The headlights grew larger. A strangled cry squeezed out of her throat. Or was that coming from the teenagers inside the car? She couldn’t tell. Her limbs turned to Jell-O. Her heart stuttered like a windup toy. A cold wave of sweat flooded every pore in her body.
Brakes screeched. Tires squealed. The Land Rover jolted to a stop just inches from Adele’s body, close enough that she could smell the faint burn of rubber and hear loose bags slamming against one another in the trunk of the vehicle. Had the snow already started—had there been even the faintest coating of sleet on the pavement—Adele would no longer be standing.
The door of the Land Rover flung open. Margaret Behring raced over to Adele. Even under the hazy lights of the parking lot, Adele could see that the woman’s face had drained of color. There was a glaze of sweat on her upper lip.
“Oh my God! Are you okay?”
“Mmm.” Adele had forgotten how to speak. She was just relearning how to breathe.
“I’m so sorry!” she kept repeating. Her voice sounded choked, as if she were about to cry. “The lights—they’re so bright. I didn’t see you. I just didn’t see!”
The two women stared at each other, their short panicked breaths clouding the night air. Adele held Margaret’s gaze. When she answered, her voice was calm and steely, and strangely self-assured.
“I know.”
Chapter 33
Vega hustled up the brick steps and through the heavy wooden doors of St. Raymond’s Catholic Church. Incense and lemon oil wafted over him. He hadn’t planned on being back here so soon. But he couldn’t leave the Bronx without trying to make sense of his visit with Martha Torres today.
A late-day Spanish Mass was just ending and parishioners were streaming out of the church. Father Delgado had a long line of people waiting to speak to him after the service. Vega sat in a rear pew and watched them, wishing he could feel what they felt in this place, wishing it could give him the solace it seemed to give them. He took out his cell phone and scrolled to that picture of the two brothers and Ponce’s son at that fruit stand. He touched a finger to the soft, shy face of the man once known as Edgar and now, as Antonio. He’d looked at this picture so often, he felt like he knew them all.
“Perhaps if you offer a prayer,” said a voice behind him in Spanish. “A prayer always helps.”
Vega lifted his gaze. Standing over him was the grizzled, leathery face of the old janitor he’d seen sweeping the pews here the other day. The man was dressed in a white shirt and dark slacks today. His gray hair was freshly washed and still sported wet grooves from where a comb had raked through it.
“Father Delgado told me you were Hector’s friend,” Vega said to the old man in Spanish.
“Yes.”
Vega slipped his phone into his pocket. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” The man nodded to the pew. “May I?”
“Of course.” Vega scooted over.
The man bent with effort and crossed himself. He sat next to Vega and pulled down the kneeling bench. “Are you a Catholic?” he asked.
“A long time ago,” Vega admitted.
“But you know the prayers, yes?”
“I know the usual stuff: Ave Marias, the Lord’s Prayer.”
“I think an Ave Maria would be nice.” The man knelt on the bench. His shiny black patent leather shoes squeaked. Vega sensed he wore them rarely and had never broken them in. Vega felt awkward following the old janitor’s lead and just as awkward not to. So he lowered himself beside the man, clasped his hands together, and followed along in whispered prayer the Spanish words he’d known so well as a child. His voice caught on the familiar line: Ruega por nosotros pecadores—Pray for us sinners. He needed those prayers himself now.
Vega and the janitor sat on the bench after that in a moment of silent communion. All around them people poured out of the church. A few old ladies in black stayed up front, mumbling prayers to their rosary beads, their silhouettes framed by the light of rows of flickering candles beneath jewel-colored glass.
“I don’t even know your name,” Vega apologized.
“Humberto Oliva,” said the man. He extended a large hand. Vega shook it. His palms felt like old burlap but his grip was firm. “I know yours, of course.”
They sat in silence while parishioners drifted past. Vega kept his eyes on Father Delgado up front. He was anxious to talk to him. “Does the Father have any Masses after this?”
“No. Usually after this he makes the rounds of some of the faithful who cannot get to church.”
“If you’ll please excuse me then, I need to ask him something.” Vega started to rise.
“About Hector’s brother, yes?”
Vega sank back down onto the hard wooden bench. “So you know?”
“That he is dead? Yes. I spoke to Alma this morning.”
“Did Hector ever mention him to you?”
“He didn’t know Edgar had survived until about a month ago. That’s when he told me. We were both so happy.”
“Why both of you?”