Sour Grapes

or not
    And the San Carmelita Mission stood—as it had since it was built by those new, reluctant converts in the late 1700s—on a hilltop, overlooking the town and beyond it, the ocean. The panoramic view became more magnificent with every hairpin turn of the road that zigzagged up the steep hill, giving a traveler the lighthearted feeling of truly being “above it all.”
    But Francie Gorton had no appreciation for the sweeping vista as she guided her brother’s Charger up the hill toward the old mission. She was wondering why Savannah Reid had changed their plans and asked someone to phone and switch the location.
    “Behind the mission just after eleven,” the caller had said. “And she won’t have much time, so don’t be late.”
    Francie had hoped that Savannah would keep their meeting confidential, but she seemed like a smart, nice lady, and if she had needed to change their meeting place and tell someone else about it... Francie would trust her judgment.
    In a few minutes, she would be trusting her with a lot more. Her very life, in fact. But, remembering how kind and concerned the lady had been when they had talked there on the bench, overlooking the vineyards, Francie relaxed a bit.
    Francie considered herself a good judge of character, and her instincts told her that Savannah Reid had a good heart. Someone had told Francie that she had been a cop for years, so if anyone would know how to handle this situation, she would.
    Francie pulled the Charger into a parking lot that had been laid behind the mission for visitors, who were welcome to tour the place on weekends. In the seventh grade, her history teacher had brought the class here for a field trip. She recalled getting an A- on the report she had written about the visit, and Francie had been distressed. She wasn’t accustomed to getting an A-, and she resented the reason the teacher gave for marking her down—her statement that she had felt the place was haunted.
    But she had.
    Francie had always been sensitive about certain things, feeling things that no one else was aware of. And she had been most aware of an uneasiness about the old place. Within those thick, adobe walls, she sensed them... the spirits of the men, women, and children who had died of disease and abuse, while being forced to build those walls and worship a god who was a stranger to them.
    Local legend said that there were literally hundreds of the Chumash tribe buried on the property in mass graves. But Francie didn’t feel them in the ground. She felt them in those thick, white, adobe walls.
    As she got out of the car and walked toward the mission, Francie wished that Savannah had chosen anywhere, anywhere at all, other than this place to meet. It was private, to be sure; no one was in sight, and hers was the only car in the parking lot. Nobody would overhear their conversation.
    At least, no one who had been alive for the past two hundred years.
    A breeze swept up the hill, a hot wind that whipped sand into her eyes, making them tear. She could smell the wild scents of the sage and margaritas blooming on the hills around her, their aromas rich in the heat of the midday sun. A mockingbird sang somewhere, repeating his song several times, then changing his tune, and a pair of doves cooed to each other in the nearby brush. Francie liked birds. She liked chickens. But it made her sad to think of her chickens right now.
    She glanced at her watch. It was only a few minutes past eleven, so it wasn’t surprising that Savannah hadn’t arrived yet. But Francie was sure she would soon. Savannah seemed like a punctual person, and she had sounded eager to meet with her.
    Thank goodness she had Savannah. She wasn’t sure what step to take next, but Savannah would direct her. Savannah would protect her. For the first time since Barbie had told her that ugly secret, Francie felt safe.
    But the feeling was short-lived. With every step she took closer to the mission, she found it more and more difficult to breathe. At first she thought it was the dust blowing around her, irritating her asthma. Then she decided it was the heat. The sun beat down on her, heating her dark hair until it felt like it was burning the top of her head.
    And the air was thicker, harder to pull in and out of her lungs.
    The wind caught the bell in the tower and caused it to chime, once, twice, three times. “For whom the bells tolls,” she whispered. “It tolls for me.”
    Then she shook her head, trying to