Don Winslow - The Power of the Dog

He holds the gloves up for them all to see.

“I don’t like to bruise my hands,” Ramos says.

The chief says, “Surely we can work something out.”

“No,” Ramos says, “we can’t.”

He turns to the bigger, younger federale.

“Put your hands up. Defend yourself.”

The federale’s eyes are wide, scared. He shakes his head, doesn’t raise his hands.

Ramos shrugs, “As you wish.”

He feints with a right to the face and then puts all his weight behind three ripping left hooks to the ribs. The weighted gloves smash bone and cartilage. The cop starts to fall, but Ramos holds him up with his left hand and hits him with three more shots with his right. Then he throws him against the wall, turns him around and drives rights and lefts into his kidneys. Holds him against the wall by the back of the neck as he says, “You embarrassed your country. Worse, you embarrassed my country,” and holds him with one hand by the neck and the other by the belt and runs him full speed across the room into the opposite wall. The federale’s head hits the concrete with a dull thud. His neck snaps back. Ramos repeats the process several times before he finally lets the man slide to the floor.

Ramos sits down on a wooden three-legged stool and lights his cigar as the two other cops stare at their unconscious friend, who lies facedown, his legs jerking spasmodically.

The walls are splotched with blood.

“Now,” Ramos says, “you’re more afraid of me than of Barrera, so we can get started. Where is the American policeman?”

They tell him everything they know.

“They delivered him to Guero Mendez and Raul Barrera,” Ramos tells Art. “And a Doctor Alvarez, which is why I think your friend might still be alive.”

“Why is that?”

“Alvarez used to work for DFS,” Ramos says. “As an interrogator. Hidalgo must have information they want, si?”

“No,” Art says. “He doesn’t have the information.”

Art’s stomach sinks. They’re torturing Ernie for the identity of Chupar.

And there is no Chupar.

“Tell me,” Tio says.

Ernie moans, “I don’t know.”

Tio nods to Doctor Alvarez. The Doctor uses oven mitts to pick up a white-hot iron rod, which he inserts “Oh my God!” Ernie shouts. Then his eyes widen and his head collapses on the table where they have strapped him down. His eyes are closed, he’s unconscious, and his heartbeat, which was racing a moment ago, is now dangerously slow.

The Doctor sets down the oven mitts and grabs a syringe full of lidocaine, which he injects into Ernie’s arm. The drug will keep him conscious to feel the pain. It will keep his heart from stopping. A moment later, the American’s head snaps up and his eyes pop open.

“We won’t let you die,” Tio says. “Now talk to me. Tell me, who is Chupar?”

I know Art’s looking for me, Ernie thinks.

Moving heaven and earth.

“I don’t know,” he gasps, “who Chupar is.”

The Doctor picks up the iron bar again.

A moment later Ernie shouts, “Oh my Godddddddd!”

Art watches the flame ignite, then flicker, then reach up toward heaven.

He kneels in front of the bank of votive candles and says a prayer for Ernie. To the Virgin Mary, to Saint Anthony, to Christ himself.

A tall, fat man comes down the center aisle of the cathedral.

“Father Juan.”

The priest has changed little in nine years. His white hair is a little thinner, his stomach somewhat thicker, but the intense gray eyes still have their light.

“You’re praying,” Parada says. “I thought you didn’t believe in God.”

“I’ll do anything.”

Parada nods. “How can I help?”

“You know the Barreras.”

“I baptized them,” Parada answers. “Gave them their First Communion. Confirmed them.” Married Adan to his wife, Parada thinks. Held their malformed, beautiful baby in my arms.

“Reach out to them,” Art is saying.

“I don’t know where they are.”

“I was thinking of radio,” Art says. “Television. They respect you, they’ll listen to you.”

“I don’t know,” Parada says. “Certainly I can try.”

“Right now?”

“Of course,” Parada says, then adds, “I can hear your confession.”

“There isn’t time.”

So they drive to the radio station and Parada broadcasts his message to “those who have kidnapped the American policeman.” Pleads with them, in the name of God the Father and Jesus Christ and Mother Mary and all the saints to release the man unharmed. Urges them to consult their souls, and then, to even Art’s surprise, pulls the ultimate card-threatens excommunication if they harm the man.

Condemns them with all his power and authority to eternal hell.

Then repeats the hope of salvation.

Release the man and come back to God.

His freedom is your freedom.

“… gave me an address,” Ramos is saying.

“What?” Art asks. He’s been listening to Parada’s broadcast on the office radio.

“I said they gave me an address,” Ramos says. He loops the Uzi over his shoulder. “Mi Esposa. Let’s go.”

The house is in a nondescript suburb. Ramos’ two Ford Broncos, overflowing with his special DFS troops, roar up, and the men jump out. Gunfire-long, undisciplined AK bursts-comes out of the windows. Ramos’ men drop to the ground and return the fire in short bursts. The shooting stops. Covered by his men, Ramos and two others run to the door with a battering ram and knock it in.

Art goes in just behind Ramos.

He doesn’t see Ernie. He runs to every room of the small house but all he finds are two dead gomeros, a neat hole in each forehead, lying by the windows. A wounded man sits propped against the wall. Another sits with his hands high above his head.

Ramos pulls his pistol and puts it to the head of the wounded man.

“?Donde?” Ramos asks. Where?

“No se.”

Art flinches as Ramos pulls the trigger and the man’s brains splatter against the wall.

“Jesus!” Art shouts.

Ramos doesn’t hear this. He puts the pistol against the other gomero’s temple.

“?Donde?”

“?Sinaloa!”

“?Donde?”

“?Un rancho de Guero Mendez!”

“?Como lo encuentro?”

The gomero shouts, “?No se!?No se!?No se!?Por favor!?Por el amor de Dios!”

Art grabs Ramos by the wrist.

“No.”

Ramos looks for a second like he might shoot Art. Then he lowers his pistol and says, “We have to find that farm before they move him again. You should let me shoot this bastard so he doesn’t talk.”

The gomero breaks down into sobs. “?Por el amor de Dios!”

“You have no god, you motherless fuck,” Ramos says, cuffing him along the side of the head. “?Te voy a mandar pa'l carajo!”

I’m going to send you to hell.

“No,” Art says.

“If the federales find out we know about Sinaloa,” Ramos says, “they’ll just move Hidalgo again before we can find him.”

If we can find him, Art thinks. Sinaloa is a large, rural state. Locating a single farm there is like finding a specific farm in Iowa. But killing this guy won’t help.

“Put him in isolation,” Art says.

“?Ay, Dios!?Que chingon que eres!” Ramos yells. “God, you’re a pain in the ass!”

But Ramos orders one of his men to take the gomero and keep him somewhere and find out what else he knows, and says, “For God’s sake, don’t let him talk to anyone or it will be your balls I stuff in his mouth.”

Then Ramos looks at the bodies on the floor.

“And throw out the garbage,” he says.

Adan Barrera hears Parada’s radio message.

The bishop’s familiar voice comes softly over the background chords of Hidalgo’s rhythmic moans.