Robert Browne: Down Among the Dead Men

The sisters from the church then traveled with them by fishing boat across the gulf to Mazatlan. They made many trips, ferrying two or three children at a time.

But with so many disappearing from the compound, the elders began searching the tunnels, suspicious that the children had found a way out. They never discovered the secret passage, but Elizabeth became nervous, afraid that it was only a matter of time before they did.

When El Santo announced that the next child caught trying to escape would be dealt with on Holy Friday, the children began to refuse to leave with Cristo, for fear they would be sacrificed. And Elizabeth knew that her time had come.

“What about the baby?” Beth asked.

“He was old enough by then,” Cristo said. “But convincing the mother to go was not so easy.”

Jennifer had been brainwashed. Was so deep under Marta’s spell that she would not leave. Elizabeth begged her to go, but Jennifer refused, and when she threatened to expose Elizabeth to El Santo, Elizabeth had no choice but to take the baby and run.

“The last time I saw you,” Cristo said, pointing toward the ocean, “you were standing with the sisters on the fishing boat with Andilito in your arms. You did not want to leave us, but there was no room, and Father Gerard insisted that the baby must come first. That the sisters would travel with you through Mexico to Juarez and smuggle you across the border.”

Cristo stood then, remembering the moment.

“You said you would come back for us. That you knew many people in America and they would do everything they could to destroy El Santo’s empire. But then many days went by and you did not return. No Elizabeth, no sisters, no fishing boats. And after many weeks passed, the elders came and killed Father Gerard. But they did not find us. So we stayed down here in the cave, waiting for you to return.”

Beth turned to Vargas and Ortiz. “They must have tracked us. Found us hiding in that house in Chihuahua, then shot us all and took the baby.”

“That would be my guess,” Vargas said, then looked at Cristo. “Would you be willing to go into the tunnels again? Take us to El Santo’s compound?”

“Si,” Cristo said. “But it is not safe to travel by day. There are too many elders with big guns in the tunnels. Better we wait until tonight, when everyone is in the Great Chamber for the celebration of Dia de los Muertos.”

Vargas turned to Beth and she nodded.

“Tonight it is, then,” he said, then turned to Ortiz. “We’re going to need some supplies.”

Ortiz responded to him, but Beth had stopped listening. Her thoughts were elsewhere at the moment, her mind struggling with those dark shapes again, kneading them, trying to push them into the light.

There was something about her story that seemed unfinished. The final piece of the puzzle that had not yet been put into place. Something about Juarez.

But it didn’t matter.

It was all coming to an end in just a few hours, and Jennifer and Andy would soon be safe.

Marta was worried. It had been many hours since she’d last heard from Rafael, and it was unlike him not to keep in touch with her.

Here they were, so close to the great ceremony, and her brother was still out there somewhere, defying the will of El Santo-as he so often did.

Any other man would have been killed by now. But Rafael, like Marta, had the benefit of being related to El Santo by blood, so the old man was merciful toward him. In fact, he often seemed amused by Rafael’s transgressions, and El Santo was not easily amused.

Despite Marta’s standing in the community, however-her status as a bruja — El Santo seemed to have little patience for her, and she was often envious of the affection Rafael received.

But then, Rafael was a second-born son and would always live with that mark upon him, so she knew that her envy was misplaced.

She also knew where her brother was. Ever since the night they’d met her precious Jennifer, he had been obsessed with the sister. Elizabeth. She was, he had once told Marta, an angel sent to him by La Santisima. The missing piece to an incomplete soul.

That she was a lying, conniving, sinful whore meant nothing to Rafael.

He often pretended to hate her now, to want her dead, but Marta knew his true feelings. Many times, when she and her brother and Jennifer made love, Marta knew he was thinking of his prize, wishing she were back home with them where she belonged.

But Beth didn’t belong here. She had gotten what she deserved, and despite Rafael’s foolish yearning for her, she belonged in that hospital, where she could rot and die, for all Marta cared.

She had not liked Beth from the moment they met. Did not trust her. And Rafael’s obsession with her was a constant source of frustration and annoyance.

So Marta knew he was still in Los Angeles, pining away for his lost love, thinking he could somehow change her. Mold her. Bring her back to him.

But Marta knew that Beth was not the type to be molded. Her time here had proven that, had it not?

And if El Santo were to find out about Rafael’s obsession, he might not be so merciful this time.

La Santa Muerte had made a deal with the ex-husband, the lawyer, to leave her alone, and El Santo did not go back on his pledges. And if Rafael again disobeyed El Santo’s command to honor that deal, Marta feared she would soon lose her only living brother.

It was bad enough that she was losing her precious Jennifer tonight.

Jennifer.

Marta knew this was supposed to be a joyous occasion. She knew that the sacrifice Jennifer was about to make on this holiest of nights was a high honor that would deliver her into the waiting arms of La Santisima and God. But that did not keep Marta from dreading the moment. From wishing that someone else had been chosen.

Jennifer and the baby were down in the preparation room now-down near the Great Chamber-their bodies being rubbed with holy oils. But Marta had decided to stay up here in their room for a while. Had thought about missing the ceremony altogether.

She knew, however, that Jennifer would need her in her final moments, would want to hold Marta’s hand until El Santo lowered the torch.

So Marta would be there, dressed in her finest robe, looking on stoically as her one true love was given to God in a burst of flames.

Cristo drew them a map of the portion of the tunnels that lay directly beneath the La Santa Muerte compound. It was crude and done by memory, but Vargas was confident it would help them should they get lost. He didn’t want to wind up like one of the corpses the boy had found down there.

“How far is this from here?” Vargas asked.

“Four, maybe five miles.”

Close enough, Vargas thought, but such a trek might take as much as an hour and a half, so they’d have to leave soon if they wanted to get there before the ceremony began.

While Beth had stayed with the children, Vargas and Ortiz had gone back into town to pick up the Barracuda and a few supplies.

The Dia de los Muertos celebration was in full swing and many of the shops and services had been closed, but they’d managed to find what they needed: several small flashlights, a twelve-pack of mandarin Jarritos in glass bottles, two gallons of gasoline, two backpacks, and a bundle of rags.

“Leave the Tomcat,” Ortiz said, “and the pendejo ’s piece of shit. With all this weight, we’ll want to keep the hardware to a minimum.” He gestured to the gun in Vargas’s waistband. “The Glock is all you’ll need, anyway.”