“That’s important, isn’t it, that as parents we try to do our best?”
I nodded.
“I love my children very much, and as a parent yourself I’m sure you understand what a special bond that is, what a unique kind of love we have for our children.” Her clear eyes moistened. “I’m dying, Phillip. I want…I need to leave this life at peace, but I can’t, not with my child out there suffering as he is. I have to bring him home, I—I want my son to come home so I can get him the help he so desperately needs. I want you to bring him home, Phillip.”
“Me?” My stomach sunk to my feet. I stood up and nervously moved around the side of the table, suddenly unsure of what the hell to do with myself. “Look, if you need me to write you a book, I’m your guy, but I’m not a cop or a private detective. Christ, I’m just barely a writer. I don’t know the first thing about tracking someone down or—this is way outside my area of expertise.” I looked to Janine for help but she remained expressionless. “You hired three professional investigators, two that actually went looking for him, right? One’s missing and the other had some sort of breakdown. Not exactly an encouraging track record, and if two pros couldn’t do the job, what in God’s name makes you think I can?”
“I’ve tried everything, even the authorities.” She pulled a tissue from a box on the table and dabbed her eyes with it. “But you and Martin were dear friends.”
“Mrs. Doyle, with all due respect, that was a million years ago. We were children. Martin and I are grown men in our forties now.”
“But that’s exactly the point. Because you and Martin were such good friends as youngsters, I’m hopeful you’ll represent something meaningful to him, a bridge to his past life; his life before all this madness. Maybe that connection is the only thing that can reach him now, that will allow you to get through to him.”
I paced about trying to figure a graceful way out of this mess. “I’m just simply not equipped to do this kind of work. No offense, Mrs. Doyle, but Martin looked potentially pretty dangerous in that video, and if he’s out in the middle of nowhere heading up some whacked out religious cult, I’d be putting my life in danger going out there. I sympathize with your situation, and I understand, but you have to understand mine too. I have no desire to get myself killed trying to bring your son home. There are people you can hire. Professionals, mercenary types who can put together a military style mission, go down to Mexico, kidnap him, bring him back and deprogram him or whatever. I’m sure they’re very expensive but if money’s no object you should be able to make the necessary arrangements without any problems. That’s who you need for this, not me.”
“Phil,” Janine cut in, back to using my first name now, “odds are that kind of individual or group would only incite Martin, or possibly cause him to move their operation. We believe Martin will trust you and let you get close, where others have failed, because of your past with him. As for the money, the five thousand dollars you were paid you’re free to keep. But should you accept Mrs. Doyle’s proposition, she is prepared to pay you ten thousand dollars in advance and another ten thousand once you’ve returned. Cash. No records or taxes.”
I stared at the floor awhile, already fantasizing about paying off all my bills and still having plenty left over in the bank if I accepted the deal.
“Of course Mrs. Doyle will also pay for all your airline and travel expenses, in addition to the monies already mentioned,” Janine told me. “We will of course also turn over all the information we have at this point regarding Martin’s general whereabouts, and everything we learned from both investigators to help you in locating him. You and I can go over some more specifics once you’ve agreed.”
“That’s very generous, but even if I do this, I can’t force him back here.”
“I’ll double it to forty thousand,” Mrs. Doyle said abruptly. “All of it upfront.”
I was stunned to silence.
“What good is this money if I can’t spend it to save my child? Just bring my boy home to me. I wouldn’t ask you to do such a thing if I didn’t believe in my heart you could reach him. At least try, it’s all I ask. Please, Phillip. Please.”
Still reeling, I looked deep into her sad dull eyes, and made my decision.
* * *
Janine helped Mrs. Doyle up from her chair. Once she was on her feet she looked even frailer, like she might break into pieces at any moment. Steadying herself on Janine’s arm, she gazed at me with something similar to admiration. “I know this is a horrible situation, and something you’re not accustomed to being involved with, but I had nowhere else to turn. You’re my last hope. I know you’ll do your best to help.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“I apologize, but I have to rest. Janine will give you everything else you’ll need.” She smiled weakly. “Thank you, Phillip. Thank you for trying.”
“I’ll do everything I can.”
“It’s so good to see you again. I’m sorry it had to be like this.”
“Take care. I’ll be in touch.”
As Janine led her out of the sunroom, I watched the rain glide along the rounded walls. Mrs. Doyle wasn’t stupid, she realized the money had motivated me, but I could tell from her expression and tone of voice she’d also mistakenly assumed it had something to do with valor or noble intentions. It didn’t. I agreed to go on this insane mission because the money offered was too substantial to turn down. I felt guilty, but to somebody like me forty grand was a lot of money. If anything happened to me, worst case scenario was I’d end up in a box and Gillian would get a nice chunk of cash.
God is not a lamb, but a razor.
I shuddered as Martin’s whispers replayed in my mind.
Janine hadn’t yet returned, so I reached into my jacket pocket, pulled out a nip of whiskey, cracked it and added it to my iced tea. A few gulps later the glass was empty and my nerves had settled. I looked around but couldn’t find any ashtrays, so I sparked a butt and used the glass.
“Mrs. Doyle’s home is a nonsmoking one.”
I looked back at Janine, who stood in the doorway glaring at me like I’d just taken a dump in the middle of the floor. “Sorry, just needed a couple drags.”
“Please put it out.”
“I’m about to go to the middle of nowhere, in Mexico no less, to try to talk some sense into a madman and convince him to come back here with me so he can get psychiatric help. That sound like a solid plan to you? Oh yeah, for sure, it’s gonna go real smooth, I don’t anticipate any problems whatsoever. Sorry if I’m a little edgy.” I took another hard pull then dropped the cigarette into the glass. It hissed as it hit the ice and went dead. I placed the glass back on the table. “I must be out of my mind.”
She walked to the table, shuffled through some papers there. “You’re being very well compensated, Mr. Moretti. Odds are you’ll go there, find little, achieve even less and return with apologies and claims you tried. All in all I’d say it’s a pretty good payday for a vacation to Mexico.”
“Is that what you think this’ll be?”
“You can tell me all about it when you get back.”
“Little bitter are we?”
“I just want to make it clear that if your plan is to simply take advantage of Mrs. Doyle, then—”
“You probably make in a year what she’s paying me for this job, right?”
“It’s really none of your business what I make.”
“Only difference is, you’re probably not gonna get killed sending out emails and fetching Mrs. Doyle sandwiches and coffee, know what I mean?”
She went through a folder, adjusting her glasses as she read. “I’m simply looking out for Mrs. Doyle’s best interests.”
“If that were true you’d talk her out of hiring me in the first place, tell her to save her money and write off her son as a lost cause.”
“Could you write off your daughter?”
This time it was my turn to glare.
“What about Martin?” she asked. “Don’t you feel anythin
g for him?”
“Mostly pity.”
“Have a seat.” She pointed to the chair next to her. “We have a lot to go over. And see if you can refrain from drinking until we’re through, won’t you?”
I sat down, wondering how she knew since I’d returned the empty nip to my jacket pocket.
“I can smell it on you,” she said, reading my mind.
“That’s my cologne, Ode to Jack Daniels.”
“You may find your alcoholism entertaining, Mr. Moretti, but I don’t.”
“Even if I am, which I’m not, what the hell would you know about it?”
“My mother was an alcoholic and a drug addict,” she said evenly. “She and my father were never married and she left him while I was still a baby, so I never knew him, never even met him. I had a horrible childhood because of her addictions and lived most of my life moving with her from one ugly and dangerous place to the next. By the time I started high school she was dead from complications associated with her addictions and I wound up in foster care. Does that answer your question?”
Her words hung in the air between us awkwardly. Rain tapping the roof and walls filled in the gaps.
“I’m sorry. I was just trying to lighten the mood.”
“I worked hard to leave all that behind. Mrs. Doyle helped make that possible in many ways. I came to her with a high school diploma. She sent me to college, taught me many things and has not only been the mother I never had, she’s been one of my best friends. I respect and love her very much. I have to do everything in my power to be there for her in these final days, to try to help her put this situation with Martin to rest.”
“I can respect that. Martin and I may not have seen each other in years, but we do have a history. I honestly don’t know what this trip will accomplish, if anything, but I’ll do what I can. I give you my word.”
Janine shot me a sideways glance and probably the first genuine smile of hers I’d seen. “Now that we’re all warm and fuzzy, let’s get back to business.”
I moved a little closer, leaning over the table for a better look at the paperwork in her hands. Her hair smelled intoxicating, but I did my best to ignore it. “OK, what have we got?”
“Here’s what we know. The last detective, Connie Joseph, learned that the cult Martin’s involved with has been operating in Mexico for a few years now. It may have been formed earlier while he was still in the U.S. but she was unable to confirm that. The size of this group isn’t clear, but she was led to believe Martin is not the only American involved. She seemed to think their group is comprised of both Mexican and American citizens, perhaps even a European or two. From all indications and whispers around the region, Martin heads this cult. Ms. Joseph was led to believe by those who were willing to talk about it, and evidently very few people were, that Martin and his followers are involved in some nasty business, black magic and that sort of thing. Some suggested it was a blood cult. I’m not sure what that entails but I think it’s safe to assume it’s nothing pleasant. According to Ms. Joseph, belief in sorcery and the dark arts is prevalent in that part of the country, and while whatever they’re up to isn’t entirely clear, from what she could tell, this cult is feared. Several locals and even some authorities in Tijuana knew of the group and were frightened, despite the fact that they’re headquartered quite a distance away in a far more desolate region. One of her reports even suggested the police and other government officials—many of whom believe this group is practicing black magic and dark witchcraft—simply look the other way and want no involvement in what’s happening out there.”
“And what is happening out there?” I asked.
“We’re just not sure.” She shuffled her papers. “But it’s clear you can expect little to no help from the police.” Janine looked up from the report. “Have you ever been to Tijuana?”
“I’ve never been to Mexico period.”
“Apparently not far outside Tijuana there’s a long, winding, unmarked dirt road that stretches into what is largely the wilderness. The locals call this road El Corredor de Demonios, which translated means The Corridor of Demons.”
“Charming,” I sighed.
“My understanding is that it’s mostly quite desolate and remote and considered by many to be a cursed stretch of road.” Janine looked up from the report, the rain-blurred glass around us reflected in her eyeglasses. “It’s at or near the end of this road where we believe Martin—or, Papá as he’s apparently referred to—and his followers have made their home in or around the abandoned church you saw in the video.”
Despite the money, I was already having second thoughts. “How the hell am I supposed to get out there, much less find this place?”
“There are several guides you could hire in Tijuana, the problem is very few will venture out there because of the rumors and speculation surrounding Martin’s group and all the old legends associated with the road and the land it leads to.” She searched through more papers in the folder until she found what she was looking for. “Connie Joseph said there’s an American living in Tijuana by the name of Rudy Bosco. He’s ex-military and also an ex-con. While clearly not the most savory individual on the planet, he’s quite knowledgeable and skilled in various areas and highly respected. He makes himself available for hire for a wide range of…let’s call them jobs…and apparently acting as a guide or getting people unfamiliar with the country from one point to another safely is one of them. When she was still planning to try to find Martin, Ms. Joseph said Bosco was the only one willing to take her out there. He wasn’t cheap, but no other guides would even entertain the idea, not at any price. She was set to hire him, but before all the arrangements could be made something happened to frighten Ms. Joseph, and it was then that she left Mexico and refused to go back or have anything more to do with this.”
If there was such a thing as third thoughts, I was having those too.
“Your best bet is to locate this Rudy Bosco character and hire him as your guide and security,” Janine continued. “We don’t have any direct contact information on him, but according to Connie Joseph, he’s fairly easy to find as he’s quite well-known in and around Tijuana.”
I folded my hands and tried to appear unfazed. “All right, anything else I need to know?”
Janine closed the folder and returned it to the table. She was quiet for a time, and then said, “There’s something else we need to discuss.”
Her shift in demeanor made me nervous. Her silence choked out whatever patience I had left. “Your flair for suspense is starting to piss me off.”
“Jamie Wheeler,” she said. “You’ve had no contact with him in years either, is that correct?”
“I haven’t spoken to him since right after we graduated high school. Last I knew he was going to college and then on to the seminary.”
“In the initial investigator’s attempts to find Martin, they also looked into the people he’d known, which included you and Jamie. He did become a Roman Catholic priest and served in that capacity for more than two decades, running parishes in various parts of the country.”
“Why are you speaking of it in the past tense?” I asked.
“Because he’s no longer a priest.”
“Jamie left the priesthood?”
“He was defrocked a couple years ago.”
All I could see was that frightened kid he’d been sitting up on that boulder, and how even then, with the same blood Martin and I had on our hands, there had been an aura of innocence about him, a glimmer of good that seemed incapable of being extinguished. “What the hell did he do?”
“It had something to do with morals charges. I don’t know the details. He dropped out of sight for awhile, but eventually the investigators tracked him down. They found him in Tijuana.”
A spike of pain fired across my head, behind my eyes. Jamie, I thought, ever the faithful sidekick. “He’s involved with Martin isn’t he?”
“Far as I know it’s merely coincidence he wound up there.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“When he had his problems he was at a parish in California. He settled in Tijuana, just over the border. There’s a very dark underside to that town, Phil. It attracts a lot of lost souls, and Jamie Wheeler is nothing if not that. As I said, it’s believed that Martin’s location is a couple days drive from Tijuana, but Jamie did have some minor contact with him. Not face-to-face. Apparently when Martin learned Jamie was in Tijuana—exactly how he learned this we don’t know—he had his followers deliver a letter or two to him. They were along the lines of those he sent to his mother. Jamie didn’t pursue it.”
“How do you know?”
She pursed her lips and hesitated before answering. “We approached Jamie with this task before we came to you.”
“And he turned you down.”
“Yes. I couldn’t even convince him to come here and speak with Mrs. Doyle. I know he needed the money but he wouldn’t budge. He wanted nothing to do with any of this. It was probably for the best. You’re in a much better place than he is. There’s not much left of him, from what I could tell. He’s a deeply damaged person.”
I thought on it awhile, and she let me. I supposed it was possible Jamie had just wound up there and still had no ties to Martin, but I was having a hard time getting my mind around that one. Further discussion with Janine about it seemed pointless though. “If he’s still in those parts when I get there, and I can find him, I’ll talk with him, see what he knows.”
“You’re booked on a direct flight from Boston to San Diego. You’ll enter Tijuana from there.” She pulled an envelope from the pile of documents, removed a set of papers and slid them over to me. “Your airline tickets, you leave tomorrow afternoon.”
“Of course you understand I only travel first class.”
“They’re coach,” she said humorlessly. “And there’s one more thing.”
I wasn’t sure how much more of this I could take. “I’m listening.”
Janine again seemed to be having trouble making eye contact. “During the course of the investigation into your background, the investigator located your father. Apparently he’s lived in Nevada for quite some time. I know he left you when you were quite young and that you haven’t seen him since—and I don’t pretend to be privy to the intricacies of your feelings in regard to this—but I thought I owed it to you to at least let you know we’d found him.”
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