The Sacrifice

by Peg Brantley

  The Sacrifice

  by Peg Brantley

  Begin Reading

  About the Book

  Table of Contents

  Cast of Characters

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Books by Peg Brantley Copyright Page

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  ABOUT THE BOOK

  Former lawman Mex Anderson is trying to cope with the horrific murders of his family as best he can. Moving from his small, Mexican town to the snowy mountains of Colorado has helped, however it seems nothing can ever take away the gut-wrenching pain of his loss. When the head of the drug cartel responsible for the killings approaches him with an offer that would reveal the individuals behind the murders, it might lead to the one thing that would allow Mex to heal: revenge.

  The Sacrifice: a novel of guilt and redemption that proves there is always hope for tomorrow even in the midst of unconscionable evil.

  This novel is for everyone associated with

  The Shaka Franklin Foundation and the University of Colorado Depression Center.

  You make a difference. And as always, for George.

  CHAPTER ONE

  He shouldn’t be here, he thought. Not tonight. A bad idea all around. Mex Anderson watched the young couple argue from his booth, deep in the shadows of the bar. He settled himself further into the corner, the plastic seat cracking when he moved. Juan bent over the table, one dishtowel tied to his belt and another tossed over his shoulder. “Don’t you think you should do

  something?” The bar owner pretended to wipe up some crumbs while he

  nervously kept an eye on the vocal twosome just inside the entrance.

  “They know where to find me if they can’t work it out between

  themselves.” Mex reached for a handful of peanuts.

  “I don’t want any trouble.” Juan sniffed and brushed his hand against his thighs, dislodging whatever he had picked up from the table to the floor. Mex caught a whiff of bar soap. Juan’s Place was like a second home. “I just got the repairs done from when Chico’s woman showed up and found him here with her cousin.”

  Mex popped a couple of peanuts in his mouth. “Take it easy, amigo. If they start breaking up the place I’ll stop them. They’re just pushing each other’s buttons. If you’re lucky, they’ll make up and leave before other buttons get pushed.” He winked.

  Juan huffed and moved back to his customary place behind the old wooden bar. The wood and brass structure wasn’t old enough to have antique value. It probably never would. It would just get older. Juan’s Place was a

  neighborhood hangout for the Hispanic community in Aspen Falls. A place out of which Mex liked to work. Clean and convenient. One of those establishments where no one asked too many questions. People who came here knew how to keep to themselves. They valued privacy as much as they valued family. As much as they valued freedom.

  Most folks assumed a thing or two about the Mexican with the gray-blue eyes, and that suited Mex just fine. Because they figured he was like them, they trusted him. He needed to make a difference, and the anonymity of a bar on the wrong side of town was as good a place to work from as any. If people knew all there was to know about him he’d lose his edge. They would no longer come to him.

  The rapid-fire exchange,

  punctuated with arm gestures and Spanish words even Mex couldn’t be sure he’d ever heard, reminded him of some of the passion he and his wife had expressed on more than one occasion. In another lifetime. Another world.

  He watched the woman. Dark. Vibrant. She created sparks while her male counterpart seemed to create mossladen bricks. Fire and water. But neither had eyes for anyone or anything else. At a moment in time when they seemed to be about to settle and agree, one or the other would find something else to wail about and they would warm once again to the argument. An argument which, Mex thought, must by this time be about at least four different things. To have a relationship where these things

  mattered…

  The door opened and the heat flamed by the lovers fled as if it had never existed. Silence loaded with the icy cold of fear took its place in an instant. Two figures stood in the main room. Masked. Armed. Their own desperate fear charged the suddenly vacuous air.

  Mex observed them from his secreted post. Young. Male. Their skinny and unformed frames shouted physical immaturity. They moved with the awkwardness of adolescent boys who weren’t quite comfortable with their bodies. He guessed they weren’t local—at least they weren’t kids who lived in the neighborhood. First of all, they would have known about him. That he kept hours in Juan’s Place. Maybe not regular hours, but potentially obstructive ones at the very least. Especially to punks thinking about robbing the place. Second, well… second was probably him as well.

  The two young men approached Juan at the bar. One of them pulled his weapon up and his voice down as deep and strong as he could. “Empty your cash register. On the counter. Do it now.”

  Mex waited while the young couple slipped out the door. The gunmen didn’t seem to notice. Inexperienced on top of everything else. This might not end well, he thought.

  Juan put his hands in the air, stalling. To his credit the bar owner didn’t even look in Mex’s direction.

  The robbers seemed to gain some footing. Some bravado. After all, they were in control. Macho men with guns.

  “Now, spic. Not next week. Comprendo?”

  Juan moved toward the cash register. He pushed the keys to open it. When the drawer slid out the robbers eyes were both focused on the cash. There wasn’t much, but they probably knew they weren’t robbing the St. Regis in Aspen.

  Mex stepped out of the shadows, gun drawn. “I know you figured this was a cheap little bar and it would have cheap little security. You were halfright.”

  When the two would-be robbers saw Mex emerge from the dark

  background of the bar, one of them dropped his weapon immediately and put his hands in the air. The other one puffed up his chest and trained his gun on Mex.

  “You don’t want to do that, son. Take a minute to think.”

  “What about?”

  “Your future.”

  The kid blinked and looked around. His gun wavered and like lightning Mex moved in with a

  roundhouse kick and knocked it out of his hand. The young hoodlum gawked at Mex with surprise then grabbed his wounded hand. “You hurt me!”

  “Ah, but you still have a future. It might not be bright but it wasn’t headed in a sunny direction anyway.”

  Mex instructed Juan to tie up the two young men, then call Detective Waters at the Aspen Falls Police Department. He gave Juan the number. He trusted Chase Waters but wasn’t so sure about any of the rest of them.

  His weapon trained on the two scared kids, one of whom had pissed his pants, Mex felt the familiar heavy darkness that had been lurking in the corners of his mind begin to descend. It didn’t surprise him. In fact, he almost welcomed it as he would a friend.

  After Juan made the call he turned off the neon lights, then turned to Mex and shrugged. “Might as well not waste the money. Cops leave soon enough and I’ll turn ‘em back on. Otherwise, I’m closed for the night.”

  One of the kids, the one with the dry pants, glanced from Mex to Juan. “Look, we didn’t hurt anyone. Didn’t t
ake anything. No harm no foul, huh? Maybe we can—”

  “Shut up,” Mex said.

  The kid kept looking at Juan. “I’m just saying that if you let us—”

  “I told you to shut up. I don’t want to hear another word out of your mouth.” Depression was pulling him under. Mex was inches away from ending everything for all of them. He hadn’t killed a man in a very long time but that didn’t mean he hadn’t wanted to.

  The door swung open and Chase Waters entered with a uniformed officer. It was textbook. Chase swept the room high from left to right and the uniform stayed low, flushing right to left. It took less than two seconds. Chase handed the uniform his set of cuffs and kept his gun leveled at the would-be robbers. “Secure them, then get the owner’s statement.”

  Once the threat was dealt with, Chase looked at Mex. “You look like hell.”

  “Thanks. Good to see you too.”

  Chase’s face tightened with realization. “Oh, man. I’m sorry. I forgot.”

  “No reason you should have remembered.” It was my family who was murdered.

  “You gonna be okay?”

  “I need to get out of here. Can I come down tomorrow and give my statement?”

  “Sure, that’ll work.”

  Mex walked up to the bar to pay Juan for his drinks. Juan shoved the cash back at him. “You’re kidding, right? Get out of here.”

  Ten minutes later, when Mex walked into the drugstore, the

  pharmacist took one look at him and went to the prescription queue to dig out a package.

  Mex paid for the drugs. “Thanks, Carl.”

  “No problem. But your doc’s gotta call in a refill for the next time.”

  Mex didn’t turn around as he walked out of the store. “Call him for me, would you?”

  The darkness lured Mex, almost like a siren’s song. By the time he turned into his drive, the anger and bitterness he lived with every day were a memory. All he wanted was to be left alone. Then he saw the lime green Volkswagen. Sedona. Like clockwork.

  He turned off the engine.

  Six years and one month ago he had a family. Parents. A wife. A threeyear old son, a two year-old daughter, and a new baby on the way. He’d had a sister about to bring her first child into the world. Six years and one month ago he had a future.

  And he’d sacrificed all of them— everything—for his honor.

  * * Mex tore open the package from the drugstore and twisted the cap off the bottle of pills. He dry-swallowed two of them. Should have taken them earlier. He felt the darkness slowly cover him. Tie him off.

  Comfort him.

  Cold air. A familiar voice. Pulling him up. He fought the desire to rise. Leave me alone.

  “Come on, Teo. You have to help me. I can’t get you in the house by myself.”

  Sedona. His sister had been named after the place where she was conceived, long before it became popular. She always used her favorite of his names. Mex, the nickname he’d gotten while attending San Diego State University, had been christened Carlos Alberto Basilio Teodoro Duque Estrada de Anderson, and while everyone currently alive—other than Sedona— called him Mex, she preferred Teo. The Anderson came from his father. A tall American from California who fell in love with a Mexican beauty and never looked back.

  Had he been away two minutes? Two hours? Two days?

  He owed her. He forced himself to open his eyes; to shift his legs when she pulled on them. Carry his weight.

  He had sacrificed everyone he loved for his damned honor. Sedona was all that remained of the life he’d left. The life he’d lost. Now she sacrificed her life for his. Sedona also lost family that day. She was the only one they’d left alive for him to find.

  To remind him of what he still had to lose.

  He got out of the car and shrugged her arms away. “Leave me alone. I can walk.”

  “Fine. So walk.”

  He and Sedona spoke mostly English—they’d both spent years in the states—but occasionally they lapsed into Spanglish, a unique blend of both languages. Rather than search for a word in one language, they easily substituted a word in the other.

  All color had leached out of the home and landscape that usually brought him incredible pleasure. Now it was flat and gray. Empty. Like his heart. The waterfall sounded distant and filtered. Lighting that normally glowed with warmth and lifted his heart now

  brutalized his eyes. He craved darkness and lifted his hands as shields.

  Sedona ran ahead to mute the lights for her brother. He thought about thanking her but couldn’t find the energy.

  Somewhere, deep inside, he knew this wouldn’t last, that the medication would help him pull through, but right now all he wanted to do was tell the world and everything in it to fuck off. If he cared enough he’d cry.

  He remembered Maria’s perfume. He’d given her a bottle of Shalimar for their first Christmas. She wore it whenever she wanted to please him, which happened almost every single day of their years together. They had a special morning routine they shared even when it was disrupted by the needs of their children. She would meet him in one particular place in their home and they would share a kiss. A moment. Just the two of them. Sometimes he had other things on his mind, sometimes she did. Sometimes one of their babies would make whatever was on their minds known—loudly. But they still had their moment. Their kiss. When their souls touched. And then the day could

  continue.

  He remembered his son. His huge eyes filled with light and laughter and intelligence. The way he tried to imitate the most important man in his life. Mex had held such hopes for that little boy. He’d felt such pride.

  Mex also remembered his

  daughter. The little girl who was somehow different from other little girls her age. Who they knew was special. A gift from God. A gift that would let them know exactly what love meant. What power and potential were really all about. A gift their peers might never understand—might never benefit from experiencing. A gift he was only

  beginning to respond to and accept. She had Down syndrome. His perfect baby girl. His sweet, always innocent, always easy and always difficult baby girl. He’d felt pride in her too, and he’d finally come to believe that yes, she was truly perfect in every sense of the word.

  The darkness became a part of his skin. His bones. His soul. He followed it —led it—to the place where nothing mattered anymore. He couldn’t bring himself to even think about the lost life in his wife’s womb. The tiny being who would never see the world. Who they loved without knowing. The child he’d never hold. To have the time to make sure his love landed into another life and made a difference. To validate his own soul. To connect with through eternity.

  He crawled fully clothed onto his bed.

  Fuck eternity.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mex threw off the duvet and sat on the edge of his bed. Sedona must have been in at some point to cover him. He felt smothered. Moonlight gray-scaled his room and he welcomed the diluted sense of place.

  He tried to block out his memories —his hate. The two things that had kept him alive that first year. Kept him going. Memories and hate.

  Usually when depression hit, all he wanted to do was sleep. The meds he’d taken earlier must be kicking in. He’d taken them so often, off and on, he no longer needed to wait a few weeks for them to begin to work. Timing was everything and this time it sucked. He rolled back onto his bed, closed his eyes, and tried to think about something else. Or nothing. The “weltschmerz”, his first doctor called this deep sadness. Only bigger.

  He heard the doorbell and

  squinted at his bedside clock. Two a.m. Mex didn’t care who had come to his home at this hour or why. He only wanted to be left alone. Sedona would take care of the interloper and send them on their way.

  A tapping at his door, then it opened, a slice of subdued light dumping color into his space.

  He cleared his throat. “What do you want?”

  Sedona slipped into the room
and closed the door. She walked over and stood at the side of his bed a moment before she sat. Her back was cast stiff and straight but the rest of her trembled like aspen leaves in the wind.

  Mex pulled himself up, physically and emotionally. “What’s wrong?” He worked to focus on his sister as he crawled up from the abyss.

  Sedona didn’t answer him.

  “Sedona, who was at the door?”

  He watched as his sister squeezed her eyes tight, a single tear escaping down her flawless cheek. When it hung a moment on her jaw line then fell onto her lap, he blinked. Something broke open inside of him at the same time that tear spilled and split.

  He pulled the duvet up and covered Sedona’s shoulders. “Talk to me.”

  “You’re sick. I shouldn’t have come. I should have—”

  “Tell me.”

  He watched the only family member left in his world draw a deep breath. The fluttering of her hands subsided. Still, her skin felt cold to his touch.

  “He’s waiting for you.” “Who?”

  “In your own home, he’s waiting to ask you for help. I should have closed the door. Sent him away.”

  “Sedona, who is here?” But even as he asked the question, the answer began to form.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Tell me now.”

  Sedona spilled in his arms. He pulled her close. Waited for her to compose herself.

  “You will hate this, mi hermano.”

  Mex thought about those words. He knew hate. He thought he’d let it go. He couldn’t imagine hating anything or anyone as much ever again. “Do not worry about my hatred.”

  Sedona’s body shuddered. He could feel her shrink beside him. “Someone from our past wants to speak with you.”

  He experienced a scent memory. It flattened his heart and almost sent him back into his bed. He and Maria had finished a picnic of bread, cheese, grapes, and wine. Afterward, their lovemaking had been both gentle and hungry. The scent of what he thought of as an exotic bloom ribboned over him and settled. He never knew what caused that scent, he only knew it had grounded him for years in a field of love.