Note from Author:Thank you for being so patient! I appreciate your beautiful comments, Edgefire, Tessa, and Tessaray! Bless you all my other shy readers! I have to say... I can't wait to get Todd home. LOL

Stay safe, everyone.

Caged: Reclamation

Chapter 14

The songbird held Todd's attention, singing her sorrowful tune while Jed talked details of the FBI investigation, the state's efforts to dig into the "death" of Todd, and Bo Buchanan's low-key, unsaid belief that something was wrong with the Cuban story. Clearly, in hindsight, Bo had been pushing the idea that Todd very well could be alive.

"He knew it," Jed said quietly. "Wouldn't say it outright but he wanted me specifically to come here." Conversation continued, the words blending, swirling, rolling like water in a brook… babbling.

Todd shut his eyes, covering them with his hand, fingertips scraping his brows. He breathed in time with the arhythmic notes. The news wasn't positive exactly, prison still loomed and Buchanan probably was hot to get him there. So the question remained.

How to get home? Will I ever get home? What now what now what now…

He stole a good long look at the old man who looked much older, more ragged than the monster in his constant memory. Pedro wore the traditional guayabera, a dark blue with delicate embroidery of the same color, khaki pants, and monkish leather sandals not unlike his own. Dust from what must be the dirt road here from the town fringed brownish toes. He sat on the bed, bent, wide hard hands on his knees, face war-weary and unshaven. This man had done so much wrong…

When Pedro met Todd's studying gaze, the man straightened and leaned in his direction, wanting to engage but Todd's own expression darkened at the man's effort and Pedro backed off, Todd slipping back to the songbird. The hate bubbled in the center of his chest, slow, popping, black bubbles. Like boiling mud. He caressed the blade still in his hand, a thumb rubbing the wooden handle. The hate was familiar and it was as much a part of the tapestry surrounding him as the bird's music.

You saved me, but only after you destroyed me. Destroyed everything. You helped nurture the monster inside of me, fed him, built him up to the death of… everything.

Kapow!

Todd tilted his head and eyed the bird dancing on the bamboo perch. She had been his intimate company for months. He didn't remember things that took place while he slept over those six months but he knew the bird. Had a sense of time passing here in this Rapunzel-tower room. The men's voices continued in a low murmur and it eased him gently into the cave, a paltry mimic of the white emptiness he now realized he had once loved. Everything inside settled, ancient black hate receding, a tide he knew would rise again. He closed his eyes and floated in the warm water of darkness and memories and remembered a time he did not despise Pedro.

The man had been a kind of father, offering trust, faith, and a willingness to hand over leadership when succession in every other organization was done by regicide. Todd had gained something like.. love... in a place he never expected. That was the truth. He protected Pedro because he had become family, kicks to the head, sexual abuse, power games, unyielding captivity, the whole goddamn enchilada.

Pedro…Peter.

Dr. Graham had caught that little similarity way back, before Cuba ever happened. Pedro had beat the holy hell out of him for being high on heroin. Which he had been. It landed him in the lock-down ward.

A sixty-five-year-old man stood over you and kicked the hell out of you... and you... YOU, Todd Manning... did nothing. Why? Since when don't you defend yourself against a man named PETER?

He's family. I couldn't fight him.

Roiling hate lessened, he came back into the present and immediately noticed the talking had ended. Pedro stood at the window now, mere inches from Todd, close enough for Todd to smell the remnants of earthy sweat, and Jed leaned against the closed tower-room door. His hands were shoved into his pockets and he hunched like a teenager.

They patiently waited.

Todd frowned and took a needed breath so he could ask the thing he didn't want to ask but knew he had to.

In Spanish, he asked, "Tell me about Téa." In Spanish because in English the query was too raw on his tongue, too real.

Both men glanced at him, and then at each other, and then at the floor.

"Just tell me," Todd griped sharply as Pedro moved back to the bed, to sit, nodding, seeming to evaluate how to tell his story. Funny how Jed didn't jump in. His report clearly depended on what Pedro said. Todd focused on Jed who quickly looked away.

Fuck.

The old man suddenly smiled, a sad one, eyes reddening. "To tell you about Téa means you must be patient. Listen."

Todd flashed a look of confusion and huffed in rebellious impatience.

Pedro raised his hand, trying to appease his son's still-present temper in the wheelchair at the window, afternoon light golden and warning him. The shadows from rain clouds had passed and Blanco's skin was near-luminous. He was touched by God, wasn't he? He was such a miracle of survival, no? Pedro couldn't control the tears of relief that welled and he couldn't even say why. How did this man dig into his mind and heart so deeply? Even more than his own children? Why?

"Téa needed to rebuild her life, my son, needed a repository for her grief at the loss of you. So while you slept she built a company. Method Makers, Inc. While you slept, she pulled MK men off the streets and into her offices. A marijuana enterprise. Legal… from top to bottom."

Todd shook his head, unable to picture this… company… smoothing his inches-long hair thoughtlessly. Marijuana? Téa hated weed because of how it crippled Jed back in the day. Strange. He dragged his gaze to Jed as if the boy could confirm or deny the story and found cool light eyes on his. A stone sat in the pit of his belly at the lack of reaction. A confirmation then.

"And?" he asked, his voice strained, sounding like a rub of sandpaper on a boat run aground.

"My beloved MK has rolled over onto its back at her feet, belly up, like a starved street dog." He chuckled. "Those who didn't defect, fled like rats."

"So MK is…"

"Either dead or in a coma," Jed said quietly.

"But Téa…?" Todd grunted in aggravation, unable to grasp what this story was. What what what? "She is not…doing our business…MK business."

"No," Pedro clarified. "As Jedediah says, MK is not in operation. The bulk of our men work for her, along with wives… partners. Legitimate, legal. They are owning an industry that once caused their incarceration."

"So no MK…," Todd murmured, chewing on his lip, lost again as he walked Sixteenth Street late into the night, Brandy's memory following him, heroin in his blood, prison draping his shoulders like a cape… but no hero's cape.

Thank you for meeting me, Blanco.

Didn't do it for you.

Heh, but you left your children, your wife, her bed... for un tête-à-tête. Conmigo. Heh heh...

Fuck you, G… get to it.

I wanna payoff. You wanna keep MK large and in charge—

The only payoff you gonna get is your fuckin' life. We see you dealing in our territory, any of your people dealing, we end you.

Haha!

You heard Blanco… get your men outta town and you get to live.

Ohhh the dog speaks.

Yeah, our soldiers speak, and this dog ...got a whole buncha other dogs right with him that gonna tear you to pieces.

Nah...son...

You don't think we got the means or what?

No, I don't. Suburban Chi-boy ain't got shit.

Try it. God, just do. I'm hard jus' thinkin' about it.

I bet.

You got no fuckin' idea. Try try try, bitch, jus' fuckin' try. Come on come on come on….

That conversation happened a hundred times with tens of underbelly organizations, gangs, new ones, old ones. But the worst org was the hungriest, the one that kept coming back, over and over, and kept reaching a closed gate. One of a handful of orgs MK could never abide. One that hadn't been vanquished before Todd split to Cuba. A light went on, bright and blinding and fiery hot.

No, no, no.

Todd slammed wide hardened eyes onto Pedro's.

"Jesus Christ," he said, "Los Muertos moved in, haven't they?"

Pedro had to tighten his smile, bury it, because the reality of the most violent gang in the region was nothing to smile about... but hurra! His son, his touched-by-God-himself Blanco, lived in that awareness… and still did. Together they'd been fighting these botttom-dweller gangs like the Salvadorans and the Irish since he'd first arrived in Llanview after his release from Statesville. To see him make the obvious connection without much prompting… was… glorious.

Jed groaned aloud, "Yes."

Todd couldn't even talk. Téa, his Delgado, fucked with the balance. She flipped the chess board, all pieces flying…

"Tell me you're... lying," he rasped.

"Wish I could, Pops. Wish I could say it was unintentional. Not convinced it was."

"What? No, no, Delgado had no…" He paused, the word escaping him. He reached and reached… "She had no idea what would happen, none."

Pedro looked at Jed thoughtfully, the smallest of smiles on his face. He wasn't convinced either that she really didn't know what might happen with the sinking of MK. He sniffed the hidden grandfatherly affection away and glanced at Todd. Decided to go with the best story for all. Best interest.

"No, mí hijo, you are right. The result was not her intention. She is not violent or murderous." He sighed and laid his weary gaze on Todd. "You handed the crown back to me before the explosion and she wanted to take that crown away, take MK from me. She wanted it to hurt. And she did just that. I lost MK. I watched it die. There was nothing I could do. I deserved the loss. For...everything."

Todd stared at Pedro a moment. "Your closest men too? They're not with Téa. No way."

"No, no… they are managing the last vestiges of our organization. Trying to negotiate with others to control the violence but it is… not working. Territories have fallen, every organization is at war. With each other and with Los Muertos."

Todd leaned back and watched the bird again. She was picking at a glob of bird seed held together by a sugary sap. Jesus CHRIST. How Téa handled her grief… was as bad as him. He chuckled. And that small laugh grew.

Pick, pick, pick.

The bird jumped and sang once more in the light, her whitish chest puffed and her tiny beak open.

"Holy shit," he laughed. He couldn't stop laughing. Scorched mother-fucking-earth Delgado had fully embraced her title of La Reina Puertorriqueña. She decided to blow up another house, MK's house, the entire fucking system that Todd and Pedro had so carefully constructed. Nothing more than a Jenga tower.

Kapow!

The laughing slowed. And of course, tears followed.

He bent over and just cried in his hands for his Delgado, for her own walk through hell. He could not even imagine the loss of life now in the region, young people no doubt, and no, he didn't think she'd done it with mal-intention, but he did wonder whether she gave two shits that she'd created a world war. Blood on her hands, some might say.

He never thought of himself as a narcissist, certainly he was… but honestly, he felt her hate across the miles. Down to his toes he knew her bad act of ending MK had as much to do with getting revenge on him, for dying, for leaving her… as it had to do with gutting Pedro.

"Does she… grieve me?" he asked in a hushed, wounded voice. Eyes on Jed who stayed silent a few beats too long. Todd figured this was going to hurt.

"Of course. It just doesn't quite look like grief. She doesn't cry, she doesn't talk about you other than to say fuck him, literally that's what she says. She's thrown herself entirely into work. I can't even say she's present for your children." The last part he practically whispered.

"She… um… with anyone?" He coughed the words but he just had to know. It was petty. Pathetic. He didn't care that it was. Northeast in uproar and he still wanted to know who his woman was fucking.

Jed actually laughed, not loudly but in a dark rolling way. "Pandora only married once, Dad. No man is gonna fall for her now, knowing the… gifts… she brings. You got that on your side."

"Pandora's box…?"

"Yeah...that Pandora. Moms comes with pretty packages, but hella bad inside."

Okay. Good. No other men. But that hurt in another way. For Delgado to NOT reach for sex to soothe her hurts? Fucking hell. He couldn't bear thinking of the pain that had clearly driven her to destroy MK so efficiently, so thoroughly, that it rivaled Rico dissecting Manuel Caro. Eating his heart. Bathed in blood.

"Her grief shows as hate," Pedro said softly. "Not unlike you."

Todd seethed at the comparison even though he'd done it too. But really… like him? Like him? No… not like him. She metaphorically destroyed a house full of soldiers… he literally did it. She'd never be so… what…

Direct. Downright dirty.

Monstrous.

Evil.

"How do I get home? How… do I get… HOME!"

Now he was angry. He glared at Pedro and pointed the blade at him. He shook with fury. Every muscle.

"You didn't take care of her! You FUCKING let this happen! YOU!"

Todd got to his feet at that. Pure adrenaline strengthened his weak muscles and before anyone could move an inch, he threw himself at Pedro, flattening him on the bed, the blade aimed at his throat. He climbed on Pedro, wielding the blade, panting like a dog, Pedro pinned like prey.

"You fuckin' bastard. You let this …happen! You shoulda stepped in and... PROTECTED HER!"

Jed ran across the room to his father, "Dad… come on…come on! Pedro couldn't have stopped it!" Hands landed on Todd's shoulders. "Dad!"

"You shoulda been at that house! YOU shoulda fuckin' DIED with those...fucking PEDOPHILES!"

Pedro nodded, not fighting Blanco in the least, croaking, "My son…I am sorry…"

"I am not… your SON!"

"Do you need to kill me? Do you?"

The old man looked up at the face above him, years of sadness there, such profound loss in those bright, light eyes. Pedro had added so much to the pain, so much to the weight on top of him. He had brought Blanco here to save his life but it was true that he had allowed his world across the ocean to fall apart. He had protected him but hadn't done much to protect his home.

"I am sorry, for all of it," Pedro sighed.

He reached up and held Todd's wrist and then, with a rumbling growl that reverberated all through their bodies, Pedro felt the blade puncture the skin on his neck, into the muscle. Pedro grunted at the feel and at that, he saw the flash of pleasure on his son's face, heard the smallest orgasmic gasp that was pure satisfaction, pure retribution, seconds before Jed grabbed him and yanked him off, pushing him back to the throne.

Madness.

Jed shouted, "You okay, Moreno? You okay? God damn, Pops! The fuck!"

Pedro held his throat and felt the blood, oily and slippery. It wasn't serious. It was representative. It was symbolic. If Blanco wanted him dead, he'd have done it. Just a few more emotional punches regarding just how far things had fallen apart at home and it was absolutely going to happen.

"Yes, yes," he groaned. "It is all right. Está bien."

Todd glared at Jed, through him, jaw tight, nostrils flared with hard noisy breaths. The bloody blade dropped. Jed held him down, his own hard hands tight on his father's shoulders. He was easy to control… now. In a month, another story.

"Can you just THINK?! You gonna do that to Beatrice? To these sisters who been caring for you?! Dad! Pedro SAVED you!"

"Did he?! Did he SAVE me?! For what?! For… prison? To see all of you…" His features twisted with upset at the missing word until he spat, "SHREDDED?! He should have STOPPED HER!"

"How, Dad? By killing her? Isn't that what you would have done if it was someone else?"

Todd had no response to that. Dead silence because… well, yes.

Fuck!

Pedro called out, "It's okay, Jedediah. I'm all right. His anger is warranted. I should have done something."

Todd closed his eyes to regain something of control. Abram had been awfully patient throughout the fight and now came to Todd, forcing his body beneath Todd's hand, his arm hanging limply to the side of the chair. He felt the fur, felt the dog's heat. He rubbed him and melted into the chair. Dropped into the cave so he could float a while. It wasn't the real thing but it was as close as he ever got these days.

Pedro gathered himself and went into the bathroom to clean up the mess. He wiped his neck and had to hold his own grief back. He had failed his son… again. What was worse is that he felt powerless to change things. Correction needed a strong king and that man was Blanco but could he? Would he?

When he stepped outside, he saw Todd focused on the bird and Jedediah on the bed.

"I am going back to the hotel," Pedro said. "I will deal with the reporter."

"Don't kill him," Jed snapped.

"Of course not. I will confront him. Tell him about Ivan. If he knows you're here though, that will be difficult to explain so I am of the hope he only followed me."

"I think so. He doesn't know where I am."

"Then you should tell him you are headed home."

"I don't know if that'll get rid of him."

"Don't worry. I will...encourage him... to return to Havana. Leave it to me. You stay here. Get your father well. He has papers that can get him home without alerting authorities."

That caught Todd's attention. He looked at Pedro. "Guaranteed?"

"Yes, Blanco. Cuban passport for 'Victor,' a private plane to Miami, a car the rest of the way. It is full-proof. You can decide how and when to make yourself known. You stay at my home. I have several back houses. If you are...willing."

"Are you… willing? I want you dead. I might… break a window and... slit your throat while you… sleep."

Pedro smiled sadly, his silver hair glimmering, his thin body making him appear smaller...breakable.

"I know," he said. "It is a risk I want to take. For all of you."

Todd couldn't tear himself from the pained love all over the old man. It wasn't familiar. This was new. Foreign fucking territory. Strange alien seedling had grown to a full tree. For all the hate he felt for Pedro, he believed him. The man... meant well.

If I had been your real father…

He grunted and returned to the bird, his eyes following the yellow fluff ball as it bounced all over the cage from perch to perch. He closed his eyes and recalled easily being in an overheated room, a gun in his hand, Rico behind him on the small bed in Raquel's clinic. He was high on heroin given to calm him… and the gun in his hand was aimed at Pedro.

My son, mi hijo bastardo, I love you more than my own family, my own sons. If I had been there, if you had been MINE, I would have killed Manuel myself. I would never have let anyone hurt you the way he hurt you, the way your own father hurt you. If YOU had been lying on a bed, broken, damaged, torn… I would have wrapped YOU in a blanket, I would have taken YOU into my arms… and carried YOU far away from those monsters. YOU would have been safe in MY arms. Had you been MINE.

The door to the tower room opened and then shut.

He remembered the choice not to kill Pedro that day for having built Caro's empire, for his role in all that damage. He hadn't done it because of Raquel and heroin. Killing him would have caused problems in the clinic, a mess to clean up, a body to get rid of. She didn't need that. Plus he'd be ending his heroin access. And he sure as hell needed that Mexican tar.

But now…as he listened to the bird, as ghostly images played out in the cave, pictures of Pedro's sorrowful, lined face hovering over him while he lay paralyzed… visits to the convent he knew instinctively had happened many times...

...he thinks he didn't kill him that day at the clinic because he wanted Pedro's paternal love more than anything.


Pedro emerged from the Sanctuary and walked somberly to the fountain. He sat tiredly at its edge and glanced surreptitiously up at the tower windows. He wondered, worried, that the fight might have been heard but he saw how high the room was. No, no way for sound to escape those stone walls...even through the open windows. The doors had been unlocked when he got down the stairs. He got to his knees in one of the pews and prayed to that God he didn't think ever did a thing for him. Prayed for enlightenment, prayed for safety for Blanco and Jedediah and prayed for his own children who seemed so far away from him. He never saw the sisters.

He sniffed and got to his feet. He dug into his pocket and found some coins and tossed them into the water, the splash following thumps. A little boy smiled at him, mischievously, eyes moving to the coins.

Chuckling, Pedro said, "Do not be a bad boy. That is for the sisters."

The boy, light hair, grinned guiltily. Pedro pulled out un peso Cubano from his pocket and handed the child the bill, saying, "Now this, is for you."

"Thank you!" And off he ran. He couldn't have been more than five and Pedro knew what his brother would have done with that child. Pedro felt faint and plopped on the edge of the fountain again, wiping his brow with a bloodied handkerchief. He touched the cut on his throat. He did not know how to make up to Blanco or any of the victims of Caro. Where would he even begin?

His death? Why did that feel so…empty?

When he looked up, he scanned the scant few people that still remained at the convent. He searched for the reporter. Not finding him, he got to his feet and began to head out, not looking forward to the long walk back to the city but needing the time to think.

Fifteen minutes later he was well on his way and he knew the young man was following him once again.

He stopped. Turned around. The kid stopped too, dead in his tracks.

In Spanish he asked, "I have seen you already. In town, and now here. What do you want?"

Ian Correa had learned nothing today. He toured the convent and saw nothing suspicious other than what happened with Pedro himself. The old gangster had gone into the Sanctuary and then… nothing. The doors to the church had locked Ian out. Odd. A half hour later, the doors unlocked, Ian went inside, and found… nothing. No Pedro, no mystery persons, all doors led to legitimate spaces such as a kitchen, dormitory bedrooms, and a way to the clinic. He had to have missed something.

"Who are you hiding there, Señor Moreno?"

"Hiding?"

"Yes. Why are you here, at all?"

Pedro sighed and took his handkerchief out once more to wipe his face. He looked at the blood and then put the folded cloth back into his pocket. Ian was now mere feet away from him.

"Who am I speaking to?"

"Ian Correa, reporter for Havana Times."

"A reporter?!" Pedro laughed. "I have been followed by much more dangerous men than you."

Ian puffed his chest out and Pedro thought of Blanca's bird. How easy it would be to snuff this small man in front of him. But he promised Jedediah that he would not.

"So answer me, Moreno! Why are you here?!"

"Penance," the old man said after a minute.

"You are hiding Todd Manning in there! You lie to me!"

Pedro looked up in mock shock. "What? What did you say?"

"You heard me. Do not play with me."

"I thought you said Todd Manning."

"I did!"

"Todd Manning is dead. And it breaks my heart to even hear his name. Why would you say such a thing?"

Ian furrowed his brow, frustrated. The old man sounded… so sincere… but it couldn't be. "You lie to me," Ian repeated.

Pedro shook his head and turned, walking again. He knew the reporter would follow. And he did. They walked slowly along the dirt road, lush vegetation lining the way, palm trees bending towards them, shielding them from the late afternoon sun.

Pedro stopped and reached out to hold the trunk of a tree, slipping off a sandal to release a pebble. When the young man got close enough, Pedro took the sandal and before Ian could duck, smacked the kid in the head and grabbed him by the throat. He threw him against the tree trunk and held him there by the neck.

"What… do you…want?!"

"The truth! Tell me about Manning!"

"He is dead! I told you! Now why does this matter?!"

Pedro might have been aged but he was a damn monster. Ian was crushed against the tree and though he fought the hold he could not free himself. He was choking in the grip and black was threatening to engulf him. He'd gotten too close. He'd blown everything. He'd lost Jedediah and now… there was clearly something to hide. Why else would Moreno be trying to kill him?

Or… maybe…admittedly, the king of MK simply did not like being tracked. So something had to give.

"Ivan!" Ian finally shouted. "Manning killed my cousin!"

Pedro slowed in his efforts, loosening his grip. Eyes on the reporter's.

"Ivan."

"Yes, yes… my cousin," Ian coughed, glad to be breathing. The truth spilled easily. He was tired of the game. Too many people with their hands on his throat. "The last I saw Ivan was with Todd Manning in Havana. He went into a house… never came out. Todd Manning was there too. I saw him go inside the house too."

"How did you know Manning?"

Ian rubbed his face and eyed Pedro. "I used to go to bars with my cousin and we'd watch fights. Todd Manning, Blanco, used to fight. Ivan liked him."

Pedro let him go and stood back. Eyes up and down the diminutive man. "Ivan," he said. "You know what he did? For a living?"

Ian nodded.

"You were at the house?"

"I left Ivan there."

"You saw Manning enter the house. Why did you leave?"

"No point in staying. Ivan was going to work. Ivan never showed up again anywhere. I know he is dead. I wanted to hear Manning tell me."

So forthcoming. Pedro figured this man wanted more than that. His own revenge perhaps. "And then what?"

The kid looked far away back towards the convent. He slumped against the tree. "I would have something to say to our grandmother. And Jedediah would have had his father again."

He looked at Pedro. Shrugged.

Pedro felt old. He couldn't even remember being this man's age. 25? 30? He reached into a pocket and took out a fine box and a lighter. He opened the box, pulled a thin, dark papered cigar and then lit it. He puffed and blew out the tasteful smoke.

After some time he said quietly, "I killed Ivan myself. Had you stayed around, you would have seen me and my brother Manuel carrying Ivan to our car. We gave him to the sea."

Ian slid down the tree and held his head in his hands. He knew this was true. He couldn't say if Manning was alive. It still could be true but… maybe not. He eyed the man smoking, tall, thin, but strong as hell for such an old man. Jedediah would be disappointed that they had hit a dead end.

"What makes you think my son—Blanco— is alive?"

"There is much to question about him. Nothing fits. His death records have disappeared and those that are available… do not make sense. You hiding him… does fit."

Pedro glanced down the road. Real tears came at the memory of seeing Blanco under the tarp. He didn't know why that came to him. But as soon as that image faded, he remembered Blanco's face in the computer monitor at Elon's house. He had seen the look of full intention. Pedro knew when he saw his son, becoming grossly aware of all the years of abuse etched on that face, understanding all that the abuse had created, that Ivan was going to die by Blanco's hand.

"I wish, young son, I wish I was hiding him. I am here on a pilgrimage in penance for so much I have done to him." He paused.

"What did you do to Manning?"

"Too much to mention." Pedro puffed more and then looked hard at Ian. "Since you know what Ivan was, then you must know his death was a mercy killing. He hurt a girl very badly. That was not supposed to happen. I had no choice. Ivan was a danger to the world."

"Why should I believe you? This does not—"

"You do not have to believe me. Continue your search. Ask the sisters. I pray here, every day. I am hoping for peace. I do not know it will ever come." He stepped away and shook his head.

"Why are you bleeding?"

"Penance. I told you."

Pedro put his sandal back on. Stamped his foot to test the absence of the pebble. He sniffed and eyed the reporter. "I do not care for intruders in my life. I suggest you return to whatever small safe life you have. Return. Before it's not that… safe."

"Are you threatening me?"

Pedro laughed. "No, no. I am warning you however. People do not fare well around me. Ask anyone. Ask Ivan."

"I will tell the police about you! I recorded every word you said!"

The walk continued and Pedro waved his hand with the cigar in his fingers. He knew in his heart that Ian Correa would do nothing with the information on Ivan. He would fight to find Jedediah, he wouldn't be able to, he'd get a message that Jed left Baracoa and then… young Ian would go home to that little newspaper because his curiosity would never lead him past the Savior on the wall of the Sanctuary.

Death would have been better, more sure, but Pedro Moreno made a promise and he wasn't about to break it. He eyed the cloudy sky and wondered if God watched him.

"He'll live another day…that is something, yes?"

To be continued….