The Devil You Know

by Robert Swartwood

  “Mind driving?”

  “I don’t even know where we’re going.”

  “I’ll give you directions. But I’m just going to warn you—I may drift off to sleep.”

  He tilts his head down to look at me again over the rims of the sunglasses.

  “When was the last time you had a full night’s sleep?”

  “Maybe a week? I’m not sure.”

  “Jesus Christ, Holly.”

  I pause to give him a closer look.

  “What happened to you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I called Atticus and told him I needed your help, he said you were in the middle of something.”

  Nova says nothing.

  “Where did you fly out of, anyway?”

  “Monterey.”

  “You were in California?”

  “Why do you sound shocked?”

  “Because a week ago you were in D.C.”

  “Yeah, and you were in D.C. a week ago, too. Now you’re in Mexico. What’s your point?”

  “Nothing. What took you out to California?”

  “A road trip.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “What—I’m not allowed to go on a road trip?”

  “You never struck me as the road trip type, is all.”

  “Yeah, well, something tells me we’re about to go on a road trip of our own. How far are we going?”

  “Three hours from here, give or take.”

  “What’s there?”

  “Hopefully some answers.”

  “Holly?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t be vague. I’ve had a long couple of days, as I’m sure you have. I’m tired and I’m cranky and I want to know why I’m here.”

  I toss him the keys.

  “Then let’s go. You drive, and I’ll try not to doze off while I tell you just what kind of shitstorm I’ve created this time.”

  Forty-Four

  We take the highway north all the way up to Colotlán, and as we drive, I tell Nova everything.

  I tell him about the raid on Ernesto Diaz’s house and finding the woman and children hiding in the closet. I tell him about taking the woman and the children up the coast where I left them by that abandoned brick building, and then returning later to find dark smoke pouring out the door and the three charred bodies inside. I tell him about meeting Gabriela and I tell him about La Miserias and Fernando Sanchez Morales. Finally I tell him about the snuff film uploaded to La Baliza for the whole country to see.

  Nova says, “Jesus Christ.”

  I say nothing.

  “It’s not your fault, Holly.”

  I say nothing.

  He glances at me to see if I’m still there. I tilt my face to look back at him.

  He says, “I’m serious. I know how your mind works.”

  “Oh really. And how does my mind work?”

  “You left the woman and the children at that abandoned building. Where this Devil character apparently showed up and burned them alive. And because of that, you feel responsible. Like you, I don’t know, took them to their deaths.”

  I say nothing.

  “And then there’s the town you told me about. How the narcos came in and killed the people at the wedding. The way you put it, the killings were retribution for Ernesto Diaz’s murder. Which, of course, you carried out. So again, you feel responsible for all those people getting killed.”

  I say nothing.

  “And then there’s your friend Gabriela and her grandmother. Shit, Holly, do I really need to keep going?”

  When I tilt my face this time, I glare back at him.

  Nova just shakes his head and says, “You can’t blame yourself. I mean, hell, of course you can blame yourself, but you shouldn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why?”

  “Why shouldn’t I blame myself?”

  “Because it’s a waste of time. It’s not productive. You did the same thing when Scooter died.”

  I close my eyes and shake my head, not wanting to think about the other member of our team who died less than a month ago.

  “Don’t.”

  “People die all the time, Holly. Shit happens all the time. That’s just the way it is.”

  I say nothing, staring out my window now and watching the passing scenery.

  Nova doesn’t say anything either. At least not for a couple of minutes, and then he asks a question.

  “How old?”

  I blink and frown at him.

  “What?”

  “You said those gangbangers who came to kill you at the apartment building—the ones the pimps sent—that when you realized they weren’t even eighteen you decided not to kill them. Okay, so how old would they have to be for you to place a bullet in their heads?”

  I slump back down in my seat, my head against the headrest, and stare out my window.

  “What does it matter?”

  “I’m curious.”

  “They were kids, Nova. I don’t kill kids.”

  “No, they were teenagers. At least they sounded like teenagers based on what you told me.”

  “Kids, teenagers—what does it matter?”

  “Eighteen is considered the age somebody becomes an adult, right?”

  I sigh but say nothing, just keep watching the scrolling scenery.

  Nova says, “If this Devil guy were murdering the leaders of the cartels instead of their families, would you be so gung-ho in trying to stop him?”

  I sigh again and roll my eyes at Nova.

  “That’s a stupid question.”

  “No, I think it’s a valid question. Just as valid as how old somebody needs to be before you’ll consider killing them. Christ, Holly, you said those two gangbangers had guns and were planning to kill you.”

  “They were just kids, Nova. Amateurs. There wasn’t a moment I feared for my life.”

  “Even amateurs get lucky sometimes.”

  “Fine, what do you want me to say? Yes, of course it matters that this guy is murdering the wives and children of cartel families. That doesn’t sit right with me. Does it sit right with you?”

  “Of course it doesn’t. But let me ask you this. If you could go back in time and kill Hitler when he was a baby, would you do it?”

  I roll my eyes again and say, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “It’s a stupid question.”

  “Is it, though? Almost six million people died in the Holocaust. You take Hitler out when he was a baby, maybe those six million people don’t die.”

  “Or maybe somebody else takes his place and causes the Holocaust. Maybe even more people die. Did you ever think of that?”

  He tilts his head back and forth, considering it.

  “That’s certainly one interesting theory.”

  “Nova, what’s the point of this?”

  “Honestly? Just killing time. We’ve got another hour to go until we get to this town you want us to go to. Speaking of which, you told me about everything leading up to this point, but you failed to mention where we’re headed and why.”

  “You know how I told you the men who killed Gabriela had uploaded the video to that website?”

  “Yeah. It’s still not up, is it?”

  “No. It was taken down within hours. But before it was taken down, I told Atticus I wanted to find out who runs the website.”

  “Why?”

  “The way Gabriela put it, La Baliza was the first to report on the Devil’s killings. They didn’t call him the Devil at the time—some other newspaper came up with the name—but they made sure to get the story out there.”

  “And?”

  “And after Gabriela had uploaded her story about the three dead bodies in that building, the publisher emailed her saying he was taking out any reference to the Devil as there was no direct evidence identifying him.”

  “Okay, but what if this guy was just being careful? You kn
ow, journalists are supposed to make sure they get their facts straight before they publish. They’re not supposed to speculate, even if it is for an online blog.”

  “Maybe. But something tells me the guy who runs the website knows more than he’s letting on.”

  “What something?”

  “Just a gut feeling.”

  Nova shakes his head and says, “You’re kidding, right?”

  I don’t answer.

  “Wait a minute. You said your friend used that Tor browser to hide her identity online. The guy who ran the website did the same. If that’s the case, how was Atticus able to track a location?”

  Staring out my window again, I say, “The guy slipped up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I told you, he took the video off the website. When he did, he must have done it in a hurry. Maybe he didn’t use the same browser he always used. I don’t know. But Atticus said he managed to find a source and traced it to Colotlán.”

  “Was he able to establish an exact location?”

  “He did. And it’s a strange location.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s a church.”

  Forty-Five

  The church in question is much larger than I had imagined it would be. It’s several stories tall with two gothic towers reaching into the sky and stands in the middle of town.

  Nova and I stand across the street. It’s just past five o’clock and around us the town is mostly quiet. A few people walking here and there. A few cars driving past. No narcos in sight. No police, either.

  Nova says, “This is the one, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “Maybe Atticus got it wrong.”

  “Maybe. Only one way to find out.”

  We cross the street and enter through the ornate doors into the church. The cathedral has a high ceiling and our footsteps echo through the mostly empty space as we advance toward the front.

  An old woman sits in one of the pews, her head bent in prayer. At least, I assume she’s praying. For an instant, the image of Gabriela’s grandmother flashes in my mind, and I wonder if this old woman’s throat has also been sliced open.

  The old woman shifts in the pew as she grips onto her rosary, running the beads through her fingers.

  Nova whispers, “This doesn’t feel right.”

  I say nothing as we keep quietly walking down the aisle toward the front of the church. There are several confessionals off to the side. I wonder if anybody’s in them.

  As we near the front, a priest appears from a doorway in the corner. He’s in his forties with close-cropped gray hair. For a moment he looks guarded. But when he sees us, he adjusts the glasses on his face and smiles.

  “Buenas tardes.”

  I smile and ask, “Do you speak English?”

  The priest nods as he approaches us. There’s something strange about the way he walks, something that probably nobody else would catch. It’s there for only a second or two, and then he’s standing right in front of us.

  “Welcome. How can I help you?”

  “My boyfriend and I are on vacation. When we saw this gorgeous church we wanted to stop in.”

  The priest beams with pride.

  “It certainly is gorgeous, yes.”

  “Can we have a tour?”

  The smile starts to fade.

  “No, I am afraid that is not possible right now.”

  “Are you the only one here?”

  Now the priest’s brow furrows as he begins to frown.

  “I do not understand the question.”

  I glance around the vast cathedral, spot the old woman again, and turn back to the priest. I lean toward him, lower my voice.

  “May I confess to you?”

  “Are you Catholic?”

  “Lapsed. But I’m hoping to start over again.”

  This isn’t true on either account, but what the priest doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

  He stands there for a long moment, clearly conflicted about something. He keeps glancing past us toward the entrance, as if he expects somebody to walk through at any moment.

  I say, “Please, Father …”

  He blinks, looks back at me.

  “Crisanto.”

  “Please, Father Crisanto. I did something terrible recently and I need to confess.”

  Nova hasn’t moved from my side this entire time. Clearly he isn’t sure where I’m heading with this, but he doesn’t question it.

  Father Crisanto stands there for another long moment, still conflicted, before he forces a smile and says of course and motions toward the confessionals.

  Before I follow him, I turn back to Nova and whisper into his ear.

  “See if you can get the old woman to leave. This may not turn out well.”

  He frowns at me for a second, but then he says, “Sure thing, babe.”

  I turn toward the confessionals before Nova can say anything else. Father Crisanto has already entered and closed his door.

  As somebody who’s never been in a confessional before, I’m not sure of the exact rules, but I figure I can wing it.

  I enter and kneel in front of a square panel. It smells stale in the cramped space. Which I guess is to be expected. This is where people come to confess their sins and ask for forgiveness. A whiff of desperation and regret fills the air.

  The partition between us slides open, revealing a mesh screen. Father Crisanto on the other side, waiting for me to begin.

  Because I’ve seen my fair share of confessions on TV, I say, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been several years since my last confession.”

  Father Crisanto doesn’t say anything, just waits.

  “I recently hurt someone close to me. Someone who I did not know very long but whom I considered a friend.”

  Silence.

  “She took me in when she didn’t have to. She gave me a place to stay. She was a good person. A strong person. A person who took care of her grandmother ever since her parents died.”

  More silence.

  “She wrote for a news hub. She wrote anonymously to protect herself from the cartels and from the corrupt police. She knew what she was doing was dangerous, but she did it anyway.”

  Even more silence.

  “Because of what she wrote about, there was a bounty on her head. I guess there are bounties on the heads of everybody who writes for that website, but I knew there was a bounty on her head because I was paid handsomely when I told the cartel about her.”

  Father Crisanto hasn’t moved at all this entire time.

  “Because I am greedy I sold my friend out. I told the cartel who she was and where to find her, and they captured her. And they … they tortured her before they killed her. They filmed all of it, and they uploaded that video to the website, and then—”

  Before I can finish, Father Crisanto suddenly shifts from his silent resting place. There’s a familiar click, and then he’s up and out of the booth and is tearing open my curtain, and for an instant I can see the fury in his face, the pure rage, and he has a gun in his hand and starts to raise the barrel toward my face.

  But in the priest’s sudden rage, he momentarily forgets about Nova—who steps into view and places the barrel of the Desert Eagle against the back of Father Crisanto’s head.

  Nova says, “I’ve done many horrible things in my life, but I’ve never killed a priest and would prefer not to kill one today.”

  Father Crisanto freezes. He keeps glaring back at me, but then little by little the rage starts to fade from his face. He takes a deep breath, and his shoulders drop in defeat.

  I say, “I had nothing to do with Gabriela’s death, but I wanted to be sure you were the right person. You cared deeply about her, didn’t you?”

  “I care deeply about all my writers. How did you know where to find me?”

  I don’t answer the priest. Instead, I say, “Nova, I think you can give Father Crisanto space now.”

  Nova steps back, slowly lowering t
he gun to his side.

  I stand up and exit the confessional.

  “You don’t normally carry a gun on you, do you?”

  The priest shakes his head slowly, as if he’s ashamed, but says nothing.

  “I could tell when you approached us. By the way you walked. You’re not comfortable having it on you. It digs into your back, doesn’t it?”

  The priest nods. He takes a moment to glance around the cathedral and notices the old woman is gone.

  “Where did Dolores go?”

  Nova says, “She took off right after she spotted my gun.”

  Father Crisanto sighs and then turns back to me.

  “Did you really know Gabriela?”

  “I did. I was with her the past two days before she was murdered.”

  He frowns at this, and then a certain understanding enters his eyes.

  “You were the one who found the bodies.”

  “That’s right. And that’s why we’re here. We’re hoping you can give us some information.”

  “About what?”

  “The Devil.”

  Forty-Six

  Father Crisanto lowers himself down into one of the pews with a heavy sigh. He stares up toward the front of the church at the large crucifix hanging on the wall. He takes his glasses off, rubs his eyes, replaces the glasses, and then looks at me.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Who is he?”

  Father Crisanto laughs.

  “That’s a long story.”

  I gesture at the empty cathedral.

  “We have time.”

  Father Crisanto shakes his head and says, “Who are you, anyway? You were the one who found the bodies, yes? But you are no tourist. You or your boyfriend.”

  “For starters, he’s not my boyfriend. And as to whether or not I’m actually a tourist, what does it matter?”

  Father Crisanto squints at me, studying my face.

  “Why were you there?”

  “I just happened to be driving past.”

  He shakes his head again.

  “No, you were there for another reason. Why?”

  “It doesn’t matter why, Father. What matters is the Devil killed that woman and the children. He—”