It was, for the most part, a harmless exercise in tradition, a joyous occasion for everyone involved. But somewhere in town, that X was marked, and the lives of a woman and her son depended on them finding it.
While Vargas bought Beth a pair of jeans and a Day of the Dead T-shirt and waited for her to dress under the blanket in the car, Ortiz tracked down a local map.
None of them were hungry, but they knew they needed something to give them energy, so they found a small café, ordered espressos and Mexican pastries, and unfolded the map in front of them.
“Here’s the listing of landmarks,” Beth said, then ran her finger down the page.
There was a fierceness to her demeanor that Vargas hadn’t seen before. A clarity of purpose.
He couldn’t be sure, of course—he was no expert—but he sensed that after last night’s violence she had turned some kind of corner, and had seen the last of her headaches.
Her refusal to visit a doctor hadn’t surprised Vargas. Despite the emotional seesaw she’d been riding, she was a strong, stubborn woman, as determined as she was beautiful.
“Here it is,” she said. “Iglesia del Sagrado Corazón. Church of the Sacred Heart.”
“You realize,” Vargas told her, “there’s no guarantee this priest will know anything.”
Ortiz cut in before Beth could respond. “Like you said last night. It’s the only thing we’ve got.”
“He knows something,” Beth said. She had a faraway look in her eyes. Had gone inward for a moment.
“How can you be sure?”
She focused on Vargas now. “There’s something about this place that speaks to me, Nick. Rafael said it was my home for a while, and I definitely feel like I’ve been here before.”
“You’re starting to remember?”
She shook her head. “Not exactly. It’s like what I told you about the whole Andy thing—I see these dark shapes, and I’m just waiting for them to surface.”
Vargas had been thrown by the Andy/Angie revelation. There had never been any indication that a child was involved in this, but each new day Vargas spent with this story seemed to bring a fresh new surprise.
“And the priest is one of those shapes?”
“He’d have to be, wouldn’t he? The nuns in that house didn’t just happen to bump into me on the road. Whatever we were up to, we were in it together and the priest knows about it. I’m sure he does.”
“How far is the church?” Vargas asked.
Ortiz was measuring the distance with his fingers. “Not far,” he said. “We could drive, but with everything going on around here, we might be better off on foot.”
Vargas looked at Beth. “You up to walking?”
She shot him a look. “I just killed a man with two hands and a piece of rope, Nick. I think I can manage to walk a few blocks.”
“Easy, kiddo, I’m not the enemy.”
She softened. “I’m sorry. I’m just worried about Jen and Andy.”
She stood up, a bundle of adrenaline. She hadn’t touched her espresso or her pastry.
“I can’t sit here anymore. Let’s do it.”
89
THEY HAD TO dodge the parade and an outdoor food fair to get to the church.
With each new block, they drew closer to the cliffs, as the buildings and houses and roads grew more and more decrepit, reflecting an even older Mexico that hadn’t kept up with the times.
There wasn’t much celebrating going on in this part of town. Some of the houses had makeshift altars in their windows, with burning candles, offerings of fruit, and photos of their dead loved ones. But most of the houses were silent and empty.
After a while, they came to a short dirt road with a battered sign that read: IGLESIA DEL SAGRADO CORAZÓN. At the end of the road stood a large, rustic adobe structure with a leaning bell tower that looked as if it might topple at any moment.
Church of the Sacred Heart.
They stood at the mouth of the road, gaping at it.
“You sure this is the right one?” Vargas asked.
Ortiz checked his map. “This is it, pocho.”
“Maybe there’s more than one Church of the Sacred—”
“La iglesia está cerrada,” a voice said.
They turned to find an old woman on a bicycle staring at them from across the street. A plastic sack full of conchas—Mexican sweet breads—hung from the handlebars.
“La iglesia está cerrada,” she repeated. The church is closed.
Vargas asked her for how long.
“Many weeks,” she said in Spanish. “After Father Gerard left.”
Ortiz’s eyebrows went up. “The priest is gone?”
“Yes,” the woman said. “One day the police came to speak to him; the next day, no more Gerard.”
Ortiz and Vargas exchanged looks and Vargas turned to translate for Beth.
But Beth wasn’t paying any attention to them, her gaze fixed on the church.
“Go home,” the old woman said. “There is nothing to see here.”
Then she turned her bike around and rode away, the sack of conchas swinging from the handlebars.
Ortiz watched her. “That was weird.”
Vargas nodded. “She came all the way out here with those sweet breads. I wonder who they were for.”
Ortiz shrugged. “Maybe she was selling them.”
Vargas turned to Beth again, but she was still staring at the church. Seemed transfixed.
“We need to come up with another game plan,” he told her. “The old woman says the priest is gone.”
“I know this place,” Beth said, then started up the road toward it.
BETH APPROACHED THE entrance to the church, a jumble of half-memories swirling through her mind, trying to break through.
She did know this place. She was sure she’d been here before.
Moving up to the double doors, she ran a hand across their warped wooden surface.
It felt familiar to her.
There was a chain and padlock on the door handles, but when Beth pulled on the lock it sprang free in her hand. It hadn’t been fastened properly.
Unwinding the chain, she dropped it aside and pushed the doors open, the old hinges groaning.
Inside was a cavernous room with at least a dozen rows of pews, all facing an altar that featured a larger than life-size figure of Jesus on the cross. Sunlight slanted in from a skylight above and through stained-glass windows high along each side.
Beth had never been religious, but as she moved down the aisle there was no denying the power here. The feeling that you were in the presence of something larger than you. Greater.
She stopped in front of the altar, stared up at the watchful eyes of Christ.
“Beth, what is it?”
She turned. Vargas and Ortiz were standing in the doorway.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “There’s something about this place. I—”
She heard a shuffling sound from above and stopped herself, shifting her gaze to the balcony over the doorway.
To her surprise, a boy stood near the rail, staring down at her. Wide-eyed.
He couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old, a Mexican child wearing only a dark pair of pants. There were burn scars on the right side of his neck and down his arm.
He stared at Beth intently, then broke into a smile. “Elizabeth?”
Startled by the sound of her name, Beth stepped backward. The boy suddenly turned and ran, disappearing from sight, his footsteps clattering on the stairs.
And as Vargas and Ortiz stepped inside to see what the commotion was, the boy emerged at a full sprint and shot past them, coming straight toward Beth—the smile even wider now, a smile of joy as he threw his arms around her and hugged her.
“You came back for us,” he said. “I tell the others you would, but they don’t believe.”
He squeezed her tighter.
“You came back, Elizabeth. You came back.”
90
T
HE BOY’S NAME was Cristo.
He seemed hurt when Beth couldn’t remember it.
They were sitting in a pew now, and he was holding her hands, not wanting to let them go.
Vargas and Ortiz sat several pews away, watching and listening, giving them room.
“Someone hurt me,” Beth told the boy, then bent forward and showed him the scar on her scalp. “Some bad people did this to me and it makes me forget sometimes.”
She looked at the burn marks on his neck and arm and knew that he was no stranger to bad people himself. That feeling of anger she’d felt in the car with Rafael threatened to overcome her again.
“What do you forget?” Cristo asked.
“All kinds of things. Names, places. Like this place. I think I’ve been here before, but I’m not sure.”
“Sí,” he said. “You come here many times. But how do you forget about me?”
Beth’s heart was breaking.
“I’m sorry, Cristo.” She touched her chest. “I can feel you here…” Then her head. “But I can’t find you in here.”
He looked confused. “Is this why you don’t come back for so long? Because you cannot find us?”
“Yes,” she said. “So help me remember. Tell me how I know you and why I came here.”
The boy said nothing, staring down at their hands now, his smile gone.
“Please, Cristo. Please help me remember.”
When he looked up at her again, there were tears in his eyes. “How do you forget me, Elizabeth? I bring you food when you are hungry. Like the old woman brings food for us.”
“The woman on the bicycle?”
“Sí,” he said. “She is a friend of Father Gerard. She take care of us when they kill him.”
Beth glanced at Vargas and Ortiz.
“Who killed him? La Santa Muerte?”
Cristo nodded. “I watch from up there,” he said, pointing to the balcony. “They cut his throat, and let him bleed in front of Jesus. They tell him he is a traitor to El Santo because of what he did.”
“Because he helped you?”
“Sí. Just like you help us, when you were strong again. They keep you in the cage, give you poisons, try to make you one of them. But I bring you food. I make you strong. I take care of you.”
Beth squeezed his hands. “Tell me everything, Cristo. Be my memory for me.”
He let go of her then and stood up.
“Better I show you,” he said, then squeezed past her and started down the aisle toward the altar.
Beth got to her feet, gesturing to Vargas and Ortiz. “Can my friends come, too?”
Cristo stopped and turned. “Sí,” he said. “I show you all.”
THEY FOLLOWED HIM as he moved the past the choir stall and opened a door, gesturing them inside. He led them down a narrow hallway to a tiny, cluttered office, then moved to a wall that was dominated by a large woven reredos depicting the birth of Christ. Grabbing it by the corner, he pulled it back to reveal a hole in the wall where a door used to be.
Cristo took a small flashlight from his pocket, flicked it on, then led them down a set of wooden steps to a storeroom crowded with the shadowy remnants of the church’s past: old lecterns, several floor candlesticks, a broken font, and at least two wooden kneelers.
He crossed to another door, produced a key from the same pocket, then unlocked it and threw it open.
Behind it was a small cramped closet, with several cardboard boxes piled up inside.
Cristo shoved the boxes aside to reveal another hole, this one low to the ground. Stepping through it, he waved for them to follow.
Beth, Vargas, and Ortiz exchanged looks, then stooped down and climbed through the hole, finding themselves in a long, narrow tunnel, its mud walls braced by thick pieces of lumber.
“Come,” Cristo said, and using the flashlight to guide them, he moved toward the far end of the tunnel where it abruptly turned left.
As she walked, Beth began to get that feeling of déjà vu again, knowing that she’d been down here before.
“What is this place?” she asked.
“Father Gerard say the church use the tunnels to smuggle guns and hide freedom fighters during the Revolution.”
They reached a junction, the tunnel splitting off in several directions, and took another left. Beth was surprised to hear the faint echo of waves crashing.
And just beneath that, something else.…
“Do you hear that?” she asked Vargas.
“Sounds like kids,” he said. “Playing.”
Beth’s heartbeat began to accelerate as they followed Cristo along a curve in the tunnel, the sounds growing louder with every step.
A moment later they were standing in a large cave, carved out of the cliff. And beyond it, the Sea of Cortez stretched out endlessly toward the horizon.
There were about a dozen children here, some playing, others eating fruit and sweet breads, while still others lay asleep on straw mats. It looked as if every single one of them had burn marks on their bodies: face, hands, legs—some worse than others.
A young girl, whose forehead was mottled with scars, saw them and shouted, “Elizabeth!” and one by one they turned to look at Beth.
And the next thing she knew they were all crowding around her, hugging her, touching her, saying her name.
91
FIVE BOYS AND seven girls.
Refugees. Victims of the La Santa Muerte cleansing rituals, and brought here one by one by Cristo.
Cristo had been the first to flee, shortly after his third cleansing, when his burns were still raw and festering, the pain nearly unbearable.
He had escaped late at night, through a labyrinth of underground tunnels and caves beneath the La Santa Muerte compound. This, he told them, was where the cleansings and fire ceremonies took place.
When Beth asked about these fire ceremonies, Cristo explained that many women who were brought into the compound were forced to work in private brothels throughout the country. Those who did not succumb to the will of El Santo were offered in sacrifice to La Santisima, strapped to the Holy Chair and burned alive.
Beth thought of Jen and Andy, and what Rafael had told her, and again a nearly uncontrollable anger rose in her chest. But she fought it off. She had to keep a rational mind.
Children were also brought to the compound, Cristo said. Some from as far away as Monterrey and Piedras Negras. They were snatched from the slums—sometimes in broad daylight—then brought to the compound to be indoctrinated and trained to go out into the streets of the cities to deliver drugs for the local dealers. Some of the children were sold into sexual slavery and auctioned off to the highest bidder.
Most of the children came from poverty and neglect and were happy to have food and shelter. But those who revolted or misbehaved were cleansed during the nightly prayer. And sometimes they, too, were sacrificed on Holy Friday.
When Vargas asked why no one went to the police about this, Cristo told him that the police and the politicians could not be trusted. Many of them were believers, followers of El Santo, and La Santa Muerte’s network extended far and wide. Even nonbelievers protected and worked with them, lining their pockets with El Santo’s gold.
And those, like Cristo, who had managed to escape and had the opportunity to expose the cult, were hunted down and killed. Cristo and his brothers and sisters here in the cave were the lucky ones, thanks to Father Gerard.
And Elizabeth.
When Elizabeth and her sister were brought to the compound, they were separated and the sister, Jennifer—who was with child—was kept in the High House with Marta and Rafael.
Elizabeth, however, was taken to the cages, where, at Rafael’s command, she was chained to the floor like a mongrel and beaten and starved and fed drugs. Cristo, who was in charge of washing down the cages, felt sorry for her, and late at night he would sneak back and bring her food and try to talk to her. They did not speak the same words, but after a while, with Elizabeth’s help, Cristo began
to learn her language.
El Santo and Rafael thought they could break her, as they had so easily with her sister. But Cristo knew better. Elizabeth was strong-willed and would not bend.
But she wasn’t stupid. She pretended to go along with them, allowing Rafael and El Santo and whoever they chose to defile her.
Elizabeth soon became Rafael’s trophy, Cristo told them, and was free to roam the compound—which was heavily guarded by men with guns. She was even given access to the High House, all the while plotting with Cristo to escape.
And to take Jennifer with them.
Then one night Cristo made a discovery. A part of the tunnels that was hidden from view, blocked by fallen rock. There was a hole in the wall, and through that hole he found more tunnels and more caves, and soon he was standing in the church.
“The tunnels lead here?” Ortiz asked.
“Sí,” Cristo said. “They lead many places. They run like a maze beneath the city, and most who know about them stay away for fear of getting lost forever.”
In his exploration of the tunnels, it was not unusual for Cristo to come across old bones or a rotting corpse.
When he found the church, Cristo shared his discovery with Elizabeth and they knew that this would be their way out. But before they could execute a plan, Jennifer gave birth, and Elizabeth said they must wait until the baby was strong enough to travel.
Then Cristo was caught stealing an extra ration of food and was taken for a cleansing, and in his pain that night he fled, coming straight to the church before collapsing beneath the statue of Jesus. He was discovered the next morning by Father Gerard and the sisters, who took care of Cristo’s wounds and nursed him to health.
And when he was healed, he told Father Gerard of La Santa Muerte and where he was from.
“Are there more children like you?” the father asked.
“Sí,” Cristo said. “Many more.”
Father Gerard, who was very, very old, had once lived in a faraway place. And during a great war, he had worked with many people to smuggle refugees out of their country. He asked Cristo if he was willing to go back into the tunnels and bring more children to the church.
Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller) Page 26