Lopez shook his head. "They are just paintings for statues that have been stained black over time."
"Case in point," Davidson retorted.
"Prove it," Lopez challenged.
Davidson sighed. While fallen, Lopez still held on to his Catholic roots. His Hispanic Catholic roots. They were some of the staunchest antiBlack Madonnas around.
"If the white skin of the statues were stained by age and soot, why are the golds in their gowns still gold? Or the blues, blue? Or the reds, red? Why is only the skin affected?" Davidson overrode the corporal. "And why are other paintings of white saints still white."
Lopez sputtered, "But, but...Even though the skin is dark, the features of those Madonnas are European."
"Only some," Rebecca corrected. "The later ones. Many consider them knockoffs. Artists indulging in the fad. The first ones, though? Those created in the early AD years? Those show definitive negroid features."
The corporal huffed and went back to driving. Which is just as well. He didn't stand a chance against Rebecca.
"Okay, great," Levont commented. "But what's that got to do with a remote Basque village?"
Davidson looked to Rebecca, who gave him the nod to explain. "It is where the first Black Madonna was ever created."
With half an ear, Brandt listened to the rise and fall of conversation. Rebecca was going into detail about the history of the Black Madonna. Its acceptance, then rejection, then acceptance by the Catholic Church. She was really getting her history geek on.
Brandt didn't need to pay particular attention to her, since he pretty much already knew the story. There was a Black Madonna in the church across town. His friend had taken him to see it as a kid. He'd thought it would be dumb, as all kids thought religious artifacts were when they were kids, but even at ten years old, Brandt had been stirred by the beauty of the statue.
He'd learned that the church had even tried to cover the color, but the congregation had complained so vehemently that they had to paint it back. When his priest couldn't explain the phenomena, dismissing it out of hand, Brandt even talked his mother into letting him bicycle to the library to research it.
So when Rebecca mentioned the Basque region, he'd pretty much known where she was going with it. This area was ground zero for Black Madonnas.
"Turn left up ahead," Rebecca broke off from the history lesson.
"You sure?" Lopez asked with a frown. "The GPS says left is going to take us off a cliff."
Rebecca leveled her gaze. "Ricky. Left."
"You've been here before?" Talli asked.
Brandt shifted to get a better listen. The conversation still wasn't eyelid-raising worthy, at least not yet.
"Yeah..." Rebecca said, sounding far less excited. "Yes, I have."
Levont's smile was so bold that Brandt heard it. "Ah, come on. You can't drop a hint like that and not follow it up with the story. 'Cause we know there's a story there."
Brandt was pretty sure Levont got a smile out of Rebecca. She was a little bit of a sucker for flattery. Why she hung out with him, he wasn't quite sure.
"I did some DNA research based on the Basques' assertion that they had DNA unique to the European continent..."
"And?" Levont pressed.
"Well, unfortunately, beyond the fact they have a very high Rh-negative blood factor, they are pretty much a Pyrenees mountain mutt mix."
Davidson turned in the seat next to Brandt to rejoin the conversation. "That wasn't all, though, was it?"
Huh. The kid knew something about Rebecca that he didn't. That wasn't being a very good fiance. However, after hearing about three dozen different research grants, his eyes kind of glazed over.
"Well," Rebecca answered, not sounding all that thrilled that Davidson had brought up the subject, "I also proved that they didn't have the 'smart gene' that I'm looking for."
"Ouch," Levont exclaimed.
"Yes, I'm a little bit of person non grata around here."
Brandt peeked open an eye, to find Rebecca blushing and suddenly becoming interested in the hem of her shirt.
She even looked pretty as an outcast.
Frellan peered at Benedicto, who sat across from him. They'd found a small table in the shade of an alley to talk. They were sheltered from view of the main street by a row of almond trees, their trunks short and squat, their branches and leaves wide and spread. The trees were in bloom, their perfume scenting the air with a sweetness that contained just a touch of raw almond to it.
His men stood guard at either end of the street, making sure no tourists decided to crash their awkward party. Monnie sipped a cafe con leche and munched on magdalenas that she occasionally dipped in her cup as Benedicto licked the thick, dark chocolate where it dripped down from his churros y chocolate.
This black-frocked man seemed little the holy man.
"My mon senoir is arranging for transportation to the village of Lennore."
"We know where we need to head," Frellan stated coolly, still trying to puzzle the man out. "We do not need your help."
"Ah, but your master seems to feel differently."
Frellan looked to Ugudo. The priest only seemed amused. "Please. After the Congo and then Egypt?" He chuckled. "For such an ancient society, you aren't exactly batting a thousand out in the field."
Frellan's fingers dug into his own skin. He had suffered much, sacrificed much, to lead the search for the Messiah. To have this priest speak to him in such a way?
"But I am not here to babysit," Benedicto announced. "I am here to kill the girl."
Monnie coughed out creamy coffee, patting her chest, trying to stop the near convulsion. Frellan was equally horrified yet kept his visceral reaction inside. Really, in retrospect, he shouldn't have been even surprised. At least not the kill part. But admitting that the priest had planned to kill the girl, that was surprising.
"And you told the Master?"
"Of course," the priest said with a shrug. "We could have spun a tale of wanting to study her ourselves, but why? We both know she is a danger to my church."
"The pope knows of this?" Frellan asked.
Again, the priest shrugged. "As your master knows everything that you have done or plan to do in the field?"
So true.
Frellan picked up his black coffee and drank half the scalding-hot liquid. "If you know where we are going, then might I ask why you need us?"
Benedicto nodded to Monnie. "We do not have what is in her head."
"Why?"
"She holds the key to proving the girl's divinity." The priest seemed delighted by Frellan's ignorance. "You did not know, truly? Well, I guess your master also knows more than she is sharing."
Frellan turned to the watcher. "What is he taking about?"
The petite woman looked down at her cup.
"What?"
Before he could press further, a set of SUVs drove up to the alleyway, squealing to a stop. There was no way the large vehicles-much more suited to the US than to Spain-could ever navigate the narrow stretch where they sat. Benedicto rose from his seat.
"Please, does it not make more sense to kill me after I've helped you? It will feel far more satisfying, I assure you."
Oh, the priest had no idea what Frellan had planned for him. Perhaps genital jewelry was too tame. Frellan had been itching for a subject to try dermal weaving. He'd seen the technique at a small, discreet body boutique in Singapore. The subject's skin was flailed off the muscle, cut into strips, then woven as one might a basket. Of course, the man having the procedure had topical anesthetic and painkillers on board. How would Benedicto feel when Frellan put the knife to his cheek without the benefit of such numbing agents?
Satisfying only began to describe the feeling.
Rebecca exited the car with a bit of trepidation. Her last departure from the village had not gone well. There hadn't been tar and feathers, but she was pretty sure that was only because the villagers didn't have them handy.
Brandt put a hand on her back, ushering her toward the tiny church set off from the rest of the village. "You've got this."
But looking toward the stone building, with a belfry topped by a cross poking out over the rest of the squat, whitewashed town, she wasn't so sure. It was a small church, especially by Spanish standards, but it still demonstrated its dominance, the dominance of the Catolico Apostolico Romano church. The afternoon sun beat on her back, practically pushing her into the shade of the church. Brandt opened the door. However, it wasn't for her. It was for Levont. Their point man.
Even though it was a church in the middle of one of the most isolated regions in the world, they still observed protocol. And for that, Rebecca was thankful. There was a certain comfort in it. The men moved with military precision. Except for Lopez, of course. He stayed with the car, and Davidson had vanished as usual.
Although, the village offered very few spots for a nest. Her guess? The sniper was heading for the tree line. Well, their unofficial sniper was heading there. Talli was second into the church. Rebecca took Vakasa's hand as Brandt brought up the rear.
The interior of the small church, unlike many of the great, sprawling houses of worship they had visited, was nearly spartan. Instead of gold chalices and thick red velvet, above the altar there was only a single wooden figure of Christ on the cross.
Brandt quickly dropped to one knee, crossing himself. Then he was up again, on the job.
A woman-who, from the look of her formless dress and cleaning rag, seemed to be the church's caretaker-approached from the back of the church. Then her eyes narrowed as she spotted Rebecca. The woman turned on her heel and rushed back the way she had come.
Slowly, they made their way down the central aisle as the heat followed them in. Even the heavy stone walls could not keep the summer heat out.
A scrape of wood as the antique door opened announced the priest as he hurried to meet them. Clearly, he had hurried to don his formal robes. His biretta, a four-cornered hat, sat askew on his head. The black pom at the tip listed to the right side. He met them at the altar.
"Father Hernandez," Rebecca said as she held out her hand.
The man spit into her palm.
Okay, so that's how this was going to go.
Brandt put his forearm between the priest and Rebecca. The guy was a man of the cloth, but no one-and Brandt meant no one-spit on his fiancee.
"I'd back that up, Padre."
Hernandez, however, did not seem to understand or care. While he kept his spit in his mouth, he went on a verbal tirade. Brant heard something along the lines of me cago en tus muertos, whatever that meant.
"Um," Levont said as the priest went on and on, "my European Spanish isn't all that great, but I think he's-"
"Yeah, I think we get it," Brandt said, not wanting Rebecca to have to hear the curses in stereo.
He glanced over, but instead of finding Rebecca looking hurt, there was that steel glint in her eye. Brandt had seen it before. Many times when he suggested they go to the sports bar for dinner. But this time it was even more pronounced.
"Borgona," she said quietly. Brandt vaguely remembered the name from the plane ride lecture as the sculptor who had first created the Black Madonna.
At first, Hernandez didn't seem to notice that Rebecca had spoken. Then he suddenly sputtered, his face glowing an unseemly ruddy red.
She repeated the name, "Borgona." Only, this time she put her hands on Vakasa's shoulders. The priest followed her gesture, appearing surprised the little girl was even in the church. Then his eyes dilated to the point they seemed pitch-black. He stumbled back a step.
"Shiva."
Rebecca frowned. "Shiva is the Hindu god of-"
"Creation and destruction," Brandt finished. Seriously, didn't Rebecca know by now his interest in world religion?
By the look on her face, Rebecca's mind was not focused on Brandt whatsoever. She had that "I wish I had my laptop" frown.
"It is also means the 'Auspicious One,'" she explained.
The priest stepped forward, placing a hand on Vakasa's cheek. "Mari."
The girl covered his hand with hers.
Rebecca raised an eyebrow to Brandt. "Well, Mr. Ancient Religions?"
He didn't bother to answer. Basque pre-Christian beliefs were not part of his repertoire, and they both knew it. She flashed a grin at him before continuing. "Mari Urraca was the Basque goddess. The head of their pantheon. Their messiah."
The priest's hand dropped away from Vakasa's cheek as he sighed. He looked none to happy about it, but he bowed his head to their group. In a thickly accented English, he urged them out of the church and toward his cottage. "Will you join us for el almuerzo?"
Lunch.
While Brandt was hungry, he wanted to get the hell out of here ASAP.
"We can talk here just fine."
Rebecca nudged him. "We would love to, Father."
Hernandez, his hand on Vakasa's shoulder, led them out the side door of the church.
Brandt hung back, gently catching Rebecca by the elbow. "What was that about?"