The Sands of Time (24 page)

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-EIGHT

R
icardo Mellado was a short distance away from the mountain cave when suddenly he saw a large gray wolf trotting toward the entrance. He froze for a single instant, then moved as he had never moved in his life. He raced toward the mouth of the cave and burst through the entrance.

“Sister!”

In the dim light he saw the huge, gray shape leaping toward Graciela. Instinctively, he reached for his pistol and fired. The wolf let out a yelp of pain and turned toward Ricardo. He felt the sharp fangs of the wounded beast tearing at his clothing and smelled the animal’s fetid breath. The wolf was stronger than he had expected, heavily muscled and powerful. Ricardo tried to fight free, but it was impossible.

He felt himself begin to lose consciousness. He was dimly aware of Graciela coming toward him and he yelled, “Get away!”

Then he saw Graciela’s hand raised above bis head, and as it started to descend toward him, he glimpsed a huge rock in it and thought:
She’s going to kill me.

An instant later the rock swept past him and smashed into the wolf’s skull. There was a last savage gasp and the animal lay still on the ground. Ricardo was huddled on the floor, fighting for breath. Graciela knelt at his side.

“Are you all right?” Her voice was trembling with concern.

He managed to nod. He heard a whimpering sound behind him and turned to see the cubs huddled in a corner. He lay there, gathering his strength. Then he rose with difficulty.

They staggered out into the clean mountain air, shaken. Ricardo stood there, taking deep, lung-filling breaths until his head cleared. The physical and emotional shock of their close brush with death had taken a severe toll on both of them.

“Let’s get away from this place. They may come looking for us here.”

Graciela shuddered at the reminder of how much danger they were still in.

They traveled along the steep mountain path for the next hour, and when they finally reached a small stream, Ricardo said, “Let’s stop here.”

With no bandages or antiseptic, they cleaned the scratches as best they could, bathing them in the clean, cold spring water. Ricardo’s arm was so stiff, he had trouble moving it. To his surprise, Graciela said, “Let me do it.”

He was even more surprised by the gentleness with which she performed the task.

Then, without warning, Graciela began to tremble violently in the aftermath of shock.

“It’s all right,” Ricardo said. “It’s all over.”

She could not stop shaking.

He took her in his arms and said soothingly, “Shh. It’s dead. There’s nothing more to fear.”

He was holding her closely, and he could feel her thighs pressing against his body, and her soft lips were on his, and she was holding him close, whispering things he could not understand.

It was as though he had known Graciela always. And yet he knew nothing about her.
Except that she’s God’s miracle,
he thought.

Graciela was also thinking of God.
Thank You, God, for this joy. Thank You for finally letting me feel what love is.

She was experiencing emotions for which she had no words, beyond anything she had ever imagined.

Ricardo was watching her, and her beauty still took his breath away.
She belongs to me now,
he thought.
She doesn’t have to go back to a convent. We’ll get married and have beautiful children—strong sons.

“I love you,” he said. “I’ll never let you go, Graciela.”

“Ricardo—”

“Darling, I want to marry you. Will you marry me?”

And without even thinking, Graciela said, “Yes. Oh, yes.”

And she was in his arms again, and she thought:
This is what I wanted and thought I would never have.

Ricardo was saying, “We’ll live in France for a while, where we’ll be safe. This fight will be over soon, and we’ll return to Spain.”

She knew that she would go anywhere with this man, and that if there was danger, she wanted to share it with him.

They talked of so many things. Ricardo told her of how he had first become involved with Jaime Miró, and of the broken engagement, and of his father’s displeasure. But when Ricardo waited for Graciela to speak about her past, she was silent.

She looked at him and thought:
I can’t tell him. He’ll hate me.
“Hold me,” Graciela begged.

They slept and woke up at dawn to watch the sun creep over the ridge of the mountain, bathing the hills in a warm red glow.

Ricardo said, “We’ll be safer biding out here today. We’ll start traveling when it gets dark.”

They ate from the sack of food that the gypsies had given them, and planned their future.

“There are wonderful opportunities here in Spain,” Ricardo said. “Or there will be when we have peace. I have dozens of ideas. We’ll own our own business. We’ll buy a beautiful home and raise handsome sons.”

“And beautiful daughters.”

“And beautiful daughters.” He smiled. “I never knew I could be so happy.”

“Nor I, Ricardo.”

“We’ll be in Logroño in two days and meet the others,” Ricardo said. He took her hand. “We’ll tell them you won’t be returning to the convent.”

“I wonder if they’ll understand.” Then she laughed. “I don’t really care. God understands. I loved my life in the convent,” she said softly, “but—” She leaned over and kissed him.

Ricardo said, “I have so much to make up to you.”

She was puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

“Those years you were in the convent, shut away from the world. Tell me, darling—does it bother you that you’ve lost all those years?”

How could she make him see? “Ricardo—I didn’t lose anything. Have I really missed so much?”

He thought about it, not knowing where to begin. He realized that events he thought of as important would not really have mattered to the nuns in their isolation. Wars, like the Arab-Israeli war? The Berlin Wall? Assassinations of political leaders such as the American President John Kennedy and his brother, Robert Kennedy? And of Martin Luther King, Jr., the great black leader of the nonviolence movement for black equality? Famines? Floods? Earthquakes? Strikes and demonstrations protesting man’s inhumanity to man?

In the end, how deeply would any of those things have affected her personal life? Or the personal lives of the majority of people on this earth?

Finally, Ricardo said, “In one sense, you haven’t missed much. But in another sense, yes. Something important has been going on. Life. While you were shut away all those years, babies have been born and have grown up, lovers have married, people have suffered and been happy, people have died, and all of us out here were a part of that, a part of the living.”

“And you think I never was?” Graciela asked. And the words came tumbling out before she could stop them. “I was once a part of that life you are talking about, and it was a living hell. My mother was a whore, and every night I had a different uncle. When I was fourteen years old I gave my body to a man because I was attracted to him and jealous of my mother and what she was doing.” The words were coming in a torrent now. “I would have become a whore too if I had stayed there to be part of the life you think is so precious. No, I don’t believe I ran away from anything. I ran
to
something. I found a safe world that is peaceful and good.”

Ricardo was staring at her, horrified. “I—I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to—”

She was sobbing now, and he took her in his arms and said, “Shh! It’s all right. That’s over. You were a child. I love you.”

And it was as though Ricardo had given her absolution. She had told him about the awful things she had done in the past, and still he forgave her. And—wonder of wonders—loved her.

He held her very close. “There is a poem by Federico García Lorca:

The night does not wish to come

so that you cannot come

and I cannot go…

But you will come

with your tongue burned by the salt rain.

The day does not wish to come

so that you cannot come

and I cannot go…

But you will come

through the muddy sewers of darkness.

Neither night nor day wishes to come

so that I may die for you

and for me.

And suddenly she thought of the soldiers who were hunting them and she wondered if she and her beloved Ricardo were going to live long enough to have a future together.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-NINE

T
here was a link missing, a clue to the past, and Alan Tucker was determined to find it. There had been no mention in the newspaper of a baby being abandoned, but it should be easy enough to find out the date it was brought to the orphanage. If the date coincided with the time of the plane crash, Ellen Scott would have some interesting explaining to do.
She couldn’t be that stupid,
Alan Tucker thought.
To risk pretending that the Scott heiress was dead, and then leave her on the doorstep of a farmhouse. Risky. Very risky. On the other hand, look at the reward: Scott Industries. Yes, she could have pulled it off. If it is a skeleton in her closet, it’s a live one, and it’s going to cost her plenty.

Tucker knew that he had to be very careful. He had no illusion about whom he was dealing with. He was confronting raw power. He knew he had to have all the evidence in hand before he made his move.

His first stop was another visit with Father Berrendo.

“Father—I would like to speak to the farmer and his wife, where Patricia—Megan was dropped off.”

The old priest smiled. “I hope your conversation with them will not take place for a long time.”

Tucker stared at him. “You mean—?”

“They died many years ago.”

Damn.
But there had to be other avenues to explore. “You said the baby was taken to a hospital with pneumonia?”

“Yes.”

There would be records there.
“Which hospital was it?”

“It burned down in 1961. There is a new hospital now.” He saw the look of dismay on his visitor’s face. “You must remember,
señor,
that the information you are seeking goes back twenty-eight years. Many things have changed.”

Nothing’s going to stop me,
Tucker thought.
Not when I’ve come this close. There must be a file on her somewhere.

There was still one place left to investigate: the orphanage.

He was reporting daily now to Ellen Scott.

“Keep me informed of every development. I want to know the moment the girl is found.”

And Alan Tucker wondered about the urgency in her voice.

She seems in an awful big rush over something that happened all those years ago. Why? Well, that can wait. First I have to get the proof I’m looking for.

That morning Alan Tucker visited the orphanage. He looked around the dreary community room where a noisy, chattering group of children were playing, and he thought:
This is where the heiress to the Scott dynasty grew up, while that bitch in New York kept all the money and all the power. Well, she’s going to share some of that with yours truly. Yes, sir, we’ll make a great team, Ellen Scott and me.

A young woman came up to him and said, “May I help you,
señor
?”

He smiled.
Yeah. You can help me to about a billion dollars.
“I’d like to talk to whoever’s in charge here.”

“That would be Señora Angeles.”

“Is she here?”

“
Sí, señor.
I will take you to her.”

He followed the woman through the main hall to a small office at the rear of the building.

“Go in, please.”

Alan Tucker entered the office. The woman seated behind the desk was in her eighties. She had once been a very large woman, but her frame had shrunk, so she looked as though her body had at one time belonged to someone else. Her hair was gray and thin, but her eyes were bright and clear.

“Good morning,
señor.
May I help you? You have come to adopt one of our lovely children? We have so many delightful ones to choose from.”

“No,
señora.
I have come to inquire about a child who was left here many years ago.”

Mercedes Angeles frowned. “I do not understand.”

“A baby girl was brought in here”—he pretended to consult a piece of paper—“in October of 1947.”

“That is so long ago. She would not be here now. You see, we have a rule,
señor,
that at the age of fifteen—”

“No,
señora.
I know she’s not here. What I wish to know is the exact date she was brought here.”

“I’m afraid I cannot help you,
señor.”

His heart sank.

“You see, so many children are brought in here. Unless you know her name—”

Patricia Scott,
he thought. Aloud, he said, “Megan. Her name is Megan.”

Mercedes Angeles’s face lit up. “No one could forget that child. She was a devil, and everyone adored her. Do you know that one day she—”

Alan Tucker had no time for anecdotes. His instincts told him how close he was to getting hold of a piece of the Scott fortune. And this gabby old woman was the key to it.
I must be patient with her.
“Señora Angeles—I don’t have much time. Would you have that date in your files?”

“Of course,
señor.
We are commanded by the state to keep very accurate records.”

Tucker’s heart lifted.
I should have brought a camera to take a picture of the file. Never mind. I’ll have it photocopied.
“Could I see that file,
señora
?”

She frowned. “I don’t know. Our records are confidential and—”

“Of course,” Tucker said smoothly, “and I certainly respect that. You said you were fond of little Megan, and I know you’d want to do anything you could to help her. Well, that’s why I’m here. I have some good news for her.”

“And for this you need the date she was brought in here?”

He said glibly, “That’s just so I’ll have the proof that she’s the person I think she is. Her father died and left her a small inheritance, and I want to make sure she gets it.”

The woman nodded wisely. “I see.”

Tucker pulled a roll of bills from his pocket. “And to show my appreciation for the trouble I’ve put you to, I’d like to contribute a hundred dollars to your orphanage.”

She was looking at the roll of bills, an uncertain expression on her face.

He peeled off another bill. “Two hundred.”

She frowned.

“All right. Five hundred.”

Mercedes Angeles beamed. “That is very generous of you,
señor.
I will go get the file.”

I’ve done it,
he thought jubilantly.
Jesus Christ, I’ve done it! She stole Scott Industries for herself. If it hadn’t been for me, she would have gotten away with it

When he confronted Ellen Scott with his evidence, there was no way she could deny it. The plane crash happened on October 1. Megan was in the hospital for ten days. So she would have been brought into the orphanage around October 11.

Mercedes Angeles returned to the office holding a file in her hands. “I found it,” she said proudly.

It was all Alan Tucker could do to keep from grabbing it out of her hands. “May I look at it?” he asked politely.

“Certainly. You have been so generous.” She frowned. “I hope you will not mention this to anyone. I should not be doing this at all.”

“It will be our secret,
señora.
”

She handed him the file.

He took a deep breath and opened it. At the top it said: “Megan. Baby girl. Parents unknown.” And then the date. But there was some mistake.

“It says here that Megan was brought in here on June 14, 1947.”

“Sí, señor.”

“That’s impossible!” He was almost screaming.
The plane crash happened on October 1, four months later.

There was a puzzled expression on her face. “Impossible,
señor?
I do not understand.”

“Who—who keeps these records?”

“I do. When a child is left here, I put down the date and whatever information is given to me.”

His dream was collapsing. “Couldn’t you have made a mistake? About the date, I mean—couldn’t it have been October tenth or eleventh?”

“Señor,”
she said indignantly. “I know the difference between June fourteenth and October eleventh.”

It was over. He had built a dream on too flimsy a foundation. So Patricia Scott had really died in the plane crash. It was a coincidence that Ellen Scott was searching for a girl who had been born around the same time.

Alan Tucker rose heavily and said, “Thank you,
señora.
”

“De nada, señor.”

She watched him leave. He was such a nice man. And so generous. His five hundred dollars would buy many things for the orphanage. So would the hundred-thousand-dollar check sent by the kind lady who had telephoned from New York.
October eleventh was certainly a lucky day for our orphanage. Thank You, Lord.

Alan Tucker was reporting.

“Still no hard news, Mrs. Scott. They’re rumored to be heading north. As far as I know, the girl is safe.”

The tone of his voice has completely changed,
Ellen Scott thought.
The threat is gone. So he’s visited the orphanage. He’s back to being an employee. Well, after he finds Patricia, that will change too.

“Report in tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mrs. Scott.”