Balance of Power

Maria nodded. “And that is why I’m here. It’s like love,” she said. “You can’t give up because it doesn’t work the first time. You learn the rules, you learn about yourself, and you get back in the arena for another run at the bull.”

The first pale red light of dawn began to brighten the skies. The hilltops started to take shape against the lighter sky. As she glanced eastward, Aideen thought how funny it was that she liked and admired Maria. The woman was no less confident and aggressive than Martha had been. But except for when she’d had to face Darrell back at the airport, there was something selfless about Maria. And Aideen could hardly blame Maria for throwing a little attitude Darrell’s way. Regardless of who was right and who was wrong, seeing him again had to be rough.

They reached the outskirts of San Sebastian in less than thirty minutes and crossed the bridge at Maria Cristina. Then they headed southwest toward the church. They stopped to ask a shepherd for directions and were at the church just as the rim of the sun flared over the hill.

The small stone church was open. There were two parishioners inside, a pair of fishermen, but not the priest.

“Sometimes he goes to the bay with his brother,” one of the fishermen told the women. The men told them where Adolfo lived and the route Father Alcazar usually took to get there. They got back in the car and headed north, Maria opening the window, lighting another cigarette, and puffing on it furiously.

“I hope this doesn’t bother you,” Maria said of the cigarette. “They say that the smoke is bad for others but I can assure you that it saves lives.”

“How do you figure that?” Aideen asked.

“It keeps me from getting too angry,” Maria replied. She did not appear to be joking.

They found Calle Okendo and drove two blocks to the southeast. The street was narrow; when they reached the two-story apartment building Maria had to park half on the sidewalk. Otherwise there wouldn’t have been room for another vehicle to get by. Aideen put her.38 into the pocket of her windbreaker before she slid from the car. Maria tossed her cigarette away and slid her gun into the rear waistband of her jeans.

The downstairs door did not have a lock on it and they entered. The dark stairwell smelled of a century of fishermen and dust, which tickled Aideen’s nose. The steps creaked like dry old trees in a wind and listed toward the dirty white wall. There were two apartments on the second floor. The door to one of them was slightly ajar. Maria gave it a push with her toe. It groaned as it opened.

They found Father Alcazar. He was kneeling beside the naked body of a man and weeping openly. His back was toward them. Maria stepped in and Aideen followed. If the priest heard them he made no indication of it.

“Father Alcazar?” Maria said softly.

The priest turned his head around. His red eyes were startling against his pale pink face. His collar was dark where it was stained with tears. He turned back to the body and then rose slowly. Backlit by the sharp morning light his black robe looked flat, like a silhouette. He walked toward them as though he were in a trance. Then he removed a jacket from a hook behind the door, went back to the dead man, and laid it across his body.

As he did, Aideen had a chance to study the body. The victim had been tortured, though not out of vengeance. There were no burn or knife marks on his torso. His eyes, ears, breast, and groin appeared to be intact; only his limbs had been worked over. He’d been tortured for information. And his windpipe had been smashed; to kill him slowly, as opposed to a blow to the head. Aideen had seen this before, in Mexico. It wasn’t pretty, but it was prettier than what the drug lords did to people they tortured for betraying them. Strangely enough, it never stopped other people from betraying the Mexican senorios, as they called them. The dead men and women always believed that they were the ones who would never be caught.

The priest turned back toward the women. “I am Father Alcazar,” he said.

Maria stepped toward him. “My name is Maria,” she said. “I’m with Interpol.”

Aideen wasn’t surprised that Maria had told him who she really was. The killings were escalating. This wasn’t the time to go undercover.

“Did you know this man?” Maria asked.

The priest nodded. “He was my brother.”

“I see,” Maria said. “I’m sorry we couldn’t have gotten here sooner.”

Norberto Alcazar gestured weakly behind him as fresh tears spilled from his eyes. “I tried to help him. I should have tried harder. But Adolfo — he knew what he had gotten himself into.”

Maria stepped up to the priest. She stood as tall as he did and looked flush into his bloodshot eyes. “Father, please — help us. What had Adolfo gotten himself into?”

“I don’t know,” the priest said. “When I arrived here he was hurt and talking wildly.”

“He was still alive?” Maria asked. “You’ve got to try to remember, Father, what he said! Words, names, places — anything.”

“Something about the city,” Norberto said. “About a church. He said a place or a name — Amadori.”

Maria’s eyes burned into his. “General Amadori?”

“It could be,” Norberto said. “He… he did say something about a general. I don’t know. It was difficult to understand.”

“Of course,” Maria said. “Father, I know this is difficult. But it’s important. Do you have any idea who might have done this?”

He shook his head. “Adolfo was going to the radio station last night,” he sobbed. “That is all I know. I do not know what business he had there other than to deliver a tape recording. I came back this morning on my way to bless the waters. I wanted to see if he was all right. I found him like this.”

“You saw no one coming or leaving?”

“No one.”

Maria regarded him for a moment longer. Her brow was deeply knit, her eyes smouldering. “One question more, Father. Can you tell us where to find the Ramirez boatworks?”

“Ramirez,” the priest said. He took a long tremulous breath. “Dolfo mentioned him. My brother said that Ramirez and his friends were responsible for killing an American.”

“Yes,” said Maria. She cocked a thumb over her shoulder. “They killed this woman’s partner.”

“Oh — I’m so sorry,” Norberto said to Aideen. His eyes returned to Maria. “But Ramirez is dead. My brother — saw to that.”

“I know,” Maria said.

“What do you want with his people?”

“To talk to them,” Maria said. “To see if they were involved in this.” She nodded toward Adolfo. “To see if we can prevent more murders, stop the fighting from escalating.”

“Do you think that’s possible?”

“If we get to them in time,” Maria said. “If we learn what they know about Amadori and his people. But please, Father. We must hurry. Do you know where the factory is?”

Norberto took another deep breath. “It’s northeast along the shore. Let me come with you.”

“No,” said Maria.

“This is my parish—”

“That’s right,” she said, “and your parish desperately needs your help. I don’t. If the people panic, if their fear frightens away tourists, think what will happen to the region.”

Norberto bowed his forehead into his hand.

“This is a lot to ask of you now, I know,” Maria said. “But you have to do this. I’m going to go to the factory to talk with the workers. If what I think is happening is happening, then I know who the enemy is. And maybe it’s not too late to stop him.”

Norberto looked up. He pointed behind him without turning. “Dolfo thought he knew who the enemy was. He paid for that belief with his life. Perhaps with his soul.”

Maria locked her eyes on his and held them. “Thousands of others may join him if I don’t hurry. I’ll phone the local police from the car. They’ll take care of your brother.”

“I’ll stay with him until then.”

“Of course,” Maria said, turning toward Aideen.

“And I will pray for you both.”

“Thank you,” Maria said. She stopped and turned back. “While you’re at it, Father, pray for the one who