“What were you told?” he demanded.
She took a long breath before she answered.
“You are very brave,” she said quickly.
“And?” he demanded.
“My father would like to offer a gift to honor you,” she said. She gulped more air.
The man froze. He said nothing. The girl breathed deeper and deeper, but stopped, sensing that something had changed. She rolled her eyes. Curtis brought up his gun. He watched as the old man turned his scarred face to his. He had been butchered by a surgeon, and he was wearing rags, but there was a sparkle in his eye that Curtis recognized immediately. He knew without doubt or hesitation that he was looking at Aureliano Colon.
“Let go of her,” Curtis said. He tried not to sound nervous.
Colon didn’t move. He had one hand free and the other entwined in Maria’s hair. She was watching. She had been made up garishly and now it was running down her face in blue and black streaks. Her lips were bright red.
Curtis began to repeat himself when suddenly, Colon complied.
Then he smiled at Curtis.
***
Jefe stood over a puddle of blood in the cells. Then he locked eyes on Juan.
“What’s the name of the officer?” asked one of the paramedics.
“Juan Two Saints,” said Jefe in his slow growl. Juan broke his gaze.
“Only superficial injuries,” said the paramedic.
“Superficial injuries,” repeated Jefe.
“He’s ugly, and he’s going to stay that way, but he’ll live.”
“And the other?”
The medic groaned. “Not so superficial.”
“Is he going to die?”
“If he’s lucky.”
“If he’s lucky,” repeated Jefe.
“I need a name for him,” said the medic.
“Sorry,” said Jefe. “It’s not my jail.”
***
“Take them off,” said Curtis. He said it seriously. He wanted to sound forceful, but the old man had a playful look about him.
“I don’t have the key,” he said.
Curtis remembered the St. Michael chain in his pocket, and the key on the other end of it. He thought about tossing it to the old man and repeating himself, but he didn’t. He felt an impulse not to let that chain go.
“Yes, you do,” said Virgil from behind him. Virgil sounded like a man with no patience. Colon must have heard it too. The look on his face remained, but he slowly reached into his pocket and removed a long key on a wide ring. He held it out to them.
“You do it,” said Curtis.
Curtis saw Maria and her soaking wet bra and breasts. He watched Colon’s hands. As soon as her left hand was free, Maria pulled away and retreated to the corner of the bathroom.
“I know who you are,” Colon said to Curtis.
“I know who you are,” Curtis replied.
Colon didn’t care enough to react.
“When I heard that a lawman in Texas had discovered me, I drew a picture of him in my mind. He was a tall cowboy of a man, rugged and hard. Imagine my surprise.”
Colon started forward. “Get your hands up,” said Curtis.
“You’ve been roughed up a bit, but in the end, you’re nothing more than a bookworm.”
“I’m taking you back,” said Curtis.
“No, you’re not,” said Colon. “You’re not policemen here. I’m not a wanted man. Down here, we’re both nobody.”
“Take the handcuff off of her,” Curtis said, “and put it on yourself. You can explain why you keep a girl locked in your basement.”
“She’s here of her own free will, just like you.”
Maria slapped him. She slapped him right in the face and drew blood. Curtis stepped back. He could see the surprise over Colon’s face. His eyes went wide, and his voice cut off. Curtis realized immediately that she hadn’t slapped him.
Maria had one hand held over Colon’s throat, the remaining metal handcuff plainly visible on her wrist. As Curtis came forward, he could see the other handcuff in her fist. It was held open by the force of her hand to form a jagged toothed metal hook. She had plunged it into his throat and was holding it in place.
Colon’s fingertips had almost touched her hand when she whispered to him. He stopped before contact. She whispered again.
Curtis could see it clearly. He could see what was going to happen.
“Don’t,” he said.
Maria looked at him. It was a face wholly without pity. She ripped out the metal hook, pulling it toward her and with more force than any woman her size should have been able to summon.
Blood sprayed into the air. It arched and rained down onto the bathroom floor. Colon turned and painted the wall of the bathroom. Maria slid away from him but didn’t scream. Colon crashed into the sink, spraying blood on the mirror and the basin. Then he fell to the floor.
Curtis came to the doorway but didn’t enter. Colon put his hands to the wound. It wasn’t spraying now. It was leaking. A dark mass was pooling underneath him and running along the threshold. He made a gurgling sound. His feet kicked.
Curtis heard the water. He looked to the tub, and saw Maria stepping out. She stepped onto the toilet on her toes. Droplets of blood dotted her breasts. She looked to them expectantly, and with fear, and they looked back with awe. Then, without words, they all looked down and watched the old man die.
When it was done, when it was clear beyond all doubt that this time, Colon was dead, and he would never rise again, Curtis took stock of himself. His thoughts ran briefly toward his old life, and how far away it seemed.
Curtis reached out a gentle hand to Maria, and she took it. He helped her climb down and out of the bathroom. She disappeared into the house behind them.
“Come on,” he said to Virgil. “Let’s get what we came here for.”
***
Curtis left the big country house and never looked back at it. He walked straight into the field. He knew the layout like it was a picture in his head. He went to the little old shack.
It was a simple one room wood and metal affair thrown up with limited skill. They let the flashlight roll over it. The roof was old and rusted iron. The wood on the sides had been weathered for years. Even the small glass on the window was scratched.
Virgil knew what he was thinking.
“This has been here for more than two years.”
“Yeah,” muttered Curtis. He touched the walls and roof. This was where Colon had been all along. He had been hiding in a one room tin shack.
Just as he touched the door, he heard Virgil call to him.
“Do you think it could be trapped?”
Curtis paused with his fingertips on the doorknob.
“He was pretty crafty,” said Virgil.
Curtis got down on one knee. He studied the door. It was solid enough and it shut cleanly. It was faded red with chipped paint. It would keep out the weather and keep out the bugs. He lowered his head and saw it was tight at the base.
Curtis poked around the foundation. He was pulling weeds away from the frame and sifting through the dirt. He worked his way to the corner and, finding a soft spot in the earth, went to work, shoveling away with his hands. He began tossing dirt behind him. Virgil stepped out of the way. Curtis reached with both hands now, using his arm as a plow, moving loose handfuls of dirt away from the shack.
“In answer to your question, no, I don’t think this has been here for two years. It’s been somewhere, but not here.”
“I think maybe we should go.“
“I think he found a shack that looked just like the one he was born in, picked it up, and moved it here. That’s what I think he did.”
“Good for him. He’s dead now. And we will be too.“
“In your experience, are old shacks built with new bricks?”
Virgil peered over his shoulder and into the hole Curtis had dug. Curtis dusted loose soil from the foundation. In the light, it was clearly a fresh concrete
brick, far newer and more professionally laid than the rest of the shack. It was stacked atop an identical brick, and descended into the earth.
“What do you think?” Curtis asked. He stood. He didn’t dust himself off. He turned the door knob as if Virgil had never said a word about traps and walked right into Colon’s house.
There was a cot along the wall. Clothes were stacked neatly in the corner. A crucifix hung from the wall. The lights came on as Curtis pulled on the string that hung from the bald overhead lamp. Colon had a few things to cook and eat with, but that was all. A coat was on a hanger on a nail in the wall. There was a shirt underneath it. Curtis was on the floor.
He threw an old dirty carpet into the corner. He was pushing at the floor boards, shifting, trying to find the loose one. Virgil backed out of his way as Curtis picked up the cot, emptied the blankets to the floor, and launched it into the night. He was on his knees for seconds when the floor came up with him.
It was in one piece. It extended directly below where the bed had been. A dark hole stared back at them. Curtis almost laughed because he was so excited. He didn’t though. He knew he would look insane. Instead, he took his gun out.
“Just in case,” he said to a visibly nervous Virgil.
Curtis and Virgil were beyond words now. They both understood. Curtis, with a flashlight in one hand and his gun in the other, dropped into the hole feet first.
It was a concrete vault, for lack of a better word. It was a concrete floor with walls and a ceiling that led straight up to the shack. When Curtis landed, he felt his knees hit an object.
He heard Virgil land. He heard his feet scuff the ground. He never lifted his eyes. They were fixed on what he had found. He had travelled hundreds of miles, almost been killed, located his arch enemy, and now found himself staring at a blue and white cooler.
He was struck by how mundane it was. It was a small cooler. There was one at every beach. There were three at every cookout.
“What is it?” Virgil asked.
Curtis lifted the cover. He suddenly thought of a severed head. The madman who lived upstairs could have been saving it. He opened the lid. He found his hands inside the box.
It was green.
His eyes burst open. He realized his hand was shaking. He gripped the flashlight with his whole hand and focused. It was all green bills. The number “100” flashed at him, and he counted it five times. He saw the words, “The United States of America” written large. A fat brown paper wrapper ran straight down the middle, and Curtis didn’t have to tear it off to know that Ben Franklin would be staring back at him.
The whole room lit up, but Curtis’ nervous system had already been too stretched, too overwhelmed, run too thin to react properly. He looked up with interest and squinted at Virgil, who was holding a handheld lamp, which had hung from a nail in the ceiling.
He leaned over Curtis’ shoulder.
“Oh my good God,” he said.
Curtis looked back at him.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
“This is the most money I’ve ever seen.”
“This is more money than most anyone ever sees,” Curtis whispered.
Curtis reached into the box. The bills were crisp and smooth. They had probably never been touched since they left the treasury.
He was suddenly filled with urgency. Curtis strained his ears, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t hear the sound of a police siren in the distance. Adrenaline flooded his system, his feet preparing to run.
“Get up there. I’m right behind you. Just start the car.”
“What are you saying?”
“We need to get the hell out of here.” Curtis had crawled backwards and was under the hole in the floor.
“What about the money?” Virgil asked.
“I have it.”
“Curtis!” Virgil yelled. It was an impatient voice. He felt Virgil’s grip on his arm. There was too much going on right now. There was no time to tell him to slow down.
“Do you not see where we are?” Virgil asked.
Curtis looked about himself. They were still in the cinder block grave under Colon’s shack, only now the lights were on and shining bright. Curtis clutched the blue cooler in his arms. His jaw almost slammed against it when he really opened his eyes.
There were nine more coolers just like it.
***
Virgil raced from cooler to cooler, flipping open the lids as if it were Christmas morning. He gasped each time he looked into one, each time a little higher, and with a little more excitement, occasionally looking back at Curtis with wild eyes, until he finally came to the last one, which he stared into with silent amazement. He took a deep breath.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” he muttered.
“What’s that?”
“Something my father used to say when we were kids. When he just didn’t know what else to say.”
Curtis wanted to look, but he didn’t have to see to believe. He knew what was in those cases. He had always known. He had always been right about Colon.
“Curtis?” Virgil asked carefully. “You’re my math guy. How much money are we looking at?”
Curtis looked into his box. It was mostly full, but there were stacks missing. Colon had needed money from time to time. He had no idea what for.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Guess.” Virgil’s tone was pointed.
He peered into the first container. He touched the fresh, clean sheets. They were spotless. Slowly, he poked a finger into the pristine stack and pulled one loose. Then another. He counted, and as he counted, he realized he was talking aloud, whispering as he went. It was money that didn’t belong to anyone. Not anymore. It was money that could buy anything. It could buy a new life.
“Are they all just as full?” Curtis asked, looking down the line.
Virgil went to the end for him. “Yes,” he said with excitement.
“Are they all hundred-dollar bills?” Curtis asked. But he already knew.
“Oh yeah.”
Curtis paused respectfully before he said the words.
“We are looking at almost twenty million dollars.”
Virgil sat back on his heels. The number sunk into his head. It was twenty million dollars.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” he whispered.
***
“This call is for you,” said Guillermo.
Strauss looked at the phone.
“Who is it?’ he asked.
“You know who it is,” Guillermo said.
He did know. The call had been placed to the bar so Strauss would understand in no uncertain terms that his whereabouts were known. It would have rattled some men. Strauss looked at Ordo and Eduardo.
“Your friend from America just asked a Mexican gangster if he could bring more men here tonight,” said Guillermo.
Strauss eyed them both seriously.
“Does he have any idea who he is dealing with?”
“None,” said Strauss.
Guillermo waited a moment for his next question.
“Are you coming back?” Guillermo asked.
“I don’t know,” said Strauss.
***
Curtis was trudging through the field with the first cooler in his hand. It was a short walk, but the cooler had begun to feel heavy. He felt himself sweating. He realized that the events of the night were wearing off, and the unholy energy which had propelled him was taking its toll. Yet he walked through the field with the grass to his knees, his forearms beginning to burn, and he didn’t stop until he came to the barn.
When he got there, the door was open, and the old maroon pickup truck was parked end first, just as he had promised.
“Adios,” said Maria. Curtis hadn’t heard her and had no idea she was there. She smiled shyly.
Maria wore a coat that wasn’t hers. It was a man’s coat and too large. Her legs were bare, and she wore sandals. She had washed the blood off of herself.
They both regarde
d each other for a long moment. Curtis was very aware that he had a broken nose and blood all over his shirt, and that didn’t bother her in the least.
“Thank you,” said Maria in English, and it seemed to Curtis that he had never heard anything more genuine in his life.
“I don’t know how to say ‘you are welcome’ in Spanish,” he said.
“Con mucho gusto,” said Maria. This didn’t sound genuine to him. The way she said it, it sounded like trouble.
“Are you going home?” he asked.
She shook her head no.
“Why not?”
“I cannot go home. Not like this.”
I cannot either, he thought fleetingly, knowing in his heart he didn’t mean it.
“Colon said that you were here of your own free will. Is that true?”
Her face was puzzled.
“I do not know free will,” said Maria.
“It means that you decided to be here. That you could leave.”
Maria understood, and she looked at the ground.
“He does not mean it the way you mean it,” she said.
Curtis did not ask more. He suddenly remembered the box at his feet and felt guilty about it.
“I have something for you,” said Curtis, as he bent and opened the box. Some part of him was careful not to open it all the way, and not to let her look into the box.
“Is it money?” she asked.
Curtis paused.
“Yes. It is money.”
“It is his money, isn’t it?”
“It was.”
“Then I do not want it.”
“You earned it,” said Curtis.
“I do not know earn,” she said.
He didn’t explain. Instead, he took one of the stacks of hundred dollars bills and closed the case. He shoved the money into her coat pocket. Curtis caught himself looking into her dark eyes as he did it. She was passive.
“To help you get out. When you get there, if you don’t need it, you can give it away.”
South of Evil Page 19