Every couple of blocks the ancient diesel would grind to a stop; people got off and people got on. Two women sat in the front; the older one who was on the left turned and looked at me, so I tipped my hat. She immediately turned back and never looked at me again. A few more passengers got on, the women got off, and before long we were in the more populated areas near the center of the city.
After a few more stops, Isidro got up, and we moved to the side entrance.
As we stood there, I became aware of a charm hanging from his neck, a kind of devil with horns and a pointed beard, but handsome and if possible, kindly looking. I reached across and pointed toward the charm, using one of my three words of Spanish. “Diablo?”
He studied me and then shook his head and covered the charm with his hand. Speaking in a mutilated voice I could barely understand, he said, “Riablo.”
He offered nothing more, and I followed him out onto the sidewalk into an alley in front of us. He didn’t hesitate and started off into the darkness; I had little choice but to follow.
From the way Isidro traveled the alleyways and avoided the lit main streets, I had the feeling he wasn’t unfamiliar with the back doors of Juárez. There were a couple of times he pasted himself against a wall and I followed suit, figuring there must’ve been someone whom we weren’t supposed to meet.
On one occasion a couple of Policía Federales in their open half-tons with heavy guns mounted in the beds slowed and glanced up the alley we had occupied, but they either didn’t see us or if they did, didn’t care and continued their slow roll through town, looking for all the world like an occupation force.
Under the shadow of the spires, we crossed a plaza and got to a gate underneath a tree alongside a hand-laid brick wall where Isidro punched a code into a modern-looking keypad. We heard a faint click, stepped into a garden full of flowers, and began moving quickly across another open area where a number of decorative archways looped underneath the cathedral and the Misíon de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe. A man in a light-colored shirt with a collection of pens in his front pocket seemed to be waiting for us.
As we got closer, I could see that he was actually dressed in vestments and that the man was a priest. He held the door open for us, and we hurried inside and down some steps into an area with books lining the walls and heavy tables arranged in an impressive symmetry.
The priest spoke in quiet tones with Isidro and then turned to me and spoke in English. “We are so pleased to be able to assist you.”
“Thank you.”
“I am Father Rubio—any friend of Señor Guzmán is a friend of ours.” He gestured toward one of the tables, indicating that I should sit. “Please—Isidro will communicate with your friends, and then you will join them.”
I sat at the nearest table, careful to place the NFL bag on the floor, out of sight. “Again, thank you.”
“Would you like a glass of water or something?”
“I’d love anything to drink.” He disappeared for a moment and then came back, placing a doily and a glass in front of me. I took a sip as he sat in the chair on the other side and whispered, “I’ve noticed that Isidro doesn’t talk much at all and when he does he seems impaired?”
He leaned forward, his soft, dark eyes studying me. “They cut out his tongue. The drug dealers, they cut the tongues of the children years ago at the place where he is from, the place where you are going, Estante del Diablo. Isidro survived.”
“Estante?”
“Shelf. Shelf of the Devil—it is a small mountain village near an area called Las Bandejas south of here near the Médanos de Samalayuca Nature Preserve.”
“Sounds beautiful.”
“It was—kind of like Eden before sin arrived.” He glanced behind him. “The Tarahumara, some of them relocated from the west to escape the cartels, but the evil followed them. The farmers in the area were forced to give up their legitimate crops and began growing drugs. Isidro’s father refused, and they killed him and his wife—she was an amazing woman, her mother was involved in the Spanish Civil War, a Republican Loyalist fighting against Franco and the Fascists. You have seen the rifle Isidro carries?”
“Epitafio?”
“It was his grandmother’s.” He sighed and studied me some more. “Do you know how he and Guzmán first met?”
“No.”
“The Policía Federal were first making up their tactical squads, you know, SWAT, Terrorist Response, and others, and Guzmán was down here at a firing range to teach with a number of other specialists from different countries when this young man comes riding over the dunes on a mule, a battered Garand rifle hanging from the saddle horn by a piece of rope.” He stood and walked to the kitchen behind him to refill my empty glass and placed it on the doily again. “The men, they began laughing, but Guzmán took the boy aside and set him up on a platform and told him to shoot the thirty-yard target, which Isidro does, three bullets. Guzmán looks through the binoculars he has and shakes his head, telling the boy that he only hit it once. Isidro disagrees so Guzmán has him shoot the fifty-yard target, same three times, same result.”
“Only one hole?”
“Only one hole. So the other men come over, and Guzmán instructs Isidro to shoot the hundred-yard target, which he does—same results.” He smiled. “By this time, Guzmán has figured it out and has the young man shoot the old Garand at the hundred-yard target but this time asks him to grade his shots, one in each surrounding circle, which he does.” He laughed. “Now, no one is smiling, and Guzmán says the boy is the finest natural talent he has ever seen.”
“Beware the man with only one weapon, for he surely knows how to use it.”
The priest patted the table. “Amen.”
“How come he’s not working for the police?”
“He was trained and joined the force but was asked to make a shot that he would not take.”
“He wears an interesting charm around his neck.”
“Riablo. In the beliefs of the Tarahumaras, the Riablo aligns himself with the devil but is not wholly evil; he works with God in aligning the balance of things in a sacrifice.”
“Seems to me Isidro has sacrificed enough.”
“Sí, he now works freelance, and whenever Guzmán calls.”
I sipped my water. “The place where I’m going . . .”
“Estante del Diablo—a village near an old sulfur mine, a rugged and beautiful place. I began my service there, but things became worse and worse, things that now must go unnamed. It was one of the central villages for the auctioning of livestock, but now they auction other things. . . .”
There was some movement from across the room, and Isidro reappeared with Alonzo, the Caddy driver I’d met earlier in the day. “Are you down here listening to old wives’ tales?”
I stood. “Some.”
Alonzo turned to Father Rubio and spoke in Spanish, the conversation becoming somewhat heated.
Finally turning to me, the priest explained, “He wants you to accompany him to the cathedral proper, because it would be easier to transport his uncle back through the main entrance to the car, but I have warned him that the policía and others have been here on the church grounds, and I think you would be safer going out the way you came. I would say it is likely that they are looking for you already.”
I turned to Alonzo. “We’re going to kind of stand out, don’t you think?”
“My uncle has a plan. C’mon, we don’t have a lot of time.”
I glanced at all of them in turn and started after Alonzo but then noticed that Isidro was still standing by the priest. “He’s not coming?”
“He’s Tarahumara, he’ll run.” Without another word, Alonzo turned and started up the steps.
* * *
—
The interior of the cathedral was surprisingly modern, and the warm glow of the oak pews and amber stained glass
made it seem like more of a communal area than a place of worship, although a few of the faithful were scattered in the front with one or two older women seated in the rear near the main entrance, their heads covered with mantillas.
Alonzo and the priest led me down the side, Rubio stopping to speak with one of the women. The Seer was seated about two-thirds of the way back, leaning forward on the pew in front of him, his hands clasped in what seemed fervent prayer.
I slid next to him and placed the gym bag on the floor between us. I couldn’t help but close my eyes in the calm and quiet of the place.
“Take off your hat, you are in the house of God.” I opened my eyes to see that the legless man was finished praying and now was sitting back and staring at me with his sightless eyes.
I slipped the palm leaf off and held it in my hands. “What, you can hear it on my head?”
He glanced up at the vaulted ceiling of the nave. “Do you believe in God, Sheriff?”
“I guess . . .” I smiled, feeling pretty much ambushed here in the cathedral. “You could say I’ve had my doubts lately.”
He grinned back, probably sensing my smile from the way I spoke. “In the face of all the miracles celebrated in this cathedral, how can you doubt?”
“Well, I would balance them with all the sorrow and pain.”
“Sí, but the pain and sorrow are there to remind us that we are alive.”
“Uh huh.”
I could feel his dead eyes on the side of my face. “You do not believe in miracles?”
“Nope.”
He nodded. “You should—it may be the only way you get your daughter back.”
There was a noise in the vestibule, and my eyes followed the priest as he hurried toward the back where a group of policía appeared dressed in their black BDUs and helmets and carrying automatic weapons. The officer in the front was a tall man and the only one to remove his helmet, revealing a thick shock of silver hair.
Father Rubio was having an animated conversation with him as I tried to slip down in the pew, but the officer took a hard look at us before he motioned for his men to retreat, giving me one last glance as they departed.
Alonzo met the priest as he walked through the aisle, the two of them leaning down in front of us, both of them speaking at once, the priest in Spanish and Alonzo in English. “It’s the PF, and they’re looking for you.”
“Did they see me?”
“Yes, and they are waiting outside, because Father Rubio says they cannot enter the church with their weapons.”
I posited a suggestion. “How about we go back out the way we came in?”
“They will have someone at all the doors.”
“Did you admit that the gringo is the sheriff?”
We all turned to look at the Seer, who appeared deep in thought.
Alonzo was the first to speak. “No, but he is the only gringo in the place.”
The Seer smiled. “Father Rubio, are you in possession of your marvelous pen collection, and in it, do you have a blue marker?”
Rubio glanced around at the absurdity of the question. “Sí, pero . . .”
“Give it to Alonzo, please.”
The priest plucked a large marker from his pocket and handed it to Alonzo.
“Now, get the bag you told me about.”
Exasperated, Alonzo reached down and picked up the heavy blue and gray duffel from the floor and balanced it on the back of the pew between us. “Now what?”
“Carefully write the initials B and L in capital letters on the bag, both sides, please.”
“Uncle, this is no time for games.”
“Do as I tell you.”
Alonzo did as he was told, carefully blocking the letters on the light panels of the bag. “Do you want me to put periods after the letters?”
“Artist’s discretion; if you think it helps in the design, feel free to do so.”
The young man grumbled but decided to make the addition. “If I knew what the hell I was doing, it might help.”
“Don’t blaspheme in the House of God.” The Seer turned to look in my direction. “Are you ready to go?”
“Um, yep.”
“Then if you would be so kind as to place me in my wheelchair?”
Glancing at the others, who seemed as perplexed as I was, I lifted the man from the pew and seated him in his chair, which was at the end of the aisle. “What now?”
He glanced around as if it were obvious. “We leave, but first place the gym bag in my lap.”
I reached over and took it from Alonzo, lowered it into the space between the Seer’s half-legs, and figured it was about two centuries of incarceration in the bag. Turning him around, I slowly pushed him toward the door as the others fell in behind. “Whatever this plan is, I sure hope it works.”
The Seer nodded and motioned toward his nephew. “Alonzo, it would be best if you were pushing and the sheriff was beside me.”
Father Rubio called after us. “I will pray for your safety.”
The young man muttered under his breath, “For all the good that will do.”
I took my place alongside the wheelchair as we closed in on the large double doors at the front of the church, and I wondered what in the world the Seer had cooked up.
I pushed open the door, and there must’ve been twenty cops standing just outside and another dozen on the plaza below leaning on their vehicles or hanging off the heavy guns mounted in the back of the half-ton black pickups. I figured we were going to be spending the night in a Mexican jail, and then I would be handed back over to the FBI—and that was the best-case scenario.
The tall man with the silver hair stood at the front, still holding his helmet, and studying me as I held the door open for the Seer and his entourage. He stepped forward and extended his hand, careful to brush the old man’s fingers so that he could easily find them. “It is good to see you in church, my friend. You are changing your ways?”
“Ah, Colonel Hernández.” The Seer laughed. “Just making bigger deals.”
The head Fed motioned toward one of his men, who sneered as he came up the steps and took my arm. “Will you introduce us to your friend?”
The Seer looked embarrassed and then shoved the gym bag in his lap a little toward Hernández. The blind man thrummed the bag where the initials B.L. were evident, as if in an attempt to tip him off. Then in a low voice he murmured, “This is no time for jokes, Jefe.”
Then the Seer threw an arm out toward me with dramatic flair, his voice mimicking that of a sports announcer. “Do not tell me that you do not recognize the great number seventy-four, All-American defensive tackle, eleven-time Pro Bowl and Super Bowl champion, Mister Cowboy, Bob Lilly?”
Every once in a while, when all the chips are down and you don’t stand a chance, a moment arrives where you have the opportunity to do something so erratic, so outlandish, so stupid that only an innocent person would even think of doing—and for me that moment was now.
Yanking my arm away from the heavyset policeman, I crouched slightly, put my shoulder into his chest, and heaved him up and away just like I had as an offensive lineman with the tackling dummies back at USC all those years ago. I had caught him off balance, and he flew backward, crashing flat onto the concrete, handily saved from concussion by the padding of his bulletproof vest and helmet.
Whether it was the shock of the action, the braggadocio of the act, or possibly the suspicion that he wasn’t the most well-liked man in the unit, I was immediately relieved when the colonel began slowly clapping and the entire group joined him and cheered.
3
“My hand hurts.”
Alonzo put his foot in the Caddy, and we rocketed through the velvety night like a pastel panther. “From hitting the policeman?”
I readjusted the blue Sharpie in my shirt pocket, making sure the cap was on.
“From signing autographs.”
The Seer smiled at me. “I must admit that I had a moment of genius, Mr. Lilly.”
“It was an act of desperation.”
Alonzo passed the slower-moving traffic while dodging the potholes and the southern Juárez buses. We were driving through a neighborhood made up of old industrial buildings, which looked like a great place to get killed. “How did you know he’d go for it?”
“The colonel is a great fan of American football, and I knew he would not pass up an opportunity to meet a celebrity, even if he had small doubts, no?”
“Does this mean we’re dropping the gun-buying ploy?”
“Perhaps. Being a football star might work better, given your size.”
“Fine with me—I’d just as soon not spend the next two hundred years in a Mexican prison.” I glanced around at the large warehouses along the road and could see young women walking the dimly lit streets. “What’s going on here?”
“Maquiladoras, assembly plants along the industrial zone, which allow duty-and tariff-free manufacturing between borders. My people work for about one-sixth of their counterparts in los Estados Unidos because they have to. When the program started in the mid-eighties it was a workforce mostly comprised of men, but then they found that young women had better manual dexterity and would work longer hours, so they are mostly girls now.” He lowered his chin onto the back of his hand. “It is where Los Perdidos, the Lost Ones, mostly come from, the women who go missing and are killed in the city.” He adjusted his hat. “The young ones come from the country, girls with little or no experience in the world but are drawn here by the promise of wages.” He gestured to the surrounding area he could not see. “Tell me, does this look like a nice place to work?”
“No.”
“They have no money, so they walk or take public transportation where there is little police protection.”
“How many go missing?”
“Hundreds, possibly thousands.”
I sighed. “Why doesn’t somebody do something?”
Depth of Winter Page 4