Robert Browne: Down Among the Dead Men

Rafael paused again. In a way he reminded her of Dr. Stanley-eternally patient as he explained the facts of life to the girl with the battered brainpan.

“We have simple beliefs, Beth. The women in our family always serve at the pleasure of their men and their God.”

“Whether they like it or not.”

She kept working at the rope and felt it loosen slightly. Not enough, but it was a start.

“If my visit to Los Angeles these last few days is any indication, they like it quite a bit.”

“Oh? And what about Marta?”

“What about her?”

“She didn’t strike me as particularly subservient. From what I could tell on board that ship, she seemed to be running the show.”

“Marta is an exception. She is a bruja, and the direct descendant of El Santo.”

“How nice for her. But you’re not fooling me, you know.”

“Fooling you?”

“There’s no way Jen would voluntarily be part of this psycho-spiritual bullshit.”

“Perhaps you know your sister as well as you know your ex-husband.”

“Fuck you,” Beth said.

“Your anger is understandable. But before tomorrow night is over, you will see just how dedicated to La Santisima your sister is.”

Beth didn’t like the sound of that. “What are you saying?”

“As I told you, we have simple beliefs. And we practice those beliefs through certain rituals. Tomorrow we begin celebrating Dia de los Muertos. And at the mark of midnight, Jennifer will offer herself and her child in sacrifice to Holy Death.”

Beth hadn’t heard him right. She couldn’t have. “What the hell did you just say?”

“You should be thanking me, Beth. Instead of putting a pillow over your face, I am bringing you to bear witness to one of the most glorious sights you will ever see.”

He turned, smiling at her.

“And with El Santo’s approval,” he said, “I think you should light the torch.”

Beth shook her head back and forth, trying to clear her mind.

Was this really happening?

Was it a nightmare?

Did Rafael really mean what she thought he meant?

“Tell me this is just a ritual,” she said. “It’s all make-believe, just going through the motions, like drinking wine and eating crackers in church.”

He gestured to his face. “Does this look like make-believe to you?”

All at once Beth felt as if her mind had just been separated from her body, threatening to float away. Then an all-consuming anger enveloped her, bringing her back to earth. She moved her wrists behind her, straining the rope that bound them, and finally pulled one of her hands free.

“You will see, Beth. You will see just how beautiful it is. A moment we will share together in God’s embrace, celebrating the cleansing of Jennifer’s soul. It’s a moment you will never for-”

Without warning, Beth sprang forward, bringing her hands out in front of her, snapping the rope taut between them. Before Rafael could react, she slipped it over his head and around his neck and pulled, pushing her knee into the back of his seat for leverage.

Rafael’s head snapped against the headrest. He made a gurgling sound and let go of the wheel, grabbing at his neck with both hands, trying desperately to pry the rope loose.

But Beth pulled harder, rage consuming her, and felt the springs of the seat digging into her kneecap. But she didn’t care; all she wanted was to silence this fucking monster, to take from him what he had taken from so many others.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, she saw the blisters on his face turn crimson, his eyes bulging hideously.

And she looked away, not wanting to see the effects of her handiwork for fear she’d have pity on him and loosen her hold. Instead she concentrated on the face of little Andy.

And of Jen.

Suddenly the car started to swerve, and Rafael’s right hand left his neck. But instead of grabbing for the wheel, he reached to the passenger seat, fingers scrabbling, trying to get hold of the gun that lay there.

And all Beth could think was, Why won’t you die already? Just fucking die.

She couldn’t keep this up much longer.

Then, as the car started to veer off the road, Rafael got hold of the gun. But rather than grip the trigger, he used it as a bludgeon, bringing his arm back and slamming the weapon against her head.

Pain radiated through Beth’s skull and she was suddenly back in that Playa Azul alleyway, that Hispanic thug using his fist as a club, knocking her to the alley floor.

The gun came up again, hitting her a second time, and Beth fell back, letting go of the rope.

Coughing and spitting and gasping for air, Rafael quickly grabbed hold of the wheel and hit the brakes, trying to get control of the car But it was too late. The tires hit gravel and the car spun, barreling backward over the side of the road and into a ditch, coming to an abrupt stop against an outcropping of rocks, windows shattering, metal bending and twisting around them.

The impact knocked them both around the interior of the Jaguar, Beth hitting her head against something solid-another devastating blow and one too many…

And a moment later she was gone.

The Barracuda tore down the coast road, Ortiz looking much more at home behind its wheel than he had when he was driving the taxi.

“Tell me the truth,” Vargas said. “This isn’t the first time you’ve taken Yolanda’s car for a late-night drive.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, pocho. ”

“Don’t worry; I’m not gonna say anything. I’ll probably never see her again.”

“Then you’re a lucky man. Because when she gets up in the morning and opens that garage, she gonna be pissed.”

“That’s what I don’t get,” Vargas said.

“What’s that?”

“Why you’re willing to risk her wrath to help me. And why you’re risking your life to take me to Ciudad de Almas. After that reaction from Little Fina’s crowd, I figured you’d be running for cover just like everyone else. And don’t give me any bullshit about customer service.”

Ortiz shrugged. “Maybe I got my own ax to grind with these circus freaks.”

“Like what?”

“That pendejo shot at me. I don’t like people who shoot at me.”

“And?”

Ortiz hesitated, then shook his head. “There is no ‘and.’”

“Come on, Ortiz. What do you know about these people that you aren’t telling me?”

“You hear stories, but you never know what’s truth and what’s fiction. People use La Santa Muerte and El Santo like the bogeyman. Scare their kids into doing their chores.”

“Only the bogeymen are real in this case.”

“I know they do some business in Playa Azul, and all along the Baja coast, and they make enough money off the drug and sex trade to make them extremely dangerous people. But Little Fina was right. They’re ghosts. They’re very private and want to stay that way. You don’t get in their face, they won’t get in yours.”

“So what’s your beef with them?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Come on, Ortiz.”

Ortiz sighed. “There was this girl I met up in Tijuana a few years back. Gracilia. She worked in a factory making seat belts and air bags for American cars.”

He looked out at the ocean as he drove. And for once he didn’t have a smile on his face.

“One day she and a couple of her co-workers just up and disappeared. Police couldn’t figure it out. But the rumors started that El Santo was behind it. And not the eat-your-vegetables version, either.”

“And you believe it?”

“No reason I should,” Ortiz said. “But yeah. People say El Santo steals these women and either uses them as sex slaves or as human sacrifices to appease his god. Tells his people that the sacrifices bring them blessings and good fortune.”