The Searchers. Kay David
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Avianca flight left Bush International the following morning at 6:30 a.m. Maya settled into her first-class seat and tried to stay composed. The plane would arrive in Miami around ten. She’d have a lay-over until one at which point she’d then board another 757. By 3:30 that afternoon, she’d be in Bogota.
Turning down the flight attendant’s offerings, Maya retrieved a report she’d brought and tried to read it. The airplane hadn’t even gotten off the ground before she gave up. Her brain was spinning as fast as the jet’s engines—there was no way she could concentrate.
They banked sharply and her papers slid across her lap. Maya grabbed them, the task jarring her and forcing her once more to question her sanity.
If her son had survived, she wanted to know—had to know—but something told her she might come to regret this trip…a thousand times over.
SHEPARD WAS SITTING on the patio having his morning coffee when his mother walked outside. Normally she wasn’t up this early and he should have been surprised to see her but he was too busy worrying about Maya to notice anything else. She had no idea what she was doing, no idea of the peril that faced her here. If Colombia had been dangerous to her before, it might be deadly this time. He wasn’t sure he could protect her and he didn’t know why he even cared.
But he did.
“May I join you?”
His mother’s soft request brought Shepard’s gaze up. He rose to his feet and pulled out her chair. “Of course. Please…” She sat down and one of the maids appeared, a tray in hand with Marisol’s herbal tea and two pieces of pan dulce. Shepard reclaimed his chair as Marisol reached for one of the sweet rolls. Instead of eating the bread, however, she crumbled it absentmindedly, her thoughts clearly troubled.
“Your sister is very upset,” she said after a while. “She thinks you are making a grave mistake with this idea of another store, especially one so far away.”
“Luisa doesn’t approve of anything I do.” Shepard shrugged. “I’m not surprised she’s unhappy.”
“She’s protecting her husband. She thinks Esteban should have more responsibility and authority with the company and she knows you would run the new shop.”
Shepard took a sip of his coffee and considered his mother’s comment. The information itself wasn’t important; what mattered was the fact she’d brought it up at all. Marisol, more than any of them, did Eduard’s bidding without exception. If she were using her daughter to deliver a message from Eduard it wouldn’t be the first time. But then Shepard reconsidered. He’d already heard his father’s opinion on this topic. Perhaps it was Marisol herself who was upset with the turn of events.
“Esteban’s doing as much as he wants to—and he couldn’t handle more authority.” Shepard put down his coffee, the cup hitting the saucer with a clink that mixed with the call of the macaws in the aviary behind the garden.
Marisol made no comment. They sat in silence then she tore off another piece of bread and spoke. By the tone of her voice, Shepard immediately knew her remarks about the store were not what had brought her to him.
“Do you ever think of Renaldo?”
Her question caught him off guard. His mother hadn’t mentioned her youngest son’s name in years. Why did she bring him up now of all times?
“Why do you ask me that, Mama?”
“¿Por qué?” She pursed her lips and touched the crucifix she wore. “He has been on my mind lately. Teresa says…”
Shepard almost interrupted her but for some unaccountable reason, he urged his mother on. “Teresa says?”
“Teresa says his spirit has been trying to contact her. She says he’s disturbed about some things that are going on right now.”
Despite his interest, Shepard’s distrust of the santera was too ingrained to consider the timing anything but coincidental. He teased his mother gently, trying to make her see how ridiculous the idea was. “Mama, please…do you really believe Renaldo is speaking from his grave? If he had something important to say, why would he use Teresa? He’d go straight to you.”
His mother’s expression immediately shifted, a sternness he’d rarely seen coming over her features. “You mock me.”
“It’s not you I mock, Mama. I simply don’t believe Teresa can take messages from the dead.”
Her eyes held his a moment longer, then she stood, her back as straight as iron, her gaze just as flinty.
“If you choose not to believe, that is your decision. But it wasn’t me she said Renaldo wanted to contact.” Her jaw went tight. “It was you.”
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