Can you match the marks with any potential suspects?
He shakes his head, lowering his voice, “The teeth marks, they're from several different human sets of teeth.”
Lots of teeth bit this girl?
“Over and over. They drained her blood over a period of days. From inside the legs, and from inside the arms. And the monsters that did this repeated it over several days.”
“Jesus Christ,” Mr. Green said as he looked at a close-up shot of the bite marks on the inner arms. “What's your gut instinct, Doctor . . . su primera impression?”
“This is some kind of ritual, I would say, but . . . ”
But what?
Hector's eyes seem to blank out, as he considers something.
But what , Doctor?
He snaps back, “In the wound there were anticoagulants. You know, so that the wound doesn't clot. This keeps the blood flowing so that they can continue drinking. The bats from the higher elevations use the same chemical in their saliva to attack the cows and los borregos—the sheep.”
“Can you purchase these kinds of things?” Mr. Green asked. “Anticoagulants? Who sells that?”
He shook his head, again keeping his voice down as if we're being listened to, “Perhaps you could purchase something like this from some bio-chemical firm in the United States, or Europe. But, really, it would be unreasonably expensive. And you would only have small amounts for using in experiments.”
What about . . . would you be able to collect it from the bats? I ask.
“It would be impossible. To collect sufficient amounts to do this to a human, you would need to synthesize it.”
So, we're looking at a cult, who have anticoagulants in large, impossible amounts, that are kidnapping children to suck their blood. Have I covered all of the bases?
Hector nods. “And there is one more thing you need to know.”
Mr. Green and I, we're all ears.
“ . . . the bit marks, they're from different sized mouths, with different levels of development in the teeth.”
You lost me. They're what?
“This cult, whoever they are doing this, they're not just adults. There are children feeding, too.”
We spent the next ten minutes looking at the pictures as he explained the different nuances in them. Telling us what we were looking at, and how he determined the different dental sets. He estimates that there are three or four distinct sets of teeth that were feeding off of this child's body.
I can't think of a more horrible and terrifying way to die, than to be repeatedly drained of blood until my body finally gives up the fight.
He sends us off with a copy of the file, all the pictures, and an address where we can find a woman named Seniorita Esmeralda Gomez Alonzo. She was the last parent to have a child taken near the mountains, so we might find something at her place.
61
Pan-American Highway, Quito.
6:22 am . . .
As our caravan heads out towards Seniorita Alonzo's casa we've all squished into Ricky's Hummer . She lives near a landmark called the Virgin of Quito , that sits at the top of a hill called El Panecillo —the little loaf of bread. Juan says it has the best view of the city of Quito.
It doesn't take Ricky long to distill the important details from the fluff. He starts peppering us with questions.
“Where's the tox screen?”
Huh?
“They always test for toxins in the body. Like poisons, drugs, whatever. Where is it?”
Mr. Green hands him the entire file. “I don't really know what I'm looking for. This doctor was spooked, no shit.”
Ms. Josephine narrows her eyes at Mr. Green. “Oh, sorry, Ms. Josephine. I've got the vocabulary of a sailor.”
I don't know how she does that.
Ricky flips on the interior light as we drive, bringing the glossy post-mortem photographs to within inches of his face. He squints, “Ligature marks on the insides of the wrists, and at the ankles.”
I didn't see that.
“You saw it, Jack. You just didn't know what you were looking at. Look there,” he says, pointing at the slightly discolored marks on the little girls wrists.”
They tied her up?
“That's right,” he says, and from the way the ligature marks lay at a slight angle, I'd guess . . . ” He holds his left arm out about 45 degrees. “They tied her like this. Ankles and wrists. I guess that makes sense, if you're going to drink her blood multiple times.”
Mr. Green pointed at one of the close-up shots of the wounds, which are just hundreds of black indentations and minced flesh. “Hector said that there were at least three sets of distinctly different dental impressions, maybe four.”
Ricky scratches his head, “They look, mismatched. In fact,” he leans in again, “ . . . if I was to . . . those look like a child's impressions.” Then he look up. “Wait . . . ”
Mr. Josephine finishes his thought, “There's children involved.”
Yeah, I tell them. That's what Hector told us. That the attackers weren't only adults in some cult, but children, too. Children killing other children . . . slowly.
This might as well just replace all the nightmares I've ever had. This can be the new default horrible shit that my subconscious defaults to whenever it wants to screw me out of a good night's sleep.
Mr. Green leans back, sighing tiredly, “This is probably some kind of satanic cult, the doc was saying. And they have all sorts of religions around here. Especially in the jungles. We might even be dealing with a small tribe, or a family that's been living in the bush for a while. They're not beyond that kind of thing down here.”
Ricky continues reading the reports, occasionally handing it to Mr. Green to translate, “What's that?”
“Oh, that's the anticoagulant that Hector was talking about. Says they'd need to have synthesized an impossible amount to do this. He said it would be prohibitively expensive, even for a research program.”
“Is this for real? I mean, am I reading this right?” Ricky asks, having a hard time believing what he's reading.
Mr. Green shrugs, “This guy checks out. He's a smalltime doctor now, but he worked for the Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology, and did work at the Anthropology Museum. He's just kind of gone off the grid since he lost his wife to cancer a few years back.”
Ricky slowly exhales, his face locked in a look that's somewhere between perplexed and overwhelmed. Taking out his phone, he places a call. 20 seconds later he is talking to Billtruck, “Hey, I'm going to send out some photographs, as well as the autopsy reports from this victim.”
“From da child,” Ms. Josephine corrected him.
“Right,” Ricky said respectfully, “the child.”
“ . . . send them when your ready. Hal has intercepted some troubling phone communications originating from the Vatican, back to Quito.”
To where? I ask loud enough for Billtruck to hear me.
“ . . . you heard of a church called the Jesuit church La Compañía?”
Mr. Green looks over at Mr. Blue, who nods, “Si, es una iglesia in Quito. Lo se.” Mr. Green nods to us.
“We know the place,” Ricky answers.
“ . . . well, put it on your list of places to stay the Hell away from. That's their catholic HQ, if you know what I mean. And the anonymous voice, he's there calling the shots.”
“Alright,” Ricky says, “I'm sending the pics now. Give me a heads-up in a couple hours.”
While Ricky's sending the pictures, I see Mr. Green whispering something to our driver, Mr. Blue.
I lean over to Mr. Green, “What's up?”
“When we get settled for the night, Mr. Blue and I are going to have a look around the Jesuit church. Check out the security in case we need to hit the place. He told me they just closed it for renovations , all of the sudden.”
I nod and then glance over at Ms. Josephine. She's looking at the only picture of the little girl when she was alive. It's a grainy old photo that shows a sm
all child holding a chicken that's obviously trying to get free. She's smiling, struggling, the picture capturing her in the space of time between laughing and breathing. Her eyes are so bright and animated that they light up the otherwise old, fading photograph.
Down here, time happens quicker. That photo, it's probably only a year or two old, but it might as well be some antique that came out of a recovered trunk at the bottom of the ocean. It could be a hundred years old.
This little girl has only been dead for a few days, and already she's become something nostalgic and withered.
I have to fix this. I have to save whoever is left to save, and kill the rest. I don't know what I'll do when the moment comes, but if you drink the blood of an innocent little girl who had a beautiful life in front of her, then you get the darkness.
That's your present.
I can be the monster I fear is inside of me. I will be to these monsters.
Maria Eduardo-Mendez Gonzalez, age six, died by exsanguination. Those that killed her . . . they're next.
62
Virgin of Quito, El Panecillo.
22 minutes later . . .
Were standing on top of the Little Loaf of Bread, looking down on over 2 million people. There are 16 children missing. We are about to speak with Seniorita Alonzo, and we're going to have to take a much more delicate tact. She is single woman who runs a small chicken farm.
And she's missing her 5-year old son, Carlos. He's been missing just over two days, and our thinking is that if there is something the kidnappers left behind, maybe we can pick up on it.
Maybe.
Looking out across the city, it's almost like looking at a post card. The red and soft browns of the bricks. The bits of white and grey. Spires and church towers rising above the houses and markets. The streets are crossing in clean, nearly perfectly straight lines. And even though I know that down on the street there is a great deal of poverty, from here it looks like any picturesque town in the world.
Could be Rome.
Might be Paris, France.
Barcelona.
But, no. It's none of those places. This town, if we're not careful, could be the place they eventually talk about as the town where the Evils got their foothold on us. Where they first laid their roots.
They say the children are the future, that's if they're not eating each other. I'm having a hard time imagining a group of satan worshippers, or some other twisted cult, slowly sucking the blood of a bunch of young children. But to think that there may be children preying on other children . . . that fucking irks me.
And I'm not easily irked.
Walking across the dirt road that leads to her house I hear chickens squawking, making a real mess somewhere off in the distance. This woman, all I know about her is that she lost her son, and she's willing to talk to us. Well, to the us that supposedly works for The World Peace Brigade .
To me it sounds ultra -cheesy, but Mr. Green assured me that it's legit enough. In fact, he tells me, they've been using it for a cover for so many years, that it's got a fairly decent reputation as far as humanitarian aid organizations go. Tell a lie long enough and people start to believe it.
Fantasy becomes fact eventually.
Ms. Josephine and Ricky are going to be asking most of the questions, with Mr. Green interpreting between them. I'm just going to have a look around the property with Juan—Mr. Black.
We walk down a small, grass covered path that looks like there may be stones underneath that used to form a walkway. The grass has taken hold and left just the echo of a path. As we approach her front porch, which is almost entirely orangish-red tiles, I see a fountain partially obscured by an black iron gate.
I kick at what I thought was a stick, and it turns out to be a lizard basking in the sun. He probably doesn't have a worry in the world. At some point a bird, some enterprising cat, or a lawn mower will get him. He'll go from enjoying the sun to being dead before he knows it.
Easy come, easy go.
When we start to peek through the gate we hear her calling, “Ola, Ola! Espera un momento. Hay voy, hay voy.”
When she approached she took a careful look at each of us before opening the gate. In her left hand was a small plastic cross that she looks to have been rubbing for about two days straight. Jesus won't have any skin left if we don't find her kid soon.
Mr. Green introduced us and she opened the gate allowing us to enter.
I'm going to spare you the hell I'm going through trying to translate and just tell you the nuts and bolts.
She and her two sons, Carlos and Julio, were getting the chickens all rounded up two nights ago. They were going muy loco and the family was having a difficult time. At one point, Julio had corralled 30 or 40 of the chickens and Carlos went to close a portion of the back fence where they had some donkeys grazing.
Seniorita Alonzo and Julio got all the chickens back in their cages, the whole ordeal taking around half an hour. And that was the last she saw of Carlos. She said how Julio, being the older brother, around 11, went searching for Carlos—who has the soul of Cortez and likes to wander around like a little explorer.
But when they couldn't locate him in an hour she began to worry. She called her brother who works in the city to help her. He, knowing of the recent child disappearances, notified the local Policia, and two cars were sent to her house.
Four Policia officers searched in the immediate vicinity, and then several hunters were called on to help widen the search area. Still no Carlos. They officially listed him as missing yesterday morning.
Ms. Josephine asked if there were any strange noises in the past few weeks. Strangers? People that didn't belong?
After Seniorita Alonzo and Mr. Green went back and forth he turned to us, “She says the animals started acting strange, and that several of her chickens, and a small goat were killed by something that drank their blood. They call it Chupacabra .”
“Si,” she said, nodding, “Chupacabra. Es chupacabra.”
Ricky asked, “Did she ever actually see anything, or anyone around the farm?”
Seniorita Alonzo looked down, her eyes focusing on the fountain's stagnant water. “No. No vi nada.”
Mr. Green turns to us, but we already know. He then recommends that Juan and I take a look around. I take the hint and we head back out the gate and start our hike of the farm. Behind us Ms. Josephine is taking Seniorita Alonzo into her arms as the mother cries for a child that I imagine she'll probably never see again. At least, not in color.
As we're walking I grab my phone and call the office. Billtruck answers.
“Hey . . . ” I tell him, “we're at the location of another of the kidnappings. What do you want me to do?”
“ . . . give me a minute . . . Hal to . . . on line . . . ”
“Billtruck,” I say, “you're kind of breaking up.” I wait a few seconds and then the line gets clear and precise, again.
“Sorry about that. That's an odd area your in. I'll need to check it out on satellite as soon as I can. There's some strange energy spikes in that area. Did you see a power plant nearby? Maybe a reactor of some kind?”
“Nothing, no. Just a bunch of old buildings and even older churches. Everybody's poor and I'm sure you could disappear in a place like this in a flash.”
“Huh,” he says. “It looks like a postcard, from space.”
I laugh. “That's what I thought, too.”
“Well, there's something there, Jack. Maybe it's a transformer?”
I look over at Juan, “Juan, sabes un, um, caja electrica? Power box, but like muy grande?”
He nods, “Oh, like a transformer.”
“Yeah, I say. Just like that. Is there anything like that around here?”
“I didn't see nothing, Yack,” Juan says, still managing to switch the J in my name for a Y .
I look at my phone, as if Billtruck is inside it, “Did you hear him?”
“I heard. Well, it's weird, whatever it is.” And then it's silent for a m
oment.
Billtruck?
“ . . . I'm here, I was just thinking about something I saw in a movie.”
Here we go.
“ . . . remember in Ghostbusters when they found ectoplasm? The residue from the ghosts. Especially the Slimer . They leave traces. Maybe these bastards leave trace evidence of some kind.”
“Billtruck, you're a genius.”
“I know.”
3 minutes and 23 seconds later . . .
Juan and I are walking around looking at everything in shades of colors based on their temperatures. It's early enough that most everything is still cool. Hopefully we might pick up something on the thermal imaging function that the policia missed.
We walk side by side, taking special care to investigate the area near the back gate—a two-beam wooden fence with posts every 10 or 12 feet. It's more of a corral to keep larger animals from walking off.
But we find nothing. It's all the same temperature. Matter of fact, the ground is warmer than the gate. Especially in one area a few feet outside the gate.
“Juan, what do you think would make the ground warmer there?”
“Maybe the animals, is where they sleep? Las vacas.”
The cows?
“Si, the cows.”
“Ricky said that cows sleep standing up.”
He shrugged, “Ricky must knows about Canadian cows. Ecuadorian cows sleeps on the ground. A la tierra.”
I get on my phone again, “Billtruck, are you getting this?”
“Every bit. Let Hal and I play with it, and I'll contact you in a few.”
Alright, then.
“Jack . . . get me a sample of the soil.”
Why?
“Maybe that shit's radioactive. What if they're dumping something and all of this is a big cover-up for illegal waste storage. You know, an explanation somewhat grounded in reality.”
That's the plot from the new Todd Steele adventure, Chemical Sundown .
“I know, I just read it. I didn't see the ending coming.”
I'll get the sample. Over and out.
We take the goggles off and Juan says to me, “Your friend has an imagination, no.”
What do you mean?
“Everybody knows this lady lost her kid to a chupacabra.” He shrugs like we're all the stupid ones. “Todo mundo sabe esto.”
See Jack Hunt (See Jack Die) Page 25