He turned back toward the road.
“This here, Doc? This is what we call a pussy run.”
With that, Kurt Knowles merged onto the highway, headed south. Sherry heard an earth-shaking rumble behind her, and then another. She twisted in her seat, in time to see four True Natives pull off the shoulder, the chrome pipes of their Harleys gleaming in the afternoon sun, and settle into formation around the car.
CHAPTER 22
I gotta say, Fuentes,” Nichols offered as the scenery sped past, “power agrees with you. You musta dropped what, forty pounds?”
The Mexican laughed and flipped the toothpick in his mouth, end over end, without taking his hands off the steering wheel.
“Thanks, cabrón. What can I say? I’m a stress eater. I’m feeling more relaxed these days.”
They were a hundred and twenty, hundred and thirty miles south of the border, zipping along an empty two-lane road in Fuentes’s brand-new Prius, past farmland and scattered shacks, the occasional huddled town.
“That’s good,” Nichols said. “I mean, I don’t think ten times more responsibility would chill me out, but hey, whatever works.”
Fuentes chuckled, flipped his mouth lumber again. He’d been worrying the thing for half an hour. Disgusting fucking habit.
“Well, don’t get me wrong. The narcos and the politicians are still jacking each other off, and I still don’t have the resources to be more than an inconvenience to any of these hijos de putas. But the view from twenty thousand feet is better than the view from ground zero, tu sabes? At least now, I feel like I can see the whole chessboard. Know who the players are.”
“Guess that counts for something,” Nichols grunted, half sorry he’d gotten Fuentes going. A hard man to shut up, once he got on a roll. Then again, as long as he was ruminating aloud, Fuentes wouldn’t be cranking the Ennio Morricone’s Greatest Western Movie Themes CD waiting in the deck. That stuff worked fine behind a shot of Eastwood lighting a cigarillo, but Nichols couldn’t think of another context in which he’d choose to hear it.
“I hate to say it, amigo,” Fuentes went on, “but the position I’m in now? I’m learning to see the gray areas. Lesser of two evils, enemy of my enemy, shit like that.”
He shook his head, shifted his hands to twelve and six. “It’s like those old questions they used to ask us in school—you know, you’re driving a train, and ahead of you on the track are four kids playing, and if you do nothing, you’re gonna hit ’em. But on the only other track you can switch onto, there’s two kids. So do you make a move and kill fewer kids, or do nothing and kill the four?”
Nichols scowled out the window. “The fuck kinda school you go to?”
Fuentes laughed. “A shitty one, carnal. Ay, you thirsty? Let’s get something to wet our whistles in the next town, yeah?”
“Why not? Gotta be coming up on happy hour by now.” He stretched his legs—as best he could, anyway—and then his arms. Loosed a savage yawn, closed his eyes, and opened his big fat mouth.
“Moral relativism’s really not a good look for you. I think I liked Fat Fuentes better.”
He tried not to crack a smile. Failed.
Fuentes cackled. “I got your Fat Fuentes right here.” Nichols didn’t have to unshutter his eyeballs to know the cop was grabbing his crotch.
Nichols drifted off, awakened only when the lulling hum of rubber rolling over road cut out from underneath. They were in a parking lot, the neon CERVEZA sign in the bar’s front window glowing the same electric blue as the evening sky.
“Vámonos, gringo.” Fuentes got out and slammed the driver’s door, sauntered toward the entrance.
Nichols unfolded himself, knuckled the crust out of his eyes, and had a look around. Something was off, but he couldn’t pinpoint what it was. Maybe just his postnap grogginess, or a touch of the off-balance feeling he got in Mexico sometimes, everything the same but slightly different, a Coke not quite a Coke.
The Cokes were better, actually. Real cane sugar, not that corn syrup crap. That was now a thing, apparently—you could get Mexican Coke in all the hipster bars in Austin. Kat had told him on the phone, though for the life of him he couldn’t imagine how he and his ex got on the subject. Maybe because they’d honeymooned in Mexico, discovered Mexicoke together. Whatever. They were friends now. That was okay. You could be friends with your ex. Especially if she was a lesbian.
Your mind is wandering, old man. Pull it together.
Suddenly, it hit him.
Theirs was the only car in the lot.
“You sure this joint is open?” he called to Fuentes.
“It’s open,” he called back, without turning. And sure enough, a moment later the newly svelte cop slipped through the smoked-glass door. Nichols ambled after him, sufficiently awake now to relish the thought of an ice cold beer.
He strode into the long dim roadhouse, still mulling over the vacant lot. Maybe they were near a factory or something, and everybody walked here to drink.
Or maybe it was a roach-infested pisshole the locals stayed away from in droves.
“Fuentes?” he called, smiling at the thirtyish woman standing behind the bar, acting like he was invisible or she was out of booze.
“In here, cabrón.”
Nichols walked toward the sound of his voice, figured the barkeep had steered Fuentes toward the back room. They probably consolidated the afternoon crowd there or something.
Sawdust and peanut shells blanketed the floor, glued in place by spilled beer and crisscrossed with the muddy treads of shitkickers.
Lotta charm, lotta charm.
“Just ’cause I’m buying doesn’t mean—” Nichols was saying, when the sight of what lay through the open door brought him up short.
Fuentes sat at a four-top, eyes fixed on Nichols, jittery as a speed freak.
Next to him sat a man Nichols had only seen in photographs—grainy black-and-whites snapped from a distance as he strode from nightclub to chauffeured car or chauffeured car to mansion, ensconced within a phalanx of security.
Speaking of which.
“Arms up, please.”
Nichols obliged, as a young man sporting a high-and-tight crew cut and a Kevlar vest approached him. Another stood behind the table; they were a matched set, and Nichols guessed a few more were floating around. Out back by the car, probably.
Car or the goddamn helicopter.
“Lemme save you the trouble,” he said. “Gun on the waist, and a Bowie knife strapped to my ankle, if that type of thing’s of interest.”
The kid nodded, palmed the gun, and bent to pat him down anyway. Did it with a certain respect, which Nichols would have appreciated if he wasn’t busy being perplexed and furious.
“Wanna tell me what the fuck is going on here?” he demanded, when the search was over.
The seated man rose. He was deeply tanned, impeccably dressed, and towered over Nichols.
“I apologize for all of this,” he began, spreading his arms to take in the surroundings, and then extended a hand. A large square jewel on his pinkie finger caught the light.
It was a goddamn Harvard University class ring. The balls on this asshole.
“My name is Herman Rubacalo. Please, be so kind as to sit down.”
“I know who the fuck you are,” Nichols snapped. He glared at Fuentes. “This what you mean by the lesser of two evils, you slimy son of a bitch?”
Fuentes raised his palms, showed them to Nichols in a calm-down gesture. “Hear him out, my friend.” And then he narrowed his eyes, shot Nichols a look rich in the ferocity of its intention.
I had no choice, it said.
For whatever that was worth.
Rubacalo beckoned toward the chair, his voice a low, solicitous rumble. “Please, Sheriff Nichols, let us talk.” He cupped his hand to his heart. “I am not what I appear to be.”
He turned up his lips to leaven the cliché and then sat down. Leaned forward, dropped his elbows onto the table, and used his left palm to c
over his right fist.
“Alonzo, Gabriel, get us some beers.” The guards vanished quickly and quietly from the room.
Nichols relented, yanked out a chair, plopped himself into it.
“Say what you gotta say. I’m not here on vacation.”
“Indeed you are not,” the drug lord agreed. “You are here to find Jess Galvan.”
Nichols lobbed a murderous grimace at Fuentes, then turned back to Rubacalo. “You’re very well informed, Cortador.”
“Please, call me Herman. That name, Cortador, it’s for the tabloids. And yes, Sheriff. I am.”
He leaned back, caught Nichols’s eyes in the tractor beam of his own steely gaze. “I may even be able to give you some answers, where right now there is only confusion.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
The goons returned, deposited three sweating bottles of beer on the table. Nichols wondered if it would be giving in to drink.
Then he drank.
Fuentes and Rubacalo raised their bottles, too.
“You have seen things you cannot explain, Sheriff. This man Galvan has caused you to call everything you thought you knew into question. Yes?”
He was fishing, Nichols thought, and stayed quiet.
“I’m going to tell you a story,” the cartel chief declared, crossing his legs and settling deeper into his chair. “It begins five hundred years ago, with a man named Izel Notchi Icnoyotl, a low-ranking priest in the Aztec Empire’s most powerful cult, the Temple of Tezcatlipoca.”
He paused, waiting for some sign of recognition. Nichols maintained his poker face.
“Tezcatlipoca was a sorcerer. And a warrior. Over the course of many generations, his priests’ influence came to transcend religion. They held sway over the politicians. Controlled the military.”
“Like the pope,” Fuentes interjected.
“Precisely. The head priest was a man named Cualli. You now know him as Cucuy.” He paused, gave Nichols another look of appraisal. “You have heard this name, Sheriff?”
“Rings a bell.”
“And what do you know of him?”
“That he gave Jess Galvan a heart in a box to take to his son. Seth was supposed to eat it, and . . .”
He trailed off. Saying this shit out loud still made him feel like a fucking lunatic.
“And what?” Rubacalo prodded.
Nichols took a deep breath and exhaled a gust of words. “And get all Cucuy’s powers. But instead, Galvan ate it and his fucking severed arm grew back and he’s basically been a psychotic superhero ever since.”
Rubacalo was silent for a moment.
“Then it is as I have feared,” he said at last.
“And why’s that, Herman? Don’t you have a fuckin’ international drug cartel to run?”
They stared at each other until Rubacalo blinked. He took a long swallow of beer, then hunkered low over the table.
“Izel could have stopped Cualli from becoming a monster. Instead, he gave his blessing. Allowed his sister to be sacrificed.”
“That ain’t what I asked you.”
“The power of Tezcatlipoca was too much. Cualli became a monster. He sustained himself on the hearts of virgins; his madness and his power knew no bounds. The gods themselves turned their backs on the world. And as the centuries passed, he faded into the shadows, conned the world into forgetting he was real. Made himself into a myth. His body weakened, and he began to look for another. Now it appears he has found one.”
“Whoa, whoa, hold on a second there—”
“Jess Galvan is not Jess Galvan anymore, Sheriff.” He cocked his head, spoke softly. “But you already know this.”
Nichols shook his head. “That’s impossible.”
“Are you still so quick to think you know what’s possible?”
“No, I mean—I’ve talked to him. I know him. He’s not the same, but he’s—he’s still him. Last three months, he’s been living out in the sticks, because he doesn’t trust himself around people. He hunts, he chops wood. He drinks beer. That sound like Cucuy to you?”
“But he’s not chopping wood and drinking beer anymore, is he, Sheriff?”
Nichols closed his eyes and massaged his temples.
“No,” he heard himself say. “He’s not.”
“On the contrary, he’s murdered thirty-one of my men in the last twenty-four hours. And some number of my competition, as well.”
Nichols’ head snapped up. “What?”
“He seems to have taken a liking to a village called Rosales. As you surmised.”
Nichols nodded, stupefied, and waited for him to go on.
“Rosales is a violent place, just now. Ironically, it was Cualli who maintained whatever balance there can be in a business as erratic as my own. With him gone, there is nothing to prevent me from crushing my competition.” He smiled. “Or them from attempting to crush me.”
“And why would Cucuy want to defend some random village against the cartels?” Nichols demanded. “How does that make any sense at all?”
Rubacalo raised an eyebrow, gave a sideways nod. “On the surface of things, it does not. But it has been prophesied that when the Ancient One reemerges, he will disguise himself as a defender of the weak, a bringer of justice. Until his cruelties reveal him.”
“Yeah, well, Galvan has pretty much made a career out of defending the weak. Besides, why would Cucuy piss around for months impersonating some isolated weirdo? That doesn’t lead to world domination, usually.”
“Allow me to finish,” Rubacalo said, and tapped the table with a splayed hand. “There are two possibilities. What’s for certain: Galvan and Cualli are related. They share blood. A lineage. If they did not, eating the heart would have destroyed him.”
He paused, stared past Nichols and into space. “But it may be that Galvan has not been subsumed. The genetic link may be too weak. He may be . . . fighting it.”
Nichols picked up his bottle and fleetingly considered how inadequate a beverage it was for this conversation. He needed tequila. Or maybe a nice warm glass of bleach.
“That sounds like Galvan,” he said.
The silence welled around them as Rubacalo mulled that over.
“You still haven’t told me how the fuck you figure in,” Nichols said at last.
Rubacalo trickled some beer down his throat.
“Izel is my forebearer, Sheriff. For five hundred years, my family has sought to stop Cualli. The rest is just a means to an end. A base of power from which to operate. A way to get close to him.”
“You’re the biggest narcotics trafficker in Mexico.”
“I’m afraid so, yes.”
“You’re directly responsible for thousands of deaths.”
“You’re absolutely right, Sheriff.” Rubacalo leaned forward, his eyes wide. “And I’m the good guy.”
CHAPTER 23
So what do you want from me?” Nichols asked.
“Your help. Cualli will destroy Galvan, if he has not already. It is only a matter of time. And if that happens—”
“Let me guess: we’re fucked.”
“In so many words. Even in his decrepitude, unable to leave his lair, Cualli has held organized crime by the balls for the last hundred years.”
“Now there’s an image.” Nichols glanced over at Fuentes. “You’re pretty quiet over there, Miguel.”
“Just taking it all in, cabrón. Who’s ready for another beer?” He stood, grabbed their empty bottles off the table, and strode toward the bar.
“So, what?” Nichols asked. “You think Galvan’s gonna listen to me, is that it? Assuming he’s still Galvan?”
“That’s what I’m hoping, yes.”
“And I’m telling him . . . what, that the jig is up and we know Cucuy’s in there, so . . .”
Nichols threw up his hands, at a loss to complete the sentence.
“You are telling him there’s only one scenario that does not result in utter catastrophe.”
&nbs
p; “You want him to kill himself.”
“Yes and no.”
“Yes and no,” Nichols repeated, craning his head, suddenly eager for another beer.
“If Galvan kills himself, Cualli will die with him. But Tezcatlipoca’s power will not. It will be restored to the god. And he will return from his exile, to a world where none remain who can oppose him.”
“That’s bad?”
“That’s bad.”
“We don’t want a psycho Aztec god rampaging through the world, is what you’re saying.”
“You catch on fast, Sheriff.”
“Always been a quick study, Cortador.”
Maybe a second beer wasn’t a good idea after all. Nichols was feeling drunk enough already.
Right on cue, Fuentes returned, balancing three Pacificos and three brimming shot glasses on a tray.
“I thought we could use these,” he said, distributing the tequila.
Nichols tossed his back straightaway, to avoid finding out how clinking glasses with a crime lord would make him feel.
“But he would die, though,” he said, as the liquor blazed a path down his throat. “Galvan.”
“There is a ritual. A way of excising Cualli from the world—unmaking him, as it were. But it will not be easy. And it must be undertaken willingly.”
Nichols chased the liquor with beer, felt the icy trickle reach his stomach, and wondered when he’d last eaten.
“Believe me, Sheriff. At this point, there is no coming back for your friend.”
That struck him as true, and Nichols sighed.
“Well,” he said slowly, “he was willing to die before. To save his daughter. When he ate that heart.”
He fell silent, felt Rubacalo’s eyes bore into him.
“Maybe it’s time for him to finish what he started,” Nichols said quietly.
Rubacalo nodded. “Destroying Cualli.”
Nichols looked up at him. “No. Dying.”
Fuentes hadn’t touched his tequila. Nichols reached over, grabbed the glass, and gave the liquor a nice warm home.
“You got a fucking plan?” he asked his new buddy the drug lord.
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