Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller)

by Robert Gregory Browne

  Gesturing her inside, Cristo stepped back into the shadows to wait.

  96

  WHEN SHE ENTERED the small chamber, Beth felt her heart skip a beat.

  Jen was sitting on a wooden cot, wearing a red hooded robe, a black skull mask covering her face.

  Little Andy was in her arms, sleeping quietly.

  Outside, Marta finished singing her song and the crowd cheered and applauded, and Beth knew she had to work fast.

  “Hello, Jen.”

  The hooded head jerked up sharply. The baby stirred in her arms.

  “Who’s there? Who are you?”

  “It’s me, Jen, Beth. I’ve come to get you out of here.”

  Beth’s first instinct was to throw her arms around her sister and hug her. But there was time for that later. Instead, Beth reached up and lifted her mask.

  Outside, the crowd began to chant, “Santo, Santo, Santo, Santo…”

  And Beth heard Cristo’s voice behind her in the doorway:

  “Hurry. We must hurry.”

  Jen was looking at her, eyes wide behind the mask. “Is this some kind of trick? Beth is dead.”

  So they hadn’t told Jen. Probably thought she’d be easier to handle this way.

  “Look at me,” Beth said. “Do I look dead to you?”

  “You’re not Beth. Beth was shot.”

  Her speech was slow, lethargic. It occurred to Beth that Jen may have been drugged in preparation for the ceremony. She moved closer, crouching down in front of Jen, stroking little Andy’s head.

  He didn’t stir. Had he been drugged, too?

  “It’s me,” she said to Jen. “I’m here. They may have stopped me, but they couldn’t kill me.”

  Jen pulled the baby away from Beth and hugged him to her breast. She began muttering rapidly in Spanish. Words Beth didn’t understand. A prayer of some kind.

  What the hell had they done to her?

  But then Beth knew, didn’t she? Cristo had told her what El Santo did to his women, and the irony of all this suddenly came home to her. A man who worships an all-powerful female saint yet treats the women in his life like dogs.

  Then again, judging by the burns on Rafael and Cristo, maybe this was equal-opportunity degradation.

  “We have to hurry,” she said to Jen. “You need to change into this mask and robe.”

  Beth reached to remove Jen’s mask, but Jen brought a hand up, stopping her.

  “No,” she said, her voice rising. “You’re not Beth.”

  “We don’t have time to argue about this,” Beth told her, then reached for the mask again, grabbing it firmly.

  But as she pulled it off, Jen said, “Beth is dead. I know she is. I know because I shot her.”

  And then the mask came off and Jen’s hood fell away, revealing a sight so shocking that Beth felt her heart freeze in her chest and she stood up, stumbling backward.

  Jen’s hair was gone, her bald scalp shining in the candlelight. But that was nothing. That wasn’t the worst of it. That was something that could be remedied with time.

  But what couldn’t be remedied was Jen’s face.

  Every inch of it was covered with burn scars, as if she’d been dipped in acid and left to dry. She had no nose, no lips, no eyebrows, no ears, her skin a blotchy, waxy, melted mass of flesh.

  And suddenly Beth felt it. The switch being flipped. And all the dark shapes that had been struggling to get through finally came to the surface, and she saw herself huddled in that desolate house in the desert, little Andy in her arms, Sisters Imelda and Christina and Miranda and Lasarte standing around her as the door flew open and two men entered the room, followed by Marta and the hideous creature who had once been Jen. Then the guns started blazing and the sisters were screaming as Jen snatched the baby from Beth’s arms, then pushed her toward the mattress, raised a pistol, and shot her twice in the chest.

  And Beth fell in slow motion, landing next to Sister Christina—who was surely as dead as Beth would soon be—blood spreading out beneath her, her energy draining away as Jen looked down at her, only the eyes recognizable, a fierce, untamed hatred in them as she spat on Beth and said, “He’s mine, you fucking whore.”

  And then she was gone.

  Beth looked at her sister now, sitting there in the candlelight, clutching the baby, and the weight of those final moments came crashing down on her, disbelief spreading through her as the crowd continued to chant, “Santo, Santo, Santo, Santo,” and Beth heard Cristo shout behind her:

  “Elizabeth! Look out!”

  And as she turned, she saw Marta coming straight for her, swinging something heavy at her head, and before she could duck, it connected, knocking her sideways.

  The gun in her waistband clattered to the floor and she went down.

  Hard.

  97

  All of the Above

  “WHAT ARE YOU doing?”

  The drug they had given Jennifer seemed to have worn off a bit.

  But that didn’t matter now.

  “What does it look like?” Marta said. “I’m taking her robe off.”

  “But why?”

  Marta looked up at Jennifer. She was no longer the beautiful young woman Marta had met at that party in Los Angeles so long ago. Would never again be the object of desire that she was that night—using her hands and body and mouth and tongue to spread the joy of God—but Marta still loved Jennifer with her heart and soul and did not want to see her die.

  Even if it was meant to be, even if El Santo commanded it, Marta could not bear the thought of a life without her Jennifer.

  And this was her chance to change that.

  Elizabeth’s presence here was a surprise, but coupled with Rafael’s sudden failure to call, it meant only one thing to Marta. That Rafael was gone and this bitch surely had something to do with it.

  So it seemed only fitting that Elizabeth take Jennifer’s place. El Santo would be angry when he found out, but when Marta explained that this was vengeance for their beloved Rafael, he would understand. And he would forgive.

  “You’re not going to die tonight,” she told Jennifer. “Take your robe off and help me put it on her.”

  “What?”

  “It’s simple,” Marta said patiently. “We will dress her in the ceremonial robe, put the baby in her arms, and be done with her.”

  Jennifer shook her head. “No…I have offered myself and the life of my child to La Santisima. I won’t let you or her take that from me.”

  Marta went to Jennifer, kissed her. “And I will not let La Santisima take you from me. Not now.”

  But Jennifer pulled away. “Why?” she cried. “Why would you do this after all the promises that this day would come? Look at me. Look at what I’ve done to myself. Look at what I did to my own sister. Do you think I take my commitment lightly? I want to prove my love to La Santisima. To offer her my soul, and the soul of my—”

  Marta slapped her across the face. “I am the daughter of El Santo,” she said. “You do not dictate what will and will not be done.”

  Tears sprang into Jennifer’s eyes. “You lied to me. First you say my sister is dead, then you promise me a chance to see my mother and father in the loving arms of La Santisima. But it was all lies, wasn’t it?”

  Marta stared at her. No matter how she felt about this woman, Jennifer had no right to speak to her this way.

  Reaching to the floor, she picked up the gun that lay near Beth and pointed it at Jennifer. Marta had no intention of using it, but Jennifer didn’t know that.

  “The decision is made,” Marta said. “And you will obey me.”

  Then a horn sounded and the crowd roared, and Marta snapped her fingers.

  “The robe. Give me the robe.”

  98

  IT HAD TAKEN Vargas and Ortiz longer than they expected to find the cages. Vargas had misinterpreted Cristo’s map and had taken a left when he should have gone right. So he and Ortiz had doubled back, finally finding two small caves fronted by iron bars
and locked with chains and padlocks.

  At first he thought no one was inside of them. But as he and Ortiz drew closer, he saw them: several women in each, huddled in the shadows at the back of the cells. They were dressed in frayed and dirty street clothes—probably the very clothes they’d been wearing when they were snatched off the street—some of them drugged, others mumbling incoherently, and still others crying softly, bewildered looks on their faces.

  As Vargas and Ortiz approached the bars, several of the women recoiled, retreating to the very back of their caves.

  There was the distinct smell of feces and urine in the air, and in a corner of each cave a small bucket overflowed with waste.

  The two men looked at each other in surprise and disgust. And though he had listened to Cristo’s story, Vargas couldn’t have imagined anything like this.

  He knew that human beings were often the cruelest creatures on earth. History had proven this time and again. But to see it firsthand, the stark reality of it, was as painful as a dagger to the chest.

  Turning again, he noticed that Ortiz was staring intently into the two cages, looking at all the faces, studying them—and he knew exactly who Ortiz was looking for.

  “You won’t find her here,” Vargas said. “It’s been too long. Either she’s been shipped off to one of the brothels or she’s dead.”

  Ortiz nodded and his face hardened. “We don’t have all night, pocho. Let’s get these fucking things open.”

  Then he pulled the SIG from his belt, pointed it at the first lock, and fired, blowing it off the chain. The shot echoed loudly in the tunnel, several of the women flinching and yelping in surprise, but Vargas was pretty sure the roar of the crowd upstairs had kept the sound from escaping the immediate area.

  Ortiz aimed again, blowing open the second lock, then he and Vargas threw open the cage doors, expecting the women to jump to their feet—

  —but no one moved. Just stared at them with wide, frightened expressions on their faces.

  Then Vargas removed his mask and looked in at them, smiling. “Come,” he said. “Come with us. You’re free.”

  And as his words sank in, several of the women rose to their feet, tentative but hopeful looks on their faces.

  “You’re free,” Vargas repeated, gesturing for them to step out of the cages. “Come. We’ll take you out of this place.”

  Then the smiles came, the looks of relief, as they began helping one another to their feet, the drugged or injured women carried along by the healthier ones as they stumbled out, moving faster with each step.

  “Stay together,” Vargas said.

  Vargas and Ortiz led them through the tunnel, moving as quickly as they could, but as they rounded a corner, Vargas saw Cristo running in his direction, a frantic look on his face.

  “Senor Vargas! Senor Vargas!”

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Cristo was out of breath, could barely get the words out. “…Elizabeth,” he said. “They have Elizabeth.”

  “Who does? El Santo?”

  “Marta and Jennifer. They put her in the sacrificial robes.”

  “What?”

  “Come quick! They take her to the altar!”

  99

  BETH FELT WOOZY. Knew that her head was bleeding.

  Marta had stuffed something in her mouth—a balled-up rag, she thought, pushed deep to prevent her from crying out.

  Marta was yelling at Jen now, but Beth couldn’t quite make out the words as they drifted in and out like a bad radio signal. And all she could think about was that house in Juárez and Jen’s waxy face as she pointed a gun at Beth.

  He’s mine, you fucking whore.

  What had they done to Jen? How could they have warped her this way? Bled her of all humanity and turned her into some brain-dead true believer?

  It wasn’t unusual for people like this to go after the emotionally vulnerable, but while Jen may have been constantly searching for some kind of meaning in her life, she had also been strong-willed and stubborn, traits they had always shared.

  Beth remembered now the nights in the cage, the drugs, the beatings—some of them administered by Rafael himself—but if she had managed to resist, why hadn’t Jennifer? Was Jen’s dissatisfaction with her life enough to force her to relinquish all power to these maniacs?

  Apparently so.

  Beth felt herself being lifted now, but the blow to her head had rendered her too weak to resist as her arms were shoved into the sleeves of a robe and a mask was placed over her face.

  She smelled the faint odor of what she thought might be kerosene and realized that the robe and mask had been treated with a flammable liquid.

  Then Marta moved to a nearby curtain and pushed it aside, uttering a sharp command to someone behind it.

  She pushed little Andy into Beth’s arms as two men entered the room and grabbed Beth by the elbows, pulling her toward a dark doorway.

  Despite her wooziness, she knew what was beyond that door. Could see the flicker of the altar torches at the far end of another tunnel.

  Someone was standing out there now, a tall, powerfully built, barrel-chested old man in a white robe, his arms raised, standing in front of a sea of masked faces.

  She recognized him. Had seen him many times, had forced herself to share his bed—as she had with Rafael and Marta—participating in their pagan rituals as a way of survival, a necessary sacrifice to facilitate the escape of the children and little Andy.

  It was El Santo. The Holy One. The direct descendant of God and La Santisima. A man whose evil seemed to know no limits. A man whose followers would do anything to promote his cause.

  They were cheering for him now.

  Their messiah.

  And as he lowered his arms, a silence fell over the cavern, and he spoke to them in Spanish.

  Beth had heard the words many times in the months she’d spent here, words that Cristo had translated for her:

  “Oh Holy Death, our great treasure, we offer you these gifts as a symbol of our love, and ask only that you smile down upon us. That you protect your children and give us food and shelter. That you provide us with an abundance of riches and hide us from those who mean us harm.

  “Oh Queen of Darkness, please hear our prayer and take these souls as your own.”

  And as he finished his prayer, he waved his arms and the two men holding Beth moved forward, walking, half-dragging her and Andy out onto the semi-circle toward the stone chair.

  Beth started to struggle now but was still feeling weak, and there wasn’t much she could do with little Andy in her arms. The men carrying her tightened their grip. They were used to this, a last-minute change of heart that always came too late. The crowd began cheering as the men brought her and Andy out onto the altar and sat her down, draping the bottom of her robe over the large stack of twigs at the foot of the chair.

  Andy began crying now, the roar of the crowd frightening him, and the two men stood on either side of Beth, each with a firm hand on one of her shoulders, holding her down.

  Then El Santo moved in front of her, placing his palm first on her head, then on Andy’s, and said, “Go with God, my children.”

  Reaching down to an urn by her feet, he picked it up and held it high in the air, and the crowd’s cheers grew louder, wilder, the chants beginning again: “Santo! Santo! Santo! Santo!”

  El Santo brought the urn down and began pouring liquid over the twigs, the smell of kerosene rising into Beth’s nostrils—and Andy’s, too.

  And as they both coughed and choked, Beth desperately looking for a way out of this, El Santo reached for one of the torches—

  —and smiled at them.

  100

  BY THE TIME Vargas reached the cavern, the men had already put Beth and the baby in the chair.

  He pushed frantically through the crowd toward her, watching as the man in the white robe—El Santo, he presumed—placed his hands on Beth’s and the baby’s head, then stepped over to one of the torches
and picked it up.

  El Santo turned, smiling at them, holding the torch high, and the crowd roared around Vargas, hungry for blood. He continued forward, shoving people aside, hoping he could reach the altar before that torch touched those twigs.

  But he knew he wouldn’t make it; there wasn’t enough time.

  If only he hadn’t given his gun to Beth.

  Reaching under his robe as he moved, he grabbed one of the Jarritos bottles and he knew he was taking a chance, knew he might miss, but he had no choice. So he wound back and hurled the bottle—which he and Ortiz had filled with gasoline—straight at El Santo’s head.

  El Santo didn’t see it coming—no one did—and a moment later Vargas saw that his aim had been good, as the bottle slammed against El Santo’s skull and shattered, flooding his face and robe with gasoline—

  —and the torch in his hand exploded in flames, engulfing him quickly as the two men holding Beth stumbled back in surprise, and—

  —Vargas reached the front of the crowd and leaped onto the altar, grabbing hold of Beth and the baby and pulling them away from El Santo, ripping Beth’s robe off, as the old man screamed in agony and fell to the floor, his flesh bubbling hideously as the fire consumed him.

  And suddenly the room was filled with screams and cries of horror, people rushing to the altar to help El Santo as others turned and fled and still others swarmed around Vargas and Beth.

  Then, from out of nowhere, came another Jarritos bottle, this one with a flaming rag stuffed in it—a Molotov cocktail. It hit the back of one of Vargas and Beth’s attackers and shattered against the cavern floor, bursting into flames. The attacker’s robe caught fire and he screamed, tearing it off, as Vargas saw Ortiz across the cavern, lobbing another Jarritos bottle, creating a distraction as Cristo led the women toward the tunnel they’d started from. There were kids with them now, running alongside as—

  —another bottle hit the ground, exploding in flames—

  —and now Ortiz was firing his handgun into the air, the echo of gunshots scattering people in every direction, as—