Devils and Dust

by J. D. Rhoades

  “Turn and face the tree,” the General said, “and do not close your eyes if you want to keep them in your heads.” Some of the men seemed confused. The General turned to Ruben. “Tell them.”

  “He says we have to watch,” Ruben told them in Spanish, “or we’ll be punished.”

  Slowly, they turned. More than one man was crying now. Shut up, you idiots, Ruben raged inside, but the General took no notice. Or maybe tears were what he wanted.

  Kinney stood beneath the tree and unspooled the rope. It took him a couple of tries to toss the free end over a high branch. When it finally went over and dangled down within reach, Kinney grabbed it and pulled it tight, causing Diego to rise up on his tiptoes. Kinney gestured with one hand to Bender, who slung his gun and joined him on the end of the rope. The thin man kept his gun trained on them.

  “Does the condemned man have any last words?” the General asked.

  Diego’s one open eye showed a last glimmer of defiance. “Yeah,” he croaked in a dry, ruined voice. “Cuando llegue al infierno, voy a coger a tu puta madre por el culo.”

  The General looked puzzled. He turned to Ruben. “What did he say?”

  Ruben hesitated.

  “Well?” the General asked.

  Ruben cleared his throat. “He said, ‘When I get to hell, I’m going to fuck your whore mother in the ass.’”

  The General’s face darkened with rage. He motioned to Kinney and Bender. They began to step backward, pulling on the rope. Diego was hauled into the air. His face turned red, then purple. He began to kick. His struggles grew wilder, more desperate, as they hauled him higher. His eyes bulged and horrible strangled sounds came from this throat as his lungs tried desperately to draw air through a windpipe shut by the pressure of the rope. The crotch of his pants darkened and liquid dribbled from the one leg of his pants. Kinney was laughing in a high, hysterical giggle. Bender just looked determined. The General stood expressionless, his hands behind his back. All of the other men were sobbing, but Ruben kept his face like stone. Like the General’s. “They want to see us suffer,” he thought. “I won’t let them.”

  It took Diego almost five minutes to die. When he finally hung limp, tongue bulging, eyes seeming to start out of his head, the General turned to them. “Back to your barracks,” he said. “And back to work tomorrow.”

  THE GENERAL sat in the dark, behind his empty desk, and sent up a prayer. Not a petition for the soul of the man he’d just sent to hell, but a prayer of thanksgiving to his God for being allowed to do His holy work. “Thank you, Lord,” he breathed, “thanks be to You, O Elohim, You for making me your General. Your Sword Arm.”

  In his former life, Martin Walker, the man who now called himself General, had only risen to the rank of Staff Sergeant in the American Army. Twice. After the second time he’d been found drunk on duty, he’d been given a bad-conduct discharge, booted out of the Army with loss of all pay and allowances.

  He’d been a different man then. He’d even had a different name. When he’d found Jesus, or more accurately, when Jesus had found him, he’d left all that behind—the drink, the fornication, the gluttony, and weakness of the flesh. He’d held onto one thing: his hatred of the lower races, the ones whom God had marked as inferior but that Satan had been raising to power, diluting and poisoning the greatness of America, God’s true Promised Land. He still remembered the smirk on the dark black face of the JAG Captain who’d thrown him into exile. Satan had won that day, and Satan had continued to hold sway over him until the Church of Elohim had found him and taught him the nature of his true tormentors. They had put him back together, given him new purpose, and a new name.

  Satan had had his victories since: that nigger-loving prosecutor in Ohio, for example, made a martyr of Father Elihu, the man who’d founded the Church of Elohim. Even now, the man who’d given Walker his life back was rotting in a cold prison cell in the Midwest, in the belly of the beast, surrounded by the devil’s dark servants and protected by only a very few sworn disciples. It had been Father Elihu who’d given Martin this task: take the money they’d made from selling the black devils the powders and pills that were their own destruction, come to this place, and make a new Israel, where the faithful would make a place for themselves and live according to God’s natural order. “You aren’t a foot soldier any longer,” Father Elihu had said to him on the last day they’d met. He’d been thinner, almost gaunt, and his beard had been shot through with gray, but the fire of God’s truth still burned in those brilliant blue eyes. “You are the General. The Sword Arm of the Lord. Lead the people of God.” He’d placed his hand against the glass of the visitation room, his eyes locked on Walker’s. “Like Moses, I won’t see the Promised Land. But you will be my Joshua.” Walker had placed his own hand on the opposite side of the glass, unable to speak, so great was the upwelling of pure love he’d felt for Father Elihu.

  Since then, he’d conducted his war against the minions of Satan from the shadows, playing the animals off against one another, using their moral weakness and the greed and lust for power of their leaders to bring their downfall. God had made their efforts prosper. It wouldn’t be long before the border erupted in another vicious power struggle. Both sides secretly encouraged to slaughter each other and supplied with the tools of war by the Sword Arm of the Lord, in exchange for the drugs he was using to kill more of them on the streets of America. It was the only way to keep their numbers manageable in light of their insane breeding rate. Men’s own weakness and sin was the General’s greatest weapon in doing the great work of the Lord.

  A sudden feeling came over him. A light pulsated at the edge of his vision, a bright curtain that slowly moved down across his eyes until he saw the world through a vibrating veil of light. He’d seen that light before, and he knew what to do. He fell to his knees beside the desk. “I’m here, Lord,” he said, his lips pulled back in a horrible rictus that made a mockery of the word smile. As the feeling came over him, he sank to the floor beside the desk.

  He awoke, staring at the ceiling, unsure for a moment of where he was. Despite that, he felt a great sense of peace, as he did after all of his ecstasies. He’d read the word in a book on the lives of the saints, and he knew right away that was what he was experiencing. The spirit of the Lord came upon him and told him of great mysteries.

  He’d seen a city rising from this fertile earth, a city as white as alabaster, where God’s chosen race could live free from the machinations of Satan and the inferior races he’d bent to his evil will. That city would be built by the labor of those minions, as their penance for serving evil. Their chastisement would be severe, as it was today, but necessary. When it was built, God’s chosen would come to him and he would lead the white race—the true Children of Israel now that the Jews had refused God’s Messiah—to a new and glorious millennium.

  The vision faded, leaving him weak and trembling. Someday, he’d see, not through a glass darkly, but face-to-face. For now, he took the ecstasies as God’s sign that he was on the right path. They’d been happening more and more recently, which he took as a sign. Sooner or later, one of them would happen in front of the men. He’d have to explain it then, but he had faith that they’d understand.

  He got to his feet, a little unsteadily. After a moment, he straightened up and adjusted his clothing. “God is great,” he whispered. “Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

  AFTER ALL this time, it felt strange to be back in the office where he’d once worked. H & H Bail Bonds was in the same Wilmington storefront, a few blocks from the courthouse. He sat behind his old desk, a few feet away from Angela’s. Paperwork was spread out across it. He noticed a couple of FTA notices, sent to the bonding company when a client failed to show. They’d have one hundred eighty days to bring them back to jail or forfeit the money they’d put up.

  “So who you got working skips?” Keller asked.

  She shrugged, looking oddly embarrassed. “Couple of freelancers,” she said. “One of them’s a ne
w guy, just back from Afghanistan.” She turned back to her computer. The phone they’d picked up at a Walmart, the twin to the one she’d taken from Rosita Miron, was set on the desk next to it. She was researching the numbers on the SIM card. She sat back. “I’ve got the last couple of numbers she dialed. I figured one of them would be the contact in Mexico.”

  “And?”

  “Like I thought. No information. Even when I ping the sources I’m not supposed to have.”

  Keller grimaced. “Damn.”

  “You going to drop the card off with the local Feds?”

  He shook his head. “It’ll get Miron and whoever she’s dealing with in trouble. But that won’t do us any good. The only value that card has is the threat that we might use it. If we do, the threat goes away, and so does our leverage.”

  The phone rang. Angela picked it up. “H & H Bail Bonds.” She listened for a moment, then sank slowly into the chair. “Yes,” she said, “this is Angela Sanchez.” She looked at Keller. “Yes, Mr. Keller is here, too. I’ll put him on.” She nodded to the extension on Keller’s desk. Keller walked over and picked it up. “Jack Keller,” he said.

  The voice on the other end was deep, smooth, with a trace of Spanish accent. “Mr. Keller. I understand you wish to speak with us.”

  “Depends,” Keller said. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the person Oscar Sanchez came to see about his problem,” the man said.

  “Ah,” Keller said. “You’re Mrs. Miron’s friend.”

  A pause. “Yes.”

  “And your name is…?” Keller said.

  “My name is not important.”

  “It kind of is,” Keller said. “I mean, if we’re going to sit down and meet and all, I like to know the name of the person I’m speaking to.”

  “I’m afraid the meeting you suggest is not possible.”

  “You’d be amazed what’s possible if you’re properly motivated,” Keller said. “How much would it motivate you to keep that SIM card with your contact information on it out of the hands of the Immigration people? Or, say, the DEA?”

  The man chuckled. “Are you threatening me, Mr. Keller?” Keller started to answer but the man cut him off. “Never mind,” he said. “I represent a man named Auguste Mandujano. Do you know the name?”

  “Can’t say I do,” Keller said.

  “Perhaps you should research it.” the voice said. “Of course, much of what you’ll find is exaggerated. Tabloid nonsense. But some of it is true.”

  “Which part?” Keller said.

  “Enough to make you a little more respectful. A little less flippant.”

  “Sorry,” Keller said. “It’s a failing of mine. The flippancy, I mean. Also, my psychiatrist tells me I have problems with impulse control. When I get angry, I tend to do reckless things.”

  “Things like releasing information off SIM cards to the authorities?”

  “Yeah. Like that.”

  “You overestimate the effect that would have.”

  “I don’t think so,” Keller said, “or else you wouldn’t have called.”

  “I can tell you this much,” the voice said. “Oscar Sanchez came to see us. He was concerned about his sons. But we sent him away.”

  “He’d paid you to get his sons across the border,” Keller said. “Were they in one of the groups who went missing?”

  There was no answer.

  “How does that happen?” Keller persisted. “How do you lose a truck full of people? Much less two?”

  More silence. Then, “Some people have been talking more than they should.”

  “People open up to me,” Keller said. “So let’s just assume I know a lot. Tell me what happened with Oscar Sanchez.”

  “As I said. We sent him away. We had no information for him.”

  “And he just walked away?” Keller said. “‘Oh thanks, so my sons are missing, I’ll just be moving along, and by the way, just keep the money I paid you’? I’m assuming you didn’t give him a refund.”

  “He wasn’t happy,” the voice said. “But there are always risks in this sort of venture.”

  “Like the risk of disappearing off the face of the earth? I’m sure you tell your customers that, right up front.”

  “This conversation is becoming pointless,” the voice said. “I’ve told you what you asked.”

  “No, you’ve told me a bunch of evasive bullshit,” Keller said. “I think I need to come see Mr. Mandujano personally.”

  “That would not be wise.”

  “Like I said, poor impulse control,” Keller said. “See you real soon now.” He broke the connection and looked over at Angela. She had put the phone down and was typing something into the laptop computer on her desk. She sat back and studied the screen, then turned it around without expression. Keller walked over and looked.

  “So,” he said. “This Mandujano fellow’s not one to keep a low profile.”

  “Drugs,” she said. “Weapons. Prostitution. Human trafficking.”

  “And yet,” he said, “Mexico doesn’t want to let our folks have a word with him.”

  “So he’s connected.”

  “Looks like it.” Keller bent over. “Jesus,” he said. “Is this supposed to be his house? I can’t read it because the website’s in Spanish.”

  She turned the computer back around, read the captions. “Yeah. The guy’s practically a rock star in Mexico.”

  “Well,” Keller said, “that’ll make it easier to find him.”

  “You can’t be thinking of going there,” she said.

  “This guy, or his people, was the last ones we know of who saw Oscar—” He stopped himself.

  She finished the sentence for him. “The last ones to see him alive.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You think they killed him.”

  “There’s no evidence of that,” Keller said.

  “Just this guy’s reputation.”

  He shrugged. “He said that most of that was ‘tabloid nonsense.’ But yeah, Angela, it’s a possibility. These are people who aren’t fond of people who ask too many questions.”

  “And you want to go down there and do just that.”

  “I don’t know any other way to find Oscar. Or find out what happened to him.”

  “If he’s alive, he’ll come home,” she said. “If he’s dead…” she closed her eyes and said, “then we have to find out who and why, don’t we?”

  “Partly right,” Keller said. “Except not ‘we.’ I’m going alone.”

  She opened her eyes. “Like hell.”

  “You said yourself. It’s dangerous.”

  “I’m not some wilting flower, Jack. You know better than to think I’m going to sit back here and wait for news.”

  He tried another tack. “Don’t you have a business to run?” he said.

  “Yeah. So we better make this quick.” She stood up. “I’ll go pack.”

  THE MAN on the phone stared at it in disbelief. Keller had hung up on him. No one hung up on him.

  “Well?” Auguste Mandujano said. “Are we done with this, Andreas?”

  Andreas Zavalo put the phone down on the glass table next to his lounge chair. He was a fat man, dressed in a loud Hawaiian shirt and cargo pants. His brown skin glistened with sweat and suntan lotion. “He says he’s coming to see us.”

  Mandujano stared at the brilliant blue water in the pool for a moment. Then he sat up. The girl in the chair next to him sat up as well, watching, alert to see if he required anything. She was blond, beautiful, and no more than eighteen. Mandujano didn’t look at her, Zavalo noticed. “What about this Sanchez?” he said. “Has he been back?”

  Zavalo hesitated. “He’s been asking around,” he said. “In the bars. The church. Some of the shops. I think he’s trying to find the warehouse.”

  Mandujano turned to look at him. His eyes were invisible behind the dark sunglasses. His mouth was a tight line.

  “I was getting ready to send a couple of men to persuade him to
stop,” Zavalo said weakly.

  “No,” Mandujano said. “Bring him here. I want to find out what he knows about this Keller.”

  “What do we do when he tells us?” Zavalo asked. He had no doubt that he could make Sanchez tell him whatever he wanted to know.

  “I’ll decide that when the time comes,” Mandujano said. He stood up. The girl was still looking at him. Mandujano didn’t acknowledge her presence. “I’m going to go take a nap,” he said. He walked off. The girl stared after him. She looked at Zavalo, her wide, lovely blue eyes asking what she should do.

  “Go to your own room,” he said, as kindly as he could. “He’ll send for you if he wants you.” Mutely, she got up and walked toward the house. Zavalo sighed. With all the other shit he had to attend to on Mandujano’s behalf, he now had this nosy American, Keller, to deal with. And he had to find his boss a new playmate. Obviously this one was starting to bore him. She’d become too compliant, too thoroughly broken. The boss liked it when they fought.

  First things first. He picked the phone back up and started to dial. Then he stopped himself. Like the girl, this phone had reached the end of its usefulness. Groaning with the effort, he stood up, and went inside to find another phone.

  THE BARRACKS were silent, the men numb with the shock of watching Diego’s murder. Most of them lay on their bunks, staring. Ruben sat on the edge of his, leaning across to where his bothers sat. Edgar had stopped crying, but his eyes were still red. Ruben was holding his brother’s hands in his. He struggled to find some words of comfort, but nothing came. His stomach growled.

  There was a commotion at the door of the barracks. Ruben let go of Edgar’s hands and sat back. Kinney, the blond-haired guard, had entered. He didn’t have his submachine gun with him, but he had a pistol in an unsnapped holster on his waist and the sjambok in one hand. His nose was swollen and discolored from where Diego had hit him.