The fifth vial

CHAPTER 37

For a time, Ben sat there on the ground, leaning back against the cedes, sipping the last of what little water remained in the canteen. He felt feverish and weak. His shoulder was throbbing, and a pounding headache was evolving directly behind his eyes. Natalie had been right to leave him. He should have suggested doing so, himself. Now, here he was. He wondered what Alice Gustafson's reaction would be to his predicament. She had risked her life a number of times to expose those trafficking in illegal organs, so maybe she wouldn't think much of his putting his survival on the line when he drove through that gate to the Whitestone compound back in Texas. But then again, she probably would.

Thanks to whoever had vandalized the car, the plan he, Natalie, and Luis had settled on had come apart almost before it had begun. It still seemed possible that Luis could get Tokima's drug into the food at the hospital. It seemed possible that the guards and professional killers who were defending the place could be overcome. It seemed possible that Natalie could make it to the hospital in time to help, and that she could somehow get Sandy off the respirator, into someone's car, and back up the hill to whisk him away.

It all seemed possible, but not very likely.

Ben pulled himself up and battled back the resultant dizziness and nausea. He had come too far merely to sit here and wait. Natalie had said that he might be of help i{he could reach the village and contact the priest there. If he tried and instead ended up moldering on the roadside, at least he would have died knowing he had gone for it. At least he would have made his return to the earth having cared.

As he pushed a step away from the car, his hand brushed across his pocket and the small revolver Luis had given him. He had actually forgotten that it was there. It was a.38 — a snub-nosed Saturday night special, not unlike the gun still in the wheel well of Seth Stepanski's Chrysler back in Fadiman.

He took several more steps, then forced himself up straight and marched back to the road. The two classy women in his life, Alice and now Natalie, would be proud of his grit. So would Sandy if she ever knew. It was strange to think of her lying there medicated to unconsciousness in the hospital while so much turmoil swirled about, and all of it involving her.

He turned away from the direction where he and Natalie had come, and headed toward the town. One step, then another. Head up, shoulders back, he tried to ignore the pain racking his body.

Keep going…keep going

Father forgive us for what we must do

You forgive us, we'll forgive you

Holy Mary, mother of God…

We'll forgive each other till we both turn blue

Pray for us sinners…

The afternoon sun was intense now, and because of the hour, the rain forest road offered little shade. First John Prine, then the Hail Mary, then John again…line by line, verse by verse, Ben kept walking, stumbling from time to time, but never falling. He might have walked a mile or just a few hundred yards. He couldn't tell and it really didn't matter. The water was gone, and his hope of making it anyplace was dwindling. His head was down now, watching his boots inch forward one painful step after another. Then, a slight downward change in the road caused him to lift his head, and there below him was the town — a postcard photo of Lilliputian structures, nestled in a lush valley. He was nearly insane from the pain and the dizziness, but he had made it. His cracked lips pulled upward into a raw, defiant smile.

He was still dragging more than walking when he reached the actual outskirts of the village. Curious eyes followed him as he made his way toward the center of town.

"Agua, porfavor," he said to an old woman, using his feeble Spanish and hoping it bore some similarity to Portuguese. "iDonde estd Padre Frank…a…Padre Francisco?"

The wizened woman offered no water, but did gesture up the street to a quaint chapel. Down several of the streets, Ben saw vehicles of one kind or another. If anyone could borrow or rent or even commandeer one of them, it would have to be the village priest. What shade there had been on the road was gone now, and heat radiated like a kiln from the hard-baked clay. He shuffled forward, but sensed that he might crumple at any moment. The surroundings grew dim, and as he approached the church, he felt his legs beginning to go.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord…

Bit by bit, life came back into focus. Ben's first major reconnection to the world was that he was on a bed — clean linens, a pillow, no, two of them. The aroma of brewing coffee helped nudge his consciousness along.

"So," a man's voice said in English, "my American patient awaketh."

"How do you know?" Ben asked.

"You have been somewhat delirious for nearly half an hour. What you said made absolutely no sense, but being from Brooklyn, I know American when I hear it. Frank Nunes — Father Frank if you wish, Padre Francisco if you want to sound more exotic. You took some water — two glasses — just a little while ago. Would you like some more? Coffee?"

Ben's awareness returned with force. He pushed himself up and swung his feet over the bed, mindless of the cannon blasts between his eyes.

"Listen, please, Father. I just came from Natalie Reyes, she said she — "

"Ah, the missing vagabond. I helped her to a campsite, and then when I went to look in on her the next morning, she was gone."

"She's at the hospital," Ben said breathlessly. "There's trouble there. Big trouble. I need your help."

"My help?"

"There's a woman who's been flown in. I was on the plane. If we don't get down there with a car, she will die — no, not just die, she will be murdered. I've got to get a car and I've got to get down there right away."

"Is Senhorita Reyes all right?"

"I don't know, Father, she — listen, I really don't have time to explain. This is an emergency. Natalie is in danger, so are some people from the village here. Luis — "

"Luis Fernandes?"

"I never knew his last name, but he's trying to help us."

"Us?"

"Natalie Reyes and — please, you must believe me. People are going to die there. Maybe many people. If you can just get us a car, I can explain on the way. Maybe you can intervene. Maybe you can do something to — "

He glanced over at the kitchen table across the room and noticed a set of car keys lying there. Father Frank followed his gaze.

"My car is not very dependable," he said.

Ben was beginning to feel exasperated.

"Let's at least try it," he begged. "Or…maybe one of the other ones in the village. Surely you — "

"I'm sorry."

Ben stood up.

"Okay, if you can't help me, I'll find someone who can."

"Sit down," Frank said sharply.

"No! I need your car."

Ben reached for his revolver, but his pocket was empty.

"That little thirty-eight was dangerous," the priest said. "The barrel was filthy. No way to know for sure which way the bullet was going to go. Now a Glock is a different story altogether." He withdrew a glistening pistol from beneath his robe and flicked the barrel in Ben's general direction. "I polish this forty-five every Sunday, right after Mass. Parts of the rain forest can be quite wild and dangerous. There are times, even for a priest, when the shield of God may not be enough protection."

"You're no priest!" Ben snapped.

Furious and desperate enough to be mindless of the consequences of his action, he dove at the man. Father Frank parried his attack with little effort, throwing Ben back onto the bed.

"Easy," the priest said. "I have no desire to hurt you as I am, in fact, a man of the cloth — less pious than some, I would grant you, but far more pious than others. I just happen to believe that there is no great dignity or holiness in being poor. It is one of the few beliefs I do not hold in common with the good book. The people who run that hospital see to it that our church remains solvent and that I remain as dignified as possible."

"And all you have to do is keep these people in line."

"That and to let the powers at the hospital know when nosy strangers driving cars that aren't theirs come wandering into town with pristine boots, pretending to be hiking the rain forest."

"It was you who wrecked the car, wasn't it?"

"I do what I am told. Mercedes don't hold up that well here in the rain forest anyhow."

"So, here we have a priest who carries a gun, vandalizes cars, preaches to people he considers too poor for dignity, and supports himself and his church by taking money from murderers. Aren't you something. Makes me really proud I'm a Catholic."

"Xavier Santoro is no murderer. Nor, for that matter, are any of the others associated with the hospital. Mr. Callahan, so-called illicit organ traffic takes place all over the world. Money changes hands and kidneys and other organs change bodies. What can be wrong with that? One person benefits in one fashion, the other benefits in another. In fact, in my opinion, there is no reason for such exchanges to be illegal or to consider them immoral."

Stunned, Ben stared at the priest, trying to see whether or not the man believed what he had just said. Then he remembered saying almost the same thing to Alice not that long ago.

"Frank," he asked, regaining some composure, "do you know who that woman Natalie is or why she's here?"

"Aside from the fact that she's searching for a relative, and posing to be someone she is not, no. I know nothing about her."

"Put the gun down, Father. I'm not going to try and leave…Thank you. Now, I have just one more question for you, and then I'll do whatever you say, and tell you anything you wish to know."

"And what is that question, Mr. Callahan?"

"Padre Francisco, do you know what really goes on at that hospital?"