Cristina

by Jake Parent

  “Hello?”

  “Cristina Rodriguez.”

  “Speaking.”

  “Hello, Ms. Rodriguez. This is Jim Canfield with the FBI. Is this a good time?”

  He sounded like he was trying hard not to be heard. Cristina imagined him huddled in a car, alone in some dark parking garage, holding an envelope full of documents he wasn’t supposed to have.

  Or maybe she’d seen too many movies.

  He began with a few pleasantries, saying how her uncle was not only the kind of admirable businessman who made up the backbone of this country, but he was also a friend. He then went on to completely shock Cristina with a story she’d never heard. Agent Canfield said he owed her uncle an eternal debt of gratitude for saving one of his little girls when she ran into the street.

  “Lucy would have been crushed by a garbage truck if Al hadn’t reached out and grabbed her right at the last moment. My wife and I thank God every day that he was there.”

  Canfield wanted to make it clear to Cristina that this debt was the only reason he’d even agreed to speak with her about the case, an act he said could probably cost him his job.

  “Needless to say, I’d appreciate it if you keep what we talk about off the record. Your uncle tells me that you want to set your mind at ease. That’s all this is for.”

  Cristina agreed.

  He said it was his understanding that she had two points of interest. The first being the criminal drug distribution network known as New Horizon. He told her that he himself had worked on a multi-year operation to apprehend the fugitive leader of the organization, and in that time he saw their brutality firsthand.

  “My brother-in-law was one of the ATF agents who Charles Walters – AKA ‘The High Priest’ – burned alive. Mr. Walters became the de-facto head of the organization after taking over from the original founder. A man by the name of Jonathan Krauser, who himself disappeared sometime in the 1980’s. It was believed that he died, but that was never confirmed.

  “It was Walters who transformed the organization from its original incarnation as a relatively harmless, anti-society, hippy-cult that encouraged people to use LSD and smoke marijuana. Walters turned it into something much more dangerous. Something designed specifically to suck up disenchanted youth and get them hooked on hard drugs like heroin and meth. All for profit.”

  He added that the organization seemed to be experiencing a resurgence.

  “They recently published a new version of their propaganda manual, although from what I’ve seen it mostly consists of the same malarkey about a coming collapse of society, and the need to embrace some kind of spiritual awakening through the use of drugs. The same basic garbage the group has been using for decades to lure in new recruits.”

  He ended that part of his speech with a stern warning.

  “New Horizon is very dangerous and so are drugs. You don’t want to live the life of a drug addict, Ms. Rodriguez. Trust me, I’ve seen what it does to people.”

  Cristina had to bite her cheek to suppress a laugh.

  Canfield moved on to the next part of his presentation.

  “Now, secondly, you also want to know about the disappearance and murder of Annie Stewart, correct?”

  Cristina had been so deep in listening mode that she didn’t answer right away.

  “Hello?” he asked. “Are you still there, Ms. Rodriguez?”

  “Yes, sorry. That’s right about the case. I recently moved into the home the family lived in. Any information you can give me about what happened to them would really help give us some peace of mind.”

  Another pause.

  He seemed momentarily lost for words.

  It didn’t last.

  “Here’s the thing. This one’s a bit more delicate. Although I didn’t work the case myself, like most people in the area I followed the events while it was going on. And the fact I have a couple of daughters myself made it that much more personal. Anyhow, I talked to a colleague of mine who has been actively working the case since the beginning.”

  Actively?

  Canfield continued unprompted, “He says, and again I have to be careful with what I say here, he says there are still some ongoing concerns about what happened.”

  Cristina had, of course, read the article about the FBI questioning the police findings. But since she wanted to hear what Canfield was willing to volunteer, she decided not to mention it.

  Instead she asked, “As in, what? The person who did it wasn’t caught?”

  “Perhaps. The conclusion drawn by the local PD was that the stepfather committed the murder, but there’s always been some doubt as to whether or not that was the whole story. My colleague says that once the stepfather ended up dead too, there was significant pressure from the local business and political communities to push that story, despite there being a number of holes in it. Such as the fact no one was ever able to nail down a motive.

  “As a matter of fact, everything seemed to point to the conclusion that Thomas Walker loved his stepdaughter very much. He treated her like his own child. Local police might have bought him as the culprit, perhaps helped along by the fact that having some kind of drug-cult killer on the loose is probably not the best thing business-wise for a town that brings in most of its revenue from family tourism . . .”

  So there was a connection to the cult.

  He added with pride, “. . . But we here at the FBI are a little harder to convince. We require a clear and provable motive. And our profiler basically said flat-out that there was no way Mr. Walker could have done something so horrible to this little girl. It just wasn’t in him. So it’s possible that the he didn’t have anything to do with it, and was only set up to look like he did.”

  Cristina’s heart raced. Her mind filled with a sudden sense of vulnerability.

  “What can I do?” she asked, almost pleading. “I need to keep my baby girl safe.”

  A pause again.

  “I didn’t know you had a daughter, Ms. Rodriguez. Like I said before, I’ve got two, so I can understand your concern. Well . . . I’m not sure how much more I can tell you, but our profiler also says that whoever did this is likely either dead, or in jail for something else. Because people who do these kinds of crimes don’t usually stop. In fact, they often only get more aggressive in their efforts. That being said, I’d be careful about who you trust.”

  DON’T TRUST HIM.

  The scrawled words flashed into her mind.

  Canfield continued, “Ms. Rodriguez, Pleasure Point, for all its beauty as a tourist destination, is a well-known gathering place for lowlifes and deviants, especially in its more rundown areas. And for your own safety, I don’t want to give you the impression that the person, or people, who hurt that little girl aren’t still out there. They could be simply biding their time. There is such a thing as a patient criminal. And if it’s the case that the perpetrator is still on the loose, it’s likely to be someone who’s had a traumatic past. To the point that, despite what they might show on the outside, they’re unable to feel empathy toward other human beings.”

  Cristina said, “You mentioned the killer might have had a cult connection. Any more you could add to that would be appreciated. Off the record, of course.”

  The longest pause yet. A full thirty seconds. She realized that maybe he hadn’t intended to divulge that part of the case. Cristina was about to speak again when Canfield’s voice finally returned.

  “Ms. Rodriguez, I wish I could go into greater detail. Like I said, I owe your uncle a lot. But I’ve already given you more than I should have . . . though I will say one last thing. And again, I shouldn’t be doing this. But certain details about the crime scene were not publicly released, including items found near the body, and communications made by the killer, both of which would seem to indicate some kind of connection to the New Horizon cult.” His voice suddenly became more lecturing and authoritative. “Now, I’ll remind you, that if you ever tell anyone what we’ve discussed here today, I’ll not onl
y deny it, but I’ll be forced to bring a great deal of difficulty into your life.”

  She wasn’t sure what that meant. Except, she did. Same cop intimidation crap as every other law enforcement officer she’d ever dealt with. But she also realized he was probably just trying to cover his own ass. He’d given her a lot and didn’t have to. For that, she was grateful.

  Cristina told him so before ending the call.

  She set her phone on the coffee shop’s metal table, closed her eyes, and rubbed at the dull pain in her temples. There was so much to process. Canfield had given her some interesting new information, but she again felt like she had more questions than when she started.

  37

  That night, Cristina stood in her kitchen, staring blankly at the last few chocolates. She wanted to eat them but her stomach said no. So into the trash they went.

  Her whole body had felt progressively worse ever since waking up from her sleep-a-thon. Now her skin itched. Her forearms and back felt like little worms were hatching underneath her skin, trying to wiggle their way to the surface.

  Great, all I need is to get the flu right as I have to appear in court.

  The only thing she could bring herself to do was curl up in bed with every blanket she could find. She lay there sweating and freezing at the same time. It eerily reminded her of the first encounter she had with shooting meth and heroin together.

  She’d been hanging out with a skinny (but psychotically ruthless) gangbanger people called Muerto. By then, she’d already shot smack a couple times and loved it, but the idea of combining it with meth scared the shit out of her.

  When Muerto suggested they do just that, Cristina at first tried to play it off like some purist connoisseur. He kept insisting, telling her how good it would make her feel.

  “Like angels kissing your whole body, baby,” he said, standing there in his living room wearing only a pair of boxers, body covered with tattoos, waving a dripping needle in the air.

  After a few more coy refusals, he started to get angry. Then quiet. At that point, she knew he was going to start hitting her if she didn’t go along. So she reluctantly stuck out her arm, trying not to show how scared she was as he pricked her skin with the needle and slowly pumped a stream of liquid into her vein.

  The concoction traveled through her bloodstream toward her heart, gently warming her at first. An explosion of bliss shot out from her chest, moving quickly throughout her body, all the way to the tips of her fingers and toes. That was the heroin. Then, just as she thought she was going to go blurry and pass out, the speed hit. Her entire being, all the way down to what Tío Alberto would call her soul, took off like a rocket ship. She felt so beautiful. Completely at peace. And confident. Like she could do anything.

  For the next several hours, she had the strange feeling of being distant from her own body. She barely even noticed when Muerto flipped up the short, yellow sundress she was wearing and slipped aside her panties. He sat there humping her like some rabid dog for what seemed like hours. It probably was. She couldn’t feel a thing. Her body and mind and soul were entirely somewhere else.

  Of course, when she came down the next day, her whole universe swung like a pendulum back toward the opposite extreme. She went from absolute joy to feeling like the essence of life itself was being sucked out of her by an evil vacuum, leaving nothing behind but pain and ugliness.

  Then there was the vomiting and diarrhea. And clogged sinuses filled with a dark-green mucous that drained down her throat like someone had turned on a faucet, gagging her to the point that she threw up even more.

  That was the price of the needle, though. Ultimate high and ultimate lows.

  Whatever it was she was feeling now – the flu or food poisoning or whatever – wasn’t half as bad as coming down off shooting dope. She did her best to comfort herself by remembering that fact. It wasn’t working particularly well.

  All her body wanted to do was sleep.

  She called Anise and wished her goodnight. Then, hoping to keep away the nightmares, she lit a new candle she’d bought earlier in the day at Walgreens – a duplicate of the one her uncle had given her.

  Seeing the image of the Virgen de Guadalupe etched onto the glass reminded her that Father Antonio was supposed to come by in the morning. She wanted to call and cancel. There hadn’t been anymore bad dreams, anyway. Not since the one with Anise. It kind of felt like the whole exercise would be a waste of both their time. And if it really was the flu she was coming down with, she certainly didn’t look forward to trying to remember all the little intricacies of interacting with a Catholic priest, especially while trying not to throw up all over him.

  But she fell asleep before she could pick up her phone.

  38

  That night, she did dream.

  Drawn by the unseen force, she found herself standing in front of the hall closet. Only, this time there was nothing there when she opened the door. At least, no bodies. No boxes either.

  She rubbed her eyes, and when she again looked at the back wall of the closet, a small door had appeared. One that seemed built for a child.

  Cristina got down on her hands and knees to crawl through the door and into the small tunnel beyond. In the distance, she could see a bright light. She was frightened, but continued making her way through the cramped space, unable to stop. The light became so intense that she had to shield her eyes with one hand, forcing her to limp along like a three-legged dog.

  After inching forward, she finally reached the threshold of the dazzling aura and crawled through. She was immediately overcome by a feeling of peace and tranquility. For a moment, the purest form of happiness she’d ever known. More than any drug could have ever possibly offered.

  Then came the sensation of falling down the side of a steep incline. It wasn’t frightening or painful, though. It was joyous, reminding her of when she and her childhood friend Nick used to roll down the grassy hill at the park in their neighborhood.

  The falling stopped and the light vanished. She was left sitting by herself in the dark. Compared to the happy contentment she’d felt a moment earlier, the world now seemed hollow and empty. A part of her was angry for having that sense of bliss taken away.

  Then the landscape around her slowly brightened, like the stage in a play. She found herself somewhere in the mountains above Pleasure Point. She recognized the trees, and the smell of the ocean as it mixed with the clean earthiness of dust and rocks.

  She found a path through a thicket of trees. On the other side was an unfamiliar house. Its exterior was painted red, but the color had faded like an old shirt. Two giant redwood trees stood over the house. The gutters were full of dried needles. The roof covered in them. The porch and front yard, too.

  The entire scene felt both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

  She walked closer, toward an old car parked in the yard. A model with big fins that looked like it hadn’t been driven in decades. The front grille was rusted and detached on one side, like a set of dead, decaying lips.

  Cristina entered the yard and felt cold. Unwelcome.

  That’s when she awoke to the sound of someone knocking on the door.

  39

  The blocky red numbers on her digital clock said it was exactly 9 AM.

  Did I really sleep for 12 hours again?

  The knocking continued, growing louder. She ran to the bathroom and threw on her robe. At least she felt about a thousand times better than she had when she crawled into bed. Her head still hurt a little, but her stomach felt stable. And her skin didn’t itch anymore.

  When she answered the door, Father Antonio stood waiting, his dark eyes smooth and patient behind square glasses. He wore jeans and the priest’s traditional black shirt and white collar.

  She remembered him, of course. He’d been at Tío Alberto’s church – which she supposed was technically her church as well – since Cristina was a little girl. He oversaw her First Communion.

  But that Father Antonio ha
d been a much younger man.

  He still wasn’t elderly by any stretch of the imagination. Maybe five years older than Cristina’s uncle. But he’d certainly aged since the last time she saw him. His well-trimmed hair had turned almost entirely grey, and was slightly disappearing at the hairline. The black mustache she vaguely remembered him having was now a full beard. The hair on his face still held onto a few solid patches of black, but it was well on its way to being the same color as the hair on his head.

  “Hello, Cristina,” he said warmly. “Are you feeling, OK? If this is a bad time, I can come back another day.”

  She tightened her robe and pulled back her hair, still trying to blink sleep from her eyes.

  “No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t feeling well last night and overslept. Come on in.”

  She stepped out of the way and he entered.

  “Please, have a seat,” she added. “Just give me two minutes and I’ll be right back.”

  She ran upstairs and changed, throwing on jeans, a bra, and a plain black t-shirt.

  The rush of blood from moving so fast made her head throb.

  “Can I offer you something to drink?” she asked, coming down the stairs, pulling her hair into a ponytail. “I was going to have coffee.”

  “Sure. That would be great. If it’s not too much trouble. A little cream. A little sugar.”

  She put water on to boil and came back into the living room.

  “Thanks for coming by,” she said, even if she still wasn’t entirely sure why he was there.

  “You’re welcome, Cristina. It’s quite nice to see you after all these years.”

  It felt like there might be a slight coating of judgement in his voice – the kind a dentist has when talking to a patient about flossing. But it could have just been her lingering headache making her sensitive.

  “You too, Father. I’m sure you’re a busy man, so I’m grateful for your time.”

  “Ah, well, we all must make time to do God’s work, my child.” He smiled. A polite, well-practiced look. They exchanged a few more pleasantries and then, with coffee cup in hand, Father Antonio removed his glasses. His eyes looked oddly small without them. “So, tell me, what’s been happening with you. Your uncle says you’ve been experiencing some . . . disturbances since you moved into this lovely home.”