Cut Throat by Sharon Sala Page A

enough to get her back to Dominguez and the baby. She’d have to find more fuel. As isolated as Adobe Blanco was, they must have a gas station for the locals.
     
    As she took a curve in the road, her cell phone slid over and bumped into the console. Several hours ago it had begun beeping at her, signaling unanswered voice mail, so she’d turned it off. There would be time later to check her messages—after she’d located Pilar’s family. She picked up the phone and dropped it into a cup holder. When she looked back up, she saw the rooftops of a small village on the horizon.
     
    “Finally,” she muttered and, while she wasn’t into depending on anyone else for help, she couldn’t help but add, “Please, God, help me find that baby’s family.”
     
    A few minutes later she pulled into the village. As she did, her hopes dropped. Adobe Blanco consisted of less than two dozen houses, all of which were single-story, flat-roofed adobe. Less than half had ever been whitewashed. An emaciated dog wagged its tail as she passed by the doorstep where it was lying. A pair of scrawny chickens pecked in the dirt, while nearby, a woman walked past, balancing a large basket on her head. Cat couldn’t tell what was in it but admired her ability. If she could balance her life as well as that woman balanced her load, things would be a lot simpler.
     
    The little village square consisted of a large communal water well. Without electricity, the water was drawn from its depths the oldfashioned way, with a rope and bucket. Cat’s frown deepened as she drove even slower. There were no obvious businesses that would give her a stopping point to begin her search. All she could do was get out and hope to God someone here spoke English.
     
    Two women and a young boy who appeared to be in his early teens emerged from the back of one of the houses as Cat pulled to a stop. By the time she got out of her car, the women had stopped, as well, and were staring, obviously surprised by her unexpected appearance.
     
    Cat could tell they were uneasy, but there was no time for delicacy. “Habla inglés?”
     
    Both women shook their heads. Cat frowned but wasn’t ready to give up. Her gaze slid to the boy.
     
    He shrugged.
     
    “Un poquito,” he said, holding his thumb and forefinger together to indicate his meaning.
     
    “Is there anyone else here who speaks English?” “Padre Francisco.”
     
    “Where is he?” Cat asked.
     
    The boy pointed down the road. “The…how you say…temple.” “You mean…church?”
     
    The boy smiled and nodded. “Sí. Sí. Church.”
     
    “How far?” Cat asked.
     
    “Maybe five minutes if you walk.” Cat nodded. “Gracias.”
     
    “De nada, señorita,” he said.
     
    Cat got back in the car and drove in the direction the boy had indicated. Within a couple of minutes, she saw the church in the distance.
     
    “Okay, God…please let this work.”
     
    Padre Francisco was sitting on a bench beneath a Joshua tree in back of the church, deep in prayer for a sick child in the village, when he heard the sound of an approaching car. The smooth, high-pitched whine of the engine told him it would be a stranger, because no one in this part of the country owned a car that ran as smoothly. He stood, dusted off his robes, then headed for the front of the church. Although the day was sunny, it was cold. In fact, the older Padre Francisco grew, the colder his winters became. He shivered slightly, then poked his hands inside the sleeves of his robes, curious as to who was coming.
     
    Adobe Blanco had been Padre Francisco’s first church. He’d arrived in this dusty little no-place over thirty years ago, confident that, once he’d paid his dues to God and the church, he would be assigned to a place more befitting his goals.
     
    The chances had come, but Padre Francisco hadn’t gone. He’d been unable to tear himself away from the combination of people and poverty. In truth, he’d learned true