by Andrew Mayne
“No,” I reply. “They’re sophisticated. I guess that’s the military training playing its part. They know how Border Patrol and the DEA work.”
“They appear to be a complex operation.”
“Yeah. And how widespread, if we’re finding literal footprints in West Virginia? Speaking of which, any word from my friend Black Nick?” I ask.
Ailes hesitates. “I was going to wait until you got back to tell you.”
“What?”
“We sent some field agents to do an interview. When they got there they found his shack burned to the ground.”
“What? And him?” He was “out there,” but he had grown on me. He was helpful in his strange way and seemed to be concerned for me.
“No sign of him. It looks like he may have set the fire.”
“Christ. Crazy bastard. Keep an eye out for him. I’m pretty sure he’s harmless. Pretty sure . . .”
“You’ve said that. I hope that’s the case. I’ll make some calls to Customs so we can get your fish across the border. How is the chemical extracted?”
“It isn’t. Moya said the shaman would eat the fish whole and they’d produce the toxin in the stomach. Apparently, because they’ve evolved to the harsh chemistries of the cave, they can swim for a while in your gut and keep producing the hallucinogen.”
“Delightful. Well that raises the question of how one got into the sheriff’s stomach.”
“Hawkton’s not known for its sushi.”
“Wouldn’t be the strangest thing you could find to eat in West Virginia. And if the fish have to be transported live, that does play into the X-20 connection. They’d certainly have no trouble getting them across the border. Psychoactive fish . . .” I can practically hear him shaking his head.
“Remember, these gangs compete in horrific ways to torture each other. Have we had anyone follow up on what the deputy’s daughter told me, about strange stuff going on?” I ask.
“Actually, yes. It’s hard to make sense of things. Digging a little deeper, we’re getting stories ranging from odd lights in the sky to Jesus visitations. Some people talked about the feeling they were being watched. Apparently the Alsops had called in to Jessup several times about trespassers, then their dog was killed. McKnight too. We’re looking into the more unusual sightings.”
“Didn’t he say he found hoof prints near his house?”
“He told Deputy Baldwin he saw glowing eyes outside.”
“Christ.”
“It all stopped on the night of the explosion. People say they haven’t felt the ‘presence’ since then. The one upside, if you can consider it that, is they’re not talking to the press about it.”
“I think they have enough attention with their cannibal zombie sheriff on the loose.”
“Did you talk to anyone down there about the case?”
“Not in specifics. I told Moya what you told me to say. I’ve kept my purpose here close to the vest.”
“Hold on . . . Interesting . . .”
“What’s interesting?”
“We just got a tip passed on to us from our Mexico City office. I’m watching the wires for Mexico while you are down there.”
“What is it?”
“A name of a possible suspect. Nèstor Albó. He has ties to Tixato and has been arrested for dealing in the US. He calls himself a ‘shaman’ and sells mainly to college kids in the North East.”
Now I shake my head. “I hear more of that now. Drug dealers calling themselves ‘shamans’ so everyone feels more enlightened about the experience of getting high. What do you think?”
“It’s an interesting lead. He’s been to the US and Tixato. No known ties to X-20, though.”
“Hard to imagine anyone involved in drugs who has links down there not being connected to them,” I reply.
Ailes, cautious about jumping to conclusions, points out, “He could be in a rival gang, or we just don’t know the connection.”
“Curious. Any idea of where he is now?”
“We’re looking into him. We believe the US. The Mexican police are known for not wanting to go out of their way to tell you where their sources come from.”
“I’ll let you know what I hear.” I glance out the window. “Got to run. It’s dark out. I think the bats have left the cave. Time to go get our fish.”
“Blackwood, be careful.”
“Hopefully your tip works out and the sixth man is a long ways away from here, off in the woods with the sheriff.”
14
WHEN I PULL up to Moya’s location, his Ford Explorer is parked near the mouth of the cave. The tailgate is open and the coolers he uses to carry samples are still sitting there. His headlights are on, cutting through the darkness into the brush. His toolbox of scalpels, pipettes and other instruments is wide open, but there’s no sign of him.
I take a closer look at his toolbox. I spot a drop of blood on the plastic. It could be nothing, but . . .
Just beyond the front of the SUV is the cave entrance. A hole in the ground, in the moonlight it looks like a black puddle with the top of the aluminum ladder poking through.
“Dr. Moya?” I shout below.
There’s no reply except for my echo. I go back to his SUV and rummage around for one of the powerful flashlights he uses in the caverns. A branch snaps behind me. I wheel around and see the outline of someone standing in the dark.
“Are you a friend of Dr. Moya’s?” the stranger asks in slightly accented English.
“Yes. Who are you?” I keep close to the SUV. I have a gun under my jacket, but his hands appear empty so I don’t reach for it just yet.
“I’m Officer Esteban. I’m with the Ministerial Federal Police. I came to check up on the doctor. I’m a friend of the family.” He steps into the headlights. He’s young, in his mid-twenties. Dressed in slacks and a tailored shirt, he looks like he’d be more at home at a Mercedes dealership than in the police force. He carefully pulls out a badge and shows it to me. I notice the gun under the hem of his shirt. “I’m a cop, like you.” He gives me a broad smile of perfectly veneered teeth.
I nod back at him. “I was supposed to meet Dr. Moya. There’s blood here. I think he’s in trouble.”
Esteban walks over and takes a look at the splatter. “Is there a first-aid kit here?”
I see a white box with a red cross and remove it from a plastic crate. Esteban pulls out a flashlight, walks over to the hole, and aims the beam into the dark. “I can barely see the bottom. We should go and check on him.”
I join him with the first-aid kit. Then something dawns on me as I turn my back on him, about to climb down the ladder: How did Esteban know I was a cop?
How did he even know to speak to me in English? With my dark hair, I often get mistaken as Latina.
I don’t trust him.
He’s a little too concerned with me, and not so much Dr. Moya.
Something is wrong.
“Ladies first,” he says smoothly as he points to the ladder.
I glance back and give him a bashful grin. “You go. I’m a little unsteady with heights.”
“I’ll hold the top of the ladder for you.”
I could just be hysterical. Maybe Moya told him about me? If Esteban wanted me dead, he could have shot me from the trees. Unless . . .
My mind goes into overdrive. If he needs to make it look like an accident . . . An FBI agent found dead with a gunshot wound would certainly bring more attention than Esteban wants. An accident is different. If I fall down the ladder and get killed, that wouldn’t raise an alarm. Especially because there’s no reason anyone down here should want to kill me, at least that I know about.
Killing cops who are chasing down clues only brings more cops. The surest way to look suspicious is to do something dumb like that. It doesn’t make any sense right now.
I take a breath. I need to test Esteban before giving in to my paranoia full-force. “Hold on. Let me call a friend before we go down there. Better that someone knows where we are if we get lost too.”
“Sure thing. Good idea,” he agrees, as relaxed as can be.
He doesn’t make any effort to stop me from pulling out my phone. Now I wonder if I am overreacting. I decide to follow through with my ploy anyway, and walk over to the bumper of Moya’s SUV to sit with the first-aid kit on my lap. I call Ailes’s direct number. While I wait for the connection I absentmindedly sort through the open toolbox, keeping an eye on Esteban.
The phone keeps ringing, but there’s no answer. I try the FBI direct line next. The call doesn’t connect.
“Trouble?”
“I can’t get through.” Great.
“The signal here sucks,” Esteban says. “If Moya is hurt, we really shouldn’t keep him waiting.”
“You’re right.” I come back to the cave mouth and hand him the first-aid kit. “You go down while I try to get through.”
He takes too long to respond. “I really wouldn’t know my way down there.”
I play up my helplessness. “Neither would I.”
“There’s no point in both of us getting lost.” He reaches for his phone. “I might get a better signal. Why don’t you go down while I call?” There’s an urgency to his voice that he didn’t have before.
This is a setup.
I reach for my gun. Esteban is faster getting his out. He points it at my head. I freeze.
“Sorry, sister. Too slow.” He drops the helpful act.
“Is Moya even alive?” I ask.
“Probably. Now go down the fucking ladder.” He’s lost his smoothness. There’s more than anger in his tone, maybe even desperation.
I don’t move. One twitch and I could be dead.
Esteban grabs me by the neck with his left hand and pushes his muzzle to my temple with his right. “I said move, bitch!”
I have to think my way through this. What does he want? “You squeeze any harder, you’re going to leave a bruise. Tell me that won’t look suspicious?”
He relaxes his grip and moves the barrel a centimeter away from my temple, then uses his left hand to grab my ponytail. “Don’t do what I say, and by the time they find you, it won’t matter.” He yanks my scalp toward the hole. “Down.”
I flash back to that moment outside the Texas church when I let my guard down. After I was rescued, I’d vowed never to make the same mistake. That determined vigilance has affected me in a lot of different ways.
Now, when I feel the hint of something odd, I find myself subconsciously preparing for an attack.
I think it’s my past playing into it too. Magicians practice a coin vanish or a card sleight to the point where we aren’t even conscious of doing it. The first step is to practice until you can fool an audience. The final step is to fool yourself. You work to get so good, you don’t even know you did it.
I know theatrical pickpockets who have to make embarrassing phone calls to the booker after they get home and find an extra watch they slipped off a stranger’s wrist at an opportune moment.
Instinct.
There’s something cold and metallic in my sleeve. While I was trying to reach Ailes on the phone, I stole a scalpel. As I kneel, Esteban reaches for my gun. He sees the flicker of reflected moonlight as the blade appears at my fingertips.
15
I MISS HIS JUGULAR and hit Esteban’s collarbone. The blade still goes in and he screams. He pulls away from me and out of reach. I hear something metallic splash in the water below.
My gun.
It slipped from my waistband.
Fuck. It must have fallen into the cave during our struggle.
I could run for the trees, but I won’t get far in the dark. He’s done with the game. He’ll shoot me before he lets me escape. There’s only one place to go.
I jump into the hole and hit the ladder hard. It buckles on me, nearly throwing me off. But I hold my grip and keep climbing down, pulling my body into the dark.
Gravel stings me as Esteban runs to the edge of the hole and points his gun into the shadows. Silhouetted by the moonlight, I can tell he’s trying to decide what to do. His original plan must have been to push me off the ladder when I climbed in at the top, but now I’m out of reach. I slide down the last few rungs and slip out of the light.
He aims the flashlight he took from the SUV around to spot me. Because he has to use one hand to brace himself over the edge to keep himself from falling, there’s no way for him to simultaneously catch me in the light and aim.
A dark drop of blood falls from above through the beam of his flashlight and splashes into the water. It’s not the torrent I’d like, but I know I’ve hurt him just the same.
“Coming down?” I taunt. I want to make him hesitate. I need him to think I have the upper hand. My eyes slowly adjust to the dark. Sticking to the shadows, I go to my knees and start feeling around in the water for my gun.
The pool is only a foot deep, but the bottom is a murky gunk of sharp rocks, rotting vegetation, and the small bones of animals that fell down here and died. Slimy things slither past my fingers. Sharp objects poke into my hands.
The torch beam disappears for a moment, then comes back. I duck to the side just as he fires his gun. That’s his plan: wait for me to step into the moonlight as I look for my gun, then shoot me.
I shrink against the wall, out of his reach, and my leg touches something soft. It’s a body. Dr. Moya is slumped against a rock. I put a hand to his throat and feel a pulse. He makes a small moan and says something in Spanish. I’m glad he’s still alive, but I have no idea how I’m going to be able to help him.
Esteban’s shadow is visible in the circle of light cast on the water by the moon. His roaming flashlight beam falls on the ladder and inspects the area around its feet. He can’t wait much longer, because I could go deeper into the caves. I might get lost and die, but there’s a small chance I’d find another way out, or be able to outlast his patience.
He’s not going to let that happen.
What he can’t comprehend is that there’s no way I’m leaving Moya alone right now. That’s my biggest weakness. But whatever kind of sociopath Esteban is, he doesn’t see that.
The ladder shakes as he takes his chances that I haven’t found my gun yet. I haven’t. I keep digging into the horrible ooze to no avail. It’s most likely right in the moonlit middle of the water, where I can’t search.
Esteban is the only one that’s armed right now. And I think he’s past the point of making my death look like an accident.
He takes another step, then pauses, pivots and points his torch into the dark recesses of the cave. I pull a rock free from the bottom and throw it across the pool.
Esteban fires at the moving target, but then he realizes the trick and aims at the direction it came from.
I’m still out of range for now. Unfortunately, there’s nowhere behind me to go. If I want to move, I have to run through the light. Which would be suicide.
Still on the ladder, he has the higher ground.
Normally that would be an advantage . . .
He descends to the next rung.
I think.
What makes him vulnerable?
Gravity.
I run for the ladder.
I leap into the air and kick it with both feet.
The bottom of it buckles, gets knocked free from the ground, and slides out from underneath him. I hit the water on my side and roll free as
the ladder comes toppling down. Esteban falls the full thirty feet and slams into the rocks. There’s a sickening crack followed by a splash. His screams are muffled by the water as his head goes under for a moment.
Broken, sprawled out, he flails. I stagger to my feet, ignoring my bruised hip, and pry the gun from his fingers. He lets out a howl as he tries to lift himself on his broken arm. I pistol-whip him unconscious so I can find my gun before he does. It’s a savage thing to do, but this is a matter of survival.
“Remind me to stay on your good side,” says a weak, but alert, Dr. Moya.
I cross over to him and grimly smile in the moonlight before probing his arms and legs for broken bones. “Who is he?”
“A policeman, I believe. He looked familiar.”
“Seriously?” I was hoping the badge was a fake. Now I’ve done it. This is even worse than I thought. I may have just killed another cop.
16
ESTEBAN IS A dirty cop. They’re like cockroaches: where there’s one, there’s more. I’ve met some hardworking Mexican police who risk their lives every day to bring justice, but all it takes is a few corrupt ones and you no longer know whom to trust—the whole system falls apart. I’ve got nowhere to run.
Esteban had kicked Moya down the ladder just before I got there. Fortunately for the professor, he landed on his arm and got only a mild concussion. Esteban himself is in slightly worse shape. He shattered a leg, his arm, and at least one rib.
I right the ladder to fetch some materials from Moya’s SUV so I can make a splint for his sprained arm before helping him up out of the hole. I wrestle with leaving Esteban at the bottom of the cave. It would be the safest course of action, but it’s not a moral or an ethical one.
My phone still isn’t working, so I can’t call for backup. If I leave him, he’ll probably be alone for hours before any help can be sent back to him. His wounds are severe enough that he could die.
I couldn’t live with that.
My only choice is to use the winch on Moya’s SUV to pull Esteban up. I sling the cable under his arms, padding it with a blanket. Moya controls the motor as I guide Esteban’s body up the ladder. He screams bloody murder before passing out, which makes the most difficult part a little easier.