by Chris Culver
“IMPD. Stop where you are and drop your weapon right now.”
The figure in front of me stopped as I had asked, but instead of dropping his sword, he slowly turned. In the dim light, I couldn’t get a glimpse of his face, but it was clearly a man. I’d say somewhere between five foot ten and six feet, with average build and dark skin. No facial hair, at least that I could see. I didn’t know how long his knife was, but I should be out of arm’s reach.
“IMPD,” I said, repeating myself. “Stay where you are and drop the weapon. Now.”
He started to bend down, reaching toward the ground with his right hand as if he were going to comply, but then he stood suddenly and overhanded whatever he held in his left hand straight at me. It hit me in the arm, almost knocking me back, before striking the floor with a hollow, meaty sound. The figure stood still, and then he sprinted out the back door. I took chase, but my first footfall hit something slick, something that hadn’t been there a moment before. I caught myself along the wall and regained my footing and ran after him. I’m in pretty good shape, and I can outrun most people, but this guy flew. As I reached the back door, he had already crossed the backyard and started vaulting over the fence that separated Quesada’s house from the neighbor to his south. His weapon lay on the patio, its edge glinting in the moonlight.
I hit the patio at a dead run and thankfully, my feet found sure purchase on the bricks. I didn’t bother trying to vault over the fence as my quarry had. Instead, I put my hands on top and jumped so that I could see over. Straight in front of me, I saw a man dive into a dark four-door vehicle and drive off. He was gone. I let myself fall back to the ground, where I took a breath for the first time since shouting. Whoever he was, I had chased somebody fast and athletic. Much more so than me. Sweat began to drip down my brow and into my eyes, so I started to wipe it away and found I was leaving something on my forehead, something sticky. I looked down at my hands. In the moonlight, my right hand was black, although I had the feeling it would look red in better lighting.
I crossed the patio. He hadn’t dropped a sword, after all, but a wickedly sharp machete, probably the same one that had cut Michelle. The coroner’s office would tell for sure. Realistically, I should have stayed outside and called in the troops, but I needed to confirm something before I did. I walked back into that house, through the kitchen and front hallway to the object the man I had chased had thrown at me. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I gradually began to make it out. First, I saw the general shape, and then the hair, and then the eyes and the nose and the mouth. He had thrown Tomas Quesada’s head at me.
I backed off slowly, trying not to disturb the pools of blood on the ground.
“This is messed up.”
Chapter 14
Jacob dove through the Chevy’s open front window, and Carla floored the accelerator, causing the vehicle’s tires to chirp as they bit into the asphalt. The car shot forward just in time for Carla to look over her shoulder and see a head pop over Tomas Quesada’s fence. At that distance and that time of night, she couldn’t recognize him, but he had still seen their car. He couldn’t have seen the license plate, but if he was a cop, they’d put out an APB on all similar vehicles, which meant she’d have to ditch the car and get another. Just one more thing to worry about on a day of endless worry. Despite their early success with Dante and Michelle Washington, Carla’s plans had stalled today. She didn’t need this on top of everything else.
“Are you hurt?” she asked, glancing at the blood covering Jacob’s shirt and arms as he shimmied inside the vehicle. Miguel reached over and clapped him on the shoulder.
“Did you do it?” he asked.
Jacob looked back at him and nodded before looking to her. His breath came to him gradually. “I’m fine. He didn’t touch me.”
“Where’s the head?” asked Miguel.
Carla turned right onto Michigan Street and whipped her head around to look at Jacob. They had entered an old part of town, and historic brick homes and office businesses surrounded them, but she had no interest in staying to appreciate the architecture. In a couple of blocks, they’d hit I-65 north. She’d feel more comfortable on the interstate, an anonymous rusted Chevrolet amidst cars from all corners of the area. Until then, though, she felt exposed on the surface streets. She didn’t know who had chased Jacob out of Tomas’s house, and for all she knew, he could have been following them at that moment.
Tomas Quesada needed to die, but they shouldn’t have hit his house tonight. They should have waited until he let his guard down and until the police no longer had an interest in him. They could have hidden half a block away and shot him from a tree. But instead, they had gone tonight, the same day the police had ruined another operation. Why Miguel demanded they go tonight of all nights, she didn’t know, but he should have known better.
“What head?” she asked, tearing her gaze off the road long enough to look at her stepson.
Jacob hesitated and looked back to Miguel. “Quesada’s.”
She pounded the steering wheel. “That’s what took you so long? You tried to take his goddamn head with you?”
A crooked smile formed on his lips as he looked toward the backseat, toward Miguel. “I didn’t just try. I had it, for a moment. Then some guy came in.”
“Good boy,” said Miguel, tousling Jacob’s hair from the backseat. Carla glanced at him in her rearview mirror. She didn’t want to work with Miguel, but he had resources beyond anything she could gather on her own. One phone call, and he could have professional hitters fly up from Mexico to take out whomever she needed and then disappear, never to be seen again. Not only that, Tino’s men knew and respected him. Sure, they’d listen to her, but they’d ignore her just as often as they’d do what she said. With her, every order became a chance to argue, to bicker and think of another way. With Miguel, they simply shut up and acted. One word whispered from his lips to the wrong person could ruin everything she had planned, so she had to bring him in, but she didn’t trust him. Poor, stupid, naive Jacob, though, believed everything Miguel said. Not only that, Miguel seemed to trust him; he seemed to believe he had found a student in Jacob. This could end very badly for her unless she figured something out.
“Not a good boy,” she said, shaking her head. “You took so long in there somebody showed up. Who was he?”
“Just some cop,” he said. “And I’m fine. He couldn’t see me in the dark.”
But it hadn’t been dark in the house. She had seen the lights go out. They needed to back off now and think this through. The state would still execute Tino, nothing would change that, but they couldn’t risk confronting the police. Not with so much left to do.
“We’ve got to ditch this car,” she said, starting to breathe a little easier as she thought through the situation. “We’ll find another and take this one to the long-term parking lot at the airport. The police won’t find it for weeks.”
“Nobody saw the car, Carla,” said Miguel. “It was dark.”
She looked in the rearview mirror. Miguel had such dark skin that she couldn’t see anything but the whites of his eyes. “Jacob’s mystery cop popped over the fence. He knows what we’re driving.”
In her peripheral vision, she caught Miguel waving the suggestion off. Jacob looked concerned at first, but then he stared out the window.
“See, Jacob,” said Miguel from the backseat. “This is why we’ve never had a woman president. They don’t have any balls.”
He laughed and Jacob tittered a little as well, but Carla could tell he didn’t put his heart into it. He saw the stupidity of continuing in that Chevy even if Miguel didn’t.
As she turned north onto I-65 a moment later, she breathed a little easier. The operation had ended poorly, but they still accomplished their mission. With Tomas Quesada dead, they had one less rival for Barrio Sureño’s throne. She slipped into one of the center lanes and set the cruise control to five miles over the speed limit. To any police officers driving by, they’d look like
a family going home for the evening. Jacob might have screwed up, but he hadn’t screwed up so badly they had no return. This could still work. She glanced at her stepson.
“How’d you do it?”
He turned so that his back faced his door and glanced at her and then to Miguel. “I knocked on his door and said I had a message from Dad.”
“Attaboy,” said Miguel, covering Jacob’s forearm with his hand. “What’d you tell him?”
“Nothing,” said Jacob. “As soon as I got in, I showed him the gun and told him to go upstairs. He tried to tell me Dad wouldn’t want this, but what would he know, right? He helped send him to prison in the first place. We should have killed him years ago.”
“How’d you do it, boy?” asked Miguel, his voice excited. Had Carla seen his pants, it wouldn’t have surprised her to see an erection.
“I just stabbed him in the gut, like you said to do,” he said. “He started bleeding everywhere. That’s when I did what I had to do.”
He couldn’t even bring himself to say he cut off Quesada’s head. Jacob, as much as he believed otherwise, wasn’t ready for what lay ahead. He played too important a role in her future plans to die now.
“You made a mistake,” said Carla, glancing over at him. “I see the symbolism in what you did, but it took too much time, and in a job like this, time matters. You had a gun, and you should have used it. Shoot him and get out. Your survival is your first goal.”
“I would have used the gun, but—”
“Shut up,” said Miguel. “You’re not this boy’s mom, so you don’t get to talk to him like that.”
For a split second, she looked in the rearview mirror. The whites of Miguel’s eyes flashed back at her.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” said Carla, trying to make her voice sound conciliatory when she truly wanted to turn and shoot him. “But I don’t want him to get hurt. I’m his stepmother. I still have to look out for him, don’t I?”
Miguel laughed. “Typical woman. Always thinking with her heart instead of her head.”
Jacob chuckled, too, but again, Carla could tell he didn’t put his heart into it. That gave her hope. “Typical woman.”
“Tell her why you took Quesada’s head,” said Miguel. “Tell her who told you to take it.”
Jacob hesitated, looking almost embarrassed. He had spent part of his summers with her every year since he turned ten, so she knew him well by now. He didn’t want to say, so she lowered her voice.
“Go ahead,” she said. “Tell me.”
“Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte,” he said, looking straight ahead to avoid looking her in the eye. “Our Holy Lady of Death.”
“Did you hear that?” asked Miguel, his voice growing louder. She saw a flash and heard the slosh of liquid in his flask as he took a drink. “The Bony Lady’s talking to him in his dreams. The boy’s got the gift.”
Jacob’s only gift was an ability to read people and tell them what they wanted to hear. Miguel impressed him, and Jacob wanted to please him. Nothing more.
“I don’t believe in Santa Muerte,” said Carla, looking straight ahead.
“She believes in you,” said Miguel, seriously. She wondered if he had seen that on a bumper sticker. “Jacob had to take Quesada’s head. Whether you believe it or not, she’s watching over us right now, guiding us and protecting us from our enemies. We stop showing our appreciation for that protection, it’s over.”
Miguel believed that, too, which meant pressing Jacob on the act’s stupidity wouldn’t get her anywhere. She let the matter of Quesada’s head drop and settled into the drive. As soon as she could, she exited onto I-70 east and then onto I-465 south, circumnavigating the city to come to their house in the Bates-Hendricks neighborhood. Carla didn’t own this house, but she knew the lawyer handling its previous owner’s estate. No one would meet them there anytime soon.
She parked about half a block away, already planning to ditch the car as soon as she could, despite Miguel’s dismissal of her nervousness. Meanwhile, Miguel and Jacob walked arm in arm toward their house as if they were old school buddies. When they got inside, the two men immediately walked to the Santa Muerte altar in the living room. She, however, went upstairs to the room in which they made their plans. As soon as she had procured that house, Carla had driven to the nearest interstate rest area and picked up maps of the entire region. She knew precisely where each of their future victims lived and had even taken surveillance photos of some of their workplaces. Despite the setbacks, they had the abilities and resources to do this.
The plan could still work. With some improvisation, it would still work. She went downstairs and saw Jacob and Miguel kneel before the Santa Muerte altar in the fireplace. She had seen the ritual often enough to know what would happen, and she had refused to participate often enough that they no longer invited her.
“Saint Michael the Archangel,” began Miguel. “Defend us in battle. Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the Devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly hosts, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan, and all the evil spirits, who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.”
Miguel leaned into the shrine and then lit a red candle. Miguel had something big planned tonight. According to believers, Santa Muerte was the embodiment of death herself, a very powerful being indeed, so she could overwhelm even the most faithful of servants. To temper that influence, people like Miguel first called on another saint for protection. Miguel looked at Jacob.
“Do you have coins?”
This, Carla hadn’t seen before. Jacob reached into his pocket and pulled out a number of quarters. Miguel then dropped each of them into a clay pot.
“I pour this for you, Santisma Muerte, my beloved,” he said, pouring the contents of the pot on the ground. The liquid had a viscous texture and looked almost black in the candlelight. Blood, human if she had to guess. “Please accept it from your servant.”
After pouring the blood, Miguel reached into his pocket and pulled out a small glass vial. He poured a small amount of cocaine into his palm and then blew it over the statue.
“Holy death, dearest of my heart. Do not abandon or forsake me in my hour of need. Protect me, but do not let my enemies experience peace. Keep them bound and restless, bothered always with the thought of me.”
Jacob had never exhibited a religious side as far as Carla knew, but he began reciting an Our Father. As Jacob prayed, Miguel poured another small measure of cocaine on his palm and once again blew it on the statue.
“Holy death, my great treasure, never leave me. You are the powerful owner of the dark heart of life and Empress of night. Please pour favors upon me. May my enemies be at my feet, humiliated and repentant for their sins. Make them never leave my side until I receive what was promised to me.”
Miguel did it again and again, nine different verses in total, each time asking for the death or torment of his enemies and requesting that the Bony Lady make her will known to them so that they might act. Until that moment, Carla hadn’t understood the depth of his belief, but Miguel truly believed Santa Muerta protected him and spoke to Jacob. Carla had studied enough history to know that the world had been shaped by men and women who believed a deity talked to them, and while they all came from different eras and cultural milieus, they all had one thing in common: they didn’t take orders from anyone but their god. After the ritual, Miguel hugged Jacob, and Carla knew she had made her first big mistake. She had misunderstood Miguel and believed money could induce him to her will, but that wouldn’t do. He was a believer. She hadn’t taken that into account, but she could still use it.
She leaned her back against the nearest wall and slid down so that she sat Indian style on the floor, rocking back and forth. Her movements started slow and small, but gradually she built momentum.
“Quiero que mates Gail y Mark Pennington.”
She rocked back and forth, whispering the phrase over and over. J
acob noticed her first, but then Miguel turned and watched as well.
“What’s she saying?” asked Miguel.
Jacob knelt at her side and held his ear close to her lips. He looked at Miguel.
“She wants us to kill Gail and Mark Pennington, but she’s speaking Spanish.”
Miguel crossed the room and nudged her feet with his boot. “What are you getting at, woman?”
“Quiero que mates Gail y Mark Pennington.”
Carla continued rocking, ignoring the others in the room. If they needed an order from God, they would get an order from God. Miguel nudged her again, this time a little harder.
“Come on. Nobody’s buying this, Carla.”
Jacob looked up at him. “She doesn’t speak Spanish, dude. This isn’t Carla talking.”
Carla did speak Spanish, in fact, quite well. She had taken several classes after law school, but she hadn’t bothered telling her husband or Jacob, nor had she ever spoken it to Miguel, who considered Spanish a higher form of communication than English. He considered her for a moment, and then took a step back and made the sign of the cross over his chest.
“She’s listening,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper as he looked to the ceiling. Carla continued rocking and reciting the phrase, trying not to roll her eyes. It didn’t matter who the orders came from, but Gail and Mark Pennington had to die. Miguel and Jacob had supposedly worn ski masks every time they met the pair, but as long as the Penningtons drew breath, they threatened her and made them all look weak. They had to go, one way or another.