by K M Stross
“What do they do then, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Ramon smiled. “I will show you.” He got up, and Cross followed him through the kitchen. In the sink, a pile of old food-encrusted dishes had begun to overflow. The countertop was contrastingly clean, with a simple jar of sugar to break up the space of white tile. Still, Cross breathed through his mouth, aware of the overflowing can of garbage next to the faded yellow refrigerator. The entire house felt as if it had been decorated shortly after World War II, relying heavily on solid secondary colors.
Outside, the sun had begun to bake the earth a hot brown, curling the air into waves of heat that drifted lazily up from the earth. Cross didn’t notice anything at first, until he cast his gaze farther in the distance, beyond the barbed wire fence. Spread across the landscape, masses of fresh dirt that hadn’t seen the light of day in years set in soft piles. Each one was a circular shape, distanced from the next by only a few feet of length. Ramon led Cross to the fence, where they carefully slipped between the barbed wire and walked the hundred or so yards to where the freshest dirt lay. These holes were darker, the wet earth not yet quite dried by the harsh sun.
Cross bent down in front of the nearest one, pressing his finger into the cool, soft earth. He examined the traces on his finger, expecting to find something extraordinary between the dark granules. Under the intense sunlight, he could almost see the black ash soil drying out to a bright gray. His left eye created a tunnel centering on his finger, a black ghost-like frame that was there and wasn’t there.
Ramon squinted his eyes and lit a fresh cigarette, pulling the dark aviator sunglasses from his breast pocket and setting them on his pudgy nose. “This is what three of them do every day. Same thing they have been doing for two years.”
“Digging graves?” Cross asked.
Ramon shook his head. “Digging for a grave, Padre. The problem was we had quite a round of dust storms a few days after Father Belmont’s disappearance…”
“You think his body is still out there?” Cross asked.
“Parts, I’m sure,” Ramon said. He exhaled a fresh plume of smoke and looked around at the checkerboard pattern of dirt. “Coyotes don’t much enjoy digging for food, despite what some farmers around here might tell you. The body’s still around—not enough for the town to pony up the reward money, but enough to collect the reward from the Archdiocese, at least.”
“Enough to make a profit,” Cross finished. “You pay them peanuts to find the body, and then you collect the reward.”
Ramon glanced at him, nodding but offering nothing more from behind the large aviators. “All I need are some good bulls with fat balls to make this the best ranch in town. And how would the townies like that? Having a former illegal as Purgatory’s richest man? They would not like that one bit, I can tell you. But they would have to deal with it because I have my papers now and I am an American.”
“Don’t the cattle bring in enough money?”
Ramon sighed and shook his head. His moist breath traveled the distance between them and dug into Cross’s nostrils: old dirt and wet bacteria sitting on a whisky-stained tongue. “I am no farmer. I won this land and had struggled since to make it profitable. I need money to upgrade the breeding facility. Until then, the only way I keep this running is with the help of the illegals.”
Cross opened his mouth, closed it. The older man was staring heavily into the distance, a brief nervous tick pulling at the dimple of his right cheek.
“A hunter,” the old Mexican said. “Some years ago, before the vigilantes started to gather here on the border. He was like them, only more bold. Forceful. He spotted me passing across his ranch, this ranch. He took me down at gunpoint and beat me and held me until the police arrived. I spent two days in jail and then a thin white man arrived dressed in a blue suit and told me he would help me take the case to court if I would appear on camera with him. I sued the rancher and took his land.”
“Retribution,” Cross whispered. “Old Testament justice.”
“Those vigilantes, it is only a matter of time before more violence hits the news. I have heard stories. Many stories. There will be more lawsuits and more illegals will win their way into this country through the courtroom.”
“And they’ll be left with land like yours,” Cross said.
Ramon smiled. “If I had known the man’s cattle were all dying off, I probably would have sold this place a long time ago!” He took a deep breath, pulled out a fresh cigarette and lit it quickly. The smoke drifted against the bare skin of his face, sliding across it before dissipating into the open air. “Perhaps I will sell it anyway when all is said and done. I am sick of this country. It is not as wonderful as your politicians make it out to be.”
“What makes you think Father Belmont died around here?” Cross asked.
Ramon tapped his nose with one dirty finger. “Soledad. She slept in my house. She was beautiful, you know. Not young, but beautiful still. I bet Father Abaddon fucked her. I bet he had her every night.”
Cross wondered if Ramon was trying to get a rise out of him. He shifted in his seat. “Why did she go to the church?”
“She saw something in the darkness that night terrible enough to make her want to forfeit her week’s wages and run screaming into the darkness. She believed she would be safe in one of God’s homes, I bet. Catholics think churches are so safe. No matter where you go in this world, inside the church is a sanctuary.”
“It’s a powerful image. So is the cross.”
Ramon stared at the arid landscape. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. They stood in silence for a few moments. Finally, Ramon said, “Father Belmont is out here, Padre. I am staking my life on this direction.” He pointed northeast, where the digging would continue.
Over their shoulders, the sun ducked behind a clump of heavy clouds, casting a dark shade over the flat landscape. “Anything else you can think of?” Cross asked.
Ramon shook his head, still staring at the mounds of dirt. Mapping out the next row of holes, Cross thought. The man seemed transfixed on the mounds, his head slowly moving from side to side.
“You’ve lived here a long time.”
Ramon nodded.
“Have you ever seen someone in town with a scar on his face?”
“No,” Ramon whispered.
“Are you sure?” Cross asked.
“I am sure.”
“Thanks for talking to me. Call me if you can think of anything else,” Cross said. “I’m at the motel in town.”
Ramon said nothing, only nodded slightly before his head panned across the landscape.
Cross turned and began walking back toward the house.
Ramon stared a while longer, then walked back to the barbed-wire fence that divided his property from federal land. He picked up one of the spade shovels resting against one of the wooden posts and returned to the freshest mounds. He used his feet one in front of the other to count off an approximation of one yard and dug the spade into the hard, crusty earth.
His chest immediately felt the weight of the strenuous exercise, but he ignored it and pulled up the dry dirt, tossing it into one concise pile. Last evening, after the other workers were gone, he had managed to dig through four holes before the tightness in his chest was too much to bear. It had been dark by then.
The sun began to set, and he continued digging. None of the workers had returned for the day, and it didn’t surprise Ramon once he realized just how much sweat had accumulated on his shirt—it was hot, too hot to dig for a couple dollars. No matter, he thought: there were always others willing to work. One needed only to wait a few days for a fresh group to cross the border, infused with the Holy Spirit who had blessed the glorious Saint Aaron Abaddon.
He turned east and estimated one yard of distance before digging his spade into the new spot. His left hand, wet with sweat from his forearm and dripping forehead, slipped and forced a thin splinter of wood into his skin. He cursed aloud, damning God and condemning all
living trees to hell.
Casting his hand in front of the setting sun, Ramon pinched the sliver between two fingers and slowly pulled it out, careful not to break it underneath the dark skin. He tossed it aside, ignoring the bleeding while using his foot to kick the spade deeper into the hole.
He immediately stopped.
The spade remained halfway into the soft, dark dirt, and its tip thoroughly blocked mid-kick by something just a few inches deeper. Ramon felt his heart beat harder against his ribcage as he withdrew the shovel and very carefully penetrated the dirt in a circular motion with the tips of his fingers, trying to a find a spot where he could safely dig around the object. When he finally found one, he began digging as quickly as his worn arms would allow. Slowly, the object’s shape began to take form underneath the packed soil. Slowly, carefully, Ramon dug away at the surrounding clumps of dirt until he could no longer trust the sharp piece of metal. Slowly, carefully, methodically, he pulled the shovel away in one fluid motion, disturbing only the layer of soil that had already been loosened.
He fell to his knees and used his fingers to scrape away the remaining loose dirt slowly. When his fingers brushed against the object under the dirt, he did his best to ignore the shuddering feeling running through his body, trying not to imagine the old corpse that must be nearly decomposed by now. When he caught a glimpse of a piece of skin in the fading light, it only took a moment for his trained eyes to realize something was wrong. The color was all off, more of a dark black and not at all the kind of decayed color Ramon had seen numerous times while burying family members as a child in Mexico. More quickly now, he brushed away what remained and traced his fingers along the word “Firestone” written in faded white paint.
Ramon leaned back and tried to catch his breath between long, dry gasps, staring at the top of the tire in disbelief. Some old tire belonging to an old ranching truck, judging by the size. His breathing slowed, his heart regaining its composure.
A heavy hand rested on his shoulder. All remaining air in his lungs rushed out in one long, quiet scream.
CHAPTER 12
Cross stepped into the cool diner and took a seat at the counter, pulling the front of his shirt away from his sweaty chest. He didn’t look up when the waitress brought over a mug of coffee, nor did his hand immediately reach out for it. His eyes had caught the cover of the diner’s menu: a picture of the town’s main square, with children playing on a small playground between the artificially planted trees. The photo was in black-and-white, faded to look like a captured memory from long ago. Below the red lettering for the café, in quotation marks: “Purgatory—home of the Miracle on Main Street.”
The words began to blur. Cross closed his left eye and opened the menu, searching for something that wasn’t deep-fried. Something that might settle his upset stomach and smother the butterflies that had begun to flutter around in a frenzy ever since he had seen the holes behind Jesus Ramon’s ranch. Ever since the stench of murder had begun to slip out from between the thin cracks on Abaddon Drive.
“Gimme a cup of your special Joe,” a familiar heavy voice said from next to Cross. He turned to see Phil sitting next to him, smiling from one corner of his mouth and giving a nod. Little beads of sweat clung to the top of his dark forehead. “And why don’t you bring the Padre here a fresh cup of the good stuff too?”
The waitress sighed and grabbed Cross’s cold coffee. It was the same waitress as before, wearing the same black sweatpants and the same wary expression. “You’re no fun, Phil.”
Phil smiled and waited for her to disappear into the kitchen before turning back to Cross. “Enjoying your stay in Purgatory?”
Cross frowned, setting the menu down in exasperation. He couldn’t see enough of the small type to make a decision. His left eye offered nothing but a narrow tunnel. His right eye hurt, the kind of numb pain a headache creates. “You could say that.”
The waitress came back and set down the two fresh cups of hot coffee. Phil took a sip and immediately grimaced.
“Are you always here so late on a weekday?” Cross asked.
Phil feigned a surprised look, glancing around at a calendar. “What? Is it a weekday already? Yeah, I like a good cup of Joe at night to keep me awake long enough to catch the late-night skin flicks on HBO. It’s the only good thing about staying with my ma.”
“I suppose,” Cross said, blowing on his coffee and taking a sip. The liquid tasted bitter on his tongue, washing away the dry dust that had collected in his mouth during the day. His stomach was beginning to feel worse: a gurgling, burning chunk of lead that sat right under his ribs. Last time it had felt like this, it didn’t let up for weeks. He’d stopped using the medication, then panicked and started taking it again after waking up with no vision in his left eye.
“Some of the truckers who stop in here are worth listening to,” Phil said. “Even worth skipping the skin flicks.”
“Do you remember a lot of the people who pass through here?” Cross asked. He had begun thinking about Morrissey again, trying to fit him into the puzzle.
Phil took another sip of his coffee, thinking. “I used to, back before it started to get so busy. Back then, it was only a few regular truckers who would come through on their way to San Diego. Got to know a good few of ‘em over the years. Now they usually don’t stop here anymore. Easier to stay on the highway and find another quiet town.” Then, under his breath: “With fewer Mexicans around, maybe.”
“What about a man by the name of Gabriel Morrissey?” Cross asked. “He would have come here before everything happened.”
Phil took another hard sip of the coffee, shaking his head after a moment of thought.
“You would remember him,” Cross said. “He would have stood out in this town. Short black hair, rail thin body. Long scar down one side of his face.”
“If a man like that passed through here,” Phil said, “he must have made it a point of not being seen. No wonder, I guess. Of course, I wasn’t around much back then. I had a lot more hauling assignments than I do now. Any particular reason?”
“Just a friend I wanted to look up. If he’s still in town.”
Cross stared at his cup of coffee for a moment, pondering the question sitting between his lips. He was afraid to ask it. He didn’t want to force a connection, but the pain in his stomach was growing worse. A terrible fear gnawed at him: it was getting more frequent. If he didn’t stop taking his pills, they would kill him. If he stopped taking them, it would only be a matter of time before darkness swallowed him whole.
“What did Father Aaron look like?”
Phil’s face winkled. He looked up to the ceiling for inspiration. “Oh, I don’t know. His face is hard to conjure up now after so many years. He was good looking for a white guy, I guess. Seemed pretty built. Shaggy brown hair, good smile, good complexion.”
“What about his laugh?” Cross asked.
Phil kept the cup of coffee at his lips, bringing it down slowly and deliberately. “His laugh?”
Cross nodded.
“Couldn’t tell you,” Phil said. “Never heard the man laugh. You expect me to say something specific here?”
Cross shrugged, turning back to his coffee. “Just curious, I suppose. You know, in case I see him walking down the street while I’m here.”
Phil nodded, smiling. “You know, I don’t think I can picture ever seeing him laugh. He could smile, sure, but he never laughed. Told jokes after Mass. Didn’t laugh.”
Cross glanced back through the window overlooking Abaddon Drive. “I need to go, Phil. Sorry to cut this short.” He reached into his pocket for a five and set it on the counter.
Phil gently rested his hand on top of Cross’s. “Whatever you’re thinking of doing, wait till morning. You don’t wanna go walking around at night.”
“I’ll be fine.”
He didn’t let go. “I hear them on the CB radio sometimes. Some of them are good boys, but a few of em are just no good. You gotta be careful.”
> Cross looked down. The dark tunnel on the left side of his vision was centered on Phil’s dark hand, on the long bulging veins that ran between his knuckles. “The People in the Hills,” Cross said. “That’s who you mean, right?”
Phil glanced in the direction of the waitress, who was at the other end of the counter talking with two older white men having a late dinner. They both wore red baseball caps and tight white shirts that scrunched up around their large stomachs. They were both eating eggs and toast. “Close enough.”
“I have to go,” Cross said.
Phil sighed, glancing again in the direction of the waitress. Cross turned to look at her. She tossed her hair, stealing a glance in their direction.
“You know, there are people already talking around here about you.”
“Are there,” Cross said quietly, watching the waitress as she turned away and disappeared into the kitchen. She walked with a swagger of confidence he rarely saw in wait staff, as if she knew speaking English to the men with red caps helped her carry more weight than a waitress working somewhere else, like Cross’s hometown in Wisconsin. She couldn’t be replaced with an illegal.
“They got this crazy idea,” Phil said, “that you’re here to canonize Father Aaron officially. But there are a few others who think you’re not acting like a priest is supposed to.”
Cross raised an eyebrow. “And how is a priest supposed to act?”
“They don’t smoke,” Phil said. “Well, maybe some do. But they don’t stay up till all hours of the night.”
“Who says I stay up late?”
Phil shrugged. “Light on in the motel window. Hell, you’re the only one staying in that rat trap right now.”
“I like sleeping with a light on.”
“Priests don’t drink, and they certainly don’t hang around with vagrants like Cantrell. They’re holy men, and that’s how the majority of people around here expect a priest to be. Like Father Aaron was. He hated people like Cantrell.”