Caged: Reclamation
Chapter 10
When Todd awoke in the early morning, a tropical sun pouring into the room, the salty scent of the sea waking him up, he flipped the sheets off and scowled at his broken body. The pair of white briefs clinging to his narrow hips once belonged to someone else. Clothes for an orphan.
New scars snaked along his left side-left arm, left leg, left hip-from surgeries to repair damage he incurred in the bombing and maybe from a house falling on top of him, too. He rubbed his head and could feel the ridge of a new scar there. He took in his various tattoos and older scars-could feel Rico's kisses on all of them, making him swallow hard, a stone in his throat-and landed on the bullet wounds on his chest which were less visible to him and more a psychic awareness. He touched the silky spots, a testament to the miracle that his Delgado managed not to kill him. He strangely wanted to laugh at the very fact that he survived it. Dumb luck, really.
He lay back on the pillows and followed the cracks in the walls and the ceiling, noticing how they marked a path to an old painting hanging between the windows of a beatific Jesus Christ looking skyward. Long hair and a beard. Draped robe.
I'm immortal, Delgado, don't you know that?
She had been so angry, hurt, horrified at the carnage at R.J.'s club. She nearly got killed herself, a thought he forever avoided and yet there it was. The what-if of that was too fresh, the grief of losing her too real still even though he was confident she was alive. But yeah, a Serrano soldier shot R.J.'s bodyguard and Delgado shot him before he could get to her. Straight-up self-defense. Did he even know at that time she had a gun? Certainly he didn't know she had any experience shooting one. He lazily caressed the twin wounds...another case of self-defense only this time against Blanco. It was why most likely she was never charged.
Blanco was the only one who could have survived the shooting. It's just like him to get shot and LIVE.
He wiped hard at his face, rubbing away imaginary grime. He supposed it was just like Blanco to murder 13 in a bombing he made happen and live. Survive. She thought Todd had died however.
Did he?
He remembered Téa aiming at him, right at him, and then… waking up in intensive care and Jed telling him to chill the fuck out. That kid. His wild-child son who never stopped trying to reach him, to help him, to love him, to make him be a father to him. Guilt stabbed at him… or something… at all of it. Everything. He felt sick because what Téa meant was that the good part of him died, the human part.
He had to shift gears.
Nothing to say… nothing.
Thinking on the bullets got him to consider all the memories he now possessed. They had shifted in form, in presentation. He had awakened from the coma to an unfolding of a previously crumpled drawing or treasure map or... wait, no, no, it was more like a jigsaw puzzle that had been missing pieces, the halfway-filled box tipped and spilling out over a table, some whole sections still together, others not so much. Just a mess, nonsense, because of all those missing pieces. But now… everything was there… all the pieces... and it was put together perfectly into a single whole.
If a stranger looked at it, he'd see a massive medieval painting of any scene in Dante's hell with the muted colors, blackened lightning-lit skies, naked bodies in agony, some torn up, some not, some with tails and sharp shark-like teeth. Human detritus.
He saw it all, too, standing right next to that stranger in the gallery of horrors.
It's terrifying, isn't it?
Positively. Though I've seen worse.
The only relief is that it's pretend, imaginary, the acid-induced, heroin-tinged delusions of an absolute madman.
That's not true. We're not looking at art…pretend bullshit...fiction. We're standing in front of my fucking history.
He closed his eyes, shoving himself into that virtual corner of a distant room he liked, trying to make himself safe, thinking on the hell that was, is, his life from a needed distance, thinking of all the touching that made him who he was, that led him here. He knew full well, now, what he did to control his hell, knew everything that the now-found puzzle pieces represented.
It's why the blissful white had abandoned him. There was nothing to hide from anymore.
After he had enough of that, he rolled over onto his side and watched sleeping Raquel, back on her little cot, her bloodied robe tossed to the side. She had stayed up with him and comforted him the best she could with her words and motherly caresses even though there was no comforting to be had. Fucked six ways to Sunday. That she bothered brought a kind of weakness to him, that she left her clinic and paladar was too much, making him angry at how very undeserving he was of such sacrifice. He eventually got to his own bed and slept for a while. And now…
Back to his broken body, such abnormal bullshit, finding his skin warm and real and distinct, like another being separate from his internal self. Just body parts. He knew that wasn't true and yet… the thought hovered. He ran a hand across his chest, fingertips lingering at his nipples, circling the suddenly stiffened nubs, fingers drifting down his belly to the beginning of hair that led further down. He felt for his individual ribs, wondering if they'd been broken in the fallen house, smoothing his chest more, passing over the patch on his side where the feeding tube had been, an actual hole that was still healing since Raquel removed the shunt. He was surprisingly awake as he touched himself, as he tried to get familiar with the brokenness, seeing if the sensations were the same as before.
Then… he palmed his brief-covered cock, experiencing a low-level humming like the buzz of insects from the convent forest.
She is sleeping across the room-she'll never know. Go ahead. Do it.
He checked to see if Raquel was really asleep and she seemed to be... so… he reached inside the briefs and slowly tugged his flaccid cock, slowly trying to further awaken himself, thinking more nonsense like if that worked then maybe the rest of him would follow suit so he concentrated on imagery from his teenage years, images that meant nothing, faceless bodies, breasts, a nipple in his mouth, fleshy asses, a cunt's wetness as his fingers slid inside or his dick, in and out and in and out, with a luscious pink delicate mouth at his neck and on his lips, a tongue licking him, and then...beyond his control… there were the flat planes of a strong but slender male body, the feel of another dick in his hand that wasn't his own, the taste of cum in his mouth, an aggressive masculine kiss, tongue deep in his mouth, a body writhing on top of his, their cocks rubbing and the intensifying excitement from it, two bodies next to him now, over him, on him, under him, curvy and soft, strong and tight, hot and breathy noise coming from all of them...
And suddenly it was his own breathing he heard, his own chest visibly rising and falling, his own hips thrusting into his tightened fist, fine sweat covering him as all his muscles tensed at the desperate chase, his head tilted back on the pillow, mouth parted… his cock hard and willing…
So close, so wet, in what, under five minutes? If even that? Yeah, yeah…beautiful boy…you're gonna come all over my hand... oh yeah… ain't you the perfect little faggot.
Aaaand… no, no, no… couldn't… wouldn't… goddamn, his memories served him well.
Couldn't… wouldn't… because how could he?
You… are… dead.
Dead people don't come.
Raquel was still sleeping, praise the gods. He was lying back, legs spread, cock softening like a sprung balloon with no pleasure of any pop. He rubbed his shaved head and slammed palms to his mouth to scream but of course he had no effective voice, nothing but raspy gravel, so no scream, no noise.
Still fucking broken.
The wheelchair was right next to the bed. Using the railing, he pulled himself up, then swung his legs to the side, feet on the cool floor. He jerked them up immediately because the sensation of the wood made him cringe with bizarre over-sensitivity. Abram was on the bed, curious, tilting his head. Todd affectionately pushed the dog's big black head away to no avail. The dog returned his gaze, looking as if to say…
Well, playing with your dick didn't do much so… remember what happened last night?
He tenderly touched his split chin. Bruised. Cut. Not enough to get stitches, but enough to be a physical show of his humiliation. Using his hands on the mattress as leverage, he pushed off again, standing for a couple of seconds. He bent slightly and grabbed the handlebars of the wheelchair to hold himself up. The muscles of his legs and back strained immediately, his entire body shaking with stress. He wasn't going to give up though. No, he needed to do this. He had to not be so fucking broken.
He lifted a foot, and then another, the chair sliding forward. He stood still, pain and weakness and that torturous crawling sensation in his feet threatening to send him back to bed.
Keep going, asshole.
"Fuck you," he cursed beneath his breath.
He did it again and again, lifting, slide, lifting, slide. He managed a yard in five minutes, sweating like he'd run a mile. The bathroom door was open, right ahead of him. Lift, slide, lift, slide, lift, slide.
He rested, checking Abram who was now panting, tongue hanging out. Sympathetic exhaustion. He continued his slow-as-fuck walk and now… the toilet. Never did a commode look so inviting. He lifted alternating feet a couple more times and finally sat on the king's throne, breathing hard, trembling like crazy.
Raquel stood at the door, smiling.
"Look… a man walks. Viva!"
He glared at her but then… didn't. He needed her help to get the goddamn briefs down because the trip had wrung him out. He didn't trust being able to lift himself up for that little one-handed feat. She smiled and walked close to him. When he reached for her, arms around her neck, he found himself holding onto her tight, tight, tight, shaking still from the effort to walk across the room.
She stilled and breathed, "Hold me as you need."
He couldn't let go, feeling a child again, afraid that he'd never see his family, that this was all there would ever be. He held on, soaked in fear and sorrow once more, like a repeating nightmare, hardly able to breathe under the weight of it. God, how he wanted Téa now, how he needed to see her now, terrified that it didn't matter if she was alive, that it wouldn't matter…
...because if he couldn't leave the convent… he was the dead one. He was dead now… he would stay dead.
Nothing to say, nothing, nothing.
When he finally loosened his grip—he couldn't even say how long he'd held her—Raquel lifted him with his little bit of leg-effort, her hand pressed hard on his back, huffing in Spanish, "Bueno, chico, bueno." She eased off the briefs, inches at a time, down his thighs, before gentling him down again. She did not acknowledge his breathless hold of her any further. She did not look at the tears that streaked his cheeks.
She always closed the door and waited for him to call for her. Today, she left it open a crack so he could see her gather up his showering stuff. He watched her as she moved around the room. She returned and dropped the washcloth, a fresh bar of soap, and a tub with a cup, toothbrush and toothpaste, on the shower floor. She put towels on a small table that was just out of range of the shower's spray. Fresh clothes, too.
And then she stood at the shower a few seconds, seeming to be lost in thought. She wasn't though. She moved the wheelchair so he could move himself from the toilet to the shower seat without assistance. She adjusted the showerhead.
"You can do this," she said, eyes hard on his. It was more a command than a motivational push.
She turned on the water. The bathroom was Roman-style, meaning no tub, just a showerhead spraying water onto the slightly slanted floor with a drain in the center. There were no glass shower doors to impede him, no wall between the toilet and falling water.
"If you need me, call me. I will be right out the door."
She gently shut the door. Normally, she moved him, the two together hobbling to the shower seat. Not today.
Once he did his business, he then had a job to do. Get to the shower. He huffed, trying to get up the energy to do it. He bit his lip, contemplated calling out for Raquel, but then stopped fighting the inevitable. He kicked the briefs away, not without a little difficulty, and looked at the forbidding seat just far enough away that he'd have to work, that he could fall spectacularly.
He then leaned over and grabbed the handles once again. He shoved one foot back. Then, using all the strength he could muster in his arms, willing his legs to do what they were supposed to do, he forced himself up. He stood, shaking, but not quite as much as before. He then turned slightly and took a step that would have him standing with only one hand on the wheelchair. He took one more step…unassisted... and then grabbed the back of shower seat. Slowly, slowly… one step, two, three...he shifted over and... voila!
He was on the shower seat at last. He raised his arms above his head in absurd triumph. Fists in the air. Not a lot but hey, small fuckin' miracles.
He let the water wet him and he tasted the blessed drops that cooled his body in a way he needed. And in that Cuban convent's rain, he bent over and picked up the washcloth and soap.
When Raquel came in later, the shower was off and he was mostly dry. His hair was wet from a good shampooing and rinse. The short hair made it easy. He was glad of it. The towel lay across his lap as he remained on the shower seat. He kicked the last of the puddled water, trying to desensitize his feet, but not quite getting there. He grunted at the feel and shuddered. She had the wheelchair and moved it so he could get to it himself.
She then asked a question he had been expecting.
"Are you ready to see Pedro today?"
He wanted to answer her but found he couldn't. It wasn't a physical thing but a hate thing. The mere idea of seeing that man shut him down.
Information though.
Critical, yes, but…to face him? To see Pedro, to know he was his captor, a kidnapper…a protector of everything that put him in this convent... well, he didn't have it in him to give that much.
He shook his head. Silent as a night sky.
Raquel's face changed. Grew worried. She watched him some moments.
"You need to speak with him, child."
What he couldn't say, what he refused to give voice to because to do so would acknowledge Pedro, would affirm the captivity, what he wanted to say was that he had to get stronger first, he had to be able to stand, if not walk. He had to know that if he needed to…
He shook his head, head dipped down.
Raquel moved closer and squatted down to get into his line of vision.
"Tell me," she said.
He licked his lips and after some beats said, "I cannot...talk with him… unless I know… that I have… la fuerza... para matarlo. I need that."
By Raquel's face… he knew she understood. The strength to kill him. The hate must have been radiating like the sun. She nodded and then opened her robe, flashing the blade at her waist, snug in its leather strap. She had already changed into her day clothes, gone the comfy sleepy stuff.
"When you meet with him, you can have this. For protection."
His eyes lit with a familiar darkness that filled Raquel with concern but not enough to retract her promise. He had good reason to not trust Pedro Moreno. She did not blame him.
"You also have Abram."
That was true. His canine buddy would tear the throat out of an attacker. "Gracias, mí angel," he said quietly.
"And now… you work to get to yourself again. Every step, every breath… will be to move forward. Do you hear me?"
"Yes."
"Get to the wheelchair then."
They had driven pretty much all night and finally arrived in Baracoa the day before the supposed arrival of the MK lawyer. The interview with the contact from the coroner's department didn't produce a smoking gun per se but did confirm a critical piece of information: missing files.
Every document with regard to the American Todd Manning was taken by the Chief of Havana PD, Santiago Cruz. Those records are under seal. Or simply gone.
Mixed bag. The swiped files supported the idea that the government wanted Todd's involvement hidden. The fact that it was the Chief of Havana PD, however, made the swipe slightly less official. If this was as political as the FBI and Commissioner Buchanan made it out to be, Cuban ministry would have confiscated the records, not local PD.
So yeah, mixed bag.
They checked into a small casa particular, slept for a while, then hit the streets in the late afternoon.
As usual, Jed was starving so the two men hit the first place they saw, sat at a table in the back, and happily ordered beers and a couple of shrimp and fish dishes. Over the welcomed food, Ian shared about his paternal family, one divided by Fidel Castro. The dictator tore his family apart, his grandfather escaping to the U.S. with his aunt while his grandmother stayed in Cuba with his dad.
"I met mí Tia Dalia in Miami and my cousins and children. Very different from us. We had it hard but we love our country and want better — my American cousins are fortunate and have so much yet they do not appreciate. I was sad about that."
"Yeah that's America for you. We're spoiled as fuck."
Ian laughed and they continued chatting, Ian talking about Baracoa itself. The city was fairly small, rustic, still boasting dirt roads in places, and very old-style housing and architecture dating back to the 18th century. Mainly, modern Baracoa was a little-known tropical paradise with a lush jungle, a beautiful beach blessedly clean of the usual tourists plaguing much of the Caribbean, and El Yunque, the outcrop of limestone rock that people sought to climb from all over.
"Did you know that Baracoa once had a wooden cross built by your Americans' favorite Christopher Columbus himself?"
"He's not enjoying the same popularity he once did. His Twitter account would be seriously ratioed."
Once again, Ian laughed and Jed doubted he had a clue what he'd meant about the Twitter account. They both dug into their food, Jed's a soup featuring local seafood, delicious white fish and shrimp in a red broth. The nearness to the ocean meant the sea permeated everything, its scent and moisture filling the air around them, its food filling las paladares. The humidity was so strong, it was almost a ghostly presence. And that presence made Jed wonder when and how this foray would lead to Todd…
...if it even would. He also began to feel a little bit… worried. He could not ignore local PD's hiding files and a prominent MK lawyer in town.
Or Ian's involvement either.
Curious.
They then walked the squares, one after the other with their monuments and statues and locals and tourists out for their own strolls, nighttime coming. Jed turned to Ian, "Is there a connection between Havana PD and MK?"
Ian raised his eyebrows and only hmmd at the idea, taking a notebook out of his pocket along with a tiny pen and scribbling. He nodded, "I will make a phone call in the morning. That, my friend, is a good question."
Despite logic telling Jed this was a fruitless journey, his head refusing to buy into the fantasy, he found that as they walked he searched for his father, listened for his voice, watched for the usual hunched-over self, head in a whiskey bottle, the long silver-touched brownish hair he wore. And the more he envisioned his father, the greater the worry.
What if they found him? Found Todd. A horrible thought bubbled up. Oh shit, what if they did find Todd? And… Ian… wasn't such a good guy? Was this entire thing a search and kill operation rather than a search and rescue?
After their last stop at a bar, the two needed sleep. It was nearing eight. They walked a final street, heading towards la casa.
"Why do you care about finding my dad?" Jed asked quietly.
Ian turned and a heavy sigh reached Jed's ears. "Another good question." They kept walking.
"Maybe he's safer if he stays dead."
Ian sniffed and shrugged. "I am a reporter. This is what I do."
"I don't fuckin' believe you."
Another laugh. "It's a little late to suddenly question my motives."
"I was lost… and now I'm not." Jed stopped the walk. "My dad was a paranoid bastard and you know… the longer he's gone, the more I pick up on his paranoia. It ain't paranoid if everyone is really out to get you."
"You do not trust me."
"Hell no. I don't trust anyone, especially when it comes to my father. He might have been crazy… but he wasn't stupid. And today… right now… I'm feeling fuckin' stupid."
Ian nodded, a harsh, hard nod. The expression on his face proved Jed was correct. There was a goddamn story here and it wasn't about Cuba, or fuckin' journalism.
"Oh Jesus CHRIST," Jed groaned. "You better lay the shit out or I'm leaving-."
"And then what? I find him on my own. He will not have the protection you could give."
Without a whole lot of fuss, Jed gritted his teeth, growled like a pitbull, and to the shock of Ian, grabbed him by the front of his shirt and swung him around to where the reporter was hard up against a post of an old abandoned building, off the street, away from prying eyes. Shadows covered them well.
"What do you want with him? Why are you trying to FIND MY FATHER?! You've been marketing this shit harder than fuckin' Starbucks so TELL ME NOW!"
Before the reported could say anything, Jed made his point by smashing him against the post again, bits of plaster dusting them from above.
"FUCKIN' TALK!"
"I'm a reporter, Jedediah!"
"Nahhh… you just made a threat against him and if I was paranoid before… I'm really paranoid now."
"I am doing my job!"
Jed leaned forward at that, and whispered in Ian's ear…
"I promise you, my friend, if I leave because you're not talking… you leave with me… either at my side or via the ocean's current. NOBODY will fuckin' find YOUR body. Nobody will have pictures of YOUR body. Comprende… asshole?"
Ian huffed hard and held Jed's wrists, trying to appease the furious young son at his throat. Resigned eyes gazed at Jed's. "Your father...might have killed someone I loved."
"WHO."
"His name was Ivan…"
"And?"
"I drove him to a house in the Old City, the one that blew up. Ivan was my cousin and your father was there at the house and that was the last I saw of Ivan."
"How do you know my father was there?"
Ian didn't talk for a minute, Jed's breath sawing in and out, fury riding every intake, every exhalation.
"Answer my question! How did you know my father was there?!"
"Ivan enjoyed watching your father fight. He used to do that. Ivan took me to the bars and we would watch and Ivan liked him and… "
"How did Ivan know him?"
"He was a pornographer! He was involved with a man named Manuel Caro. I tried to get Ivan out of that business but he did not care. I left Ivan at the house—"
Jedediah stepped back, releasing Ian with a sound of disgust. Sickened. "Are you a pornagrapher, too? Do you like kids?"
"No! No… no… Jedediah, I swear! I… I just want to know what happened to Ivan. That is all."
"So what happened? Why do you think my dad killed your cousin?"
"Because of connections. I left Ivan…and I stayed outside, waiting. I saw your father arrive. I saw him through the window, sitting and drinking… I knew Ivan would be happy to know he was there. Except Ivan never left the house. I figured he slept there maybe. Maybe he got to be with your father like he wanted so I left. I never saw him again. He disappeared. When I heard the bombing had to do with child trafficking, and put pieces together that maybe your father is responsible for the bomb and is being hidden by my government, maybe he also caused the death of Ivan?"
"Your cousin sounds like he deserved dying."
He smiled a sad smile. "Ivan was not a good person. But he had a mother, my aunt Elena… she loved him. She knew nothing about what he did. I swear on her life, on my own mother's life, I do not want to hurt your father. I want to know where Ivan is."
Jedediah leaned against the wall of the building, what looked to be a church. Lights were on inside, a warm yellow glow leaking out beneath the heavy front doors. There were a ton of these old churches in Baracoa. So much God… and so much godlessness. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
"We don't even know if he's alive."
"No… we do not."
"We don't know if he is the bomber either."
"You are right on that too."
"I don't trust you, man." And in one second, Jedediah knew he had to go home. "I'm sorry," he said. "I can't do this. I can't help you find him. If it's even true he's alive. I got no way of knowing you're not doing this to hurt him."
"Jedediah, please…"
"Maybe Pedro Moreno knows what happened to Ivan. If my dad killed him, IF he did that… then Pedro would know."
Jedediah looked at the ground, keeping his peripheral vision on the reporter just in case the guy got ideas. But that was silly because Ian needed Jed to find Todd… because of the people Jedediah knew. They wouldn't necessarily be in Baracoa if Jed hadn't spotted the lawyer and Ian didn't know the guy from shit on the wall. Todd would be safer, if he was alive which was a longshot… if they left. The lawyer would come and go and Ian would still be in the dark.
Except... it was like saying goodbye all over again. Like burying his father for good. He laughed bitterly… he was so close, yeah? Like he felt how real it could be that Todd was alive.
They heard footsteps coming towards them, from the inside of the church. Heavy. Jed grabbed Ian like a bratty kid and dragged him to the side, deeper in the shadows.
The doors opened and a priest stood there, propping the door to allow a guest pass him. Only nobody came through, the person hanging back as the priest spoke assuring words in Spanish though in a somber tone. The priest, an older man, maybe in his 60s, nodded and lectured. Jed studied the place, knowing churches had been discouraged for a long time in Cuba but no longer. Religion had been making a comeback. The place was super old, like right out of a European history book, detailed stonework he knew most likely had been the work of enslaved natives, hundreds of years ago.
A sign near the door said, Las Hermanas de la Misericordia.
Jed grew tired of the old man talking but didn't want to be a disrespectful American so he waited… holding Ian still, pressing him against the wall, the reporter accommodating him which had to mean something. Maybe he was not going to-
Holy SHIT.
Pedro Moreno cleared his throat as he walked past the priest. They shook hands, exchanging last words. Jedediah about dropped Ian but as he heard Ian draw a breath, Jed slammed a hand on the reporter's mouth, pushing him further into the shadows. Ian obviously recognized the leader of the Mambo Kings.
The priest watched Pedro walk a few feet away and then withdrew into the church, the doors closing.
Jed HAD to follow him. Now. The guy was being pretty passive so in a split decision, Jed hissed, "We're gonna see where he's going. If it's Todd? If my dad is at the end of this walk…so fuckin' help me… I will kill you if you mean to harm him."
"Young son… please… I mean it. I am not going to hurt him."
Pedro was now a block away.
"Fine. But don't forget… I mean it. I will kill you."
"And we will lose him if you keep wasting time with all your threats."
They had to hoof it to get Pedro in their sights again, still keeping a good distance behind him due to the paucity of any crowd as cover. The road they followed led them away from the city, a jungle accompanying the crawl giving Jed the shivers, the hum of bugs and possibly snakes and other tropical creatures they could not see filling the dark. The only light came from the moon.
Pedro turned on a road, heading deeper into the jungle. Ian stopped at the sign.
"A convent," he said. "Las Hermanas de la Misericordia. The Sisters of Mercy. The order that is associated with that church he was at. There's a medical clinic here and a…a winery." He chuckled but it quickly disappeared. "Did you hear me? A medical clinic."
Jed was silent, understanding what Ian suggested. A clinic meant hospital care… like a patient might need, like the patient on the gurney he saw boarding the plane.
The two headed up the road. Soon it widened to reveal a very old, ancient actually, stone church sanctuary with a tower flanked by single-level buildings that most likely created one large square. One side of the block was lit up, the clinic maybe,and the other wasn't. A residence maybe. The tower stretched upwards of five stories but windows on the third floor were visible and light shone there.
Ian and Jed couldn't see Pedro at first and worried they'd been made, easing into the cover of leafy tropical trees but then they spotted him. Pedro stood like a sentry, eyes upwards, glued it seemed to the tower windows. He then paced a little and soon walked towards the sanctuary. He opened the doors and then let them swing shut. He was inside.
Ian pushed at Jed for him to stay put and Jed got huffy. "You're not going anywhere."
"No, no, there is a plaque in Spanish… let me read it. Let me translate for you. I am not going inside."
Jed let him go.
Ian walked up to those heavy doors and spent a couple of minutes reading the plaque on the doors before turning and hoofing it back to Jed.
"What saint did your father wear?" he asked.
Jed sighed and like rote, said, "Santo Pancracio, the patron saint of children and teenagers, a martyr who died at age fourteen." He said it heavily at the fact that this saint died at the same age his dad's life had been irreversibly changed, that Rico should have worn just this saint. That he had it to give.
Ian turned to Jed, his face bearing an unreadable expression but veering on some kind of mind-blown kinda thing. "Young son, guess which saint these sisters worship?"
Jed's mouth dropped open a little, "No—"
"Yes. Santo Pancracio."
"What is going on?"
They left, deciding not to risk Pedro seeing them. They walked the road in silence, finding the city equally quiet when they reached its limits, residents asleep, los paladares closed. The two men were spent but there was something real here that was providing all the energy they needed.
Ian held the elbow of Jed as they walked, saying, "You asked what was going on. Well, we have a hospital run by a Catholic order that serves the saint your father wears, a convent being visited by Pedro Moreno. If I learn there is a connection with MK and the Chief of Havana PD tomorrow, we have found your father, I am sure."
It was all Jed could do to not cry, to not turn back, to not run to that goddamn convent. To not kill Ian Correa just in case he had ideas about revenge.
Could it possibly be?
Ian then made a disturbing observation.
"Jedediah," he said, "You know what this means, yes?"
"Enlighten me."
"Cuba isn't hiding Todd Manning, Pedro Moreno is."
To which Jed then said after a couple of seconds of stunned quiet, "WHY?"
"That is a question."
Holy… hell.
To be continued...
