Blood Sport

by Lisa Smedman

  A gold cross that hung on a chain against the smooth skin of his chest gleamed in the light of the candle. He saw me staring at it, and lifted it for me to see.

  “The four-branched tree of life,” he said with a smile. “Which, conveniently enough, is amazingly similar to the Christian cross and can double as a symbol of our faith.” He turned it over to show me the acronym INRI engraved on the back.

  The explanation wasn’t necessary. I’d already recognized the cross from the simsense chip case that the missionaries had left behind in Mama G’s kitchen.

  Rafael crossed the church and stood slightly behind the priest. I noticed he hadn’t put his pistol away.

  “How do we know this is Father Silvio?” he rumbled suspiciously.

  The priest shrugged. “How do I know you’re friends of Rosalita Ramirez?”

  Rafael’s eyes narrowed. “I’m her grandson. I took care of her after the AFL smuggled her north.”

  “Has she returned to Aztlan?”

  I shook my head. “She was the one I told you about in the confessional,” I told him. “She’s dead. Murdered. We’ve come to Aztlan to track down her killer.”

  The priest gasped and the color drained from his face. His eyes blinked rapidly as he fought back tears, and he murmured a brief prayer under his breath. If he was faking his surprise and alarm, he was one of the best actors I’d ever seen.

  “I am . . .” He seemed too choked up to get the words out. “I am so sorry to hear that. But why have you come to me?” I decided to name-drop. I hadn’t been told not to, and I wanted to see what the reaction would be.

  “One of the rebel leaders—Kukulcán—told us that you helped Rosalita after she lost her magic and memories, Father Silvio,” I said. “We thought that you might—”

  “Por favor,” he said. “Call me Gus.” I’d done enough interviews as a police officer to be able to sense an undercurrent of agitation, but the priest covered it well. “I would prefer it if you did not use the term Father when .. .”

  He paused, listening. My cyberear had regained its functionality the moment I left Kukulcán’s bunker, and I used it now to amplify the sounds of an engine and the squeal of brakes outside. It sounded as if one of the jeeps had stopped outside the doorway where we’d hidden our motorcycle. I heard voices, and then a bright light flashed on, shining through the cracks in the door.

  Excited shouts outside confirmed the worst: our motorcycle had been spotted.

  Father Silvio scooped up the glass jar that held the candle, raised a cautioning finger to his lips, and beckoned urgently for Rafael and I to follow him.

  “Come quickly,” he whispered. “We must leave. Hurry!”

  Shielding the candle, he turned and ran. As Rafael and I bolted after him, I heard the sound of the padlock chain rattling. I expected it to slow the soldiers down some—enough to let us get out of sight. I was wrong.

  An explosion erupted in a flash of light and heat behind us, smashing the heavy wooden door flat against the ground and filling the church with dust. A bright light shone into the church, throwing my shadow ahead of me in stark relief. For the second time that evening my back tensed in anticipation of a bullet. I thought longingly of the armored vest I’d been forced to turn in when I left the Star, and wished I was wearing it now.

  The priest was a few steps ahead, beseeching his god in a loud, worried voice. Rafael jogged backward, trying to take aim at the soldiers but squinting and unable to see with the bright light in his eyes. I knew it was futile—they’d cut us down before we ever got the chance to take even one of them out. I grabbed his arm, dragging him after me. I even said a prayer myself—old habits die hard.

  When I saw the angel, I knew I’d lost it. I’m not really sure if that’s what it was—all I know is that a shimmering appeared in the air above us. The ghostly figure looked like a woman in a long robe, her wings beating languidly and her hands outstretched in the protective gesture you see in biblical illustrations. She was there for the blink of an eye—and then I couldn’t see her any more. I kept my head down and ran, telling myself it was only a trick of dust swirling in the light.

  I heard shouts and the stamp of running feet as the soldiers poured into the church, but somehow, they didn’t see us. Or if they did, for some reason they didn’t shoot. Rafael and I piled through the doorway after the priest and pounded down the stairs, around a corner, along a hallway past a number of smaller rooms and eventually into what looked like a dead end—a room walled with bookshelves whose floor was heaped with charred Bibles and hymnals.

  “What the frag?” Rafael asked angrily. “We’ll be trapped here!” He spun angrily around, waving his pistol as if looking for a target.

  The sound of booted feet reverberated against the ceiling above us. The soldiers must have been searching the main floor of the church. I drew my own pistol. I was determined to go down fighting.

  Father Silvio—Gus—seemed oblivious to our plight. He squatted beside the shelves, reaching under one and fiddling with something. My cyberear caught a faint click and a small passageway opened. It looked as though there was an escape route from this room, after all.

  “This church was built in the 1560s, when the natives outnumbered the colonials by several thousand to one,” Gus told us in an urgent whisper. “The early priests built this refugio, but to my knowledge never used it. It’s almost as if they foresaw the need that future generations of priests would have for it.”

  He held the tiny door open while Rafael and I crawled inside, then followed us and sealed it shut. Then he led us down a narrow flight of wooden steps that squeaked alarmingly underfoot We wound up in what must have been the sub-basement of the church. By the fitful light of the candle, I saw that the walls on either side of us were constructed at an odd angle—the upper part of the wall was perpendicular to the floor, but the lower wall sloped down like a ramp. Several of the stones on the upper, vertical portion were carved. Despite the fact that this carving had been defaced, I could tell that it was centuries old. I’d seen enough Mayan glyphs by now to recognize their boxy shape, even if the picture-words they once contained had long since worn away.

  I noticed that the priest’s hand was dripping blood. He must have cut his palm on the broken rim of the glass cup that held the candle. On top of that he was starting to stumble with fatigue. I supposed he’d been up most of the night.

  I made him stop and sit down on a flat, round stone that was set into the floor. It looked like a stone wheel, with a hole in the middle and carvings of skulls and glyphs around its outer edge. Not the most comfortable seat, but the floor was filthy and thus a distant second choice. I took a look at Gus’ hand. The cut was deep, but clean. Gus protested fiercely that he was fine, and by the time I’d talked him into letting me apply some pressure to the wound, the bleeding had already stopped.

  I glanced at my watch. It was nearly five a.m. “What now?” I asked him. “Do we wait here until the soldiers have gone? When does curfew end?”

  “Seven a.m.,” Gus answered. “But if we remain here, the soldiers will use magic to track us down. We’ll leave in a minute or two, when I’ve caught my breath.”

  Rafael looked around. “What is this place?”

  “Part of the original town of Izamal,” Gus answered. “When the Spaniards conquered this region, they razed the Mayan temples and burned their holy books. Then they built Catholic churches on the foundations of the temples they had destroyed.

  “And now the irony is that the government of Aztlan is doing the same thing. The church above us is slated for destruction, and a Mayan temple will be rebuilt on its rubble. It would have been done years ago, but for the rebellion. Every time the government brings in equipment, the Cristeros find a way to sabotage it.”

  “The Cristeros?” I asked. “Are they part of the revolution?” Gus shook his head. “Not officially. But they share the rebels’ desire for self-determination for the local traditionals and campesinos. They took their name from
the Cristero Rebellion of the 1920s, when Catholics fought back against government anti-church policies.” He shrugged. “The Cristeros of that century had God on their side—they won their fight. I can only pray that the Lord still smiles upon our efforts.”

  I had to fight the urge to roll my eyes. I couldn’t imagine fighting for so abstract a cause as religion. But then I thought about it. As a Lone Star officer, I had put my life on the line countless times. I suppose I was technically doing it again for the equally abstract cause of “justice.” But there was always a concrete reason. A life to be saved. A street kid to be rescued. Property to be protected ...

  Then I realized that the Cristeros shared the same thirst for justice. The church above my head was theirs, and was being stolen from them. In Seattle, the enemies of the people had been street criminals and organized crime. Here, the enemy was the government itself. I was starting to understand the rebels’ struggle.

  Gus turned to Rafael. “Your abuelita sheltered here for a time, when the security forces were looking for her. Before she lost her memories. And now you are hiding here. Life does revolve like a wheel, doesn’t it? Both for this place, and the people who—”

  Suddenly the earth shifted beneath my feet, sending me staggering. Rafael cursed and threw out his arms for balance, trying to stay upright, and Gus gripped the stone he was sitting on and looked with wary eyes up at the ceiling. I heard creaks and groans from the building above, and dust trickled down onto our hair and shoulders.

  “Frag,” Rafael said in a choked voice, wide eyes staring at the ceiling. “What’s going on up there?”

  “Earthquake,” the priest said. “It’s nothing. Just a small one.” Then he rose to his feet. “Come. It’s time we left. There is a home near here that we can reach if we’re careful. Friends of mine live there and will take us in until the curfew ends.”

  “And you’ll tell us about my grandmother?” Rafael asked.

  The priest nodded.

  Gus had answered readily enough, but I thought I detected a note of reluctance in his voice. I was soon to find out why.

  15

  A second concealed door led up from the sub-basement into the building that used to be the convent. Like the church, it was abandoned and boarded up—a candidate for demolition. We exited onto a street that was still dark, then crept away into the early morning. Behind us, in the direction of the church, the crak! crak! of a rifle cut the night. I guessed that the Azzie soldiers were trigger-happy, and shooting at shadows.

  The house Gus led us to was an unusual one. It was built in traditional Aztlaner style around a courtyard, but the exterior had been entirely covered in glazed ceramic tiles. Brilliant blue and green Euro designs butted up against vibrant red and yellow Asian motifs. Here and there, a checkerboard pattern of smaller black and white tiles broke the riot of color.

  “The house is a point of vanity for its owner,” Gus whispered. “In Seattle you might say, ‘He’ll never amount to much.’ In Aztlan, we have a similar saying: ‘He’ll never have a tile house.’ Whenever someone in this country strikes it rich, they build themselves a tile-faced one to show off.”

  We went around to a side door and huddled in its arch as Gus knocked. After a few tense moments—in which a truckful of soldiers rattled past the front of the house and we all froze—the door opened a crack and a girl in her late teens, dressed in a maid’s uniform, peeked out. She’d probably already scanned us via the closed-circuit monitor that was built into the wall beside the door, but even so was being cautious. Then she recognized the priest and opened the door wide.

  “Padre!” she whispered, looking with frightened eyes toward the street as another vehicle approached. “Come inside, quickly!”

  She obviously trusted Gus enough to allow Rafael and I—two total strangers—into the house. We passed through a pantry into a kitchen with all of the modern conveniences. Here we paused while the girl—who looked at Gus with obvious admiration—asked in a hurried whisper what he wanted. I noticed a glint of a gold necklace under the collar of her uniform and wondered if she wore the same tree/cross that the priest did. Rafael also stared at the girl—but his eyes were fixed on a spot a few centimeters below the necklace. And for good reason—the girl was stunningly beautiful, with high cheekbones and long dark hair as sleek and glossy as a cat’s pelt.

  I watched as Rafael straightened his jacket and squared his shoulders. I sighed with annoyance and hoped he wouldn’t try flirting with the maid. But it was probably inevitable.

  “My friends and I had to go out before curfew ended,” Gus explained. “We were on a . . . mission of mercy. But we ran into soldiers. Can we wait here until curfew is over?”

  The maid chewed her lip indecisively for a moment. Then she nodded. “You can wait in the courtyard. The family will be taking breakfast there at eight, but you will be gone before then. I will bring you some coffee and rolls.”

  I silently thanked her and saw that Rafael was grinning. We hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. It was a wonder that the rumbling of his stomach hadn’t led the soldiers straight to us.

  The maid looked at Gus with obvious concern. “Was there trouble up at the santuario?" she asked softly.

  “Sí,” Gus answered. “But it’s over now.”

  I hadn’t thought about it before, but now I realized that the word the maid had used had a double meaning: both “sanctuary” and, in slang, “buried treasure.” I hoped it would be proved correct—that the priest really did have something of value to offer us.

  The maid led us to a courtyard at the center of the house. At first I thought it was open to the sky, but then I realized that it was too bright—and too quiet. Outside, it was still dark, but in here morning “sunlight” was already slanting in among the potted plants and flowering vines that filled the space. I could hear the tinkle of a fountain and see clouds drifting across the sky. The ceiling had to contain a holo—and some infrared heaters, to give the fake sunlight an authentic feel. I guessed that a very solid roof sealed off this place of refuge from the world outside.

  The coffee and rolls arrived within minutes—real coffee and real butter, not soykaf and EZ Spread. We sat in lounge chairs in the shadow of a gigantic stone head—a staring face with wide lips and flaring nose that looked more Afro than Azzie. It was pitted and worn enough to be an actual Olmec sculpture—and was probably worth a million nuyen, if not more. When the maid had gone—ignoring Rafael’s wink—I took a long, grateful sip of my café con crema and then began grilling Gus in my best police interview style.

  “Kukulcán said that you were the one who helped Mama Grande—Rosalita Ramirez—after her mind became confused. We want to find out what happened to her and why. Somebody went to great lengths to pull something out of the tangled web that was her memory and then—”

  “Momento, por favor,” Gus said, holding up a hand. “I want to make certain of something, first. If you truly do know Rosalita, you will know which leg her scar was on.”

  Rafael leaned forward, setting his coffee cup down angrily. “Are you calling us liars?”

  Gus made a conciliatory gesture, patting the air with his hands. “No, no,” he said. “It’s just that in Aztlan, one cannot be too careful. . .”

  “It wasn’t on her leg,” Rafael answered. “It was on her right arm. Up high, near the shoulder.”

  “Bueno,” Gus said.

  He seemed about to say something more, but I cut him off by holding up a finger. Something had yanked at my cop’s instincts, just for a moment there. I had a horrible suspicion, but needed it confirmed.

  “This scar,” I said to Rafael. “How did Mama G get it?”

  Rafael shrugged. “Beats me. Got in the way of some Azzie shrapnel, I always figured.”

  I stared hard at Gus. Something in his posture when he’d asked about the scar told me that he knew the answer to my question. “How did she get the scar?” I asked.

  After a moment’s hesitation, he glanced sidelong at R
afael and then answered. “Your abuelita was not always a Christian,” he began slowly. “Before she came to our church she followed the Path of the Sun. She belonged to a cult that is very active in these parts—a splinter group that wants to hasten the coming of the apocalypse—what we Christians believe will be the final battle between God and Satan. She . . . did things she later regretted.”

  I glanced at Rafael to see how he was taking the news. Bright spots of red marked his cheeks and his jaw was clenched, but he seemed to be keeping it together.

  As Rafael met my eyes I saw the anguish he was feeling. “That brand,” he said. “The one on the arm of the missionary. My Mama Grande was part of that cult?” The tone of his voice made it clear that he didn’t want to believe it.

  Gus frowned. “You know these people?”

  I decided to come clean with him. As succinctly as possible, I told him the circumstances of Mama G’s murder. I left out, however, the name Domingo Vargas. It would probably be more informative if Gus drew his own conclusions about who the killer might have been.

  The priest’s face was pale by the time I finished. His forehead drew into a worried frown and he toyed with his coffee cup, forgetting to drink from it.

  “The government—Aztechnology.” he said. “They got to her. Despite all of our efforts, they tracked Rosalita down.” He shook his head angrily at the memory. “Pinche policía,” I heard him say under his breath, but only because of my cyberear.

  “You know something,” I prompted. “Tell us.”

  The priest’s frown deepened and then he nodded to himself. He looked up at Rafael and I.

  “Your abuelita first sought to convert to Christianity nearly twenty years ago,” he said. “My uncle, who was a sacerdote in Izamal before me, refused to perform her baptism. He said the magic she drew from the Snake—the keeper of secrets and the tempter of Eve and Adam—was evil. She sought to prove him wrong. But even after seeing the work she was doing among the people of this region—among the poor, the sick, and the wounded—he refused to allow her to join the church. He was of the old school, a man born before the Awakening. He just didn’t understand.