by Jon Land
Paz ducked under the frame and squeezed into the cramped cubicle.
“You there, Father?” he asked.
A shape shifted in the dark, matching cubicle next to his.
“Yes, my son.”
“I grew up here, you know, in the slum up the hillside. There was another priest here back then. A gang shot him down in the street because he wouldn’t give them the proceeds from the week’s collection plate.”
“Were you a member of that gang, my son?”
“No, I hadn’t started my killing yet. I would have stopped it if I could. That priest was the one who taught me how to read. He was starting to teach me how to speak and read English when he was killed, so I had to finish that on my own.”
Paz began peeling away the top layer of wood from the confessional’s armrest with a fingernail. The old wood came off easily, revealing an unstained layer below. He remembered being dragged here by his mother as a young boy and passing the time by carving his name into the back of the pew before him. Before he was done forming that thought, he realized he had started digging a P into the surface.
“As a boy, when I wasn’t reading I robbed tourists shopping in the outdoor markets,” Paz told him. “Never brought a dollar home, though. I had to turn the money over to the local boss Carnicero, who gave me a few dollars now and then, said he was keeping the rest for me like a bank account. One day I went to get some money from him in the bar he used as an office because my mother was pregnant and needed a doctor. He just smiled, said no, and offered me a beer. So I reached into his pocket for the bills and he bent my finger back until it snapped. I took my knife out in my other hand and stabbed him. He died right there, bleeding all over me. But I took the money he owed me from his pocket before I left.” Paz tried to flex his right hand. “The finger still hurts.”
“I’m very sorry, my son.”
“I ran away after bringing my mother the money and didn’t come back to La Vega for a long time. She’s dead now too. But that’s not why I’m here today.”
“Why are you here?”
“I was thinking about confessing something before I do it instead of after. Can you do that?”
“Only if you seek God’s blessing.”
“More like His understanding. Got an idea if I’m already going to hell, then what have I got to lose?”
“It is never too late to make amends, my son.”
Paz finished the P and went to work on the A, staying with capital letters since they were easier to carve with his nails. “Here’s the thing, Father: when is it permissible to do something bad, something ordinarily wrong?”
The priest hesitated. “In the defense of one’s self or others, I suppose.”
“What about in service to a nation?”
“You mean, as in war?”
“Say I do.”
“History would say yes, it is permissible,” the priest said with great effort, sounding honestly pained. “Are you a soldier, then?”
“In the sense that I serve Venezuela, yes, but I don’t wear the uniform officially anymore.”
“Venezuela is not at war, my son.”
“I leave the definition of such things to other people. See, I recently killed a man who got me to thinking. He was a priest like you. Was stirring up people to make trouble for the government. Poor bastards didn’t know any better. That’s why they weren’t part of my contract.”
On the other side of the confessional, the priest’s breathing picked up. Guillermo Paz could hear him shifting about, began to smell the perspiration rising off him.
“So you seek, what, penance, absolution, forgiveness?”
“More like permission. Killing that priest got me thinking about the things I do and why I do them, and I thought I had an obligation to at least try.”
“Try what?”
“To see if God understands.”
“God understands all. That does not mean He accepts.”
“I have to burn a village,” Paz said suddenly. “Destroy a lot of people’s worlds, all they’ve ever known. Another pain-in-the-ass bleeding heart is making trouble. Spreading lies about the government and buying these people’s loyalty by building them new homes and schools. I’m told an example must be made of him. I’m told I have to do it this way.”
“And that troubles you?”
Paz added a straight line to complete the A and started in on the Z, his favorite as a boy since the letter looked like a lightning bolt. “What I’m thinking is that my village wasn’t much different. I look up the very hillside outside this church and all of a sudden I’m thinking about being a kid again, what that must have felt like. But then I remember it didn’t feel any different than it does now. So I’m worried if I follow my orders, the village’s children will stand a pretty good chance of ending up like me.”
“Children are sacred souls in the eyes of God, my son.”
“See, that’s my point. There was nothing sacred about my soul. Maybe if Carnicero had killed me instead, he would’ve been doing me a favor. Stopping me from doing all the things I’ve done afterwards. You see?”
“No.”
“I burn this village, how many others am I sentencing to death? I’d be better off just killing them all. I don’t care about being forgiven, absolved, saved or whatever else you wanna call it; I want to be understood.”
“God’s understanding makes it no less of a sin, my son.”
“That’s my other problem, Padre. Killing’s not even one of the seven deadly sins. You’d think if it was so important, it would at least be listed.”
“Thou shalt not kill is one of His commandments.”
“So that makes one out of two. Definitely room for interpretation there. I never thought of these things until recently, and now I’m wondering when I’m finished with this village maybe I come back to La Vega and plant enough dynamite on the hill to bring the whole mess down. So I’m here to warn you to clear out so you don’t get swallowed by a river of mud, blood and shit.”
Silence followed, during which Paz inspected the letters of his name scrawled in the wood. Funny how they looked no different than the ones he used to carve into the pews as a young boy. He figured if he checked carefully enough, he might find those still there.
“Padre?”
“We’re finished, my son.”
“Yes, true enough.”
“You must go.”
“Right, same for you, Padre,” Guillermo Paz said, starting to squeeze himself from the confessional. “Remember what I told you.”
26
SOUTHWEST GENERAL HOSPITAL, THE PRESENT
Peter had been taken to Southwest General Hospital where a call from D. W. Tepper had arranged for a private, corner room to simplify the Rangers’ task of keeping him safe. Caitlin knew neither of the men guarding Peter, but they seemed to recognize her and rose from chairs placed on either side of the open door at her approach. She flashed her ID and badge at the Rangers anyway, waited for them to inspect both before entering the room and closing the door behind her.
Peter was sitting up, the bed angled to support his back. He had a pillow behind his head and shoulders and was staring at a fuzzy television picture with the sound muted. He didn’t regard Caitlin as she approached. When she reached his bedside, he looked at her suddenly and began to cower, melting away into the sheets.
“No, no, no!” he stammered, eyes filled with the same hopeless fear she recalled from the Survivor Center the night before.
“It’s all right,” she said soothingly. “You’re safe.”
She stretched out her hand, but he recoiled against her touch, his skin clammy and electric as if charged with some kind of desperate energy.
Caitlin backed off slightly from the bed and waited until Peter’s breathing and gaze had calmed. “I brought something for you,” she said.
She lifted the laptop case from her shoulder, unzipped it, and removed her Dell.
“Do you know what this is?”
&n
bsp; Peter eyes changed from fearful to quizzical, continuing to follow her actions with the bedcovers still drawn up past his chin.
“You used to work with these. You were an expert.”
Peter eased the bedcovers down, exposing a chest scarred by the impressions of electrodes across his flesh. “Dell sucks. I work on a Mac.”
“You remember?”
“Dell sucks. I work on a Mac.”
Caitlin placed the laptop atop the wheeled assembly with rotating arm and switched it on. As Peter watched intently, she eased the laptop into position before him.
“I want you to look at me.”
He kept his eyes on the computer.
“I want you to look at me, Peter.”
He looked Caitlin’s way.
“What do you remember about last night?” she asked him.
He began to cower again, yanking up the bedcovers anew.
“Look at me, Peter, look at me. You’re safe. They’re gone. The men who wanted to hurt you are gone. I’m here. I’m going to keep you safe.”
He relented at last, relinquishing his tight grasp on the folded-over top sheet.
“Now tell me what you remember about last night. But don’t close your eyes. Keep your eyes on me as you speak, so I can keep you safe.”
“Loud,” he said finally. “Scared.”
“I brought you something else,” Caitlin said and fished a shiny silver dollar from her pocket. “Do you still have your quarter, to remind you you’re worth something?”
“No,” Peter answered, without checking his pockets.
She placed the silver dollar on the stand and slid it alongside the laptop. “Good, because you’re worth more than a quarter. That’s why I brought you this silver dollar, to remind you of that.”
Peter picked the silver dollar up, clung to it briefly, then stuffed it in the pocket of the robe he was wearing.
“You’re actually worth a lot more than that silver dollar to me. I don’t like it when someone worth a lot to me is hurt. It makes me mad. Does it make you mad?”
“Mad,” Peter acknowledged, although it was unclear whether he was answering or just parroting her.
“It makes me mad and makes me want to hurt the ones who hurt the someone I care about.”
Peter was studying the keyboard screen, tapping keys as if to test it out.
“I want you to help me hurt them. I want you to look into your mind and tell me what you see.”
Peter’s fingers worked the keyboard, stopped.
Caitlin repositioned herself to see the screen, now alive with a single word: AMERICANS.
“You told me that last night. How many?”
LOTS DIFFERENT
“Did they all wear masks?”
SCARY
Peter typed with his eyes on the fuzzy television screen, finding a place in his mind where things somewhat worked.
“Do you remember anything else, something that might help me find them?”
Peter seemed to be considering her question, while still not regarding the Dell’s screen. He typed the letter N for no followed by, BEFORE I DIED.
“Did they ask you questions before you died?”
DEAD PEOPLE CAN’T REMEMBER
“What do you remember about being alive?”
PAIN
“They hurt you.”
HURT ME
“Because you wouldn’t tell them what they wanted to know. The Americans.”
HURT PETER SO HE WENT AWAY
“I thought he died.”
NOT RIGHT AWAY HE WENT AWAY FIRST
“Where’d he go?”
SOMEPLACE THEY COULDN’T FIND HIM
“So Peter wouldn’t have to answer their questions.”
HE WENT AWAY
“Did he ever come back?”
NOT WHILE THEY WERE THERE WHEN THEY WERE GONE BEFORE HE DIED AND WENT AWAY
“Do you remember the questions they asked Peter?”
TELL US
“Tell them . . .”
TELL US
“What?” Caitlin asked, fighting to keep her voice calm. “Tell us what?”
HOW TO MAKE IT WORK HOW TO MAKE IT WORK HOW TO MAKE IT WORK HOW TO MAKE IT WORK HOW TO MAKE IT—
Caitlin reached across Peter and stilled his fingers. They rested motionless on the keyboard, his gaze never once breaking from the muted television. Back in his fugue state, no longer cognizant of her words.
“I’m sorry, Peter,” she said softly anyway, not looking for a response or even recognition anymore. “Sorry about what happened to you, sorry that I chased you away. I didn’t mean to, but I know I did. All I can do now is make it up to you. Do you know how I’m going to do that?”
Peter’s eyelids flickered and for a moment, just a moment, Caitlin thought he was about to respond. But he didn’t.
“I’m going to find the people who did this to you. I’m going to find the people who tried to have you killed last night.”
Peter’s gaze had gone distant again, as if he were listening to different voices nobody else could hear. Caitlin leaned over the bed rail and kissed him lightly on the forehead.
“I’m gonna make them pay. For both of us.”
27
THE WALLS, THE PRESENT
Cort Wesley never thought he’d ever return to The Walls, not of his own volition anyway. But there was a rookie gun bull he’d got on quite well with inside who came to Huntsville straight from a stretch in Iraq and Afghanistan. Not much more than a kid who’d seen the worst of things and finally let them get to him. Got out with an honorable that could have helped secure him a better job than prison guard in general and The Walls in particular.
The young man’s name was Frank Durgen but the cons called him Frankie Cakes because of his fondness for sweets, especially store-bought cupcakes, leaving him with jowls that looked like a birth defect atop his otherwise chiseled frame. Frankie Cakes had seen the very worst of this Iraq war, just as Cort Wesley had the last. Difference was his work had brought him into contact with the kind of private contractors, little more than paid assassins really, for which the original Gulf War had had no use.
“Ain’t this weird?” Frankie Cakes greeted him in the Visitor’s Center, not sure what to make of his return to The Walls.
“What can I say?” said Cort Wesley. “I missed the food.”
“And the sanitary conditions, course.”
“Right as rain, podner.”
He hadn’t been able to get Caitlin Strong out of his head. Went back to his room at the Alamo Motel from her apartment and couldn’t sleep for what little remained of the night. Opened the blinds and shifted the bed so there’d be light in his eyes, but that didn’t help either since every time he closed them all he saw was her. Started thinking about him having had his boys with Caitlin Strong instead of Maura Torres, the thoughts spewing their own crazy visions that made him think he was coming down with a fever.
Cort Wesley couldn’t remember the last time he’d had drinks with a woman and what they’d done last night certainly passed for that, even though neither had drank all that much Beam. Truth was, except in Maura’s case, he’d never shared much beyond a bed with any woman, the difference with Maura being he’d given her kids and that was it. Last night had eclipsed anything he’d ever shared with a woman before, gunning down two to her four. Saving the life of a woman once determined to take his. Seeing her on the floor shielding the man she said was her husband, desperate and helpless. Her looking so vulnerable was as much reason why he’d walked off as any, almost like he’d strolled in on her naked.
Nope, Caitlin Strong wasn’t leaving his head anytime soon.
Frankie Cakes leaned forward, crossing his arms over the table. “You looking for a job, Cort Wesley?”
“Just some info.”
“Can’t talk about nothing inside. You know that.”
“The info’s about outside. Way outside. Talking military here.”
“We do have that in common.”
/>
“You hear about that center got hit in San Antone last night?”
“Survivors of torture, something like that, yeah.”
“I was there.”
Frankie Cakes stiffened a bit, even his bulbous jowls seeming to tighten. “You here to claim your old bunk back, that it?”
“Nope. I was on the right side of things this time.”
“Now that seems a whole bit peculiar.”
“Don’t it ever, podner. But it’s the truth all the same. You want the details?”
“You always been straight up with me, Cort Wesley. No need.”
“Some you need to hear. Like how a bunch of hacksaw military types gunned down seven torture victims in their beds. Real act of bravery, I’ll tell ya.”
“What’s this got to do with me?”
“Where would you find men like that if you needed them?”
Frankie puckered his lips. “Not sure I’m comfortable answering that question.”
Cort Wesley leaned across the table, close enough to Frankie Cakes to make him flinch, stealing his space from him. “Remember who you’re talking to here, Frankie.”
“Lots of places.” Frankie Cakes pulled back as much as he could and looked around the room. “Some not much different than right here. Men ain’t much different neither, ’least the ones I had occasion to work with.”
“You still got friends in, right?”
“You talking about the military, I wouldn’t exactly call ’em friends.”
“People you can call, people maybe owe you a favor or two, just like you owe me.” Cort Wesley stopped, his eyes saying the rest.
“Help you any way I can, Cort Wesley,” said Frankie Cakes, clearly displeased with the prospects.
Cort Wesley sat back again. “Good. Got a name for you: Clayton.”
“That it?”
“All you need to know right now. I want you to ask around, see what you can find.” Cort Wesley extended his hand across the table and shook Frankie Cakes’s. “I know you won’t disappoint me, podner.”