Some Rise by Sin

by Philip Caputo

  The music students, garbed in Renaissance costumes of maroon jackets and white knee socks, strummed guitars and sang old Spanish ballads. The throng following them joined in. Pamela skipped ahead and began to dance alongside the troubadours, marching behind an old man who led a donkey carrying cowhide botas slung from its packsaddle and two wine casks, one on each side. Pamela grabbed a bota and, raising it overhead, squirted wine down her throat. Lisette, feeling as though she were swimming through a river of human flesh, caught up and grabbed her by the arm, like a bouncer ejecting a rowdy. Wine dribbled down Pamela’s chin, staining her white blouse. A couple of drunk young men nearby cheered her on. “Bravo, señora! Hurra!” Right then, a look of malicious merriment flared in Pamela’s eyes. She broke Lisette’s grip, hopped up to an elevated sidewalk and, using it as a mounting block, swung herself onto the donkey’s back. The packsaddle slipped, dumping her onto the cobblestones. One of the casks broke loose, but it remained attached by a rope. The startled donkey bolted, knocking a bystander down, dragging the saddle and the cask. The old man ran stiffly in pursuit, shouting, “Gaspar! Gaspar!” George went to help Pamela up, but the young drunks got to her first. Giving her another Hurra!, they pulled Pamela to her feet. “Gracias! Grassy-ass, my amigos!” she screeched, laughing.

  For days, Lisette been counseling herself to be forbearing, to remember that her lover’s condition was not a character flaw but a disease no different than diabetes or cancer. Yet everything Pamela had done today seemed somehow willful and deliberate. Lisette faced her and told her to for Christ’s sake get ahold of herself. Pamela laughed again—that harsh laugh with a hint of cruelty in it—and Lisette slapped her cheek, hard enough to feel her palm strike bone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The Friday before Ash Wednesday. Riordan sat behind the confessional’s privacy screen and looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes to go. Having listened, yet again, to tedious recitations of stale sins, he was feeling, in equal measure, relieved and disappointed that he’d heard nothing that merited reporting to Valencia and Inspector Bonham. He was also oppressed by the dismal banality of man’s fall from grace. That an event as momentous as banishment from the Garden of Eden should produce some teenager joylessly pulling his pud while gawking at dirty pictures or some shop clerk filching a few pesos from the cash register showed a gross disproportion between cause and effect—the elephant laboring to bring forth a mouse. The whole of The Divine Comedy ought to have been confined to Purgatory, he thought; most people no more deserved the exquisite pains of hell than they did the rewards of heaven.

  The door opened and clicked shut. A face, in silhouette, filled the screen. A female voice whispered, “Bless me, Father, I have sinned,” so softly he could barely hear it. “My last confession was a long time ago. I don’t remember when it was.”

  “Months? Years?” he asked. “And could you please speak up a little?”

  “How is this?”

  “Better,” he said.

  “Years,” she said. “Three years, maybe four.”

  “May I ask, what has brought you here after so long a time?”

  “I have seen God. God brings me here. I saw God when the demon was expelled from me in this church.”

  The young woman with frizzy hair, the epileptic. He hadn’t seen her, in church or in town, since her collapse. What was her name? It began with an M. María? Melinda? That sounded right. Melinda.

  “Please, begin.”

  “I am with them, Padre. The narcos. The Brotherhood,” she said, falling again into near inaudibility.

  A thrumming started in Riordan’s chest. In as controlled a voice as he could manage, he asked what sins she had committed.

  “I’ve done a lot of things. I think that I have murdered for them.”

  After an interval of silence, he said, “You think you’ve committed murder?”

  “No! No! I have killed nobody. My partner, she has done the killing. She is what we call a chica Kaláshnikov, a sicaria. I have assisted her, but I have seen God and I know this is a mortal sin.”

  Sicaria. A female assassin! The only one he’d ever heard of. No banality now. The thrumming grew more rapid and irregular, like atrial fibrillation. “Yes, it is. And you want to confess to this assistance? How many times?”

  “One time. I have helped her kill two people. Two chotas. Here, in San Patricio.”

  Chota—narco slang for “cop.” Riordan had a sensation that he’d never before experienced: that he could hear with his pores. This hypersensitivity amplified her whisper so that she seemed, to him, to be speaking in a conversational tone.

  “Do you mean the federal policemen murdered on Christmas Eve?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how did you assist?”

  She drew in a breath. A rivulet of sweat trickled down his ribs; his palms were damp.

  “She told me that we both are to dress up like, you know, like putas, and we are to distract these cops. She doesn’t say nothing about shooting them, I swear it, Father. We are to dress up, sexy, and flirt with them and make them think we want to, you know, party with them.”

  “Did she say why you were to do this?”

  “No.” The woman paused. “So we are dressed in short skirts and high heels, and we walk up to the police car and we flirt, we ask the chotas, ‘Hey, you guys want a Christmas party you won’t forget?’ The one at the steering wheel, he lets the window down, and the next thing I know, my partner pulls the pistol from her purse and pop-pop-pop-pop. Four shots. Very quick. One-half of one-half of a second.” Another pause. “I am as surprised as the cops, but they’re dead and not surprised anymore. My partner, she has a heart of stone, you know. She says to me then, ‘Okay, now we walk away, no running, we walk away,’ and I am so scared my knees are shaking. I don’t let it show, and she says that I did good, that this was a test for me, and maybe now I will be promoted to sicaria myself.”

  Riordan sat on his side of the screen, breathless. Then he said, “And you swear before God that you had no idea that she was going to shoot them?”

  “I swear it, and I am sorry for what happened and I am here for your forgiveness.”

  “Please understand that it is God who forgives you, not me. God forgives you through me. You have committed an extremely grave sin.”

  “Oh, I know, Padre. I know. I know. I felt the demon inside me, and when I heard about the exorcism, I went to it … to get rid of the bad spirit. Then I saw the face of God and He told me to confess.”

  “I believe you.” Riordan licked his dry lips, wondering what role, if any, Melinda and her partner had played in Domingo’s murder, beyond killing the federales guarding his house. How far should he push this? At what point would he pass from confessor to interrogator, and risk arousing her suspicions?

  “Did you assist in any other crimes that night?” he asked.

  “No. We drove back to Hermosillo after it was over.”

  “Was your partner the woman who was with you at the exorcism? The blond woman?”

  “Must I tell you to have you forgive me?”

  “No,” Riordan said, backing off. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “All right. Yes,” the young woman answered, apparently to further unburden herself. “That was her.”

  Miranda, he remembered now. It was Miranda, not Melinda. He massaged his temples as an idea came to him: he could avoid betraying Miranda without reneging on his agreement with Valencia and Bonham. The chance of success was vanishingly small; yet he had to try.

  “I am obliged to urge you to surrender yourself to the authorities,” he said with starchy formality. “To tell them what you have told me.”

  She said nothing.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said.

  “What am I thinking, Father?”

  “That you would be crazy to do that.”

  “I am thinking you are crazy to ask me to. Pardon me if I insult you.”

  Gathering his resolve, he took o
ne more step: “Would you give me permission to speak with the authorities?”

  He could hear her breathing. The silence lasted for what felt like an unbearably long time before she spoke.

  “That would be crazy, too. Do you know what cops would do to an assassin of police?”

  “But you were not the assassin. If I were with you, if I were at your side, I could help you.… I think you could make a bargain with the police. Tell them who your partner is, who the jefe is.”

  Now I sound like a sleazy lawyer, he thought, urging his client to plea-bargain.

  “Rat on them? Me? A soplón?” Miranda said with a sudden change of tone, a contemptuousness.

  “You have made your point,” he said, then tried another approach. “You said you may be promoted to sicaria. What happens now if you are ordered to…?”

  “I don’t have a heart of stone. I don’t know if I could do it.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “But I do know what they would do to me if I refuse.”

  “You must have a firm resolve to amend your life, you must stop working for those people. Do you understand that?”

  She did not respond.

  “Do you understand that for God’s forgiveness you must make a sincere act of contrition and do all you can to change your life?”

  “Sí, Padre.”

  “As for your penance, you are to say a rosary and make restitution to the families of the policemen. That will wash the blood from the money you were paid.”

  “How? Should I write them a check?” she said, with another abrupt flip in tone. “I don’t know who they are … were…”

  “I will leave the how of it to you,” he said, and then he absolved her, though he was certain that, however sincere her contrition might be, her determination to change her life was not. Her first victim awaited her bullet. She might not pull the trigger for the money, but she’d do it if the boss told her to. As Danny García had said, you do not quit those people.

  * * *

  He opened the door to see if anyone else was waiting. No one. Miranda knelt in a pew below the mural of Saint Luke, face in her hands—the very picture of the penitent sinner.

  Walking quietly past her and out a side door, he went to his room, unlocked a small compartment in his drop-leaf desk, and removed the burner phone. He hesitated, restrained by the image of Miranda praying. To inform on her would be altogether a different matter than informing on García. What could have driven her into such a life, what could have so corrupted her? Contrition was in her heart; she genuinely sought redemption. He sensed that, even though he couldn’t prove it. Life still had value for her, and death had meaning, as they had no value or meaning for her partner, the woman with the petrified heart.

  He put the phone back in the compartment, changed into street clothes, and told María not to expect him for dinner. She threw a fit—Everything is ready, I only have to heat it!—but he couldn’t bear the thought of dining with Hugo and the Old Priest. Not tonight.

  The plaza was deserted, except for three or four paratroopers in battle attire and a Federal Police van, antennae sprouting from its roof. Walking slowly toward the Hotel Alameda in the twilight, Riordan recalled an explication of canon law he’d read once: A priest cannot break the seal of the confessional to save his own life, to protect his good name, to refute a false accusation, to save the life of another, to aid the course of justice, or to avert a public calamity. He pondered a course of action. He would go to the bishop, admit to what he’d done, and take whatever he had coming to him. The consequences might not be as terrible as he feared. An argument could be made—a weak one, true—that Danielo’s confession had been a charade, a cynical ploy; therefore, betraying him had been a misdemeanor rather than a felony. He might be quietly placed on the “awaiting assignment” roster or transferred to another parish, preferably far away from Bonham and the relentless Valencia. He would be leaving his parishioners behind, yet he savored this appealing picture, allowing himself to imagine that it was a prophetic vision instead of an illusory hope.

  César Díaz’s bodyguards—Moises Ortega and two others—were seated near the front of the hotel restaurant. Their hands fell to their waistbands as Riordan came through the door; then, seeing it was him, they relaxed. The bartender and waiter had likewise tensed up, shooting nervous glances toward the front. Everybody in town was on edge, and had been since Domingo’s murder.

  Riordan went to the table in back, where César was dining with his wife, Marta.

  “Buenas noche!” the animated woman said with aggressive zest. “So good to see you, Padre Tim! Please, join us! We are celebrating!”

  César threw her a sharp look.

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “I’ll tell you sometime, in private,” César said. He did not appear in the least celebratory—pensive, rather, and wary. “I’ll buy you a drink, okay?”

  The offer was intended to nullify Marta’s, which Riordan had intended to turn down anyway.

  “Gracias,” he said. “Nos vemos.”

  Riordan took a table on the far side of the room. The waiter, as usual, brought him the newspapers and a Herradura on the rocks, saying that the drink was on Señor Díaz.

  El Imparcial reported more mayhem. Armed men had stormed a migrant safe house, seizing ten people, whom they were holding for ransom.

  So it appeared that the Exorcismo Magno had yet to evict Satan from the diocese. If I inform on Miranda, Riordan asked himself, what will happen to her, assuming she’s caught? She’ll probably be safer in jail than if she stays with the life she’s leading now. She will kill someone, and then someone else, and someone after that, until she herself is killed and her soul numbered with the damned. So to betray her would be to save her soul, and it might save the lives of others. He should have called Bonham right away, while Miranda prayed. By now, she would be well on the way back to Hermosillo, where she would vanish into the city’s crowded warrens. Really peculiar that she would drive more than a hundred miles to the scene of her crime to confess to it. Because she had seen God in the church, or believed she had? No point in speculating. On the other hand, maybe it was a good thing that he hadn’t called immediately. Good for him, that is. If she were arrested so soon after confessing, she would have to be an idiot not to conclude that he had ratted on her. Word would somehow leak out, and then …

  He had let sentiment get in his way. The image of her in a repentant pose, head bowed, face in her hands, had blurred the memory of Domingo’s still, slitted eyes staring up at him through the ice. He was allowing it to get in his way now, because as he leisurely sipped his tequila, he made no move to return to his room and pick up the cell phone. He couldn’t do it. That was peculiar, too: he could not be any more excommunicated than he already was.

  César’s bodyguards rose from their table and went outside. A minute or two later, they came back in and signaled that it was safe to leave. An observer who didn’t know that César was chief of the autodefensa might think he was a cartel don, protected by pistoleros. He and Marta got up, but instead of following his wife and the phalanx of guards straight out the door, César veered to Riordan’s table and leaned over it, his rough, rutted face inches away, the smell of beer on his breath.

  “I can trust you with a secret?” he said in a low voice.

  Suppressing a bitter, inward laugh, Riordan nodded.

  César lowered his head and his voice still further: “My brother in the States, Ignacio?”

  “Yes…”

  “He’s got a job running a warehouse in Nogales. A produce shipper. He told me they’re going to need to replace a guy who’s retiring. Twenty an hour to start.”

  “You’re going to take it? I hope not.”

  “Well, I am. Mexico is fucked. We’re leaving right after Easter. That’s why we’re celebrating. But only we know it. And now you.”

  He squeezed Riordan’s shoulder and left, with no further word. Riordan wanted to cry out, But the tow
n needs you! I need you! He drank off the tequila and looked around the room, now empty except for him, the waiter, and the bartender, whose profile was reflected in the mirrored back bar.

  * * *

  On a Monday morning, Bonham called Riordan and asked him to come to the military base. He said it was an invitation to lunch, but his peremptory tone was unmistakable: it was another summons.

  What do they want now? Riordan wondered as he rode through a mid-winter sprinkle. The Sierra Madre mountains were a soft purple in the distance, the highest peaks wearing bonnets of cloud.

  * * *

  Seated around a folding card table, Riordan, Bonham, and Valencia ate in the captain’s quarters rather than in the officers’ mess—“for privacy’s sake,” Valencia said. Not complete privacy. They were joined by Subteniente Almazán, a quiet young man with the stretched build of a tennis pro.

  “The troops massacred in the ambush belonged to his platoon,” Valencia said.

  The lieutenant nodded solemnly, as if the statement required his confirmation.

  “With all our resources, we are no closer to finding out who was behind it,” Valencia went on matter-of-factly. “Nothing, nothing, and more nothing. Which makes us wonder if the Brotherhood was not responsible. We are taking another look at the possibility.”

  Riordan gave a quick jerk of his head. “But you said that that was far-fetched.”

  Valencia did not respond as lunch arrived, delivered from the mess hall by the short, thickset soldier who had stopped Riordan at the roadblock a few months ago. Army food that purported to be roast chicken, the meat so stringy and tough it must have come from a fighting cock.

  “Inspector Bonham was the one who thought it was far-fetched,” Valencia said, picking up the thread of conversation. “Lieutenant Almazán has called my attention to the possibility that the fetching might not be far.”

  With another nod, Almazán elaborated: “The Sierra Madre is lawless. Like your Wild West. Anyone is free to do whatever comes into his head. It could have been some gang muscling in on the Brotherhood’s territory. It could have been someone else. Anyone.”