He slammed the door shut, put the van into gear and sped down the dirt road, through the desert, praying that nothing else attacked him as he put Magdalena in his rearview mirror.
TWELVE
For the twelfth day in a row, Father Ramos awoke with a headache and the memory of a nightmare. He opened his eyes slowly, bracing himself. As always, the pain behind his temple was so powerful that it hurt even to move his head, so he remained completely still on the pillow, praying without putting his hands together, begging for relief before attempting to sit up.
There was a lightning flash of agony, followed by unbearable pressure on his brain.
He wanted to cry out but dared not, because he knew God was watching and this was the punishment he was meant to endure.
He thought of last night’s dream, in many ways the most horrific one he’d had because, while it was less overtly fantastic than the others, it seemed more real. In it, Cameron Holt, who was not Catholic—or even religious, as far as Father Ramos knew—had come to the church for Confession. But in the confessional, instead of admitting his sins, Holt, laughing, had pulled down his pants and defecated. Before anything could be done about it, the rancher had withdrawn a knife that he’d brought with him and stabbed himself in the stomach. He’d obviously planned to commit suicide, but, just as obviously, he had not anticipated how much it would hurt, and his piercing cries of agony echoed in the church as Father Ramos scrambled out of his booth and tried desperately to open the other side of the confessional. Holt had done something to jam the door, however, and Father Ramos used all of his strength and weight to break the door open. Holt was still screaming—a sustained shriek that should not have been able to come out of that mouth—and he was crumpled on the tiny floor of the confessional, his limbs twisted like those of a contortionist crammed into a small box. There was blood everywhere, and excrement, and with a final cry so loud that Father Ramos thought his eardrums would burst, Cameron Holt passed out. Father Ramos managed to pull him from the booth, but he saw instantly that there was no hope. The rancher had not merely stabbed himself, he had slit his stomach open, and organs were spilling out along with blood, falling through the sliced flap of skin and muscle. Holt opened his eyes, and for one last coherent second, he stared into Father Ramos’ face. “You killed me,” he said, and died.
The dream still disturbed him, and he tried not to think of it as he slowly, slowly, swung around, put one foot out of the bed, then the other and, ignoring the pain, stood. He moved with effort, wincing at every step, and though the pain in his head lessened a little as he made his way toward the kitchen, it did not go away. He wondered if he should see a doctor.
Maybe he had a brain tumor.
He didn’t really think that, though, did he?
No.
Because the headaches had started after that night—which made it even more frightening to him than a brain tumor because it involved the fate of his very soul.
He had no appetite, something very rare for him, and for breakfast he drank only a small glass of orange juice that he used to wash down the Advil he hoped would temper his headache. Sitting there, eyes closed, the pain did gradually subside to a dull throb, and he was eventually able to leave his quarters, prepare for this morning’s mass and put on his vestments.
Ordinarily, unless it was a religious holiday like Easter or Christmas, he could expect about a third of the church members to show up for services, although some of the others might trickle in for confession later in the week to atone for their absence. Last Sunday, the pews were virtually empty, only three families arriving, for a new record low. It was because of what had happened on New Year’s Eve, he knew, and he expected the same today. But when he entered the chapel from the vestry—
the church was full.
Father Ramos stared out at his parishioners, caught completely by surprise. The church had never been this crowded before. Every seat was taken, some with parishioners he did not even recognize, and he wondered for the first time if what had happened had been a roundabout way for the Lord to increase the size of His flock here in Magdalena.
The idea made him feel more confident. He conducted the mass with assurance, his voice strong, and the worshippers were more involved than they ever had been before, with every last one of them taking communion .
All because of New Year’s Eve.
It was the very definition of a blessing in disguise.
He told himself this.
And he tried hard to believe it.
****
After the last service, after the final parishioners had gone, Father Ramos took off his vestments and retired to his quarters, intending to make himself an egg sandwich. His appetite had returned full force—his stomach had been growling so loudly during communion that he was sure people had noticed—and he grabbed a handful of cashews from the nut bowl on his way to the refrigerator, popping them in his mouth and chewing loudly. Lesson to be learned, he thought. Never skip meals.