by J A Kellman
The driver of the truck, a large man in a black cowboy hat and fleece-lined jacket, opened its door, leaving the engine running. He muttered as he slid from his warm cab into the cold. His helper, bundled in Carhartt coveralls against the weather, had been faster getting out. He already had unlocked the chunky padlock and shoved the garage door up when the driver reached him. The driver aimed his flashlight into the dim interior. Good. Just what he hoped to see—nothing. So far everything was going to plan. The driver returned to the truck, turned it around, and backed as far as he could into the opening. This time he cut the engine.
It took three quarters of an hour to unload the truck and stack the contents in the storage space. After they stepped out of the building, the driver swept the beam of his flashlight across the darkened storage area a final time. The plastic-wrapped packages filling the back half of the unit glistened like wet bricks in the shaft of light. At a nod from the driver, the smaller man pulled the door down and snapped the lock back in place.
Delivery complete, the men hurried back to the truck. The driver fired up the engine and turned across the gravel mews toward the entrance of the storage facility; he stopped the truck at the checkout station so he could reach the keypad.
The truck headed for the on-ramp and disappeared into the steady flow of red taillights, two tiny spots of light, red blood cells in the capillary of I-74 heading west.
The rest of the truck’s trip was the reverse of its journey to Big Grove, except for the conclusion—Effingham, St. Louis, Kansas City, Wichita. Disappear.
~ * ~
As the men in the truck headed west on I-74, Father Diego parked his car in his garage and let himself in the side door of the rectory, glad to be home and out of the wind. Off the road. Rid of his most recent passenger. The back entry, lined with hooks filled with outerwear for all seasons, smelled of damp wool and wet foot wear. He slipped out of his topcoat and changed his shoes for carpet slippers. What he wanted next was time to sit in his library, have a glass of port, take time to consider his situation.
The library was at the back of the house, overlooking the church and playing field. Beyond lay the industrial buildings on the far side of Bloomingdale Road, the interstate perched on a low berm. When the wind blew from the north, the traffic sounded as if it were under the library window, but when the windows were closed, one could usually ignore the hum. Tonight was a north wind night, a night of high tire whine and rumbling Jake brakes belching and growling, as truckers slowed to turn onto an off-ramp. The sound was impossible to ignore.
The priest poured himself a drink at the small bar built into the bookshelves. As the wind rattled a loose shutter on one of the library windows, he settled into a leather chair next to the reading lamp, glass in hand, and closed his eyes. The parish Thanksgiving the previous week had been a success. The activity hall had been packed with diners, the food had been wonderful, and the decorations had added a festive air.
December, with all its holiday preparations, had begun. It made his head ache to think of it. More meetings and planning. More cooking and dinners. More decorations and entertainment. At least this year they could do whatever they wanted in their newly refurbished kitchen. One more job for Eduardo and the money for repairs and extras would be secure, and he would be free of the nerve-wracking business of being at Eduardo’s beck and call.
He sipped his port, trying to remember how had he gotten into this mess. As far as he could recall, it had begun last year on All Souls Day when Eduardo Guzmán, owner of Cinco Gallos, came to church for the first time and left a healthy contribution in the offering plate. Why all that money for the repose of the dead in a parish Eduardo had never visited? There were other sizable contributions to the church, too, but that was reasonable, considering Eduardo had no other parish. Eduardo didn’t reappear again till Christmas Eve. He showed up at Lent—Ash Wednesday when he received ashes like everyone else and Good Friday—then Easter. Before the annual Easter brunch in the community hall, Eduardo invited Father Diego to join him after church the following Sunday for dinner at Cinco Gallos. Maybe he should have begun to wonder then, but he didn’t. The meal was wonderful: a feast of fruit, grilled beef, fresh tortillas, carefully cooked beans, flan. The waiters were attentive, seeing to his every need, pouring wine before his glass was empty. That was the tip of the hook, the beginning.
He was flattered by Eduardo’s attention, delighted with the rich meals and money, happy to have the gifts that were delivered to the rectory on special occasions by one of Eduardo’s assistants, pleased by Eduardo’s interest in him and the church. He basked in the attention; he deserved it after all; he worked hard. He told himself the presents weren’t out of line, just an occasional box of expensive cigars, a bottle of good port, and dinners at Cinco Gallos. Nothing seemed like a bribe; it just meant Eduardo enjoyed his company.
Then, it was payback time. Requests came from Eduardo to drive silent men in dark glasses—men who weren’t from the neighborhood—to airports, to unfamiliar locations in Chicago, Indianapolis, or Saint Louis, or to pick someone up and deliver him to Big Grove. Once he even had to drop off a suitcase in a Pilsen seafood restaurant in Chicago that Eduardo claimed one of his innumerable cousins had forgotten. That’s when Father Diego realized something was amiss, and the only explanation was something illegal was going on, probably drugs, and he was in it up to his eyes. He groaned.
Father Diego was heading for the stairway and his bedroom over the library when the phone rang. He was still tired from the holiday and from the drive to Chicago earlier in the day to pick up Eduardo’s brother at Midway, Chicago’s old Southside airport. He was eager to shower and get into bed. This couldn’t be good.
“St. Patrick’s Rectory. Father Diego speaking.”
Eduardo began without preamble. “My brother is going to need a ride back to Midway on the fourth, Thursday morning. Pick him up at eight o’clock at the restaurant,” he said. He hung up before Father Diego could reply.
“I can’t stand this,” Father Diego said to himself while replacing the phone on its base. “I feel like I’m walking along the edge of a cliff. This is the last time I’m going to play taxi. I won’t accept any more money for the church either, even if we can use it. We’ll manage. We did before. And I don’t need cigars or expensive port. After all, what could happen if I say no?” He tried to push his discomfort away.
Though he was tired, sleep was slow in coming. Maybe the banging shutter and the whine of traffic were louder than usual. Or maybe it was the shadowy figures of Eduardo and his silent thugs that seemed to watch with dead eyes from the corners of his bedroom.
~ * ~
The following Thursday, Father Diego eased the garage door closed behind his car after his trip to Chicago and then headed for the rectory. He had plenty of time to change into his cassock and have tea before the five o’clock service. He could even relax, since he had told Eduardo that morning he wouldn’t act as a driver anymore. This was his last trip. Eduardo tried to convince him to carry on, to consider the benefits to the church, to think about his own future. Then Eduardo got angry, furious, calling him a dick and worse; Eduardo pointed out that no one quit a job with him without repercussions. The way he had said it made Father Diego’s skin crawl.
Maybe saying Mass would help my unease, Father Diego thought an hour later as he walked to church through the windy dark.
He didn’t see the quick, dark form next to the east wall of the church as he turned to slip inside the sacristy. He didn’t hear the two breathy metallic wheezes of a gun with a suppressor, didn’t consider further the coming evening Mass, or the wind, or his supper of pozole. With his thoughts flickering like loose connections in an old lamp, he sank to the floor, the exit wound in the back of his head oozing. His shattered heart convulsed and stopped; his eyes twitched, his hands moved restlessly, and he stilled.
Seventeen
Tikal National Park, Guatemala, December
Ochoa was on his third
cup of coffee. The warmth of the kitchen felt good. Mornings could be cool even in the Petén, or maybe he was just getting old. Over the sounds of Esperanza washing dishes in the corner sink and the crackling fire, the growing sound of an airplane heading their way interrupted the quiet morning routine.
“What the hell?” Ochoa was suddenly all business. He ran onto the small patio behind the house to catch a glimpse. Esperanza followed him, wiping her hands on her apron. Single engine. Heading north, descending. It definitely was easing down somewhere on the far edge of the park, or just outside. Not good. Not good at all. It looked like drugs were coming to the Petén in a big way, and the park seemed to be included in the picture.
“What is it?” Esperanza asked. “Smugglers?”
“Yes, and maybe a cartel moving in. I’ve heard talk at the office that there’ve been changes in the Highlands, where the smugglers used to land their cargo. That route is too well-known now, for one thing, and struggles for dominance between South American suppliers and the big Mexican cartels have intensified as the demand in the States has increased,” Ochoa said. “Maybe someone figured if they set up in the Petén they would be less obvious. It’s full of national parks, several archaeological sites, big ranches, tourists, planes in and out bringing people in along with supplies for ranches and everyone else. There is plenty of jungle cover, a small population, more places to build bigger landing strips …”
Later that day while his tour group was busy in the museum, Ochoa returned to headquarters. He wanted to tell Ríos about the plane. Get his take on the situation.
Captain Ríos was bent over a topographical map of Tikal he’d spread on his desk. He was muttering to himself when Ochoa appeared at his office door. Without looking up, Ríos started talking before Ochoa could say “Buenos días.”
“I heard it, too, if you are here about the plane this morning. We’re in trouble. This is the sixth sighting in a month, all heading toward the north end of the park. I’ve talked to the park service’s main office in Guatemala City,” Ríos continued, waving Ochoa toward a visitor’s chair. “There’s a rumor it’s the Sinaloas bringing cocaine, heroin, Fentanyl. They’d attracted too much attention in the Highlands and worn out their welcome, so it seems they decided to shift where they wouldn’t be as obvious, where they could process, pack, and store drugs, as well as ship them to Nuevo Lorado in Mexico for distribution. Using the Petén would allow them to use their previous cross border routes—Ciudad Juarez as jumping off spot for the States, El Paso across the Rio Grande River—as warehouse and transportation hubs where drugs could be packed for individual distributors and to load American trucks. Shipments could be routed straight to Chicago, St. Louis, Indianapolis, Detroit, Des Moines, or wherever, without having to transfer the shipment again.”
“Anything about Los Zetas?” Ochoa asked.
“So far, nothing firm, but the story goes Los Zetas might be pushing into Sierra del Lacandon Park just over the border in Mexico. There’ve been hints—fights in bars between locals and Mexicans from up north, indigenous people shoved off their lands so strangers can construct who knows what—airfields from the sound of it. We’ll know if they start to muscle into Tikal, too. There’ll be carnage if Los Zetas and the Sinaloas bump heads here. We’ve got to stop them before that happens. The park would turn into a battleground; we’d have to close.” Ríos groaned. “We’ve got to get to the north end, see what’s going on.”
Eighteen
Big Grove, December 5
Eduardo Guzmán sat in his office in the yet unopened restaurant, nursing a cup of coffee and tapping his pen on the desk top. He could hear the cook in the back, chopping vegetables, and he could smell frijoles simmering. Otherwise, the place was empty, if he didn’t count his two bodyguards drinking coffee in a booth near the front door. All of a sudden, he had a lot on his plate. There was the usual transfer of goods from El Paso to Big Grove to Chicago, of course, and running the restaurant, but now there was the shift of smuggling operations from the Highlands to the Petén with its new buildings, runways, personnel.
If that weren’t enough, at breakfast his wife, María, brought up his older brother’s youngest daughter’s quinceañera, the traditional Mexican celebration of a young woman’s fifteenth birthday, coming up in April. She wanted to go. María was eager to see the relatives, and she wanted to let them know how well they were doing. The fiesta was going to be held on his brother’s ranch in the Yucatán—a weeklong family reunion with entertainment, dances, fancy dinners, and plenty of time to catch up with one another’s lives and to enjoy the warm weather after what had been a winter of frigid temperatures and blowing snow in Big Grove.
Not that Eduardo was eager to watch his brother strut and brag about his wealth or talk with his idiot relatives, either, but he was wavering. The quinceañera was a big deal, and he could show the rest of them he hadn’t just been making tortillas and frijoles since he moved to the States. María could prance around and flash that big diamond he had bought her. It might be worth it, even though his brother was a prick and his sister-in-law, that skinny bitch, had a voice like a Skil saw.
They could even spend a few days on the beach in Cancun on the way home if they planned things right. He hated to leave his business with shipments coming in, but it would be a perfect opportunity to check on the new transfer facilities and landing center in the Petén, since they weren’t far from his brother’s ranch. At least the trip to the Yucatán could include business as well as a vacation, so he wouldn’t completely be wasted. He’d tell María when he got home and have her start making arrangements.
The problem was he had to find a new courier ASAP. Business was picking up, for one thing, and moving people and money without calling attention to what was happening in the Yucatán was an increasing issue. It would be impossible to find someone with such good cover as the priest, but what could he do? Why the hell had Father Diego suddenly developed cajones after all the money he’d poured down the priest’s throat and into St. Patrick’s? What a dick, taking advantage of hospitality like that. This whole courier thing had turned into a total pain in the ass. Eduardo shook his head.
Nineteen
Big Grove, December 10
A snow squall was blowing in from the northwest when we arrived home. The plane waddled, dipping and pitching, before its wheels finally hit the ground. The weather was a shock after the tropics, but otherwise the trip was easy. We made our connections and we had plenty to talk about in the airports.
Luis and Zoila were full of news from relatives—kids growing up, a young cousin’s wedding in the spring, Luis’s nephew’s new accounting business in Guatemala City. All I had to share were the details of my mugging and my visit to Ruth Wiseman in her studio in Antigua, but that hadn’t yielded much.
I blamed my halting conversation with Ruth on the fact that I felt like hell, and I looked like I’d been in a bar fight. Who wants to chat with someone with the appearance of a police incident photo and who groans when she moves? I had managed to find out that the model for the young lord in the mural was the younger brother of a friend of hers from Flores. She had given me the boy’s name: K’in Kan. Everyone called him Kan. The vulture jade was nothing, merely an adaption of something she had seen in a museum. At least Ruth had promised to get in touch if she remembered something else.
Flores. It was a start. I wouldn’t be surprised if the guy was related to the man I had seen mending fishing equipment.
Big Grove was not the peaceful college town we’d left. The local paper was full of speculative articles about the killing of Father Diego: updates on the investigation appeared on local nightly news and in the Chicago media. His murder seemed to excite particular interest, not only because he was a priest, but also because his death looked like a professional hit. He hadn’t been robbed. His pricey phone and wallet were still in his pocket. It wasn’t some macho, clumsy kid trying to steal, who pulled the trigger. It was someone who wanted him dead and knew how to ki
ll. But who would murder a priest—who, by all accounts, was important in the community and popular with his parishioners—and why?
Some reporters suggested his death might be linked to something in the Hispanic community itself. Then there was the drug crash behind Cinco Gallos; maybe that played a role. In many inventive minds, his killing fit right in with everything else: anti-immigrant hostility, drugs, gang wars.
Even though it wasn’t much, I emailed Ochoa with the latest developments and the name of the man in the mural, just to keep him in the loop. Maybe he could find something about the kid at his end. It would be something.
A couple of nights after we got home, I sat in my recliner with Rosie, trying to put together what I knew of Ruston and Polop. Was destruction seeping out of Xibalba, the Mayan underworld, as Luis suggested, or was it something more mundane? And if it were something run of the mill, what would cause a priest to be assassinated? It sure as hell didn’t have anything to do with squabbles over plans for church Christmas festivities.
There were other signs of unease in Big Grove as well. Just before exam week, a young woman was found nodding in a women’s bathroom stall in the student union; she still had a needle in her arm. A few days later, two high school kids from the southeast side of Big Grove overdosed, ending up in the emergency room. Drug arrests and stops were up, too. According to the authorities, no one knew where the sudden flood of high-grade heroin was coming from or how to stem the tide.