South of Evil

by Brian Dunford

  Strauss sipped his coffee again. He drove, and Eduardo thought he was going to be ignored again before Strauss finally spoke.

  “He was a man who valued discretion.”

  And surrounded himself with men who barely spoke his name, even after his death. Eduardo had spent a good amount of time pondering Aureliano Colon, his life, his business, and his lifestyle. Or, more to the point, the tight glimpses of these things that he had been granted. He was not prepared to pass up an opportunity to make inquiries with someone who had known him well.

  “Before Colon died, did he tell you to do what I asked?”

  “You could say we had an understanding.”

  Eduardo felt something stir inside of him. It was an evil thing. He felt a tingling rise in his skin. He felt himself giving life to a certain demand.

  “You know Monterrey well, don’t you? Not just the city, but the city below it.”

  Strauss shrugged. The shrug was a modest yes.

  “Tell me. Is there a place in Monterrey where you can have sex with a child? A boy, preferably.”

  Strauss didn’t answer. This time, he didn’t sip coffee either.

  “Is there?” Eduardo asked.

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “But you could find out if there was, couldn’t you?”

  Strauss nodded. He did it almost automatically, as if it were entirely against his will, but couldn’t help himself.

  “Find out,” said Eduardo.

  Virgil – Monterrey, MX

  They stood on the steps of the big house. It was dark. The barn was dark. The shack was dark. Yet still they whispered.

  “We can get back into the Jeep and drive home right now. We haven’t done anything wrong yet.”

  “Do you want to go home?” Curtis asked.

  Now the time for being quiet was over, and the red door stood between them and a point of no return. Virgil held the heavy sledge hammer in his hand.

  He knew what Curtis meant. He meant, Do you want to go home to shame, as a criminal, as a man unable to support himself?

  The sound exploded over the silence. Wood broke and splintered. Tiny shards flew into the air. The door blasted wide open and crashed into the opposite wall.

  No, Marc Virgil thought. He did not want to go home.

  ***

  Juan Two Saints entered his house and went straight to the room in the back where the boys were sleeping. One was tucked in his bed with blankets pulled to his neck. The other slept on the floor.

  Juan looked at the empty bed and sighed. When the floor sleeping had begun, his wife had been distraught.

  “How can he be happy? The floor is so hard,” she said.

  But Juan understood.

  As a child, in church, he would go to confession with his mother. His mother would be in the confessional for two minutes, tops. When Juan went in, he liked to stay for a while. When he ran out of sins, he made up new ones, no doubt unconvincingly. The priest seemed to understand and punished him accordingly. Most everyone knelt at the padded brace, but he had once spotted a man, a strong looking beast of a man, praying and crying on his knees. Juan couldn’t resist trying it too. He liked it. He’d run into his house at the end of the day with blood running from his knees. His mother would gasp and say, “You’ve been in church again!”

  He was on the verge of his fourth double this week. Jefe had become more erratic and unpredictable in his demands. He had come home to enjoy his first quiet night in a week, and his phone began ringing.

  He didn’t even need to look. It was Jefe. “Change of plans,” he growled.

  ***

  Virgil thought of a moment from a thousand years ago when he had entered a dimly lit room and been electrocuted. He had entered a room with no lights, but he could see by the daylight streaming in through the partially shuttered window. He had ignored his training and moved. For that, he was shocked.

  The instructor touched his arm with the device. He only touched it, and the electric pulse ran wild. Pain seared through him. It was August. He had been sweating. The current jumped through the sweat and raced across his skin.

  “When you enter a dark room,” said a calm voice that was holding the prod. “Turn on the lights.”

  Years later, Virgil instinctively ran his left hand along the wall. It was covered with paper. It was paper with fine, rich, tiny details. Most light switches are five feet off the ground, he reminded himself. Even in Mexico.

  The room lit up white. It was occupied by plain red furniture. There was a wood coffee table in front of the couch. There was Mexican artwork on the wall.

  Then came the dining room. He could see it all, but found the switch anyway. The lights went on in the kitchen at the same time. He heard Curtis’ step and called, “Clear.”

  He found the base of the stairs. The stairs are the most dangerous place in the house. He could feel Curtis behind him. He didn’t have to look. For the first time in almost a year, he drew a gun.

  He climbed just far enough to see the floor. There was no one on the landing. The rooms were all dark. All the doors were open. He leaned backward as much as he could while still watching the second floor.

  “When I go up, you stay low on the stairs. You watch those three doors,” he whispered.

  The only thing he saw was the six stairs to the top and the three blackened rooms beyond them. Virgil almost felt Curtis’ hesitation. He thought about telling him that it was fine, that nothing was going to happen, and that the house was empty. Instead, he took the stairs in two steps and jumped into the darkness.

  ***

  It was Curtis’ turn. He ran into the last dark room on the second floor. He fumbled for a light. It had to be there. His hand swept the wall. He imagined a machete slicing through his neck at any moment. He felt only wall. He imagined being shot in the stomach. His nails scraped the wood.

  The light went on, and before him was what looked like a hotel room. It was on the nice side of bland, and the colors were neutral. The bed was made. The furniture was bare. Curtis looked deeper. He looked at the bureau to his side. There was a neat lamp, and there was something else. He ran a finger along the top of the bureau and saw a line he had drawn in the dust.

  “Unlived in,” said Virgil.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think we should look in the basement.”

  The higher end appointments throughout the house ended at the stairs to the cellar. The floors were unfinished. The walls were plain. In the ceiling, pipes were exposed. There were four sets of lights. They could see a bulkhead leading out at the far end.

  Curtis found himself staring at the floor. He was looking for a weakness. He wanted to see one portion that looked newer, softer, less worn, or recently added. He wanted to see a space that had been tinkered with, camouflaged, or covered over hastily. He found himself wondering if he had expected to walk into the basement to find a big black X on the ground.

  “What’s that?” asked Virgil. At some point, they had stopped whispering, but he couldn’t remember when.

  Virgil had been staring over his shoulder the whole time. Virgil never took his eyes off whatever he was looking at. Curtis turned.

  There was a door under the stairs.

  ***

  Virgil made a line straight for the door while Curtis wondered how he hadn’t seen it. He imagined a stream of Mexican gunmen piling out of the little room to cut and kill him. He imagined being shot in the back. He imagined all the things that could go wrong in the seconds it took Virgil to cross the room.

  He stood to the side of the door and felt the handle. He did it naturally and without thinking, while Curtis realized he was still standing right in the kill zone, the perfect place to get shot.

  “Locked,” said Virgil.

  He dropped to his stomach and peered under the door. There was no light on the other side. Virgil took a flashlight from his back pocket, but the door was flush with the ground.

  “Can we open it?” Curtis asked.


  “Every door opens,” said Virgil. “It’s just a matter of how hard it’s going to be.”

  “This could be a safe room.”

  “It could. Aren’t they supposed to be hidden?”

  “They’re supposed to keep people out long enough to get help.”

  Virgil felt the door. He ran his fingers along the face of it. He pushed it with his palm. He rapped it with his knuckles.

  “Good solid door,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Curtis stood staring at the lock now that he was alone. Gently, he pressed his ear to the side. He stopped breathing and listened.

  He heard a loud thump. His whole body tensed. Then he heard another. By the time he heard it three times, he realized that it was Virgil upstairs dragging something heavy or clumsy across the floor above him. He heard the boards creak when he reached the top of the stairs. Then there was a terrible crash.

  Curtis looked over to see the sledgehammer come to a rest at the base of the stairs. It was on top of the shovel and the pick axe. Virgil pounded down the stairs after them, grabbing the hammer in one motion.

  “Get back,” he said to Curtis.

  Just as he had upstairs, he slammed the sledgehammer into the space just below the lock. The sound was enormous. The door was undamaged.

  He hit it again.

  “This is a lot stronger than the front door,” said Virgil, as he took a deep breath.

  Curtis thought about that. He thought about a person who had a stronger door in their basement than they did on the front of their house. The weight of the sledge struck again. Who would make the whole of their home less safe than a tiny room in the basement? he asked himself. He saw more and more of the hammer disappear into the frame each time it landed. What would you keep in the basement that was more important than where you slept?

  “This door wants to open,” huffed Virgil. He put the hammer on the ground, bent his knees, and stretched. “All doors want to open.”

  “What if it’s not to keep you out?” said Curtis. Virgil never heard him, and a moment later, he forgot he ever said it. His words were lost in the sonic violence of the lock blasting off the frame. The room stood wide open.

  Curtis wanted to be the first to enter, but Virgil dropped the hammer and walked under the stairs. Curtis supposed he had earned it. He began to follow when he heard Virgil shout. That was when he started to run.

  He saw Virgil from behind. His arms hung loose at his sides, like they didn’t know what to do. He had always thought of Virgil as the person who could commit to any decision, in any amount of time. He stepped around him.

  There was a young woman crouching in the corner.

  ***

  She kept her back to the wall and moved sideways to get away from them. Virgil put his empty hands up and said he wasn’t going to hurt her. He said it in English. She didn’t stop.

  She grew closer to Curtis. He didn’t know what else to do. Virgil was speaking even louder. Curtis reached into his front pocket. She watched his hands with panicked eyes. He withdrew his badge and identification.

  “Policia!” he said.

  She backed quickly away from him. Of course, he thought. The police aren’t the good guys down here. He racked his mind for more Spanish.

  “Yo no soy un hombre!” shouted Curtis.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” said Virgil.

  “Yo no soy un hombre malo,” shouted Curtis.

  She stopped moving. Her back was pressed to the wall, her hands out to her sides. She looked back and forth between them. Virgil stepped backward.

  “Hombres buenos,” said Curtis. Good men.

  Curtis watched her eyes. They were searching. Her eyes tracked to the door, then to them. She was looking at the guns on their waists. He held up the badge.

  “Policia Americana,” he said.

  She spoke to him in Spanish, but it was too fast. She was too excited, and his Spanish wasn’t good enough.

  “No tu quiero,” he said.

  She looked at him quizzically.

  “What are you telling her?” Virgil asked.

  “I’m trying to convince her that she shouldn’t be afraid of us.”

  Virgil took his shirt and pulled it over his gun. He put his hands in the air. He walked toward the door. He smiled.

  “No problemo,” said Virgil.

  He pointed to her and then back to himself.

  “Me. You. No problemo.”

  “Que quieren?” she shouted.

  “No tu,” said Curtis.

  “Que quieren?” she shouted louder.

  “No soy a hacerte dano,” said Curtis.

  “Que quieren?” she almost screamed.

  “Dinero,” said Virgil calmly.

  She stared at him incredulously, but this answer, whether it caught her off guard or just struck her, quieted her.

  Curtis tried to smile. He knew it was crooked. He backed away from her. As he did, he crowded Virgil out of the doorway. It was Curtis and this woman in the room. He could see in the calm that she was beautiful. She was Mexican, with pale skin and dark hair. She wore no makeup and needed none. She looked like she would fight if she had to. He extended an arm into the main basement.

  “Bienvenido,” he said.

  She didn’t laugh exactly. It was an exhale that caught her off guard. Curtis smiled.

  “Mi espanol no esta bueno,” he said. He covered his gun with his shirt like Virgil had.

  She came away from the wall slowly, but some part of her always touched it. Curtis left the tight little room and backed away from her. The young woman contorted her body around the frame, casting a side glance at the broken door as she did. Curtis realized what Virgil had done. He had blocked her way to the stairs.

  “Por favor,” Curtis said. He had her attention.

  He tried to think of the word to sit. His mind was blank. Curtis motioned for her to sit. He did not say por favor this time. She sat.

  “Gracias,” he said.

  With that, Curtis immediately entered the little room.

  There was a carpet with a design on it. The carpet was green, or greenish, and had a black pattern running through it. There was a hardbacked chair and a bed that didn’t look much more comfortable. A tiny sink and toilet were squeezed into the corner.

  “What is this?” asked Virgil from right behind him.

  “Are you watching her?”

  “Yes, I’m watching her. What is this?”

  “I don’t know yet,” said Curtis. He looked to the girl, who was sitting across from the door with her back to the wall, looking confused and overwhelmed. She looked lovely.

  “Que esta?”

  She didn’t answer.

  There were clothes in the little room. They were piled neatly and folded on the floor by the bed. She was wearing a black tank top and light pajama pants. The clothes on the floor looked to be the same. He heard Virgil fiddling with metal. He saw his hand on the lock. Curtis looked out and saw the girl in a haze.

  “You still think this is a safe room?” Virgil asked.

  “Maybe. I don’t know. Why?”

  “Did you see this lock?”

  “You busted it.”

  “It’s still worth seeing.”

  It was a thick deadbolt lock on a solid wooden door. The wood was bent and dented, and the wood around the lock was torn and broken. Curtis looked closer. The wood was new. The lock was new. There was oil on it. He looked back to Virgil.

  “Which side is the lock on?”

  Curtis looked again. The handle was plain on both sides. The lock was twisted and would never work again. He stepped back into the room and closed the door.

  “Shouldn’t a safe room lock from the inside?” asked Virgil.

  Curtis wished he knew more Spanish. He wished he knew what the hell was going on in this little town outside of Monterrey, Mexico.

  Then he noticed the floor.

  It was a cheap rug. It wasn’t a piece that anyone would l
ove. It was a plain off green with a black print pattern running through it. The pattern formed boxes that stacked at angles, building from the center and edging to the four corners. Virgil must have seen him grinning. He leaned in to see what was the matter.

  “No way,” said Virgil.

  When viewed from above, the pattern on the run formed a large black X.

  ***

  Virgil tossed the chair effortlessly behind him and into the basement. It landed loudly. The girl jumped. Curtis waved his hand, motioning for her to be calm, apologizing.

  “How do you say I’m sorry in Spanish?” Virgil asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Curtis. He was straining to move the bed. Virgil grabbed the mattress and dragged it with one hand.

  The rug was flush with the wall at the very edge. Virgil drew out a knife and began digging at the edge by the door. He scraped and swore as he worked. Curtis wondered why he hadn’t thought to bring a knife. The girl watched them in confusion. Virgil ripped the rest of it away and clumsily pulled it into the basement. All they saw now was a floor of dull gray cement.

  “What do you think?” asked Virgil finally.

  “I don’t know.” And he didn’t. Curtis had no idea what to do.

  “This cement is a different color than the rest of the basement.”

  The main room had a light gray floor. It was fresh poured, clean, and level. The floor in the little room was none of those things. It had been there for a while.

  “I was picturing a stash that he could get at if he needed it,” said Virgil.

  “I was too.”

  “If I had that kind of cash, I would keep it where I could get to it.”

  Curtis didn’t answer.

  “Unless I was thinking long term. And I was hiding it.”

  Curtis said nothing. His mind was full of thoughts. They were not good thoughts. They were puzzled and criticizing. Had he come all the way down to Mexico so Eduardo Mendes could make a fool of him?

  Curtis suddenly swung the hammer. Virgil jumped out of its way. He heard the collision. It was metal on stone and hard. Virgil rose up, the sledgehammer clutched in both hands. He swung it directly into the ground. This time it broke.