Robert Browne: Down Among the Dead Men

Even if it was meant to be, even if El Santo commanded it, Marta could not bear the thought of a life without her Jennifer.

And this was her chance to change that.

Elizabeth’s presence here was a surprise, but coupled with Rafael’s sudden failure to call, it meant only one thing to Marta. That Rafael was gone and this bitch surely had something to do with it.

So it seemed only fitting that Elizabeth take Jennifer’s place. El Santo would be angry when he found out, but when Marta explained that this was vengeance for their beloved Rafael, he would understand. And he would forgive.

“You’re not going to die tonight,” she told Jennifer. “Take your robe off and help me put it on her.”

“What?”

“It’s simple,” Marta said patiently. “We will dress her in the ceremonial robe, put the baby in her arms, and be done with her.”

Jennifer shook her head. “No…I have offered myself and the life of my child to La Santisima. I won’t let you or her take that from me.”

Marta went to Jennifer, kissed her. “And I will not let La Santisima take you from me. Not now.”

But Jennifer pulled away. “Why?” she cried. “Why would you do this after all the promises that this day would come? Look at me. Look at what I’ve done to myself. Look at what I did to my own sister. Do you think I take my commitment lightly? I want to prove my love to La Santisima. To offer her my soul, and the soul of my-”

Marta slapped her across the face. “I am the daughter of El Santo,” she said. “You do not dictate what will and will not be done.”

Tears sprang into Jennifer’s eyes. “You lied to me. First you say my sister is dead, then you promise me a chance to see my mother and father in the loving arms of La Santisima. But it was all lies, wasn’t it?”

Marta stared at her. No matter how she felt about this woman, Jennifer had no right to speak to her this way.

Reaching to the floor, she picked up the gun that lay near Beth and pointed it at Jennifer. Marta had no intention of using it, but Jennifer didn’t know that.

“The decision is made,” Marta said. “And you will obey me.”

Then a horn sounded and the crowd roared, and Marta snapped her fingers.

“The robe. Give me the robe.”

It had taken Vargas and Ortiz longer than they expected to find the cages. Vargas had misinterpreted Cristo’s map and had taken a left when he should have gone right. So he and Ortiz had doubled back, finally finding two small caves fronted by iron bars and locked with chains and padlocks.

At first he thought no one was inside of them. But as he and Ortiz drew closer, he saw them: several women in each, huddled in the shadows at the back of the cells. They were dressed in frayed and dirty street clothes-probably the very clothes they’d been wearing when they were snatched off the street-some of them drugged, others mumbling incoherently, and still others crying softly, bewildered looks on their faces.

As Vargas and Ortiz approached the bars, several of the women recoiled, retreating to the very back of their caves.

There was the distinct smell of feces and urine in the air, and in a corner of each cave a small bucket overflowed with waste.

The two men looked at each other in surprise and disgust. And though he had listened to Cristo’s story, Vargas couldn’t have imagined anything like this.

He knew that human beings were often the cruelest creatures on earth. History had proven this time and again. But to see it firsthand, the stark reality of it, was as painful as a dagger to the chest.

Turning again, he noticed that Ortiz was staring intently into the two cages, looking at all the faces, studying them-and he knew exactly who Ortiz was looking for.

“You won’t find her here,” Vargas said. “It’s been too long. Either she’s been shipped off to one of the brothels or she’s dead.”

Ortiz nodded and his face hardened. “We don’t have all night, pocho. Let’s get these fucking things open.”

Then he pulled the SIG from his belt, pointed it at the first lock, and fired, blowing it off the chain. The shot echoed loudly in the tunnel, several of the women flinching and yelping in surprise, but Vargas was pretty sure the roar of the crowd upstairs had kept the sound from escaping the immediate area.

Ortiz aimed again, blowing open the second lock, then he and Vargas threw open the cage doors, expecting the women to jump to their feet — but no one moved. Just stared at them with wide, frightened expressions on their faces.

Then Vargas removed his mask and looked in at them, smiling. “Come,” he said. “Come with us. You’re free.”

And as his words sank in, several of the women rose to their feet, tentative but hopeful looks on their faces.

“You’re free,” Vargas repeated, gesturing for them to step out of the cages. “Come. We’ll take you out of this place.”

Then the smiles came, the looks of relief, as they began helping one another to their feet, the drugged or injured women carried along by the healthier ones as they stumbled out, moving faster with each step.

“Stay together,” Vargas said.

Vargas and Ortiz led them through the tunnel, moving as quickly as they could, but as they rounded a corner, Vargas saw Cristo running in his direction, a frantic look on his face.

“ Senor Vargas! Senor Vargas!”

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Cristo was out of breath, could barely get the words out. “…Elizabeth,” he said. “They have Elizabeth.”

“Who does? El Santo?”

“Marta and Jennifer. They put her in the sacrificial robes.”

“What?”

“Come quick! They take her to the altar!”

Beth felt woozy. Knew that her head was bleeding.

Marta had stuffed something in her mouth-a balled-up rag, she thought, pushed deep to prevent her from crying out.

Marta was yelling at Jen now, but Beth couldn’t quite make out the words as they drifted in and out like a bad radio signal. And all she could think about was that house in Juarez and Jen’s waxy face as she pointed a gun at Beth.

He’s mine, you fucking whore.

What had they done to Jen? How could they have warped her this way? Bled her of all humanity and turned her into some brain-dead true believer?

It wasn’t unusual for people like this to go after the emotionally vulnerable, but while Jen may have been constantly searching for some kind of meaning in her life, she had also been strong-willed and stubborn, traits they had always shared.

Beth remembered now the nights in the cage, the drugs, the beatings-some of them administered by Rafael himself-but if she had managed to resist, why hadn’t Jennifer? Was Jen’s dissatisfaction with her life enough to force her to relinquish all power to these maniacs?

Apparently so.

Beth felt herself being lifted now, but the blow to her head had rendered her too weak to resist as her arms were shoved into the sleeves of a robe and a mask was placed over her face.

She smelled the faint odor of what she thought might be kerosene and realized that the robe and mask had been treated with a flammable liquid.

Then Marta moved to a nearby curtain and pushed it aside, uttering a sharp command to someone behind it.

She pushed little Andy into Beth’s arms as two men entered the room and grabbed Beth by the elbows, pulling her toward a dark doorway.

Despite her wooziness, she knew what was beyond that door. Could see the flicker of the altar torches at the far end of another tunnel.

Someone was standing out there now, a tall, powerfully built, barrel-chested old man in a white robe, his arms raised, standing in front of a sea of masked faces.