me to show you this, she explained. She leaned over him to open the folder. She smelled faintly of jasmine. She had to point to the pages in the folder before he could take his eyes away from her breasts to see them.

Rows of tiny characters lined across the pages. Terry recognized output from the laser printer. This is a credit purchase report, he identified. He looked at the top of the page. Behjat Rashan—she’s a known terrorist. He glanced at the column of cities from which the purchases had been made. What’s she doing in Newark?

That’s what Mr. Lockwood wanted you to help me find out. I’m afraid I haven’t gotten all the computer commands straight, yet. She shrugged. I just got the feeling that this might be moving too fast to wait for my expertise to develop, she added, ruefully.

You could be right, Terry nodded. Could I really ask her out? he wondered. No—it’s too soon. She’ll think I’m some kind of predator. This was terrifying. He had no personal experience in this at all, at least, not since two college relationships had caused him to give up on relationships entirely.

I mean, this is probably nothing important, she was saying. But I’ve been here a week and Mr. Lockwood told me when he hired me that I should have found something useful by the end of the first week. I’m so excited to have this job—information analyst for the CIA! It’s like a dream. —I guess that sounds really corny.

Terry smiled. He could remember his first weeks on the job. He recalled the joy of being paid to read, to listen, to watch. He still felt like he was getting paid to play. No, he assured her. It’s not corny at all.

Look at these dates, the woman pointed out. Behjat’s been making a lot of purchases, as if she suddenly came into a lot of money. Now, here, the store names show up; but I haven’t been able to find out what, exactly, she bought.

Who are you? Terry asked abruptly.

Oh—I’m sorry. I thought we’d met. Mr. Lockwood introduced me to so many people when I started, Monday, that I can’t remember them all. I’m Ann Cho. And she stuck out her hand to be shook.

Wasn’t it just like Lockwood, he seethed, to assume that just because Terry resented people coming into his cubicle and distracting him, he wouldn’t want to meet new analysts. He shook her hand, as if to prove Lockwood wrong. And probably held onto it too long.

What about Behjat’s purchases? She said finally, which made him realize that many seconds had gone by; he let go of her hand as if it were a burning baked potato and swiveled back to his workstation. Already he could feel his face growing red. In a book, the author can take all the time he needs to develop the perfect response. Even actors in films are allowed more than one take to get their performances right. But here was Terry, in real life, making a fool of himself. Give it up, he warned himself. You know better.

He started to type, then indicated the extra chair next to his desk. Please, have a seat. This might take a few minutes; response time hasn’t been all that good this afternoon.

He keyed in a few commands, referring to the report Ann had given to him. After a few seconds he pointed to the screen; she had to lean forward and across his desk to see. The report you ran was from the credit purchases file. All we need to do is reference the UPC codes to the master merchandise catalog we maintain. The computer will look up the purchases and tell us what she bought.

As they watched, lines of text appeared, one by one. Terry snorted in disapproval. Dresses...shoes...I think the Ayatollah would not be pleased with the way Behjat has been spending his money.

Ann frowned in puzzlement. Look at this, she wondered. A metal briefcase! What would a terrorist need with such a heavy-duty briefcase?

And here, Terry pointed out. Modeling clay...and glue. An electronic timer from Radio Shack. He pressed the Page Down key, and a new set of data appeared. And fourteen dollars’ worth of explosive. He peered down the rest of the list, but all that remained were restaurant purchases. She bought the explosive yesterday. He cleared the screen and entered another query. In a moment the response appeared. She must have bribed the hardware store owner. The paperwork required before a person can buy explosives was never filed. If she hadn’t charged the purchase to her credit card we would never have found out about it. Stupid. The lack of brains most people exhibited was a constant trial to Terry. Not that he wanted the bad guys to be smarter; but did they have to be so appallingly dumb?

So, what is she up to? Have I met my first week’s requirements, yet?

Terry grinned wryly. She has almost all the ingredients for a nuclear device. How did you know to look for this, anyway?

Mr. Lockwood gave me a list of terrorists known to be in the U.S. and asked me to do some queries on them, just to get used to the computer.

Well, you’ve hit the target on your first shot. Fortunately, plutonium is hard to get, so I don’t think we have anything to worry about in the immediate future. But we’ll have to keep an eye on her, just the same. He leaned back in his chair, glad that he had been able to impress her with his prowess at the keyboard. I’m just as good in bed, he thought at her. I’ve read every sex manual printed in the last four decades.

Why did you say she was stupid?

Huh?

You said Behjat was stupid, before. What did she do that was stupid?

Terry explained. She took pains to obtain explosives illegally, then charged them to a credit card. It’s hard to believe any terrorist wouldn’t know the CIA monitors every credit card purchase, as well as every bank transaction.

"But we didn’t monitor her purchases; I stumbled on them. Perhaps she thought we wouldn’t catch her before she explodes her bomb, if she intends to do so soon."

Well, but she hasn’t any plutonium, Terry reminded the new analyst.

"Are you sure? She wouldn’t have used a credit card to buy that."

"But where would she get it? You really can’t go up to any old nuclear power plant and ask for plutonium; it’s monitored—really monitored—too closely for that."

There was a pause in which Terry tried his best to turn his expression of patient reason into one that would look less patronizing.

What about her husband?

Terry frowned. Her husband? Taghi? He’s in prison in Iraq.

No, you’re wrong. He was released last week, Ann informed him. He flew to Zaire, and is now in London at Heathrow Airport. She pointed to the manila folder.

Terry whipped the folder open; since he had intended to view the report on-screen, he hadn’t bothered to actually inspect the pages. In this final decade of the 20th century, Zaire had the worst-guarded nuclear power plant in the Western hemisphere. Once he identified the report ID, a few keystrokes brought the information on-screen. You were right. He’s enroute to Kennedy. He arrives at... He squinted at the characters. ...God, 3:30 this afternoon. He looked at the digital clock blinking in the lower right-hand corner of his screen, then turned, wide-eyed, to Ann. That’s less than two hours away! He caught his breath and punched four digits on his phone. When Lockwood picked up Terry said, I’ve got something for you to see.

The senior analyst wasted no time coming to his cubicle. What is it?

Terry brought the credit card purchase report back on his screen, indicating it to Lockwood. Behjat and Taghi Rashan are meeting at Kennedy at 3:30 this afternoon. I think they’re planning to assemble a nuclear device there.

Lockwood frowned. Taghi Rashan is in an Iraqi prison.

I thought so, too. But he’s out, and vacationing in Zaire.

The senior analyst didn’t hesitate; he called the FBI from Terry’s phone. After conveying the situation in a few terse words, he hung up and clapped Terry on the shoulder. Good job, Terry, he said, then smiled at Ann. You can learn a lot from this boy. He tousled Terry’s dark hair and left.

Ann stared after the departing boss and asked, That’s it? What will happen now? What about the bomb?

Terry shrugged. It’s out of our hands now. The FBI will pick them up at the airport, long before they can get Taghi’s plutonium into Behjat’s briefcase.

But how? What will happen if they don’t?

Relax, Ann. It’s taken care of. This isn’t the first time we’ve come close to an attack. Nuclear devices are just too easy to make, if you know how and can get hold of a few pounds of plutonium. But it’s all in a day’s work, and now we can go home.

Ann stared at him. Mr. Lockwood thinks you did it all.

What? Oh, no! Terry said hastily. It just sounded that way because he’s so... Terry’s voice trailed off. It had sounded that way.

And you didn’t say a thing! My goodness, how will I ever keep this job if I don’t get credit for the work I do? She stood, then, a wave of jasmine washing over him. I know I’m new here, but it seems to me we could all work more efficiently in an atmosphere of trust than one of betrayal. And then she was gone.

Terry’s jaw dropped. This was all wrong! How could Ann have misunderstood so? Terry thought back. Had he actually taken the credit—done or said anything to imply that Ann had not contributed? Damn it, he was too used to working alone. Maybe he had said I when he should have said we.

He hung back when he found himself about to leave his cubicle. He didn’t even know where Ann sat...didn’t know where anyone sat, actually; he didn’t tend to wander around. He had everything he needed in his own cubicle.

Except for Ann. Taking a deep breath, he charged to Mrs. Mikan’s desk. He couldn’t see the woman; she was hidden behind a supermarket tabloid headline: Blessed Mother Visits Miracle Boy.

Where’s Ann Cho’s cubicle?

Mrs. Mikan lowered her paper, swiveled in her chair and peered over her glasses at a chart tacked to the wall beside her. Well, let me see, she said. Yes, Cho. Right here. She tapped at the map with the point of her highlighting pen. Ann’s cubicle was actually adjacent to his; he had passed it on his way to Mrs. Mikan’s desk.

He retraced his steps; he found Ann sitting quietly, eyes closed, hands on her lap. It was actually an odd pose for the office; but he took it to mean she was still upset.

Ann—please let me talk to you. There was no response, but he decided to go ahead anyway. Maybe I did say ‘I’ when I should’ve said ‘we’; I honestly don’t remember. But I swear I didn’t deliberately do anything to withhold credit from you! I never would!

She raised her head and opened her eyes. When I started Monday, Mr. Lockwood said I would have to find something useful before the week was out. And I did—but he doesn’t know it. She seemed more puzzled than worked up.

Terry shook his head. That doesn’t make any sense, he said. "Analysts don’t work that way. We read, listen, watch, but sometimes weeks or even months go by before any one of us turns up anything of even mild interest. Often we don’t even know what we have found; we just keep sending those summaries upstairs."

But why would Mr. Lockwood have said such a thing?

He was probably joking. He has a pretty bizarre sense of humor. He thinks he’s funnier than he really is. Most of the time I don’t get his jokes, myself.

You don’t think he was serious? Really? She looked at him steadily.

I’m sure he wasn’t, Ann. Your job is safe, I assure you.

"I hope you’re right. I’ve just got to keep this job."

I’m sure you will, Terry said. "After all, you have proven yourself. And I’ll make sure Lockwood knows it."

You would do that for me?

Absolutely. I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but—look—how about dinner? I mean, you’ve got to eat anyway, and it could sort of be a welcome to the Company and all...

She smiled, the fluorescent lights gleaming in her eyes. That’s very nice of you!

"I was thinking, I could maybe cook a steak or some pasta—whichever you prefer—both, if you like. And we could watch a movie. I’ve rented Citizen Kane for the weekend; I’ve seen it before, of course, but it is really such a masterpiece—"

"Dinner at your house? Terry, we only met today! She frowned. This isn’t a sexual harassment thing, is it?"

The man blushed again. Oh, no, really! he protested. If you have a VCR, we could watch the movie at your house, if you prefer. That way you can throw me out if I don’t mind my manners.

I’ve got a better idea. I’ve already got a ticket to the Fogelberg concert at Wolf Trap tonight. It’s not sold out; why don’t we get you a ticket and go to that?

"A concert? In public? I don’t know... Terry felt trapped. To be honest...well, I’m not very comfortable with a lot of people crowding me."

This is Wolf Trap! It’s an outdoor stage, and a lot of people don’t even sit in the seats; they bring a blanket and enjoy the concert out under the stars. It never seems crowded.

What about ants? Or bats?

"Bats!? Are you serious?"

"Well, there are ants. I don’t really get along with the outdoors that well. The closest I get to nature is my mother’s cabin in the Shenandoahs, and I generally stay inside when I’m there."

I love the Shenandoahs, said Ann, adding, I am pretty sure they have bats there, however.

Point taken, Terry agreed ruefully. Not in the cabin, though. Actually, I was thinking of going there this weekend. I have a VCR there. Would you—that is, you’d be welcome to stay the weekend with me.

Ann stared in disbelief. Me spend the weekend with you in your cabin in the woods.

"Well...yes, if you’d like. There are two bedrooms..."

Terry Brandt, you are something! First you take the credit for my analysis, then you invite me to spend the weekend with you!

"There are two bedrooms! And I really intended for us to watch Citizen Kane..."

—to watch movies! She collapsed onto her desk in laughter. Terry tried to smile but was unable to understand the joke, and after a few moments he backed out of her cubicle.

#

The drive to his mother’s cabin in the Shenandoahs was routine to him by now. As his brother had become older and more popular, weekends at the apartment they shared had grown more and more crowded, pushing Terry to the peace and solitude of the cabin. This weekend Barry was in Ocean City, and Terry had expected to have the apartment to himself. But after the debacle with Ann he decided to retreat to the mountains to lick his wounds.

Citizen Kane was not enough. He stopped at his favorite video store on the way for an armload of additional films to see him through the weekend: they included a Harold Lloyd silent, Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz’ first joint picture, Too Many Girls, two Clint Eastwood spaghetti Westerns, and all three movies in the Star Wars trilogy. Silence of the Lambs, the previous year’s Best Picture, was the most recent film he chose. In general, he preferred the older, more comfortable films. But he had a feeling a movie about a cannibal would more suit his mood this weekend.

Terry didn’t recognize the woman at the video store counter; she must be new. She put down her newspaper to check out his videos. It was turned to the same article Mrs. Mikan, his office manager, had been reading, about the miracle boy. A map of South America, showing the location of San Cristóbal, was prominently displayed, next to a romanticized painting of Jesus’ mother. I’m sorry, the woman told him. There is a limit of six rentals at a time.

Look me up, he suggested, handing her his membership card. I’m a special case.

The woman scanned his card with her laser wand and peered at her screen, using the wand to point to his membership information. Oh, yes, Mr. Brandt, so you are. Oh, my—you must be our best customer!

I probably am, he thought grimly. It had never occurred to him before to wonder why he should prefer the world of cinema and literature to that of reality. But his encounter with Ann disturbed him. If he had been able to withstand a couple of hours of untamed nature and uncontrollable crowds, he could have spent those hours with her. Yet, even now, the thought of strangers surrounding him filled him with dread.

Why can’t I be more like Barry? he wondered. His brother was always surrounded by people, many of whom Barry hardly knew. More than once his brother had started an introduction, only to realize part way through that Barry, himself, did not know the friend’s name.

The late summer’s day was nearing its end as he navigated the hills on the three-mile dirt road his father had graded. He watched the descending of the sun, glowing red and bleary-eyed at the end of the day it had illuminated, as it slipped below the ridge of Massanutten Mountain. The twilight deepened; Terry had to switch on his headlights for the final pull up the driveway to the cabin.

His mother owned the place but she had refused to come here since his father’s death. Terry was sure that the only reason she hadn’t sold it was because doing so would have been a final admission that her husband was gone.

Getting out of the car, Terry enjoyed the luxury of not having to lock it—unthinkable in the Washington suburb where he and his younger brother kept their apartment. He carried his three bags of videos onto the porch, then had to balance them all on his left arm and knees while fiddling for the correct key with the fingers of his right hand. Finally he had the door open and managed to flip the light switch with his elbow. He dumped the tapes on the couch. Soon the windows were open and a cool mountain breeze chased away the musty smell from the oak-paneled room.

He kept frozen dinners in the freezer; he slid one into the oven, and arranged his movies in the order in which he intended to watch them. Finally he flipped on the VCR and the ten-year-old TV set. The set might be old, but it had been state-of-the-art when purchased and the VCR provided him with high-fidelity stereo sound through a sound system he had installed himself. He stretched, trying to loosen muscles cramped from a day in front of the terminal and then the long drive in the car. Should he start Citizen Kane and pause it while he took his dinner out, or should he wait until his meal was ready so he could watch the film straight through, without interruption? Or perhaps he could start with Silence of the Lambs, which he’d never seen.

No, there was no point in risking spoiling his appetite—he had no idea how gruesome Lambs might be. Citizen Kane would do. There was something compelling about the tale of a man who controlled everything within reach, yet still could never obtain the one thing he really wanted.

Control of his environment: that was what Terry wanted. He thought uneasily of Ann, lying in the mud on a damp blanket, listening to poorly amplified music struggling to reach her through the scream of crickets and the rude conversations of strangers. Why would anyone do that, when she could listen at will to a digitally recorded, perfected studio performance, through perfectly tuned speakers driven by a 250-watt amplifier?

The buzzer in the kitchen caught his attention. By now he was ravenous. He paused Citizen Kane so as not to miss anything while retrieving his dinner. In his eagerness to unwrap it he burned his hands slightly on the foil. Shaking his head in annoyance, he reached for a couple of his mother’s hand-made pot holders and ferried the steaming substitute for real veal parmigiana to the folding table he had erected in front of the couch. He grabbed a fork—veal parmigiana TV dinners do not need knives—and sat, mouth watering, in front of the meal. He took a bite.

It was cold.

Terry was so annoyed at this typical result of microwave cooking that it took him a second to remember the cabin had only a conventional oven. Tentatively he touched the side of the tray, but it was also cool. Puzzled, he brought the meal tray back to the oven for more heating—but it, too, was cool with disuse.

His confusion was akin to George Burns’ during one of Gracie’s monologues. How could an oven go from 350 degrees to room temperature in one minute? Looking at the wall clock to verify the elapsed time, Terry received another shock.

The clock read 2:30.

Was the clock wrong? The second hand was still sweeping across the face, visible beneath a thin layer of dust. Fighting down a tightness in his chest, he raced to the table where that final authority on time, the VCR, rested. Certainly it would assure him it was, after all, a quarter to ten. But the VCR clock was blinking, as if there’d been a power outage. His watch, however, agreed with the kitchen clock.

The buzzing in his head made it almost impossible to think. He knew that, just a couple of minutes before, he had put his movie on pause. —Except, now, the VCR was in Stop mode, and the TV was showing some late-night movie of its own.

But how?

What was the possibility that both his watch and the kitchen clock were wrong—and by the same amount? The odds must be astronomically against it, yet what other explanation was there? The timepieces would have to be adjusted. He picked up the phone and dialed for the operator.

May I help you? asked the voice after a couple of rings. Terry was grateful a human had answered, and not a machine. In spite of the scratchy connection, it made him feel less alone.

Can you tell me what time it is? he asked. In the Washington area a curt operator would have directed him to look up the number for the time-of-day in the phone book; but, here in the country, the voice on the line didn’t seem to mind at all. Well, let’s see, the operator said. He could imagine her in her country telephone office, peering at an old alarm clock kept on top of the switchboard. It’s 2:33, she replied finally.

Terry still couldn’t believe it. He shook his head as if to clear it. "2:33—Saturday morning?" he tried to clarify.

No, sir, the woman replied. "Sunday morning."

Terry was still holding the receiver five minutes after the operator had broken the connection.

Chapter 2: The Miracle Boy

A slight sound, no more than the distant humming of motors, told Pepe he was no longer alone. A flock of birds took startled flight from beyond the trees that marked the southern edge of the clearing. His mother, in the coop with the chickens, would not expect visitors, not until August tenth, whenever that was. But Pepe was not surprised; the Lady had told him a powerful man would visit. Certainly this was he; these visitors were coming in Jeeps, unlike the peasants who usually came to welcome the Lady by bus.

Two ancient Jeeps burst into the clearing, their engines clattering in protest after the climb up the mountainside. The chickens, cackling hysterically, brought Pepe’s mother out to challenge the intruders.

The lead Jeep stopped, its engine grinding to a halt. The driver jumped out and ran to the other side to open the door for his passenger, a heavyset man with a chestful of medals, gleaming in the noonday sun. Pepe recognized him at once, from pictures he had seen at the tiny church school he attended three mornings a week.

A powerful man, indeed: it was the great Generalissimo Juan Pablo Jornada, President of all San Cristóbal.

Pepe’s mother also recognized el Presidenté. She shook Pepe by the shoulders, screaming: "See what you’ve done? I’ve told you to stop telling those lies! Now we are done for!"

Pepe was frightened, too, but he knew he must not show it. He was ten years old, too old to cry, and too old to show fear, even to the soldiers. Everyone knew that if you let the soldiers see you were afraid of them, they would hurt you. Especially then. Besides, there was nothing the soldiers could really do to him. The Lady from Heaven had promised him her protection. Everything else she had promised had come true; so he knew that, when she said he would be safe, that was true, too.

The General approached, removing his soldier cap, heavy with glittering decoration. "Buenas Días, Señora. he said to Pepe’s mother. And good morning to you, little one. Would you be Pepe?"

The boy nodded, his mother holding him tightly against her dress. He regarded the general solemnly. The man’s entire chest was covered with ribbons and medals. Pepe had never seen so many medals. Before he had died, his father had once shown him a medal from a war of the old days. It had been given for bravery, so Pepe knew that the general must be very, very brave.

But, even at ten, Pepe knew that evil men could also be courageous. The Lady from Heaven had explained that to him.

"I must speak to your son alone, Señora. Please leave us. I will not be long. Perhaps you would like Lieutenant Gallegos to show you one of our wonderful Jeeps, with which we defend the borders of San Cristóbal from the imperialists from Peru and Ecuador?"

Her grip on Pepe’s shoulders tightened momentarily, then released him as she allowed herself to be led away.

Pepe and the man were alone, though the boy could see Lieutenant Gallegos and his mother a short distance away. Beyond them, three soldiers in the other Jeep peered curiously at him, their rifles pointed upward.

Do you know who I am? the man asked. He towered over the boy, dark against the brightness of the sky. Pepe had to squint to see him.

"You are the great Generalissimo Juan Pablo Jornada, Pepe replied. I have seen your picture in school. You are the great leader feared by all the evil peoples of the world."

And the Peruvians and the Ecuadorians. You have been taught well, the big voice boomed, pleased. It was I who insisted that all the youth of San Cristóbal be educated. Do you know why I am here?

Pepe nodded. It’s because of the Lady from Heaven.

Who?

My friend from the sky, the Lady who comes to see me. She is my friend.

I am your friend, too, Pepe, said the general, trying to soften his voice. Pepe said nothing. Would you tell me about her?

Pepe nodded, not because the general had said he was Pepe’s friend—Pepe knew he was not—but because the Lady had told him he should. She appears to me in the jungle in a special place. First there is a great light in the sky, and then the light comes to me. She—

How often does she appear? the general interrupted eagerly.

She has promised to appear once a month for seven months. So far I have seen her four times.

What does she look like?

The Lady is very pretty, Pepe answered, and he smiled just to think of her. She looks just like her picture, the one in church.

Does she look like me?

Pepe laughed abruptly at the strange question. Of course not, he giggled. She’s a lady.

The general looked up into the glare of the sky. He had a strange expression on his face, an expression of having heard what you wanted to hear, and fear that maybe what you were hearing was a trick.

When this, ah, ‘Lady from Heaven’ talks to you, the general asked carefully,