The Devil You Know

by Robert Swartwood

  Atticus says, “Yes, about that.”

  I realize I’ve been stationary too long and start up the block.

  “About what?”

  “Something about this morning didn’t feel right to me and I couldn’t put my finger on the reason why. I had done as much research as possible on Ernesto Diaz, so I had believed I had all my bases covered.”

  I pause for a beat.

  “But you didn’t?”

  “Not necessarily. It’s just, well, based on Ernesto Diaz’s status, he seemed to have had an abnormally large number of guards protecting him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said that this serial killer is going around killing the mothers and children of cartel families, correct?”

  “Yes. Only the woman wasn’t Javier’s wife. She was the children’s nanny.”

  “Then what happened this morning to the woman and children you left behind really doesn’t make sense. The Diaz family is not part of the cartels. They don’t do much in the drug trade, only the sex trade.”

  “Maybe this guy is branching out. Assuming it’s even one guy.”

  “Yes, well that’s not what has been bothering me.”

  “Then what has?”

  “How many men did you take out at the compound? Almost twenty? It would make sense that Ernesto would have some guards—your surveillance of the compound the last two days proved that—but this morning there were just too many.”

  “He knew something had happened to his son, Atticus. He wanted to protect himself. Maybe he hired additional guards for a couple days.”

  “That’s my thought. He must have hired additional men. The question now is who did he hire those additional men from, and will there be retaliation?”

  I pause again, now two blocks from Gabriela’s house, and ask, “Retaliation on whom?”

  “I haven’t a clue, and right now that’s what concerns me the most.”

  Twenty-Two

  Fernando Sanchez Morales stepped out onto the patio to find his wife and seven-year-old son in the yard. His wife sat at the table, paging through a magazine, while his son kicked a soccer ball across the grass.

  His first impulse was to shout at them, tell them to hurry inside. Blood started pounding in his ears. He wasn’t aware his hands had curled into fists until he felt his nails digging into his palms.

  Two of the bodyguards stood close by, sunglasses propped on their faces, rifles strapped over their shoulders. They kept their attention on the fence and the trees beyond it.

  His wife glanced up at him and smiled.

  “Do you hear them?”

  He paused, the blood still pounding in his ears.

  “Hear what?”

  “Church bells.”

  She nodded toward the fence and the trees and the town down the hill. It took him a moment but then he heard them past the blood singing in his ears. Distant church bells.

  His wife smiled again.

  “There must be a wedding. Which reminds me, our anniversary is next month. What will you get me?”

  Out in the yard, his son kicked the soccer ball a bit too hard. It sailed through the air and struck the fence. His son started running after the ball, but Fernando called after him.

  “Ignacio, come here!”

  The boy paused at the intensity in his father’s voice.

  His wife noticed it too, and the smile faded from her face.

  “Why are you yelling at him?”

  Fernando redirected his glare at his wife.

  “Don’t question me. And besides, you know better than to come outside.”

  His wife sighed, gesturing at the bodyguards.

  “They’re watching after us.”

  “That doesn’t matter. You need to listen to me. It’s for your safety.”

  She tilted the sunglasses to stare at him over the tops of the frames.

  “You worry too much.”

  “This isn’t a joke, Araceli. We’ve had this discussion already. You both need to stay in the house until I tell you it’s okay to go out again.”

  She issued an overdramatic sigh, turning back to her magazine.

  “It’s a beautiful day. Let your son play with his ball.”

  He was moving before he even realized it. Crossing the short distance between them within a second. Snatching the magazine from his wife’s hands and flinging it away while he grabbed a clump of her hair and yanked her to her feet.

  Araceli cried out, gripping his wrist.

  “Let go of me!”

  He leaned down so his nose was almost touching hers. He growled between clenched teeth.

  “Never disrespect me in front of my men. Do you understand me?”

  From the yard, Ignacio called, “Mama?”

  Araceli struggled for only a few more seconds before she settled. She knew the drill. This wasn’t the first time Fernando became physical to make a point with his wife.

  She glared up at him over the tops of the sunglasses.

  “You’ve kept us locked up for over a year.”

  “Yes, for your goddamned protection. I would think you would be more grateful.”

  “We’re prisoners in our own home.”

  “But you’re still alive. Or would you rather the Devil get you?”

  She said nothing to this. Fernando hadn’t expected her to. He’d shown her the pictures early on when she said she didn’t believe him. He made her keep the pictures on her phone as a constant reminder.

  Ignacio hurried over to the patio, the soccer ball forgotten. He ran straight to his mother and wrapped his arms around her waist and glared up at Fernando.

  “Stop hurting her!”

  This was his son, his own flesh and blood, speaking to him like a stranger. It made the blood start pounding in his ears again, his body going tense, but no, he wasn’t going to hurt his son, at least not right now. Too much had happened in the past twenty-four hours that needed his attention that he couldn’t get distracted by this.

  He let go of his wife’s hair and stepped back.

  “Go inside and don’t come out until I tell you it’s safe.”

  Ignacio was sobbing now, gripping his mother like he thought she was going to disappear.

  Araceli picked him up and kissed his cheeks, told him that everything was okay. She didn’t look at Fernando as she hurried back inside the house.

  The bodyguards started to follow them.

  Fernando said, “Stop.”

  The men stopped.

  “What did I tell you about them being outside?”

  Neither man said anything.

  “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

  One of the men swallowed, cleared his throat.

  “Sir, she asked us if they could—”

  “Shut the fuck up. You should know better. She’s not in charge. I am. Do you understand me?”

  Both men nodded.

  “I said, do you fucking understand me?”

  The men said that they did.

  Fernando dismissed them and the men hurried into the house.

  A moment passed, and Jose Luis Guillen, Fernando’s right-hand man, stepped outside. Fernando knew the man was there—he always knew when he was nearby—but he didn’t turn away from staring off the hill toward town.

  “What did you find out?”

  Jose Luis cleared his throat before he spoke.

  “Our people in the police confirmed the woman and children were burned. PFM agents arrived to the scene less than an hour ago.”

  Fernando turned to look at his right-hand man.

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. Two investigators followed up on a lead that took them into the city. Apparently a pay phone had been used sometime this morning to call a motel there.”

  This made Fernando frown.

  “Are they sure it’s him?”

  Meaning the Devil.

  Jose Luis said, “Right now all signs point that way, yes.”

  “But the Diaz comp
ound. No single man could have killed all of those men.”

  “He’s made attacks before.”

  “Yes, on bodyguards. On convoys. But nothing to this extent. Besides, it doesn’t even make sense why the Devil would target them. Ernesto Diaz and his son weren’t even at the meeting.”

  “That had occurred to me as well. But there is, um, something else.”

  Fernando noticed the pause and frowned at Jose Luis.

  “Spit it out.”

  “Apparently a drone was found just inside the entrance to the compound.”

  “A drone.”

  “Yes, a small one. Part of it was destroyed from the blast, but it’s still clearly a drone.”

  Fernando tried to picture it and frowned again.

  “What kind of drone are we talking about?”

  “Like I said, a small one. One of our people in the police thinks maybe it was being used for surveillance.”

  This stopped Fernando cold. He stared at his right-hand man for a long moment and shook his head.

  “This doesn’t feel like it was the Devil’s work.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that we lost, what, a dozen of our men? Ernesto wanted to pay for the extra protection, and I was happy to oblige him because he and my father were good friends. But fuck, now we’re down a dozen men.”

  Fernando went quiet for another long moment, and then shook his head again.

  “No, I don’t buy that the Devil was responsible for this.”

  “But the bodies—”

  “Yes, I know the bodies were burned. I can’t explain that. Maybe the Devil was responsible for that. Maybe he’s branching out. As for the attack on the Diaz compound, as for the dozen men we lost, I feel that we need to make some kind of statement.”

  Jose Luis looked at him curiously. He had been working for Fernando long enough to know in which direction his boss was headed, but he needed to hear the words first before acting.

  “What statement?”

  “That this family is not to be fucked with. That we are not to be intimidated. That when someone comes at us, we stand our ground. That we—”

  Fernando cut himself off, shaking his head.

  “No, it’s much simpler than that.”

  Jose Luis asked, “What is?”

  Fernando turned away again and stared down at the town off the hill. La Miserias, a small town of only a few hundred people. The small town with the church in the center, and its bells finally having gone silent from ringing. A wedding, Araceli had said.

  Jose Luis cleared his throat.

  “Sir?”

  Fernando turned back. He felt the nails digging into his palms again and released his fists.

  “Get some men together. It’s time to make a statement.”

  Twenty-Three

  Gabriela leans back from her computer and gestures at the screen.

  “Want to take a look before I upload it?”

  I step over to the computer and lean down to read what she’s been working on the past hour. She’s a good writer, there’s no doubt about that. Short, declaratory sentences. Straight to the point. No filler. The girl definitely knows her stuff.

  She writes about how the bodies of a woman and two children were found dead, burned today, by a tourist—thankfully she doesn’t give any further detail about me—and how police determined a phone call had been made at a nearby pay phone to a motel in the city. How the call was made to a motel and how the person working that shift was now a person of interest. She even provides pictures she snapped with her phone—one of the motel, the other of Miguel Dominguez’s cluttered apartment. She ends the article stating that while the investigation is obviously ongoing, it’s clear that the Devil has struck again.

  I lean away from the computer, nodding.

  “Impressive.”

  Gabriela beams as she moves the mouse around to hit the button to upload the article. Within a minute, she says, the article will be live on the site for the world to see.

  I say, “You said La Baliza is an independent online publication?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who runs it?”

  She shrugs.

  “I have no idea. I just think of him as the publisher. Nobody knows who he is.”

  “How many other people contribute to the site?”

  She shrugs again.

  “No clue.”

  I frown, looking back at the computer screen.

  “So essentially it’s just a free-for-all blog—would that be a good description?”

  Gabriela shakes her head adamantly.

  “Absolutely not. The reason I don’t publish the articles under my name—the reason nobody publishes under their own names on the site—is because that’s the only way we can protect ourselves.”

  “So you’re hiding behind anonymity.”

  “No, it’s not like that. I mean, yes, it is like that, but La Baliza isn’t some gossip website. It publishes real news. Oftentimes news that major publications in this country are too afraid to publish for fear that there will be retaliation from either the government or the cartels. I don’t know how it is in America, but journalists here are not protected citizens. They may not be murdered by the government for speaking out against them, but when they create enemies, those enemies know the right people to call to have them eliminated.”

  “Is that what happened to your parents?”

  Gabriela pauses, and at first I’m not sure whether or not I’ve struck a nerve. Well, of course I struck a nerve—I just asked about her dead parents, for Christ’s sake—but while her body tenses, it’s only briefly, and she shakes her head.

  “No, their deaths were not nearly as interesting.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She shrugs again, her face somber.

  “They were in the wrong place at the wrong time. They were in the city, out at dinner, when a gang drove by and opened fire at a restaurant. Apparently the restaurant was owned by the parents of a rival gang member. Thirteen people died that day, all of them customers. None of the gang members were even at the restaurant, and neither were the gang member’s parents.”

  “I’m sorry. How long ago did this happen?”

  “It’s been two years. My grandmother took me in right after. She’s a good woman, though I think she’s starting to show signs of dementia. You saw her on her tablet? I keep encouraging her to play those puzzle games to keep her mind active. But, well, she’s getting old. She loves to cook, but her food isn’t nearly as good as it used to be. Speaking of which, would you like something to eat?”

  I haven’t eaten in over twenty-four hours—my stomach completely empty—but right now I don’t want to stop this conversation so I force a smile and wave off the offer.

  “Thanks, but I’m okay right now. Were either of your parents journalists?”

  She smiles that somber smile of hers.

  “No, and they would think I’m crazy doing what I’m doing. But … I think they would understand, too.”

  “No offense, Gabriela, but it is crazy what you’re doing. You could get yourself killed.”

  She shrugs again, this time almost listlessly.

  “Anybody can get killed doing anything. I could slip walking down the steps and break my neck. I could step out into the street and get hit by a bus tomorrow. Or a gang could shoot up the café I’m in next week. The way I see it, we all have limited time here on this earth, and we should make the most of that time. For me, I want to get the truth out there to the people who care.”

  “What truth?”

  “Just the truth. People need to know about the crime and corruption that happens in this country. I mean, I know they know about the crime and corruption because they see it every day, but most times it doesn’t get reported by the news media for one reason or another. People have turned to social media to find out what’s really going on. They use Twitter and Facebook to communicate. La Baliza isn’t the only news hub in the cou
ntry that does the kind of reporting we do. But it’s become one of the best. You can’t just sign up and start writing for them. There are no email addresses on the site. For me to even use it I needed to download Tor. Are you familiar with Tor?”

  I nod. I’d heard Scooter talk about it. I rarely used the Internet myself—in my previous life I had no time for social media let alone much else—but Scooter had always told me that if I use the Internet I needed to use Tor. Essentially, from how I remember Scooter explaining it, Tor is a free browser that helps defend people from network surveillance and traffic analysis. By using Tor, Gabriela is able to post her stories without fear some hacker the cartel hired can trace her. Which is good, considering the stuff she says La Baliza publishes.

  The somber expression on Gabriela’s face somehow deepens. She stares past me, off into a distance only she can see, and speaks softly.

  “There was this woman a couple years ago, she was an online journalist kind of like me. She lived in Tamaulipas, which was controlled by the Gulf Cartel and Zetas. The cartels had final say over what got printed or broadcasted. Probably still do, to be honest. But this woman, she would post danger alerts on Twitter that pinpointed the locations of violence as it was happening. People would send her information and she would help it get out there for everybody else. She also encouraged victims of crime not to remain silent and to report what happened to the police even with the knowledge that there would probably be reprisal. She understood that the only way to defeat the fear the cartels had brought to the people was for the people to finally stand up.”

  Gabriela shakes her head slowly, still staring off into that distance.

  “The cartels put out a ransom on her. And not just her, but others who worked for the news hub and tried to defy them. The founder of the site even shut it down and left the state because he feared for his life. But this woman … she kept doing what she had always done, which was to help the people of Tamaulipas stand up to the cartels. And it wasn’t just helping people stand up to the cartels—she did so much more. She helped raise money for the community, organized blood donations, and helped people find affordable housing and free medical care. She was a hero, to be honest. A true hero.”