The Creed of Violence - Boston Teran [23]
"There's something here that falls short."
Rawbone glanced at John Lourdes, who handed him the business card. The father held it up and read:
JAMES MERRILL
STANDARD OIL COMPANY
MEXICO
THIRTEEN
HE SOCORRO MISSION was on the El Camino de Tierra Adentro just southeast of the ford where the ferry crossed the Rio Grande. Constructed on a sandy incline, the church was a simple structure with a stepped parapet above the front door on which sat the bell tower.
It was late afternoon when the truck labored up to the low mud brick wall that flanked the nave and from where they could view the ferry. The church was quiet. A few gulls sat atop the bell tower with its cross. There was no shade save for one manzanita alongside the adobe wall. The men rested there in the stifling heat and studied the ferry.
It was docked on the Texas side. There was a customs shack on each shoreline. On this side of the river, the shack stood within a small grotto of trees. The one on the opposing shore stood bare in a landscape that looked like the unfinished country of God's hand. It was still as a painting down there.
"Keep the truck company," said Rawbone. "I'll go to the river to get the feel of things. See what all we have to deal with."
John Lourdes walked to the truck and removed his shoulder holster and set it on the cab seat. He couldn't help but keep looking at the mission. From the moment they'd driven up to this lonely spot he felt as if voices from the other world were talking to him.
There was a pump down one side of the building with a boiler that had been blowtorched in half then plunked down in the sand to use as a trough. He removed his vest and shirt to shave. It was then he remembered the crucifix around his neck, the one with the broken cross beam that was his mother's. Realizing it might give him away, he slipped it off and hid it in his wallet.
JOHN LOURDES WENT into the cool and quiet of the church to wait. Something about this mission held him. Inside it was as simple as the faith that inspired it. It was the faith of his mother and her people, the faith that spoke of sacrifice, of mercy and forgiveness.
There was a statue of the crucified Christ near tall as he was beside the pulpit. There was also a pedestal that stood before the side pews holding a statue of the Virgin and Child. That is where he sat. He placed his hat beside him. Light from the windows cast dusk upon the floor. He studied the Madonna's face, the pale skin of the European, the painted stare a conception of immaculate calm and peace. What was it about this place-
"Praying?"
Caught off guard, John Lourdes came quickly around. Rawbone had entered the mission silently. He sat in the pew across from John Lourdes. He glanced at the statue of the Virgin and Child. "If you're praying to her, forget it. She sure didn't do shit for her son." Then those dusty loveless eyes motioned toward the cross.
To that John Lourdes had nothing to say. He took his hat and stood to leave. Rawbone motioned he sit again. "Nothing can happen till dark anyway."
The son sat.
The father seemed to have something on his mind.
"When you were a detective for the Santa Fe you must have worked the yards by the river."
"I did."
"You probably met a lot of people from the barrio."
"I did."
"You being part Mexican."
"I speak the language, if that's what you mean."
"I was talking about families and such. Knowing families and such."
"Families and such ... yes."
Rawbone sat a bit longer, taking in all that was about him.
"Why do you ask?" said John Lourdes.
Something moved those features momentarily.
"Another time."
He stood.
"We only have tomorrow," said John Lourdes.
"That's right. Let's see then how that goes. For both of us."
Had what he'd seen been the substance of unspeakable regret, or unresolved sorrow? And if it was, what of it? As Rawbone walked out John Lourdes asked, "How do you know this place?"
The father turned and with a way the son well remembered, said, "I was married here, Mr. Lourdes." With that he tapped down his derby