With her phone was a utility knife. It was his, the man in the pit. She knew it. It was the one he’d used to cut himself. She tossed it into the sink and stared in horror at it, rubbing her hands together as if to rid them of the energy it left on them.
Odd that she hadn’t gotten an impression off it. Maybe her mind couldn’t take any more input of that sort. She turned the tap on and rinsed it off. Letters engraved on the side of the knife read MERC. Merc. Was that short for mercenary? Was it a group or club of some sort?
Wait. That was the name the mysterious guy had used here. Saint Merc.
She set the knife aside, then cleaned off her phone and texted her friends that all was well. Both were still awake—they texted her right back. She was too tired to answer their questions just then, so she stripped and got in the shower. She leaned against the side of the stall, feeling the cold water wash the night away. Brown water pooled around her feet. She thought of the guy in the pit, trying so hard to end his own life. Had he succeeded? Why had he done it? His energy was gorgeous, rich, full of depth and life.
She poured a bit of shampoo into her palm and lathered up. There was hot water available, but not enough for a long, satisfying shower. And the night was still beastly hot, so the cold water felt good.
It wasn’t until she rinsed off that she realized where she knew that voice in her head from—the vision she’d had at Summer’s fort with the man standing at the edge of the cliff. His energy had been all over Valle de Lágrimas, too—by the dead guys still sitting in their chairs, by the pink and orange walls that seemed so random in the town.
And now, by the death pits.
Could ghosts spread their energy so fully? Or was it something the man had done prior to dying?
Tomorrow she would go to the church to see if the priest she’d seen in her vision was there, the one who’d tried to help the dying man.
If he had been, then that would mean what she’d seen was real.
Was she prepared to accept that there was something to all the stories she told herself when she touched some things?
9
Ash wandered through the town the next day. Still in the thrall of what had happened last night, she’d ditched the others, who were doing their own video tour of the village. Larry and Bean were irritated with her. They’d wanted to interview her, but she wasn’t interested. What she’d experienced was for her alone, not to be monetized on their vlog.
The residents were going about their normal business. She and her group were among the few tourists there, so the routine weekend bustle was for the township, not for visitors.
She crossed the plaza, heading for the big church. It had not been painted in whitewash like the other buildings surrounding the plaza, so it naturally drew the eye. Its walls of huge beige stone blocks were built into the hill that rose behind it. The big building sat atop a stone platform with a dozen steps leading up to the arched front entrance. A tall bell tower stood next to it, rising a dozen feet above the church’s roof.
Ash went up the steps and slipped in through the open front door. The only occupant was a priest kneeling in the second row from the front. His clasped hands were propped on the pew in front of him, and his head was bowed. His thick salt-and-pepper hair was cut in the old monkish bowl style. He wore a simple brown robe. It was cool inside the cavernous nave, but Ash wondered if the priest’s clothes weren’t a hot choice for the warm climate.
Ash paused in the aisle next to him, waiting for him to finish his prayers. When he lifted his head and looked at her, she gasped. He was a young man, younger even than she was. Odd that he was so gray so early.
“I am Father Eduardo. I knew you would come,” he said in Spanish.
“How did you know that?” He didn’t answer, just kept looking at her as if waiting for her to speak. “You were the one who found him,” Ash said. She felt her heart pounding with anticipation, fearing either way he would answer.
He nodded, both saddened and buoyed by the memory. Maybe he was acting a part in some elaborate hoax perpetrated by the town. She couldn’t blame the town—it was fighting for its very survival. Claiming a run-in with a saint was a big deal for believers in the region. Add in a few Tundas, and the town’s appeal to adventurous travelers would be huge.
“Tell me the truth,” Ash said, feeling a little guilty for doubting a priest. “I promise to never tell anyone. Is it real? The miracles, the curses, everything?”
He studied her. With his young face and old eyes, there was nothing but truth emanating from him. He clearly cared nothing at all for her feelings or beliefs. “It is the truth.”
“Could you have mistaken what you saw?”
“No.”
“So you believe miracles are real?”
“Of course. The ones here were real.”
Ash went silent as she considered that.
The priest rose. “Come with me.” He led the way to a side door. They went into a dark hallway. He unlocked a door that led into what looked like a storeroom. Chairs were stacked inside next to crates and trunks and other stuff. The room smelled musty. Its only light came from a narrow row of clerestory windows. Streams of dust motes sparkled in the sun rays, pointing down to a long glass case. The back of it was lined with faded red velvet. On top of that lay a dirty brown robe.
Ash gasped and covered her mouth with both hands. It wasn’t a brown robe, but a white one covered with reddish-brown stains.
“This was your robe,” she whispered. “You were there.”
He nodded, as affected by the robe as she was.
“Did you see the golden light?”
He nodded. “He was a saint. And I aim to prove it. I’ve contacted the church and asked them to come investigate the miracles he made here.”
Ash looked at the robe again. The sacred display wavered in front of her eyes. She blinked, realizing she craved a man who wasn’t a man but a miracle maker. A saint.
“Did he die that night?” As soon as she asked, she realized it was a stupid question. Living people couldn’t be saints, could they?
“The pit was filled with his blood. I soaked up what I could that night with my robe. No one could survive that.”
“What happened to him—after what he did?”
“Men in a helicopter came for him. I don’t know who they were. One was an angel. He glowed with a golden light as he touched our saint. They took him away. That’s all I know.” They stared at the robe for a long moment of silence before the priest said, “He blessed our village. There’ve been no murders or rapes or even fights since he was here. Everything’s changed.”
“I hope you keep this safe.”
He nodded. “I keep it locked up, but like you, others will come to see it.”
“Who was he?”
“I only know his name. Merc. Our saint of mercy. He’ll be that to us even if the Church never recognizes him.”
When Ash left the church, she wandered over to a farm market that had been set up along one edge of the plaza. A stand tucked between two produce sellers offered handblown glass pendants made from multicolor glass flecks. She supposed the artist’s studio had to be someplace windy, for every one of the medallions was marred with brown bits of dirt that had gotten into the glass.