Jonathan settled for the proffered coffee.
“Please have a seat,” said Father Peron, gesturing with an open palm to a wooden chair that might have been part of a dining room set in a different world. “Make yourself comfortable, and then tell me the rest.”
Jonathan cocked his head.
“Tell me what you are not telling me,” he clarified.
“You can start with the reasons why my telephone stopped working more or less at the same moment when you arrived.”
Jonathan sipped from his cup to stall for time. He valued information above gold or diamonds, and as philanthropic as he was with his financial treasures, he hoarded information like the bitterest of misers.
“Why did your villagers so quickly show their hands as we were approaching? They clearly wanted us to see that they were unarmed.”
The priest smiled. “Asking another question is not the same as answering one,” he said.
“I’m getting there, I promise.”
“But first you must be sure whether the parish priest is trustworthy?”
This guy was good. Jonathan thought about dodging the question but decided on a nod. “Exactly. In my line of work, an abundance of caution is never penalized.”
“And what is your line of work, exactly?”
“I rescue people.”
Peron’s eyes narrowed. “Rescuing must be a dangerous business to require so many guns.”
“I rescue people from kidnappers. They tend to be a violent bunch. With all respect, Father, your country has turned kidnapping into something of a profit center.”
Something changed in Peron’s face. A cross between sadness and anger. “If Americans bought fewer drugs, and sold fewer guns, the world would be a safer place.”
“I’m not a politician, Father. I’m a tactician, and I need your help. That child’s life depends on it.”
The priest held up his hands, as if to fend off an attack. “Don’t place that on me,” he said. “Whatever trouble you are in is self-inflicted. If that child is hurt, it will be your responsibility, not mine. My
Jonathan shrugged. “I’m a careful man, Father. And the fact that you tried to make your call tells me that my caution is well-founded. And you still owe me an answer on your willingness to help me reunite a child with his family.”
“You’re asking me to grant you a favor, despite your threat of violence,” Peron said.
“I’m doing exactly that, Father,” Jonathan said. “If you turn us in, I believe the authorities will kill us. What damage I have done is merely defensive.”
Peron recoiled. “Why would the authorities do such a thing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yet you sound so certain.”
They’d arrived at the details that Jonathan had wanted to keep off the table. “They’ve already tried.”
“To kill you?”
Jonathan nodded.
It only took a few seconds for the priest to connect the dots. “This must mean that you are talented with the guns you carry.”
Jonathan shrugged.
“Who did you shoot?”
“The kidnappers,” Jonathan said. “What was supposed to be a simple ransom exchange turned out to be a bloodbath. I believe that this is being organized by people who have the ear and the resources of the local police. Who would have that kind of power?”
Peron shook his head. “I have no way of knowing.”
Jonathan smiled. “It gives me hope for the future that a man of your calling would be such a terrible liar. My only desire is to get that young man to safety. You can trust me, Father, just as surely as I must trust you. Now, please help me.”
Father Peron took a long time to decide on his next course. After settling himself with a deep breath, he said, “The drug lords own everyone. Those who don’t cooperate with them are killed.”
“Including the government?” Jonathan asked. “I’ve heard rumors to that effect, but is that what you think?”
Peron gave a coy smile. “Like you, I am not a politician, merely a parish priest. I am certain that our president could look your president in the eye and tell him earnestly that such is not the case.” He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “But presidents don’t always know all the things that their surrogates do. Perhaps they don’t want to know. It seems odd to me, however, that in a nation where the government controls other elements of our lives, they are somehow unable to stop these drug lords. Local politicians are terrified to stand up to them and enforce the laws. To do so would quite literally cost them their heads. Beheading is among their primary intimidation tools.”
“Do you know names?” Jonathan asked.
Peron’s features hardened. “You’re playing a very dangerous game, Mr. Harris.”
“I’m a pretty dangerous guy, Father.”
“To know names merely increases the danger. I can arrange for you to have shelter for the night. After that, you must go.”
Jonathan sighed. “Well, you see, Father, that’s where it gets really complicated. The level of betrayal to which I’ve been exposed is extreme. Whatever is happening, my route home is blocked. A name will help me unblock it.”
The priest shook his head. “A name will help you find someone to hurt,” he corrected. “Once hurt, they will want to retaliate, only you will have moved on, leaving no other targets but my parishioners.”
Jonathan let the implication of it all sink in. “I’m sorry if I brought trouble to you.”
Peron allowed himself a smirk as he leaned back into his chair and crossed his legs. He sipped his coffee. “There is no ‘if’ in this equation, Mr. Harris. You have brought the most dangerous kind of trouble. And now you ask me for a favor.”
Jonathan slurped his coffee, then shook his head. “No, Father, I’m not asking you for a favor. I’m asking you to show Christian mercy for a teenager who has spent the last week being brutalized. I wish I could have helped him without hurting anyone, but it didn’t work out that way.”
Father Peron’s eyes grew sad as they focused on a place beyond Jonathan’s shoulder. “In short, you are asking me to do my job,” he said. When his eyes returned to meet Jonathan’s gaze, he’d clearly made a decision. “Tell me what you would like me to do.”
“Tristan needs to sleep and take a bath,” Jonathan said. “He could use a decent meal, as well.”
“This church has no kitchen.”
“But there are kitchens in your parishioners’ homes,” Jonathan countered. He pulled out a wad of hundred- dollar bills. “I can pay them for their efforts.”
“They won’t want your money, sir. My parishioners are good people. If they take in your-Tristan, is it?”
A nod.
“If they take in Tristan, they will do it out of the goodness of their hearts.”
Jonathan shook his head. “I insist. The people here have so little. I don’t want us to be a burden.”
Father Peron smiled. “Unless you feel that we might make a phone call.”
Jonathan let the comment hang. It was what it was.
Peron said, “And might I presume that if your money could buy silence, that would be okay?”
Jonathan hiked a shoulder and smiled back. “That would be fine with me, yes.”
“You have far more to fear from the people you cannot see than from those you can. Those families out there at the
