Stephen Randel - Trail of the Chupacabra

“If you can guarantee it, I’ll give you fifty bucks,” deadpanned Bennett. Kip laughed. Polly slapped Bennett’s hand. Max belched and then licked himself.

It was dark, and a dog was barking down the block. But for “The Ferryman,” it always was like that. El Barquero cut the power to the house and went to work on the alarm system. It didn’t take him long. He’d done it before, many times before. The back door was deadbolted. He went to a window instead. Using one of his curved knives, he pried it open and slipped through. Inside, he surveyed the room. Modest and unpretentious, it was nothing special. That was like Cesar. Barquero had known him for years. Years ago, Cesar Beltrán had been under his command in the Mexican Army’s elite Special Forces Airmobile Group. Colonel Beltrán now led Barquero’s old unit. Barquero started up the stairs. He was quiet, silent as he mounted the steps.

“Freeze. Or I’ll shoot,” a confident voice called from the top of the landing.

“It’s me,” Barquero whispered.

“Who?”

“Your friend.”

“How do I know? Who are you?”

“Look,” Barquero said as he dropped his scythe. “It’s me. Cesar, you remember me, don’t you?”

“My God. What happened to you?” Cesar asked as he lowered his pistol and came down the dark stairway.

“I need your help.”

“My help?”

“Help. Cesar, I need your help.” The big man went to his knees and picked up his curved knife.

“Okay,” Cesar said as he walked cautiously past the man and toward the bar, turning on the lights on the way. “But keep quiet. Maria and the kids are asleep.” Cesar still held his pistol. He set it down and poured two glasses of mescal. “Drink, my friend.”

“To our friends, especially the ones not with us anymore.” Barquero downed the glass of warm liquid. Cesar joined him.

“You’re a goddamn ghost, back from the grave.”

“Ghost? No, but from the grave, yes.”

“What happened? The army looked for you. I looked for you!” Cesar’s voice rose.

“Quiet,” Barquero implored.

“You’re right.” Cesar looked at the staircase. “Now, what happened to you?”

“I got lost.”

“Bullshit!” Cesar yelled, and then lowered his voice. “Dogs get lost. You abandoned us. You abandoned your duty.”

“I know,” Barquero replied. His eyes were full of rage and sorrow at the same time. “I had to…”

“Had to what?”

“Leave…I had to leave.” Barquero sat down on the couch. He pulled out a silenced pistol from his jacket and placed it on an end table. “It was Rosalina. She was…”

“I know.”

“She was killed.” Barquero closed his eyes. “And the baby, too.”

“Goddammit, I know.” Cesar sat down on the couch next to his friend. He placed the bottle on the wooden coffee table. “We went to the funeral. We all did. All your men went. Why weren’t you there?”

“I don’t know,” Barquero said as he picked up his gun and lowered the hammer. “I went out to…went out to find out who did it.”

“We could have helped.”

“The army? The police? That’s bullshit, Cesar. You know that.”

“Did you find them?”

“No!”

“Quiet, please,” Cesar said as he put his finger to his mouth. “Don’t wake Maria.” Cesar scowled, then smiled. “Okay, wake Maria — she always loved you, but Jesus, not the kids.” The two men smiled, then drank. “We had orders to find you. I still have orders to find you. There are consequences for deserters.” Cesar set his glass down. “You don’t just leave the army.”

“You can if the money is right.” Barquero set his glass down also. Cesar refilled them both.

“So you left for the money?”

“I didn’t know what to do. Rosalina…”

“You’re a criminal now.”

“I’m worse than a criminal.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve done some bad things. Bad things…worked for some bad people.”

“So what the hell do you want me to do for you? Feel sorry for you? You quit. You left. You knew what we were facing. The same damn thing we’re facing now. We’re outgunned, outmanned, and out-financed, but you quit…and for the money?” Cesar downed his drink.

“I left because of Rosalina and the baby.”

“Sure, I know, but my men…your men…they’re getting killed, and for what? I’m sorry, but you’re not the only one who lost someone. We’re fighting a battle we can’t win. Too much money, too many cartels…but you just quit. So I ask you again, should I feel sorry for you?”

“No, Cesar.”

“Then what do you want? You want me to arrest you? I should. It’s my duty. You’re a wanted man. Coming here, you’re placing my family in jeopardy. I could be arrested for harboring a fugitive from the military.”

“I’ll leave.” Barquero picked up his pistol.

“No!” Cesar said as he stood and grabbed Barquero by the throat. Barquero reached up, twisted his hand, and spun Cesar around and threw him down to the floor. He looked toward the stairs and listened to see if anyone was awakened. Nothing.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Cesar,” Barquero whispered. “I only want some information.”

“About what?” Cesar grimaced with his face pinned to the floor. Barquero let him go and pulled him to his feet.

“The Padre. I need to know about the Padre.”

“What do you want to know? That he’s untouchable? That he’s paying off everyone from the janitors to the politicians?” Cesar looked at him. “Trust me — the army has been after him for years. I got close once. I lost almost all of my men. The Padre? What do you want with him?”

“I know him, and I have a debt to settle before he settles it with me first. What I want to know is where he is. Where he’s moving and what he’s moving. Save your men, Cesar. I can get him. I’ll get him for you. I just need to know where to look. Please tell me.” Barquero looked his old friend in the eyes. “I’ll make this right.”

“After all these years thinking you were dead, you show up, and now you want me to send you off to make sure it happens? He’ll kill you. No one man can stop him. The military, the police, the Americans, no one can touch him, he owns everyone. Not to mention, he doesn’t just kill people — he kills everyone they know.”

“I know that.”

“Did you know El Carnicero?”

“I knew of him. They caught him.”

“He’s out.”

“Out? How?”

“Prison riot, staged by the cartels. Someone smuggled him out. The government won’t say, but the word is that the Padre bought his way out. The press wasn’t even allowed to mention his escape. It might look bad for the government.” Cesar poured again, and the men drank. After a long, silent pause, Cesar spoke. “You can help me get him?”

“Yes. Just get me close to him.”

The white lines of the Texas highway zipped by as the school bus raced down the road. It was hot and the air conditioning wasn’t working, so the men opened all the windows. At least, they were open halfway. School bus windows sucked like that. They only did half the job half the time, and that really didn’t help when it was hotter than fish grease outside.

Ziggy sang a Steppenwolf song at the top of his lungs as he danced, or rather twirled, in the stairwell of the school bus barreling down the road with a dry, dusty wind whipping through the vehicle.

“Does he always do that?” the General, who was behind the wheel, leaned over and asked Avery.

“Do what?”

“Act the fool?”

“Pretty much.” Avery drank a Mountain Dew from a straw. Ziggy threw his hands in the air as he sang. Several the men of STRAC-BOM joined him.