Cristo agreed, and late at night he returned to the compound and found Elizabeth, who was overjoyed to see him. He told her of Father Gerard’s request, and the two of them worked together to bring many of Cristo’s friends to safety.
The sisters from the church then traveled with them by fishing boat across the gulf to Mazatlán. They made many trips, ferrying two or three children at a time.
But with so many disappearing from the compound, the elders began searching the tunnels, suspicious that the children had found a way out. They never discovered the secret passage, but Elizabeth became nervous, afraid that it was only a matter of time before they did.
When El Santo announced that the next child caught trying to escape would be dealt with on Holy Friday, the children began to refuse to leave with Cristo, for fear they would be sacrificed. And Elizabeth knew that her time had come.
“What about the baby?” Beth asked.
“He was old enough by then,” Cristo said. “But convincing the mother to go was not so easy.”
Jennifer had been brainwashed. Was so deep under Marta’s spell that she would not leave. Elizabeth begged her to go, but Jennifer refused, and when she threatened to expose Elizabeth to El Santo, Elizabeth had no choice but to take the baby and run.
“The last time I saw you,” Cristo said, pointing toward the ocean, “you were standing with the sisters on the fishing boat with Andilito in your arms. You did not want to leave us, but there was no room, and Father Gerard insisted that the baby must come first. That the sisters would travel with you through Mexico to Juárez and smuggle you across the border.”
Cristo stood then, remembering the moment.
“You said you would come back for us. That you knew many people in America and they would do everything they could to destroy El Santo’s empire. But then many days went by and you did not return. No Elizabeth, no sisters, no fishing boats. And after many weeks passed, the elders came and killed Father Gerard. But they did not find us. So we stayed down here in the cave, waiting for you to return.”
Beth turned to Vargas and Ortiz. “They must have tracked us. Found us hiding in that house in Chihuahua, then shot us all and took the baby.”
“That would be my guess,” Vargas said, then looked at Cristo. “Would you be willing to go into the tunnels again? Take us to El Santo’s compound?”
“Sí,” Cristo said. “But it is not safe to travel by day. There are too many elders with big guns in the tunnels. Better we wait until tonight, when everyone is in the Great Chamber for the celebration of Día de los Muertos.”
Vargas turned to Beth and she nodded.
“Tonight it is, then,” he said, then turned to Ortiz. “We’re going to need some supplies.”
Ortiz responded to him, but Beth had stopped listening. Her thoughts were elsewhere at the moment, her mind struggling with those dark shapes again, kneading them, trying to push them into the light.
There was something about her story that seemed unfinished. The final piece of the puzzle that had not yet been put into place. Something about Juárez.
But it didn’t matter.
It was all coming to an end in just a few hours, and Jennifer and Andy would soon be safe.
PART FOUR
Los Hombres Muertos
92
Marta
MARTA WAS WORRIED. It had been many hours since she’d last heard from Rafael, and it was unlike him not to keep in touch with her.
Here they were, so close to the great ceremony, and her brother was still out there somewhere, defying the will of El Santo—as he so often did.
Any other man would have been killed by now. But Rafael, like Marta, had the benefit of being related to El Santo by blood, so the old man was merciful toward him. In fact, he often seemed amused by Rafael’s transgressions, and El Santo was not easily amused.
Despite Marta’s standing in the community, however—her status as a bruja—El Santo seemed to have little patience for her, and she was often envious of the affection Rafael received.
But then, Rafael was a second-born son and would always live with that mark upon him, so she knew that her envy was misplaced.
She also knew where her brother was. Ever since the night they’d met her precious Jennifer, he had been obsessed with the sister. Elizabeth. She was, he had once told Marta, an angel sent to him by La Santisima. The missing piece to an incomplete soul.
That she was a lying, conniving, sinful whore meant nothing to Rafael.
He often pretended to hate her now, to want her dead, but Marta knew his true feelings. Many times, when she and her brother and Jennifer made love, Marta knew he was thinking of his prize, wishing she were back home with them where she belonged.
But Beth didn’t belong here. She had gotten what she deserved, and despite Rafael’s foolish yearning for her, she belonged in that hospital, where she could rot and die, for all Marta cared.
She had not liked Beth from the moment they met. Did not trust her. And Rafael’s obsession with her was a constant source of frustration and annoyance.
So Marta knew he was still in Los Angeles, pining away for his lost love, thinking he could somehow change her. Mold her. Bring her back to him.
But Marta knew that Beth was not the type to be molded. Her time here had proven that, had it not?
And if El Santo were to find out about Rafael’s obsession, he might not be so merciful this time.
La Santa Muerte had made a deal with the ex-husband, the lawyer, to leave her alone, and El Santo did not go back on his pledges. And if Rafael again disobeyed El Santo’s command to honor that deal, Marta feared she would soon lose her only living brother.
It was bad enough that she was losing her precious Jennifer tonight.
Jennifer.
Marta knew this was supposed to be a joyous occasion. She knew that the sacrifice Jennifer was about to make on this holiest of nights was a high honor that would deliver her into the waiting arms of La Santisima and God. But that did not keep Marta from dreading the moment. From wishing that someone else had been chosen.
Jennifer and the baby were down in the preparation room now—down near the Great Chamber—their bodies being rubbed with holy oils. But Marta had decided to stay up here in their room for a while. Had thought about missing the ceremony altogether.
She knew, however, that Jennifer would need her in her final moments, would want to hold Marta’s hand until El Santo lowered the torch.
So Marta would be there, dressed in her finest robe, looking on stoically as her one true love was given to God in a burst of flames.
93
Vargas
CRISTO DREW THEM a map of the portion of the tunnels that lay directly beneath the La Santa Muerte compound. It was crude and done by memory, but Vargas was confident it would help them should they get lost. He didn’t want to wind up like one of the corpses the boy had found down there.
“How far is this from here?” Vargas asked.
“Four, maybe five miles.”
Close enough, Vargas thought, but such a trek might take as much as an hour and a half, so they’d have to leave soon if they wanted to get there before the ceremony began.
While Beth had stayed with the children, Vargas and Ortiz had gone back into town to pick up the Barracuda and a few supplies.
The Día de los Muertos celebration was in full swing and many of the shops and services had been closed, but they’d managed to find what they needed: several small flashlights, a twelve-pack of mandarin Jarritos in glass bottles, two gallons of gasoline, two backpacks, and a bundle of rags.
“Leave the Tomcat,” Ortiz said, “and the pendejo’s piece of shit. With all this weight, we’ll want to keep the hardware to a minimum.” He gestured to the gun in Vargas’s waistband. “The Glock is all you’ll need, anyway.”
Vargas nodded, then they climbed into the Barracuda and headed back to the church.
Time to get busy.
They gathered in the cave at 10:00
P.M., the supplies distributed under the light of the moon. Many of the children were asleep now, and despite the churning ocean, there was a calmness here. No fear or trepidation—at least not for Vargas. When he looked into Beth’s eyes, he knew this was the right thing to do.
Five minutes later Cristo said, “We go,” and they all flicked on their flashlights and followed him into the tunnel, leaving the sounds of the ocean behind them. When they reached the junction, Cristo took the second tunnel on the left, which then curved away toward the right and branched off again in several different directions.
Vargas was already confused and decided that Cristo must have some super sense of direction to be able to remember the correct path. The boy traveled effortlessly, without thought, as if he’d done this hundreds of times before. Which, Vargas knew, he had.
Then, about a good hour into their trek, they came to a small cave, where Cristo stopped near a pile of large fallen rocks. Gesturing for help, he began pulling the rocks away, and the others joined in until an opening in the cave wall was revealed.
The opening was large enough for Cristo to easily crawl through, but the others had to remove their backpacks and pass them to the boy before squeezing through themselves.
Once on the other side, they found another pile of rocks and stacked them up to hide the hole.
They were now inside another small cave, and Cristo pointed to a tunnel on the right.
“Through there,” he said. “We go straight for a while, then make two lefts and a right, and we are beneath La Santa Muerte’s compound.”
“And where’s the Great Chamber?” Beth asked.
“You will know as soon as we get there. Just follow the others.”
“How are we supposed to do that?” Ortiz said. “Don’t you think we’ll stick out a little?”
“People from all over the country come here for the Holy Night. Besides, we will be wearing masks, and robes.”
“I didn’t see those on the supply list.”
“They are provided for us. I will show you.”
“No, Cristo,” Beth said. “I can’t let you go any farther. I’d never forgive myself if you were hurt.”
Cristo gestured to the scars on his neck and arm. “What could they do to me that is worse than this?”
He was right, Vargas thought. Any kid who could go through what this one had and come out of it still sane was not someone you needed to be worrying about.
“They could kill you,” Beth said. “I can’t let you do it.”
“And how will you find Jennifer and the baby?”
“I’ll find them.”
“No, they keep them in a special room before the ceremony, where they prepare them for the fire. If I do not show you, it may be too late.”
“Tell me something,” Vargas said. “Why the baby? Why would they sacrifice an innocent child?”
Cristo looked at him as if this was a silly question. “It is tradition,” he said. “He is the firstborn male.”
And with this, Cristo crossed the cave and stepped into the tunnel on the right.
“Cristo, no,” Beth said.
But the boy ignored her, once again signaling for them to follow.
94
Beth
WHEN THEY DREW close to the compound, Cristo told them they would have to turn off their flashlights. The tunnels were lit by torches after the next turn.
Beth was surprised. With the kind of money El Santo had to be making through his drug and prostitution rings, you’d think he would have wired the place for electricity.
But since the cult seemed to be living in a kind of netherworld between the old and the new, basing their lives on traditions and rituals that were modeled after some ancient pagan society, maybe torches was the way to go.
What would a good old-fashioned cleansing or ritual sacrifice be without the proper ambiance?
“Wait here,” Cristo said, and started to leave.
Beth grabbed his hand. “Where are you going?”
“I come back soon,” he said, pulling away. Then he darted through the tunnel, stopped at a junction to peek around the corner, then continued on, disappearing from sight.
Beth had butterflies in her stomach. The plan, they had decided, was for Beth to find Jen and the baby and get them out of there as quickly as possible before the ceremony began.
Meanwhile, Ortiz and Vargas would go to the cages and release any women who might be held there, then round up as many of the children as they could find and take them all to safety.
It was an ambitious and maybe even a foolhardy plan, but they thought they might be able to pull it off while all attention was centered on the festivities in the Great Chamber.
Even the guards attended these festivities, Cristo had told them. So if all worked out right, they’d have plenty of time to do what they needed to do and remain undetected.
Maybe.
Based on the story Cristo had told them earlier, it was painfully obvious that such plans didn’t always work.
After several nervous minutes, Cristo returned carrying black hooded robes and gold skull masks and handed them out. As Beth put hers on, she suddenly remembered a Stanley Kubrick movie she’d seen a few years back, where Tom Cruise and Sydney Pollack dressed up in robes and watched people have anonymous sex in a New York mansion. The filthy rich caught up in a decadent fantasy.
It wouldn’t surprise her, she thought, to discover that many of the people who attended this shindig were equally rich—and emotionally empty. People who rationalized their callous indifference to the suffering of others by wrapping it in pseudo-religious hokum.
It would almost be laughable if it all weren’t so deadly serious.
Nevertheless, Beth felt ridiculous wearing this thing. But she had to admit it was a great way to enter the place undetected.
Their backpacks, which were filled with the Jarrito bottles, would have to be left behind. So Vargas and Ortiz stuffed their pockets with as many of the bottles as they could fit. Which wasn’t many.
“Where’s your robe?” Beth asked Cristo.
“The children do not wear robes,” he said, then showed her his skull mask, which was white instead of gold. “Come. The ceremony is about to begin. I show you where they keep Jennifer.”
Feeling the butterflies fluttering away, Beth followed him.
95
AS THEY TURNED the first corner, the tunnel started to narrow slightly and, as promised, its walls were lined with torches, lighting their way.
Beth heard the buzz of conversation ahead, and when they turned the next corner they stepped into yet another cave, this one at least twice the size of any of the previous caves. It was filled with two or three hundred people, standing shoulder to shoulder, every one of them wearing a black robe and gold skull mask.
Beth, Vargas, and Ortiz followed Cristo into the crowd, Beth suddenly feeling exposed, waiting for someone to point a finger and shout, Stop her! She’s not one of us!
But as they continued through, there were no shouts, no accusations, only the excited hum of spectators waiting for the show to begin.
All eyes were fixed on the front of the cave, which was dominated by several large stone statues of La Santisima Muerte, a huge, circular slab of intricately carved stone at their feet, looking like something out of an Aztec nightmare. Flaming torches lined the circle, throwing light on the focus of everyone’s attention: a large fire pit with a crude stone chair standing at its center. And high above it was a man-made wind tunnel, carved into the roof of the cave, where smoke from the torches funneled into the night sky.
Beth stared at the stone chair, knowing that if they didn’t work fast, Jen and little Andy would soon be sitting in it, waiting to die.
Cristo cut abruptly to the right. Beth turned quickly to make sure that Vargas and Ortiz were behind her, then followed the boy out of the crowd toward yet another tunnel.
Stopping at the mouth of the tunnel, Cristo waited for Beth and the others to catch u
p, then pointed past the crowd toward a small stone archway on the far right side of the sacrificial altar.
“In there,” he said. “She will be alone with the baby. Given a last moment of reflection before the final walk.”
Moving deeper into the tunnel, Cristo shoved a large rock aside and came away carrying another black robe and gold skull mask.
“She will be dressed in red,” he told Beth. “You must change her into this and hide the baby under your robe.”
Nodding, Beth took the robe and mask from him as Cristo turned to Vargas and Ortiz. “I will go with Elizabeth. Do you have the map?”
Vargas reached under his robe and brought out the drawing. Cristo traced their route with an index finger.
“You must follow this tunnel to the cages,” he said. “Then go here, where the children sleep. Many of them will not want to come, but you must tell them that Cristo says it is safe.”
Vargas nodded, then reached under his robe again and brought out the Glock, offering it to Beth. “I don’t want you going in there without protection.”
Beth stared at it a moment, then took it from him and tucked it into the top of her pants, beneath her robe.
Suddenly the loud, musical blast of a horn echoed through the cave and excited murmurs rose from the crowd. Then a tall female figure in a gold robe and red skull mask stepped out from behind one of the statues and the crowd erupted in applause and cheers.
The woman raised her arms, signaling for them to quiet down. Then she began to sing, her sweet, soulful voice filling the air.
At the sound of that voice, Beth felt a chill of recognition run through her. Images of her night aboard the cruise liner filled her head: sitting with Rafael in the jazz bar.
The singer was Marta Santiago.
“We must hurry,” Cristo whispered. “Next El Santo will speak and then the sacrifice will begin.”
As Marta continued to sing, all eyes riveted to her, Beth nodded, then followed Cristo to the stone archway.
Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller) Page 27