St. Andrew the Scot Clinic

Quintana Roo, Mexico

February 21

Because it was set a foot or so into the ground, the temperature in the Mission's clinic remained constant—neither warm nor cool, but always on the verge of comfort. A dozen ancient metal cots, polished to a medical perfection, were predictably empty. Even the linens and mattresses were removed to encourage disuse.

"I see some things never change." Andie reluctantly stepped down into the room. "You had to be practically dying before Pakal paid you any attention."

"And God help you if you said you were and you weren't," Bridgett agreed with a soft laugh.

"The man is the soul of compassion." Andie dug into her shorts pocket, withdrew the scraps of paper left in front of her hotel room door, and handed them to Bridgett. "They left me these again."

Bridgett accepted the slips of paper as if they were contagious and slipped them inside her apron. "Such a simple people. Sometimes, they confuse the Qajawkik with God himself."

Andie smirked, a thousand satisfying retorts flying through her head, none of them kind.

Bridgett parted the orange curtain separating the ward from the surgery and motioned Andie inside.

Reluctantly, she entered a room frozen in time.

Squares of linoleum covered the tops of white-painted cabinets, lining every inch of wall space. A pre-World War II surgical table stood in the middle of the room, a drain cut in the linoleum flooring beneath it. Clinical smells of bleach and antiseptic crept in close to greet her, and she suddenly felt helpless, like a child again.

That asinine telegram. I should have guessed it was a fake. I never should have come.

"Okay." She turned to face Bridgett. "I'm here. I'm in. Tell me who sent the telegram so I can throw harsh words at them before I head back to San Francisco."

"I did," the deep, masculine voice came from the other side of the room.

Andie turned to see Father Pakal Ramirez standing inside the surgery's garden entrance. He wore dirty green khakis and an equally dirty green shirt. Several days of scruffy growth covered his lean face, and his graying hair looked unusually untidy.

"What?" Stunned, she stared at him in disbelief. "You did what?"

The priest crossed and put a hand on her arm. His cool touch on her skin made her feel feverish, but she always felt feverish.

"You look tired." He scrutinized her face, his black eyes so intense, so probing that she had to force herself not to look away. "And you're speechless." He looked at Bridgett, a wry smile on his beautifully shaped lips. "I don't believe that's ever happened."

Though he'd never see fifty again, every female heart from cradle to grave agreed that Father Pakal Ramirez, with his Spanish good looks, was far too handsome to be a Catholic priest. Protestant girls whose parents worked in the surrounding provinces, pre-pubescent in their understanding of the relationship between men and women, called him "Father What-A-Waste."

On a good day, when Andie's walls were up, and she felt less vulnerable, she would've risen to his challenge and shot him a dig or two of her own. But at this moment, she couldn't stop staring because it occurred to her that Pakal Ramirez—Father Ramirez—had done something he'd never done in all the years she'd known him.

He'd lied.

"You sent the telegram? Why?"

"Because I wanted to see you." It was as if wanting such a thing and sending the telegram had been the most ordinary, most obvious thing to do. Watching him, no one would have guessed he'd just sinned.

Him being a priest.

Him being God.

"You couldn't have just said that?" Andie found her voice and her fury at the same time. "You had to scare the shit out of me?"

"Honestly, Andrea," Pakal frowned. "You know I don't like it when you swear. It's most unladylike."

"Do you know what I've been through because of that ridiculous telegram?" Stay angry. Just stay angry. He can't get to you if you're too furious to notice. "Thinking you were dying. Thinking I wouldn't make it in time. And the expense? Do you have any idea how much it costs to fly down here, spur of the moment like this?"

If a bank account has a hemorrhage, does it bleed in green or red?

"Would you have come if I just wanted to see you?" He seemed surprisingly calm, considering.

"You send me a bogus telegram, make me come fifteen hundred miles in the dead of night to spend money I don't have, all because you had this sudden urge to do what? Play house?"

She was trying to get a rise out of him, anything to deflect his intensity off of her. The child still in her arms, Andie started to pace; easier to stand her ground if she kept moving. It infuriated her, the look of humor in his eyes as he watched her rant away. So unlike him, his lack of temper when she showed hers.

The way he studied her as if he'd never seen her before and might never see her again, and a tiny alarm went off inside. Then Pakal did something he'd never done before. He looked away first.

"I can't believe this," she spat, unnerved to the core. "I know you don't think much of it, but I have a company to run. Responsibilities. People who depend on me."

By now, Pakal had retreated to a long set of cabinets, opening one drawer after another, searching for something in no hurry.

Oh, but the man can be so infuriating.

Sending that telegram, sealing the deal with that ridiculous reference to her father. Orphan that she was, he knew she couldn't resist the chance to find out about her past. When she was a child, and she'd questioned him about her father, who'd left her on the orphanage steps, his answer was always the same. When she was mature enough to understand, he would tell her about her past.

Maybe the telegram is Pakal's way of letting me know it's time? Or maybe he's just being a shit.

"I see you've brought me a present." He stood in front of her now, surgical gloves fitted over his long-fingered hands, his attention on the child in Andie's arms. "Not a pretty package." Smiling, he rubbed a gloved finger down the little girl's cheek, the child studying him, a curious anticipation in her green eyes.

"Oh, no, you don't," Andie protested. "You can't drag me down here and then act like nothing's happened."

"You know, I miss the days when I could send you to your room and be done with your caterwauling."

"Don't change the subject. That worked when I was a kid, but I'm not a kid anymore."

"So, I see. Did you forget we don't accept girls here?"

"You did once."

"And see what problems that's caused me."

"Maybe you should have let Henry adopt me. Then I wouldn't have been such a stone around your neck."

"Ours is not to question the trials God puts before us, but to endure." Pakal took a step toward her, a sudden, no-nonsense look in his eyes. "If I had allowed Henry to adopt you, you'd be dead, killed in the plane crash along with the man and his child. On the other hand, I would've been free from your temper all these years and not facing the monumental problem you've set before me."

"Who's my father, Pakal?" The words came tumbling out before she could stop them.

As much as I want to know, maybe I don't. Maybe I won't like what I hear.

It all became moot when Pakal turned back to the girl, shaking his head.

Something he does a lot of when I'm around.

"Outside of the obvious problems of malnutrition, head lice, and the need for a good scrubbing—" Pakal took the child's small hand in his and ran a gloved finger across a new circle forming on her wrist. Then he turned to Bridgett. "Did you touch them? Either of them?"

"I hugged them both," Bridgett said, chin at an angle. She'd been so quiet Andie had almost forgotten she was there. "And there are the boys, Emilio and Cesar."

"Better have someone round them up and get them in here and anyone else they've come in contact with." Pakal sighed. "Sister Inez as well."

Bridgett nodded, offered Andie a sympathetic smile, and then disappeared through the orange curtain.

"I suppose I don't have to ask you, do I? Honestly, Andrea, you were practically raised in a hospital."

"What was I supposed to do?" Repeat after me: you're not five anymore, you're not five anymore, and he's only a man. "They were going to sell her, Pakal. Sell her."

The priest plucked a surgical gown from a nearby cart and slipped it on. Once green, years of harsh washing had turned the garment almost white, and it wreaked of bleach.

"Alright, my girl." He gestured at the shower in the far corner of the room. "Clothes off and in a pile."

"No." Andie took a step back. "I have to go. I have a company to run."

Pakal eased the little girl from her arms. Immediately, the child began to wail. "You'll find what you need in the shower."

"I told you. I'm not staying."

"Now, you listen to me." The warning in his voice was unmistakable, bringing her up short. "The sores on the girl's arms and legs are caused by a parasite, and you've been exposed. Direct skin-to-skin contact."

"I never get sick, and you know that."

"A parasite isn't a bacteria or a virus, and I doubt it will respect that powerful immune system of yours," he countered. "Unless you want to wind up in bed next to this one," he nodded at the child, sniffling in his arms, "I suggest you get into the shower and scrub real hard."

"I'm leaving," Andie snapped. "Let me know when the girl can travel. I'll come back and take her off your hands."

She snatched her knapsack from the floor and searched for the Jeep keys but stopped mid-dig at the sound of a jangly clatter. Looking up, she saw the keys dangling from Pakal's index finger.

"How many times have I told you? Never leave your keys in the car. You're just asking for trouble."

"You can't do this. You can't make me stay."

"As an agent for the World Health Organization with the power to quarantine you for as long as I see fit—and the whole of the Mexican Army to back me up—I assure you, I can."

That smile on his lips, the arrogant touch of humor in his eyes that said he had her, and she knew he had her, and there was nothing she could do.

"Sonofabitch," Andie swore, dropped down on the floor, and started tearing at the laces on her boots. Strands of dark hair escaped a once neat braid and slapped against her face. "This is bullshit. Your telegram is bullshit. Besides, I never get sick, and you know it."

"Let's hope you're right," Pakal said.

He withdrew a piece of butterscotch candy from his front shirt pocket, deftly unwrapped it with one hand, and popped it in the little girl's mouth. The child ceased her wailings and crunched on the sweetness, her little fist motioning for more.

"I hate this place." Boots off, Andie tore at her socks, then the buttons on her shorts, furious she couldn't just run. The need to escape was like a wild thing inside her, clawing to get out. "And I hate you."

The Qajawkik unwrapped another piece of candy, popped it in his mouth, and wisely said nothing.