Chapter Text
Mexico, December 1942—one day after Ernesto de la Cruz’s accident
Father Gabriel Garcia stared at the paper that had Ernesto de la Cruz's deathbed confession written on it. Horror, disgust and revulsion filled him as his eyes scanned the document in his hands. He found himself having to sit down, unable to deal with the disturbing list of crimes that the nurses had documented for de la Cruz.
The guilt of what he'd done presumably was eating the man up inside, as he had several times asked that they send a letter with the written confession to one Ismael Rivera in Santa Cecilia, Oxacara—the husband of the woman that de la Cruz had murdered over twenty years ago. Gabriel found himself muttering a prayer that the woman's soul had found peace, even though he doubted that, as from what de la Cruz had said, he hadn't even given her a proper burial.
Gabriel took a breath and leaned back into the chair. The hall was empty at the moment, and he let himself just, feel his emotions, rather than wear the mask of calm that he would need when facing the man on the other side of that door. The priest shook his head, running a hand over his bare scalp. He knew what he would need to do, but was unsure of exactly how to do it, without allowing for another crime to be committed. The one comfort in this whole situation was that de la Cruz technically hadn’t confessed to him, and therefore, he could actually report the man’s crimes.
While he didn't much care at this point whether de la Cruz lived or died, he knew that if this knowledge got out, that the husband of Ernesto's victim would likely desire to exact vengeance on the dying man. It was understandable, even reasonable that this Ismael Rivera would want to punish the man who had so brutally murdered his wife (and according to de la Cruz, likely didn't know what had become of her all these years) he couldn't bring himself to gift him this knowledge yet, for fear of the reprisal from de la Cruz’s many fans. De la Cruz was so very well-liked, and if anything, his tragic accident and looming death had made the man even more popular. If the husband came pounding on the door, it would make everything a huge mess, and a drawn out legal battle might ensue over everything, from the music and guitar, to the fate of Ismael Rivera's young wife.
Gabriel grimaced as he carefully slid the paper back into the envelope where the letter from Ernesto to Ismael Rivera still rested, unopened and unread. No, he resolved, folding the envelope closed again and slipping it into his inner jacket. He couldn't allow this to get out. He'd put it away, and once de la Cruz was dead, and the danger of Ismael Rivera's committing a murder to avenge his wife was past, he would send it to him. (Surely, he would at least have the desire to. While having never wanted marriage for himself, Gabriel did have younger siblings. And he knew that if someone had done what de la Cruz had done to that girl, to his own sisters, nothing would stop him from getting revenge on their behalf). He walked back into the room where de la Cruz lay in the bed, barely able to move anything but his head.
"Señor? Are you awake?" The nurses moved around him, without speaking, barely touching Ernesto even as they cared for his needs. Anyone could see how uneasy they had become after Ernesto had dictated the letter to be written. Gabriel couldn’t blame them, not after what he had read. But they still did their job well, even if they had come to revile this man. Gabriel himself couldn’t bring himself to look at him, and not just because his injuries were so severe he barely looked human. He wondered, idly, if God could actually forgive such crimes as the ones that de la Cruz had committed. Surely, Gabriel wondered, if justice existed this man would face it before God.
"Sí," de la Cruz muttered. "You have the letter?"
"Sí, I do señor."
"And you'll see to it that it gets to Ismael?" de la Cruz tried for a smile, but it turned into a grimace as the movement hurt him.
"Of course," the priest said, reminding himself that he wasn't lying, just delaying the inevitable explosion.
"Hmm. I wish I could see his face when he reads it," de la Cruz muttered.
Gabriel frowned. "¿Perdona? don't believe I heard what you said correctly?" Díos Mío, he hoped he'd heard wrong.
De la Cruz turned his head, and met Gabriel's eyes. "It's nothing. Please, send the letter quickly." He frowned. "I think I will sleep for now." He closed his eyes, the sound of his breathing loud in the silent room.
Gabriel nodded unhappily, turning he left the room. Double-checking that the letter for Ismael Rivera was still with him, he returned to his home near the church. He put the letter in the top drawer of his desk, intending to send it to Ismael Rivera as soon as de la Cruz passed, which he did, a week after his accident. It was never Gabriel's intention to forget about it, in the hustle and bustle of the parish life. Nor did he intend for the letter to be swept up and tossed into a pile of other papers, birth and death certificates, marriages and baptismal records.
Eventually the letter ended up in a box and went into storage, abandoned and forgotten, never reaching its intended recipient. And it would lay there, for over seventy years, until a grumpy young high school student would find it while searching for records for a history project that would be due the next day, having been distracted by what the news stations were calling "The Miracle of Santa Cecilia." At long last, Ernesto’s letter would find its way into the hands of the man it was meant for, seventy-five years late.