The Cross and the Godless

By Joseph Mauck

1979-Terror reigns in Nicaragua. The Sandinistas have seized power. Julian Mendero, leader of the Christian opposition, is arrested for stealing a national treasure-the Valdivieso Cross. But not before his son, Pedro, flees to the Sanctuary underground and begins an arduous journey to the US border.

Months later, FBI Agent Steve Rodriguez enters the murky world of the border killings, a series of inexplicable murders. When evidence points to a foreign death squad he enlists the help of Carol Shannon, a Sanctuary activist searching for Pedro. But Carol is reluctant to help. Trauma of a recent sexual assault has left her fearful and suffering nightmares. Yet Steve's compassion-and Carol's commitment to end the killing and find Pedro-gradually builds trust, while mutual attraction soon gives way to passionate desire.

Mysteries unfold when Steve consults notorious ex-patriot Hector Rone. He learns Rone's lover, Claudia Haas-antiquities expert, thief, and femme du monde-has joined two militant priests in their search for Pedro and the Valdivieso Cross. Tensions rise when Steve learns the death squad leader may be the father of Carol's unborn child. Time is short. Steve must find a way to stop the death squad, find Pedro and the precious Valdivieso Cross, and save the woman he loves from making a terrible mistake.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098077136

Book preview

Chapter 1

Cordillera Isabella, Nicaragua

July 19, 1979

Father Andreas Mendero sat at his desk in the old Spanish mission, the air thick with the buzz of nocturnal life. Yet he heard nothing. Apprehension dulled his senses. His thoughts were focused on the envelope he held in his hand and the doom he believed it contained.

He ripped open the envelope, unfolded the letter and raised it to the light of an oil lamp. Reading slowly, he heard in his mind a familiar voice imploring him to act.

My beloved brother,

On this day, the first anniversary of my dear wife’s death, I reflect on the hour before our heavenly Father received Christina and the promise I made to always care for our son. I fear I can no longer keep this promise. Should Pedro remain in the city he will not be safe. They will come for us soon. Andreas, I beg of you, keep my son from harm. I love him more than my life.

May God be with you, Julian

The priest folded the letter, his features darkly silhouetted by the dim light. Three days of painful rumors were now confirmed: Julian Mendero, the highly respected publisher and leader of the Christian opposition, had disappeared without a trace.

To make matters worse, Andreas had no idea who was to blame. Julian had made scores of enemies over the years, and many were friendly with the new Sandinista regime. But whoever they were, whatever they hoped to gain, the priest knew they had no reason to fear retaliation. Somoza’s security force was gone, and even the coalition of private units—staunch defenders of the once mighty business alliance—had all but collapsed. The nation’s constant turmoil had left many Christians helpless; so much so, that he wondered if Julian was already dead.

Dead: How very strange, he thought, to think of his brother’s possible demise and feel not grief but rather a sudden, overwhelming calm. Perhaps he wanted to believe death had come swiftly, that somehow Julian was spared the brutal interrogation suffered by so many others. Or perhaps it was merely an emotional pause, nature’s preparation for an anguish yet to come. He wondered too if he should have intervened. He might have persuaded Julian to abandon the plan before it was too late. The lost opportunity troubled him, but not as much as the inexplicable sense of peace he felt at the same time.

Did he not love his brother? And if he could not grieve, why did he not feel ashamed?

Padre…what do we do now?

Andreas turned to see the dark eyes of Quintero Palmera, a stout man with powerful arms and shoulders. The trusted family friend was not quite sixty, but with his grim countenance and flowing white hair he looked older than stone. He had traveled back roads for three days. Dust clung to his face like a second skin and thoroughly covered his denim jacket, overalls and boots.

The priest held up the letter. Is this all? he asked. Did Julian give you anything else?

From the breast pocket of his jacket, Quintero removed a wooden cross with a braided leather strap. It was the kind of cross worn by the poor of the mountainous regions, the same people the priest served every day. He closed his fingers over the symbol of the Christian faith and whispered, Yes, Julian…even now you speak to me.

For a moment he was lost in thought, while Quintero, growing restless, rotated the brim of his straw hat from hand to hand, channeling nervous energy into its frayed weave. The boy, Padre, he said impatiently. We dare not wait too long. He tilted his head toward a window above the mission garden, respectfully drawing attention to their most urgent problem.

Young Pedro Mendero stood alone in the moonlit garden, with all but his face held in silhouette. Slender and small and just shy of twelve years old, the boy had large brown eyes and a noble chin. Andreas smiled as an image came to mind, that of a shepherd boy in the light of the Bethlehem star. But it was a flawed likeness, he thought, bereft of the hope and joy the shepherds had felt on the night Christ was born. Pedro appeared sadly expectant, as if he were lost in the dark and too afraid to move.

Andreas spoke softly. He knows?

Yes, Quintero replied. Julian told him of the danger before we left.

It is time to rest. You and Pedro will leave at first light.

What about you, Padre? Quintero said anxiously. They will come soon. You cannot stay here.

Whoever comes—if they come—they would never dare harm a priest, Andreas said. But the lie was unconvincing. Both men knew violence ruled Managua, and political tensions in the countryside were growing at an alarming rate. No one was safe. Not priest, nun, nor even a child.

Nevertheless, Andreas had decided not to flee, made evident by the fierce look in his eye. He was a man of God, and, as such, must stay and confront those who would come for his nephew, and delay their search as best he could.

Quintero relented. I will tend to the mare first…then wash, have something to eat. Sleep will come fast, Padre, he assured Andreas. We are very tired. He turned to leave, his broad shoulders trembling in an effort to hold back tears.

After the old Ranchero left the room, Andreas held the letter up to the lamp’s flue, where it quickly vanished in a wisp of smoke and charred flakes. Then he clasped his hands together and began to pray, barely aware of Quintero sobbing behind the door.

Dawn approached. The first songbirds stirred. Quintero patted the flank of his big roan mare, drew up the reins in his callused hands and mounted. Glancing down, he watched Andreas lower himself to his knees and face the anxious child.

Listen carefully, Pedro, Andreas said. You must remember what I am about to say. The boy struck a pose of indestructible courage—chin high, shoulders back—and gave his uncle a resolute nod. Your father loves you very much. He would have you do exactly as Quintero says. He paused to quiet the tremor in his voice. He had not expected their parting to be so hard.

We Menderos obey God in all we do, he sternly warned. Know that you are a fine and decent boy. Day and night, you are in my prayers. And never forget, Pedro, Jesus is with you always. Holding the cross in both hands, Andreas kissed it twice and draped it about the boy’s shoulders. Quintero will take you to friends. Show this cross, and you will have sanctuary.

Pedro slipped the cross under his shirt and threw his arms around his uncle, and the pain Andreas felt was nearly unbearable. He lifted Pedro onto the saddle behind Quintero, and all three prayed together for a safe journey.

Andreas stepped back. His hand quivered as he traced a cross upon the two riders and whispered a final blessing. Keep moving, he said. The angel of mercy will help you.

Quintero nodded gravely, and said, I understand, Padre. May God be with you!

The mare swiftly galloped up the wooded path, nearly out of sight when Pedro looked back and cried, I love you, Uncle Andreas! I love you!

Andreas tried to answer, but the words failed to rise—trapped, he thought, in the cleft of his breaking heart.

After celebrating Mass in the village, Andreas followed a path to an isolated glade in the forest. He loved the glade, where trilling birds darted along the banks of a swiftly tumbling stream. Here, in peaceful solitude, he knelt and began his prayers.

Hours passed under a hot sun, but Andreas had not moved. His repeating prayers kept him strong. The Latin prose went on and on until he heard nothing else. Not even the sound of vines pulled tight and snapping under the swing of powerful legs. The sound grew louder, until a stranger, tall and lean, broke through the forest underbrush and smiled at the kneeling priest.

The stranger had traveled far. A nettle rash—an affliction of the damp heat—had spread across his chest and neck. A machete hugged his waist. Sweat soaked his sleeveless shirt and caused his skin to glisten, accentuating a red tattoo on his arm—the Soviet hammer and sickle.

He moved to one side of Andreas and stood perfectly still. But it was not reverence, nor any measure of respect that he remained silent. He studied Andreas with sly anticipation, much the way a hunter observes unsuspecting prey.

Though he felt he was not alone, Andreas continued to pray with eyes tightly shut. He asked God to forgive his sins and the sins of all the world. He asked for courage too. Even though I walk in the dark valley, I fear no evil, he quietly said.

His eyes opened to the glint of a silver ring close to his cheek. A black onyx dagger gleamed in the center of the ring, encircled by flames in gold relief. Andreas sighed. The ring identified the stranger as an officer of Cuba’s General Directorate of Intelligence, or DGI, the very mention of which roused fear in the hearts of the mountain people.

The stranger peered down at Andreas and slowly wet his lips. It’s getting late, he said. You know where to find the boy. I speak the truth to you, Padre…it is better you tell me now. He casually slipped his fingers into his back pockets. I am a reasonable man, he added, and arched his spine.

As black clouds gathered over the glade the birds fell silent. Andreas listened for rain. But he heard instead the distant sound of children laughing. It came on the river’s wind, from a schoolyard far upstream. He smiled. He had helped to build that school. He remembered, too, having baptized scores of children in the graceful waters of Rio de Vida, the river of life.

Suddenly, all of his sorrows vanished, replaced by the same sense of calm he felt after reading Julian’s letter. But there was no mystery about it this time, and no reason to wonder why the extraordinary peace returned: It had been, as now, a manifestation of the Holy Spirit, and he was amazed by the subtlety of God’s touch—the quiet power of His grace!

With new strength, Father Mendero looked up, eyes full of pity for the man who obeyed Satan’s every command. No matter what you do, you will never have the boy, he said.

The stranger glanced at the forest behind him and gave a nod. A bearded man lumbered out of the shadows. Hold him, the stranger said. Enormous hands reached from behind the kneeling priest and gripped his head, wrenching it back and against the henchman’s crotch.

Seizing the priest’s hand, the stranger peered at scars on the smallest finger. If you had gone into hiding, I was to look for the man with the crooked finger, he said and sneered at the gnarled flesh. They said you were only a child when the dog attacked. It doesn’t look right, this finger…eh, Padre? He curled the other four digits into a fist, leaving the mangled one extended. Yes, I think this finger looks bad. He paused, then quietly asked, Where is the boy?

Andreas did not answer.

The blade fell swiftly. The priest’s entire body quaked as blood splattered on the ground. His outstretched hand and arm contracted and seemed to freeze in the shape of an ugly hook, a strangely sympathetic likeness to the finger now laying the grass.

There now, the stranger said with a twisted smile. That looks so much better. He drew the machete across the priest’s robe to wipe it clean. You know what I think? I think you don’t hear me so good—eh, Padre? He leaned closer. Where is the boy?

But Andreas remained silent.

Again, the blade fell. It whipped along the side of Father Mendero’s head and sent his ear tumbling into the wind.

Maybe now you hear me better—eh, Padre?

Blood flowed down the side of the priest’s face. A shriek rose from his gaping mouth. With his head in the henchman’s powerful grip his body drooped like a rag doll.

The stranger shook his head and smirked. This is not going well…I see you in so much pain, he said. So please, where is the boy? I can still save you, but only if you tell me now.

Again, Andreas refused to speak.

Gripping his hair, the stranger tilted the priest’s face upward and searched his eyes for a sign of weakness, a way to compel Andreas to give in. But what he saw was neither strength nor weakness. Something in the eyes startled him. Something behind the tortured gaze stared back at him from deep within his victim’s pain. He tried to understand it, and for a moment thought he might have seen it before, as if in a dream fading quickly at the end of sleep.

But it was no use. Having never known compassion in his own life, he failed to see it in the eyes of the priest. Confounded, annoyed, he reverted to a more familiar emotion—hate.

The blade fell across Father Mendero’s throat. His body twisted sharply and collapsed on the river’s bank—eyes skyward and open—just as the back of his hand slapped the water’s edge.

Lightning blinked. Heavy rain poured. The men from DGI quickly tore at the priest’s robes and searched every pocket and fold, while thunder crackled and rolled to a stunning boom.

Finding nothing, the stranger spat on the body and grunted—eyes wide and tongue out—as if vomiting a final morsel of bitterness. The two men marched away in the drenching rain, back to the forest, then on to the hunt for a boy in hiding.

Peace gradually returned to the glade but of the kind mired in death’s gloom. The wind and rain eased slowly. Thunder ebbed to a distant purr. The lightning faded too, its last blink reflecting in a dead man’s torpid eyes.

Chapter 2

Los Angeles, California

April 3, 1981

By three in the afternoon, the twenty-sixth floor of the Los Angeles Federal Building teemed with a broad assembly of media. They were anxious to hear statements from figures in a much publicized and controversial case: United States vs. Sanctuary and Freedom for Emigrants. Moments before, three members of SAFE, an international refugee group affiliated with the Catholic Church, were found guilty of conspiracy to harbor illegal aliens entering the United States.

On the winning side, attorneys for the prosecution had followed instructions sent down by the Department of Justice and declined comment. Such DOJ restraints were thought to be part of a low-key strategy aimed at dampening public support for the defendants, who were, by all accounts, ordinary citizens guided by deeply held religious convictions.

The Immigration and Naturalization Service was not so forgiving. Having anticipated victory days in advance, the INS director issued a carefully worded statement:

The verdict handed down today confirms that no activist group or individual, no matter how well intentioned, can violate the law. We sincerely hope that citizens active in the Sanctuary movement will henceforth conduct themselves in a manner conformant to United States law.

On the losing side, the guilty verdicts were devastating. Father Timothy Dwyer, the most outspoken of the defendants, had quietly slipped away during the commotion immediately following the trial. It was believed his church superiors had persuaded him that further attacks on INS policy would serve no useful purpose.

Marta Valquez, the second co-conspirator, was an elderly widow whose Sanctuary activities stretched back nearly seven years. But she was not in court to hear the verdict. Counsel for the defense had told the court illness prevented Mrs. Valquez from appearing.

The third defendant, Carol Shannon, rarely addressed the media. When she spoke to them at all it was to echo sentiments expressed by either Father Dwyer or her friend, Marta Valquez. A few journalists covering the case wondered why Ms. Shannon was charged in the first place. Active in the Sanctuary movement for barely a year, there was no proof she participated in leadership decisions. Even the Department of Justice, always careful not to look like bullies, had first considered dropping all charges against the twenty-nine-year-old schoolteacher from Minnesota. Nevertheless, her indictment was pushed through as a warning to thousands of Sanctuary workers in the lower ranks.

Any statement on behalf of SAFE was expected to come from Gene Slater, the colorful and often bombastic defense attorney. Mr. Slater had made his mark on the justice system by defending teenage drug users whose families could afford his exorbitant fees. Most of the journalists expected his statement to be routine: a dig at INS, then a long-winded vow to appeal the verdict. If he happened to be in a combative mood, he might even deliver a slap at President Reagan, whose views on the turmoil in Central America conflicted sharply with those of his own.

As he entered the light of a dozen mini-cam lamps, Slater moved with practiced ease. He wore a tightly coiffed ponytail, a new style among the yuppie elite. His white linen suit looked good on a blue silk shirt with gold cufflinks. His brown shoes were freshly buffed, and, as always, his manicure was flawless. Not at all like his tie. The splash of tropical colors provoked the gallery’s ridicule; prompting one of the courtroom fashionistas to say, Too showy for court. Who does he think he is?

But when Slater approached a standing bank of microphones, the room started to buzz for an entirely different reason. Carol Shannon, the most unlikely voice of the Sanctuary movement, matched her attorney stride for stride; and she had the look experienced journalists knew all too well—she was ready to give SAFE detractors a piece of her mind.

While waiting for Slater’s introduction, Carol tried to ignore a sudden flurry of questions:

Were you surprised by the verdict, Ms. Shannon?

What did you think when the judge said, ‘Ignorance and a misplaced sense of justice cannot negate your criminal intent?’ Were you angry?

Do you plan to appeal?

Can you tell us how this will affect SAFE in the long run? Will you defy the court?

Slater raised his arms and waved at the eager reporters, as if gently pushing them back. Now please, please, he said. Ms. Shannon would like to make a statement first. After that, you may direct your follow-ups to me. Questions continued to fly while Gene set about adjusting the array of microphones to accommodate Carol’s height of five-foot, four inches.

If there was any doubt about her intentions to woo conservatives who followed the case, one had only to look at her choice of clothes. She thought her blue suit and white blouse was appropriately modest; and she wore her grandmother’s cameo brooch for the same reason, one inch below a thin, white, immaculate collar. Her shoulder length auburn hair was combed back on the sides, framing pearl earrings set in gold. Her big blue eyes needed little in the way of makeup, and her complexion was smooth and clear. Just the same, she had applied a faint stroke of blush to each cheek, rounding out an overall wholesome image.

Gene gave her a nod, and Carol, holding her prepared statement, stepped forward.

The crowd quieted.

At this moment— She stopped. She looked beyond the surrounding lights and saw the crowd staring back like a hundred-headed monster. Her eyes returned to the speech. She took a deep breath and started again.

At this moment…citizens from across the country, from every walk of life, are involved in the Sanctuary movement. We help those who have come to our country to escape violence and oppression in Central America. We wish only to continue our work without harassment from our government…without fear of criminal prosecution.

Feeling more confident, she lifted her eyes and spoke from memory. Since when is saving children a crime? she asked. When their mothers and sisters have been raped, their fathers and brothers murdered before their eyes, should we not act to save them? Must we turn away from their cries for help? No….no! We in the Sanctuary movement will not sit idly by while innocent lives are destroyed! She paused, breathed deeply, and forged ahead. The FBI has sent their agents into America’s churches, secretly tape-recording worship services. They have assembled secret files on priests, nuns, ministers and volunteer social workers whose only crime has been to help those who flee unimaginable brutality. If we ignore this conduct, if we believe police-state tactics are in any way justified, then we have lost our constitutionally guaranteed right to the free exercise of religion! She paused again and breathed slowly, determined to keep her voice calm.

Today, SAFE lost a battle. We will obey the orders of the court and, for now, will not assist refugees crossing the border. Over the next several weeks we may decide to appeal. In the meantime, we hope compassionate Americans everywhere will keep the Sanctuary cause alive…and will, in the end, help us win the war against unjust laws, prejudice and indifference.

The room erupted in a display of raucous pleading. Reporters shoved their way forward and pelted Carol with more questions. She refused to look at them. She quickly drew back and stepped behind Slater, then slipped behind a row of partitions the bailiff set up hours before.

Gene, however, liked the chaos. He waved both hands high in the air and said, Ladies, gentlemen, please. If we could just settle down, I’ll be happy to answer your questions.

Nearby, behind the crowd, two ordinary-looking men seemed to care little about Carol’s impassioned plea. They stood, hands in pockets, leaning against the wall separating two large elevators, and calmly watched as the bedlam continued. Either man might have been mistaken for someone crossing a busy street or squeezing fruit at the local market, except for the barely visible bulges underneath their jackets.

The smaller man was also the elder of the two, a veteran surveillant and expert in the art of invisibility. He was moderately overweight, with a small paunch that belied his muscular arms and torso. His pleated slacks had worn soft from wear. The white of his shirt was faded and the collar slightly frayed. He leaned close to his companion and asked, Okay, smart guy, what do you say about that?

The younger man was casually examining the sleeve of his gray suit. His frame—tall and angular—fit the suit well, accentuating a trim waist and lean physique. His skin was light bronze; his features, classic Mediterranean. I didn’t know she would sound so tough, he replied. He lifted his warm brown eyes and glanced about. Supposed to be some kind of wallflower, but she didn’t look that way to me. Then he picked a bit of lint from his jacket and flicked it away.

The older man gave an almost imperceptible nod and continued scanning the crowd. You want to forget it? he asked.

Mildly annoyed, the other man said, No way. I didn’t come all the way down here just to hear some chick say she’s got a raw deal. What a bunch of crap.

Hey…there she goes, the older man said. Having seen her vanish behind one side of a partition, he now pointed his chin where she reappeared on the other side, behind reporters, near a stairwell exit door. His gaze, though, stayed on the crowd, eyes moving with practiced boredom, like dull beacons shifting in a face colorless and dry as sand.

The man in the gray suit stood up straight and smoothed down his jacket and tie. Follow me in about…I’d say, thirty minutes?

Take as long as you like. She’s on parking level C, the older man said as he folded his arms and settled a bit deeper against the wall.

No one noticed his partner reach behind his back and press the elevator button.

One flight down, the stairwell door should not have been difficult to open for a normally healthy woman like Carol. But pushing forward on anything seemed to make the dull pain flare up again. She decided to put her back to the door and push with her shoulders and stumbled briefly, as she entered the deserted foyer.

In the cool, spacious silence, she leaned against the wall and breathed deeply. A long and stressful day, she thought. The verdict had not surprised her. But she felt ashamed, nevertheless, when the jury foreman said that terrible word: guilty. The crowd of reporters almost unnerved her. A few minutes under their hungry gaze had seemed like hours. And now the stress had again aroused the pain, just when she thought the healing was coming along fine.

She sighed, shuffled across the floor to the elevators, and jabbed the down button. While she waited, she dug through her purse for a single Tylenol tablet—only the fourth time in three weeks—and made her way to a water fountain close by. She didn’t like using drugs and cursed herself for giving in. Her grandfather, Ephraim Christopher Shannon, a farmer of the upper-Midwest, had instilled in her a basic mistrust of pharmaceutical remedies. He warned that painkillers were prescribed too often, could lead to addiction, and even delay healing by distorting the body’s natural sensations. Yet here she stood, she thought, facing a water fountain, trying to decide whether to tough it out or take another darn pill.

Grandpa would certainly disapprove. But why care what the old man thought? Why now? Four years had passed since Ephraim’s fatal stroke. A month later his wife, Beatrice Shannon, had followed her husband to the grave by passing peacefully in her sleep.

The last of my family is gone, Carol thought, and felt the old familiar sadness return. Her grief was milder now, but still she missed them both. She longed to have their emotional support to count on, and now more than anything, she missed their constant, reassuring love.

She fought off the urge to cry, telling herself, Forget the self-pity, girl. You’re alone now. You’ve got to take care of yourself. And never, never let it happen again!

The elevator doors quietly opened. Its single passenger, the man in the gray suit, saw Carol drink from the water’s arc, throw back her head and swallow. He watched, still unnoticed, as she winced and pressed her hands against her abdomen. Curious, he noted the brief episode, and pushed a button on the inside panel to keep the elevator doors from closing.

Going down? he asked.

Startled, Carol turned sharply and stared at him for a second. But the uncomfortable moment passed when he smiled and gave her a friendly nod. Carol, however, did not return the smile. She averted her gaze, saying only, Thank you, and moved quickly into the elevator.

He asked, What floor?

Oh. Parking level C, please, she said, and saw him push level C on the control panel.

No reason to be so jumpy, she thought. The guy looked okay. Clean cut. Polite. Probably a staff attorney from somewhere in the building.

Then she realized level C was the only button lit—he hadn’t selected a floor for himself.

The doors closed. Too late to get out, she thought. She backed into the corner while the panel above the doors blinked: twenty-three…twenty-two.

The man spoke in a friendly way. I heard your statement up there. You held your own in front of the cameras and I know that’s hard to do. He extended his hand. My name is—

Push ten, please.

Excuse me?

I made a mistake. Push ten! she said, as the panel continued to blink: sixteen…fifteen.

For an instant he simply stared, perplexed that she could feel so threatened. Then he glanced at the panel and timidly said, Wait a minute. I think you’ve got the wrong idea.

Carol frantically reached into her purse and yelled, "Don’t you dare come near me!"

Deadly serious the man crouched—a reflex move—one hand sliding under his jacket. Whatever you’re got in there, better you drop it now! he warned and held out his shield and credentials. Special Agent Steve Rodriguez—FBI.

A sigh rushed from Carol’s lungs. She removed her hand from her purse and painfully spread her fingers. Oh, my god, she said as she stared at her swelling palm. It was bright red, with white indentations where she’d gripped her keys. She had almost slashed the man who was about to attack her—or so she thought.

An electronic ping signaled parking level C, and the doors slipped quietly open.

With a curious look, Agent Rodriguez managed a smile and said, After you.

Carol stomped out of the elevator and turned her back to him, avoiding his gaze as she tried to calm down. She felt humiliated. She had dared to hope the emotional injury caused by the rape and its aftermath—all of its sadness, shame, and rage—had finally started to fade. But her hopefulness had only encouraged denial, like a thin veil concealing psychological damage far more serious than she first realized. To be alone with a stranger required reasonable caution—not panic, you idiot! And now it was clear. She had thought he was about to attack her, and that one mistake had led to another—a hypersensitive reaction—triggered by a wounded woman’s irrational fear.

A strange self-loathing took hold as Carol considered her exposed emotions, seething and raw, laid open for a total stranger. Worse than a stranger, she thought. The man was FBI.

Chapter 3

Carol managed to calm herself, but still refused to talk to the man or even look at him. She could feel him close, off to one side, and waiting, she assumed, to see if the crazy lady would scream for help. Or maybe he’d seen a woman like her before, a victim of sexual assault half out of her mind. She asked herself, what then? A token word of sympathy? The very thought of it made her cringe.

She turned. The lighting was poor. But Carol was sure she saw a smug look on his face.

She attacked. Typical FBI! You go out of your way to scare the hell out of us, she jeered. Then you want us to think it was all a misunderstanding!

I’m sorry, but I had no idea—

"Oh, sure…you follow us, tap our phones, read our mail, she angrily railed. Always concocting ridiculous theories! Sanctuary isn’t some communist plot, you idiot. That’s all in your head!"

Rodriguez grimaced. Please, Ms. Shannon. I’m sorry if you thought—

"Do you enjoy dreaming up these little stunts? Do you like intimidating women?"

Now wait just a minute. If you think I was—

Not me, you won’t, she said. Not ever!

All right, that’s enough, he said and put up his hand. "Just stop!"

Carol froze. All patience had vanished from his eyes. He managed to control his anger, but not the seething tension in his voice. Fortunately for you, I don’t get my kicks intimidating women, he said, "and I don’t know anyone in the bureau who does. And for the record, I don’t care about all that pseudo-liberal crap you yap about, or your sanctuary cause, or your misguided hatred for what it is you think I do, because your silly paranoia has nothing to do—"

Paranoia?

Has nothing to do with the case I’m working on!

What? Now she was thrown. FBI was FBI. And she didn’t trust them.

Rodriguez backed off. He took a deep breath and quietly said, I’m in charge of the FBI task force investigating the border killings. I assume you’ve heard.

Of course, she thought. It was on the news every day. Sure, I know about that, she said. But she was still confused.

Well, we’ve been at it for three weeks—no luck, he said, obviously frustrated. But I had this idea. It might sound foolish, but first I had to find a way to meet you…well, in private.

In private, she echoed with an icy tone. "Do you always arrange to be in