The Dead Run Page 12
“Fine. You hand that heart over to Cucuy’s son, and you’ll be opening the door to an evil that could destroy this world. How’s that for speculation?”
Galvan flipped the machete in the air and caught it cleanly by the handle. He wanted to perfect his feel for the thing—wanted to make the knife an extension of his body, the way it had looked in that odd shadow he’d thrown.
Just in case.
“Pretty fuckin’ vague, man. You got something better to do right now than fill us in on whatever it is you don’t know? An appointment, maybe? A dinner reservation?”
Britannica stopped, opened his water bottle, sipped, and sighed.
“It’s an old Aztec legend, okay? The kind abuelos told around the campfire, when I was young. I never thought . . .”
Britannica trailed off, stared into the featureless distance, resumed.
“Once upon a time, all the gods decided that their brother the great sorcerer-deity Tezcatlipoca had to be punished. He was teaching his priests too much, letting them grow too powerful—so powerful they threatened the natural order of the world, and the gods themselves.”
“Walk and talk,” Galvan interjected. “There ain’t no campfire here.”
And on they marched. The machete bounced against Galvan’s thigh with each stride, playing counterpoint to his footfalls, hi-hat to bass drum.
“It was decreed that Tezcatlipoca be stripped of his powers and banished to a realm beyond the stars for five hundred years, so that the world could recover from his terrible influence. There are a bunch of different stories about how he was captured, because Tezcatlipoca was so terrifying that even the other gods feared him; either he goes hunting with his brother god Opochtli and gets tricked into entering a magical cave, or else Omecihuatl seduces him, and afterward, when he falls asleep, she binds him to the bed. There’s also a version where—”
Payaso blew his nose farmer style, pressing one nostril closed and huffing a snot wad out the other. Endlessly charming, this kid.
“Damn, carnal,” he complained. “I feel like I’m in Sunday school. Get to the fuckin’ point already.”
Britannica gave him a peevish look, but he fast-forwarded. “Before he was imprisoned, Tezcatlipoca figured out a way to transfer his powers to his high priest, to hold for him while he was gone.”
“Like signing your shit over to your mujer when you jailin’, eh, homes?”
“Shut the fuck up, Payaso,” said Galvan.
Britannica fingered his water bottle, desperate for another swig but smart enough to resist.
“The god had to pass his power through the sacred vessel of the immortals: a pure woman. But the virgin he chose for sacrifice was the woman his priest loved—the woman he was about to marry. Tezcatlipoca wanted him to prove his allegiance. So for the next three days, the priest was in agony, weighing his duty to the god who enlightened him against his love for his wife-to-be. He’s described as this tragic figure, this man doomed by—”
“Fuckin’ A, Britannica. Only you could make this shit boring.” Payaso shook his head. “What happened, homes?”
“Finally, the priest made up his mind: he had to obey Tezcatlipoca. So on his wedding night, he killed his bride while they were ‘joined as one’—”
“Like, boning and shit? Damn, carnal, qué asco.”
“Shut the fuck up, Payaso.”
“—and then ate her heart. Sure enough, the powers of the god passed into him, and he was transformed in every way. The priest became an abomination, the most terrible creature ever to walk the earth. And when the gods saw what had happened, they were so disgusted by this perversion of natural law that they withdrew, washed their hands of the world they’d made. Left the whole lot of us on our own and haven’t been heard from since.”
“Wow,” Galvan muttered, despite himself.
“There’s more. Three days later, his wife crawled from her grave, the first of the Virgin Army—an unholy by-product of Tezcatlipoca’s witchcraft that the god did not anticipate. Her will set against the priest’s for all eternity.”
Galvan dropped his hand onto the machete’s handle. “You saying she’s still out here?”
The priest shrugged. “These girls, she’s supposed to control them. That’s the price Cucuy pays. Every time he kills one—”
“He gives her another warrior,” Galvan finished. “Ain’t that a bitch.”
They reached the top of a low incline and peered down. Below, snaking across the arid badlands, was a narrow north-south road. Another smugglers’ lane. Or perhaps the same one Galvan had stumbled on before.
As soon as he thought it, the kid’s thin, flutey cry sounded in his mind. Galvan shook his head, trying to clear it.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s take the freeway.”
Payaso crinkled his brow. “You sure, boss? Easier to get spotted that way, no?”
Dude had a point, for once. Galvan weighed the options.
Bottom line, they’d never make it at the rate they were moving. The water would give out, then the legs, and finally the mind. If an even surface bought them so much as an hour, it was worth the risk.
Plus, there was the chance of a ride.
If they could thumb one.
Or convince a passing motorist using some other body part.
A fist, for instance. Wrapped around a machete. That could be compelling.
“We’ll chance it,” he decided, and the trio ambled down the bluff. As soon as they hit the smugglers’ lane, their speed increased. It wasn’t just that the terrain was easier, thought Galvan. The road gave them a psychological boost: imposed a sense of direction, implied the existence of civilization.
“So Cucuy’s the priest?” Galvan asked a quarter mile later.
Britannica didn’t answer for a minute, maybe two. Galvan scanned the land, wondering how many holes, how many girls.
How many Righteous Messengers.
“In theory,” the con man said at last. “According to legend, the priest’s hatred of the god only grew as his power did. He swore never to return that power—to keep Tezcatlipoca trapped in the netherworld forever, as a punishment for robbing him of his beloved. But the priest’s body was not immortal. Eventually, over hundreds of years, it would begin to fail. If Cucuy is the priest, he’s a pale shadow of his former self. The legends tell of a creature so ruthless, so fearsome—”
Britannica broke off, shuddering even as the sweat trickled down his neck.
A sick feeling was blooming in the pit of Galvan’s stomach. “If he passes the power to this son of his . . .”
The con man squinted against the sun. “There will be hell to pay.”
Payaso stepped between them, the tendons of his neck straining with exertion. “So we eat it. Like Gum said. We eat it and fuck him right in the ass.”
Britannica shook his head. “There are legends about that, too. Only the priest’s descendants can assume the power. Anyone else will pass into the Dominio Gris. The Gray Realm. Neither alive nor dead. Roaming the earth, soulless and hungry.”
Galvan grimaced. “Like Gum, eh, Padre?”
Britannica nodded. “Like Gum. He wants company, Payaso.”
For once, the kid had nothing to say.
“Speaking of company . . .”
Galvan lifted his chin to the horizon. Chugging slowly toward them, in a cloud of dust, was an old, wood-paneled station wagon. It was straight out of the eighties, the kind of car Galvan’s mom had driven Little League carpool in. Couldn’t have been many of those still on the road.
Wordlessly, they fanned across the smugglers’ lane, a loose triangle with Galvan in the front.
Like bowling pins, he thought wryly.
And then: Ain’t got a moment to spare.
Ba-dup-bup-ching.
Don’t forget to tip your waitress.
In the back, two adolescent girls.
The car pulled to a stop and idled there, spewing fumes into the already-unbreathable air. Behind the wheel, the man sat impassive, cigarette forgotten between his fingers.
Galvan turned to his companions.
His protectors.
Quote-unquote.
“Play nice,” he said, beckoning for them to follow. “Don’t spook ’em.” He laid a hand on the machete handle, looped through his belt. Started to slide it around to the small of his back, then thought better of it. There was no real reason to look unarmed. Nobody was going to mistake them for a trio of picnickers.
Galvan ambled up to the vehicle, driver’s side, trying to look friendly. The box was jammed under his left arm, as inconspicuously as possible. The machete rested against his left hip, ready to be cross-drawn.
“Howdy,” he said, darting his eyes from one to the next. The man was white but deeply tanned. Rail-skinny, eyes rheumy from years of nicotine. The woman beside him looked about the same, mouth drawn and pinched as if taking a perpetual drag.
They stared at him, jumpy and hateful.
“Where ya headed?”
“Family vacation,” the man answered, eyes darting over Galvan.
“That right?” He leaned low to check out the girls in the back and felt a chill tear through him.
Maybe it was a premonition, like Britannica said—violence lurking in the future.
More likely, it was simple disgust.
The girls looked nothing like their so-called parents. Or like each other. They stared straight ahead, didn’t acknowledge Galvan in any way. A dirty wool blanket lay over their laps, obscuring their hands.
A blanket. In this heat.
Shady.
Galvan put it together all at once and reached for his blade.
The machete glinted in the sun, long and deadly. Galvan brought it flush against the driver’s neck, edge pressed to skin.
“Get out of the car,” he ordered. It came out a fierce whisper. “Nice and slow. Both of you. Ojos Negros doesn’t need any more girls today.”
A flicker in the man’s eyes told Galvan he’d hit it on the nose.
And the click that echoed through the air told him he’d been looking in the wrong place.
Galvan raised his head slowly, until he was face-to-face with a giant six-shooter.
Trained, and cocked.
The woman leaned over her man, raising the gun until Galvan was staring straight into the small black hole from which death issued.
“Drop that fuckin’ thing,” she snarled.
Galvan steeled himself, used his blade to lift the guy’s chin a few millimeters.
“You drop yours,” he said, playing out the hand. Another great one.
Fucking Mexican standoff.
Although maybe here, you just called it a standoff.
CHAPTER 17
Kids?” Cantwell asked, out of the clear blue. They’d been sitting in the Audi for nineteen minutes by his watch, and she’d been jumpy as a jackrabbit on meth for each and every one. Some people weren’t cut out for surveillance. Hell, Nichols would have counted himself among them, until he met her. There was a stupid pun to be made here about doctors and patience, Nichols was pretty sure, and he was a tiny bit proud of himself for leaving it on the table for the last nineteen minutes.
“How many you thinkin’?” he gave back. “Maybe we oughta just start with one, see where things go.”
“I’ll take that as a no.”
He slid down in his seat a ways and then back up. “No kids. Not for a lack of trying. My ex-wife had . . . Jesus, I can’t believe I forgot the name. I guess it’s been that long. PCOS are the initials.”
“Polycystic ovarian syndrome.” Cantwell looked away. “I’m sorry.” Then, after a moment, “It’s very common. Did you try—”
“We tried everything. Only thing that worked is divorce.” He forced a smile. “She’s very happy now. Found somebody with kids. Kind of a ready-made family.”
“And you?”
Nichols spread his hands, to indicate the glory and fullness of his career. “I have all this. Your turn.”
“No man and no kids. I tend to go for . . . unsuitable guys.”
“Care to elaborate? There’s a lotta ways to be unsuitable. You got your lives-at-home-with-his-mom types . . .”
“Ugh. What do you take me for?”
“ . . . your married men . . .”
“No, thanks.”
“ . . . your millionaire playboys . . .”
“Not in South Texas, you don’t.”
“Your Billy Badasses . . .”
“That’s the one.”
Nichols rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you try to save ’em.”
“Hold that thought.” Ruth Cantwell wrapped her hand around the Audi’s gearshift and eased it into drive.
Nichols angled his head until the passenger-side mirror afforded him the view he wanted and watched a shit-brown sedan corner onto the road, an old-fashioned black fedora pulled low over the driver’s face.
He wished, not for the first time, that they’d taken his car. What the roller lacked in surveillance-vehicle subtlety it more than made up for in its ability to force mistakes, suss out guilt from fifty feet back. People saw a cop behind them, they got nervous. Made mistakes, or stopped making them. There was a whole psychology to following a suspect right out in the open, and Nichols considered himself a master of it.
Had to be.
In a real department, there’d have been some undercover cars.
At the very least, he wished Cantwell would let him get behind the wheel. He felt like a goddamn driver’s ed teacher—particularly unpleasant since the guy who’d taught it to Nichols was currently serving time for statutory rape.
He reached out and covered her shift hand with his, before she could pull out. “Easy on the throttle, doc. I wanna wait on the bikers. Who knows, maybe you’ll even meet your next Billy Badass.”
“Uh-uh. That’s our man, right there. Melinda told me about him.”
Nichols squinted at the mirror, trying to buy himself a clearer view. His eyeglasses were sitting in the squad car’s glove box. He’d considered grabbing them, and like a damn fool he’d let vanity dissuade him.
“Told you what? And how do you know that’s—”
The sedan crept up behind them, and Nichols caught a glimpse of the guy’s face as he flew past—quick, but enough to make the question die in his throat.
Hard to tell whether it was a birthmark or a burn scar at that distance—or even vitiligo, the skin disease Michael Jackson claimed was responsible for turning him porcelain. Either way, the man behind the wheel wasn’t a guy you mistook for someone else.
The car rabbit-jumped as Cantwell applied the gas. Nichols reached out and threw it back in park before she could steer them onto the blacktop. The engine didn’t like that. Neither did Ruth.
Nichols put on his most soothing voice. “Easy, easy. I know this is emotional for you, but we gotta be smart. Count to ten, then pull out slow. Stay as far back as you can without losing him—and that’s plenty far, on a road like this. Meantime, you can tell me who the hell he is and what Melinda said.”
Cantwell leaned against the headrest, the effort of sitting still written all over her face. “I don’t know his name. Melinda told me about an enormous guy at the compound with half his face burned off. Seth called him the Rod of Correction. A term he stole from Haile Selassie, incidentally.”
“I’ll pretend I know who that is.”
“It doesn’t matter. The po
int is, if you stepped out of line in any way—or if Seth wanted you to think you had—this son of a bitch showed up and pointed his finger at you.”
Cantwell eased the rubber onto the road.
“You were supposed to go with him, no questions asked. Sometimes it was an hour, sometimes a whole day. And when you came back, you weren’t allowed to talk about it. Melinda never had to go, herself. Or so she claimed. I have my doubts.”
The engine strained beneath them and the RPM needle swung hard, Cantwell goading the Audi into fifth, the Audi much preferring fourth.
“You’re accelerating, doc. Take it down a notch.”
She pursed her lips and acquiesced. The RPM needle swung back.
“The Rod of Correction. Bet you can guess what that was.”
Nichols took a beat to think about it, then looked at her, aghast.
“You don’t mean—”
“I certainly do.”
“What about the men?”
“The men, too. Rape isn’t about sex, Bob. It’s about power. Humiliation. Control.”
She closed a fist around the steering wheel. Nichols watched her knuckles whiten and felt a corresponding tightness somewhere in his chest.
The bleat of a cell phone startled them both. “Guess I’ve finally got service.” Cantwell groped for her jacket, marooned in the backseat, and the Audi swerved momentarily across the double yellow.
The monster in the fedora lifted his head slightly, taking note of the commotion in the rearview mirror.
Great. Just what they needed.
Cantwell found the phone, tapped at it, furrowed her brow at the screen.
“I’ve got a voice mail from Melinda Richards. Or maybe from Sherry.” She brought the thing to her ear.
For no good reason at all, Nichols thought of Kat: the way she’d always answered her phone with the same chipper Hello? as if she had no idea who was calling. As if the name and number displayed on the screen were invisible to her. He’d found it annoying, when they were together. In retrospect, it was charming. Old-timey.
As Cantwell listened, all the color drained from her face. Nichols strained to make out the voice—female, high-pitched—but he could not. Ruth had the phone pressed tight to her head, as if afraid the words might leak out.