“You know someone there you trust?” asked Benilo.
“Cordova’s a good man, an honest man, hard to find these days. Besides, he owes me favors.” Pena smiled one of his rare smiles, and raising his fork, he vigorously nodded at Tomaso, saying, “Damn, the food’s as good as Qui claimed.”
Basilica del Cobre, same time
“What message did the Madonna give you?” asked JZ.
“A vision…two Madonnas…a watery grave, someplace dark and cold.”
“Whose grave?” Father Cevalos asked.
“I’m not sure… But it left me with a cold feeling.”
“A warning?” asked Pasqual.
“Yeah, maybe, something like that.”
“Perhaps symbolic?”
“Maybe that too.”
Cevalos added, “This is not the first time our Lady has inspired a vision.” Rubbing his hands briskly for warmth, he wrapped them around Qui’s hands and gently smiled at her, his eyes telegraphing that they’d shared something special. “The Lady has blessed us with something unique, Detective, something that cannot be ignored.” Turning to Gabriel, he added, “I think the truth is in order. What do you think?”
“I believe these two can be trusted.” Pasqual’s tone conveyed his conviction.
Hearing these words, Father Cevalos turned and beckoned them to follow him. Using another key, he unlocked a door which protested their intrusion by refusing to open. Silently, JZ lent his strength to the effort. They climbed another set of steps emerging into a dusty, spider web strewn, obviously unfrequented corridor that led to small padlocked door.
“The unadorned Virgin,” Qui said clearly. The others stared at her.
Cevalos opened the door, turned, and said, “She indeed speaks to you.”
Solemnly they entered the small room, barely able to squeeze around the pedestal holding a locked box. Removing this final lock, Cevalos lifted the top revealing a carved wooden statue of a black woman holding a child. They lay on a velvet bed the color of the blue Santiago bay.
Looking through tearful eyes, Qui’s whisper filled the room. “The watery grave I saw…the real Madonna.”
The two priests nodded.
Quietly JZ said, “Too valuable for Her own good. From a security standpoint, this makes sense.”
“She works her miracles in mysterious ways,” said Father Cevalos. “I’ve seen it many, many times.”
Again they followed the tall priest through labyrinthine passageways. Stopping at the kitchen long enough to order sandwiches for everyone, Cevalos led them to the rectory where he brewed a pot of coffee. The rich aroma of coffee filled his personal quarters packed with mementos of a lifetime. On a nearby table sat a chessboard, the game unfinished.
Over small talk and coffee, Father Cevalos displayed a wide range of interests. His shelves filled with books on every imaginable topic, but especially cooking. Claiming it as a relaxing hobby, he conspiratorially added, “I’ve taught the church volunteers how to prepare meals.” The Father regaled his guests with tales of kitchen disasters. “Presentation is everything,” he finished just as the sandwiches arrived on colorful plates with linens. Accompanying the sandwiches was a tray of fresh-cut fruits, salads, chips, and salsa. The trays were festooned with fragrant herbs and colorful flowers.
“All fresh from our gardens,” said the church volunteer.
The visitors replied with a litany of ‘thank yous’ and ‘amens’ before they partook of the offering. The next minutes were spent enjoying the repast.
Taking another cup of coffee, Pasqual said, “Father Cevalos has been priest here since before the time of the revolution. If it’s to be known, he will know it. I trust him with my life.” The two priests stared at one another in silence until Cevalos nodded. The gesture hinted at a special bond between the priests.
“My friend,” began Father Pasqual, still looking at the other priest, “I have sad news. The lock from the Revolucion has come home.”
Not a man easily surprised, Father Francisco Cevalos raised both eyebrows.
Qui reached into the purse at her feet, withdrawing the black pouch containing the lock. As she placed the lock on the table before the priest, she asked, “When was the last time you saw this?”
The elder priest looked accusingly at Pasqual. “I had thought this nightmare over…years ago.”
Pasqual reached out to Cevalos, placed a hand on his arm, and calmly said, “We’ve known this day would come and now it is here.”
Qui added, “Fathers, Luis Estrada, my father Tomaso, Dr. Arturo Benilo-all of you know something about this lock you won’t talk about.” Qui’s angry tone filled the room. “This lock surfaced in a triple murder in Havana last Friday.” She began to pace. “Why? It’s an antique, not commonly available. It’s the same as the photo of a church door here in Santiago. Is there a connection, some message?” She stopped before the two priests. “I need answers.”
This was met with silence.
“Fathers, we were nearly killed by a bomb hidden aboard the Sanabela. Someone doesn’t want us to ask questions. Someone’s behind this. And I intend to find out who.”
Staring at the two priests, JZ broke the continued silence. “It’s time somebody talks.”
Cevalos took a deep breath and reluctantly replied, “It was a terrible thing that happened here at the outbreak of the Revolution. It can do no good to dredge it up.”
Pasqual added, “They are determined, Father.”
“All right… If you’re determined to unearth this…this terrible thing, follow me.” Cevalos led them out into the slanting afternoon sunlight toward a nearby stone and wood chapel. The sight of the small picturesque building, overgrown with bougainvillea and brilliant with red flowers, stunned Qui and JZ. Its double doors proved to be the real-life image depicted in Tomaso’s photograph, minus the fire damage.
Qui grabbed JZ’s arm her nails digging in as she said, “I knew we’d find answers here.”
“You were right all along, Qui” JZ commented. “You have the intuition of a first-rate detective.”
The priests each held open a door to the shaded, cool interior. “These doors have not been locked since. The lock you carry disappeared sometime after your father photographed it.”
As they entered the chapel, Father Cevalos turned to his young colleague. “Pasqual, you don’t have to come any farther with us. I can handle things from here. Go back to the basilica, make your next move on the chessboard.”
“No, Father, this is something I have to be part of,” Father Pasqual replied. “Just like Rita and the others.”
Cevalos calmly nodded understanding while Qui and JZ were left to puzzle over these last words.
They made a sharp turn just inside the vestibule and descended a spiraling stairwell. The stairs led into the dungeon-like basement. Reaching level ground, Cevalos turned on a switch illuminating a room full of discarded church paraphernalia, from candelabras to pews, the wall lined with dust-laden boxes of forgotten mementos. Approaching what appeared to be a retired confessional, Cevalos entered and deftly removed its back wall revealing a narrow corridor that only nature could create-an ancient limestone cavern. Turning back toward them, he smiled at the surprised expressions. “The Church keeps many secrets.”
Reaching into the cave, he withdrew flashlights, which he passed to the others. “Check your batteries. It’s been awhile.”
“Beginning to feel like I’m Alice in Wonderland,” Qui commented as she lit the flash and stepped into the cave ahead of the others.
“And I’m Buck Rogers,” muttered JZ bringing up the rear, the two priests having gone ahead of them.
“I must show you something.” Cevalos spoke over his shoulder as he marched onward down the corridor.
As they followed Cevalos deep into the upward slanting cavern, his words were swallowed in the dead space, eerily dropping off so that just a few feet away Qui and JZ struggled to hear them. The pitted limestone walls and floor created a space acoustically dead, so peculiarly quiet that Qui felt as if they were inside a tomb. Without the
