The Children of the Wolf

by Karl Tutt

  Chapter Six

  So what the hell did Priss do now? She scheduled an appointment with Dr. Page. The woman knew how to be discreet, and, Priss hoped, sympathetic. She didn’t tell her everything, just admitted that she hadn’t been careful enough. A mistake . . . now that was more than the damned truth. Her worst guess was confirmed. Eight weeks and counting. She was showing slightly, but it wasn’t that noticeable. Soon it would be. Suddenly he appeared in her mind . . . taunting, leering, still stinking of stale garlic . . . a face and a presence that would go to her grave with her. She knew she would kill him. It was just a matter of time. She hoped not too long, but the killing would be the easy part.

  There was a child. Priss forced that into her mind. She stood before the full length mirror in her bedroom. She lifted the loose-fitting blouse and placed her hand on her warm belly. She thought she felt a pulsing, but she didn’t trust her senses enough to believe it. She cradled her small breasts. They had begun to swell a bit. She could tell by the newfound tightness in her bra. She sighed. It was within her, growing . . . perhaps even blossoming into something that needed a chance to see the light . . . maybe even create its own special luminance. Dr. Page had told her it was a healthy fetus and encouraged her to be mindful of what she ate and drank. Get plenty of exercise. On the way out, the nurse handed a print-out of do’s and don’ts for the expectant mother. She wanted to crush it in her hand and leave it with the dirt on the wind-blown street. Instead, she clenched her teeth and stuffed it into her pocketbook. The muscles in her face throbbed with an oppressive rhythm.

  Priss didn’t want the damned printouts . . . or the baby. Especially not from the seed of a monster. But what now? She’d always believed in a right to life even though she had been instrumental in depriving a few of it. But those were the miscreants, the depraved, the criminals, the killers who didn’t deserve the honor of being compared to animals. She harbored no guilt for that. It wasn’t that she condemned abortion. It was a woman’s right to control her own body. But a child --- the word rebounded in her head like a violent pinball in a game played by a madman. She went into the kitchen and poured a shot of bourbon.

  She knew the options, but two of them meant she carried the child to term. That would probably mean the end of her career, at least the one she’d followed and nurtured for the past ten years . . . the one she was somewhat sheepishly proud of. She wished there was someone she could trust, talk to, ask for advice . . . whatever that was. But there was no one. She was alone and the idea of any kind of motherhood seemed a heresy, a vile hypocrisy, a thing that she could not fathom or accept. But the third option? Abortion. Was it actually a sort of murder --- a vicious choir of sharp voices would have us believe it --- the murder of an innocent, a horrendous act that no God could ever forgive? She didn’t know, but she did know the decision, no matter how abominable it might be, had to be made soon. She stared at the golden liquid, lifted the glass and sniffed it. Her stomach rebelled. She flung the tumbler into the sink. It shattered with a shrill, piercing sound. She shuddered. Then she cried.

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  Maria Elena heard the slap of the sandals on the bare concrete floor. She backed into the dingy corner, her hands flexing, trying to clutch some imaginary weapon. Her heart thudded in her chest and a bead of thick saliva surfaced at the corner of her cracked lips.

  He was huge, and vaguely familiar. She tilted her head and raked her memory as he slid the key into the lock. She’d seen him, but when and where? The door opened with a slight creak. He stood like a giant in the entrance to the cubicle.

  “You must be easy, little one. No one will hurt you. You are going to a party. It is in your honor, and we must prepare you for your special guests. Drink this. It will comfort you.”

  He handed her a plastic cup with a caramel liquid. She hesitated, then grasped it. There was no harm in his eyes, but his body rose above her like the hideous Golem of Jewish legend. The coolness felt good on her throat despite a slight hint of something bitter. A sip at first, then it was gone.

  “Ah, good. Now you will be fed and our attendants will bathe you and comb out your beautiful ebony hair. You will have a new dress and fine perfumes. No one has touched you. You are safe. You will be a princess, and your knight in shining armor will charge forth on his white steed. Salvation is within your reach. Simply trust me.”

  Mig’s voice was soft and soothing. She wanted to believe him, and even in her damaged state, she knew there was no choice. Her extended his meaty hand to her and smiled. Her mind raced and her body shook, but again . . . there was no choice. She stepped timidly forward and placed her hand in his. His grip was gentle, but firm.

  “Yes . . . come, my pretty,” he whispered, “you will be well taken care of. You have my word, and Miguel does not lie.”

  His voice almost seemed to caress her. She began to drift and the darkness came on. Mig scooped her up in his thick arms like a breathing rag doll. That was all she remembered.

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  Bart was looking for an old friend. He wasn’t sure where he’d find him, but he knew the filthy, poverty stricken neighborhoods --- the tiny tenements and shacks, the back alleys, the abandoned structures where a man might disappear, lost in a drug induced coma, or simply too drunk on cheap wine to move. He carried the bottle of Cuervo and tucked the Kimber into his belt. A guayabera emblazoned with colorful parrots covered the bulge quite nicely. The box cutter was still in his pocket. He figured it was all he’d need.

  The old friend was Luis Gonzales. Actually, at one time they’d run the streets together, but Bart learned quickly that the final result of that was a quick, early, and probably violent death. Besides, he had no taste for the opioids, the coke, or any of the other shit that left you wondering who you were, where you were, and exactly what you had done the night before. But Luis didn’t get it. Booze, dope, and petty crime were his specialties. He did, nevertheless, have one peculiar talent. People simply liked him. He listened, gauzy eyes honed in on their facial expressions, the tones in their voices, and they’d talk. Drunks and junkies don’t remember shit. At least that’s what they’d tell themselves. But despite his constantly addled state, Luis rarely forgot any information that mattered to him, or might make him a buck for his next sad retreat into his own sick brand of nirvana.

  This time it was an alley behind a whore house. When Luis had a little extra cash, he’d hang out there until the bouncer unceremoniously escorted him out the back door. Broke, smashed, or maybe worse. They never hurt him. He was a good customer when he had the pesos. The girls liked him despite the smell. Generous tips . . . no threat of violence, and most of the time, he couldn’t get it up anyway. After it all, they’d toss him. He’d sleep it off in the alley and stumble somewhere else after the sun was high and merciless.

  The stench of rotting food and excrement assaulted Bart’s nostrils as he padded over the stained dirt. Luis was snoring, his head lying on a black garbage bag. His breathing was even. He wore a filthy t-shirt with Led Zeppelin screaming off the front. Bart was glad Jimmy Page or Robert Plant couldn’t see how far they had fallen.

  Bart poked Luis with the bottle. Then he twisted the cap and ran the scent under the man’s nose. His eyes opened slowly. He blinked twice and tried to focus. When he saw the bottle, he was suddenly alert.

  “Aw, Bartolomeu, you have bring Luis a present. It is good. A leetle hair of de dog be jus’ what Luis need.”

  He reached for the bottle, but Bart snatched it away, waving it back and forth like an infected sort of Holy Grail.

  Luis grinned through yellowed teeth.

  “What is this? No drink for an old muchacho? You have grown hard . . . or perhaps there is something you want?”

  “Yes, Luis. I need information. Then the sweet nectar is yours. My daughter, Maria Elena, is missing. I need to know who has taken her, and where.”

  Luis’s face grew very dark. He hesitated, then shook his head.


  “I don’t know, amigo. Don’t know nothing about no missing girls.”

  “Come on Luis. You know a lot about a lot of things.”

  Bart shook the bottle in his face, but Luis stared at the dirt and continued to shake his head. Bart pulled the Kimber and from his belt and racked the slide in one smooth motion. Then he shoved the barrel up against the stinking man’s nose.

  “I will kill you, Luis. No more whores, no more tequila, no more of the fine powder you are so fond of. I am sorry, old friend. It will trouble me, but do not doubt that I mean to do it.”

  Luis propped himself up on one elbow and looked sorrowfully at his old playmate.

  “It is no matter. You kill me? If I tell you anything, they will kill me. Lobo got razor talons and they reach long ways. His people are everywhere. Speak to the priest. Have a service for your child. Honor her and miss her, but do not try to find that which will only lead to your own death. Do not leave Pepe without el padre to raise him . . . to warn him not to fall like Luis.”

  Bart removed the box cutter from his pocket. He stared at Luis. Could he do this?

  Yes.

  He slashed a cheek below one bloodshot eye. The blood trickled, then began to gush. Luis tried to staunch the flow with a grimy hand, but the crimson pumped between his fingers. He moaned slightly and stared at Bart. Naked fear pulsated in his eyes. Bart pointed the box cutter.

  “I will cut your eyes out . . . one at a time . . . and leave you to die in this filthy alley. The dogs will lick your blood and the rats will finish your body. If that is what you want, tell me now so I can search for one who may be more cooperative.”

  Luis began to cry. He shook his head slowly and looked at Bart with eyes that implored. Bart waved the box cutter and gritted his teeth. His lips quivered while he waited. Luis spoke with sad and quiet resignation.

  “It was Big Mig, el monstruo. He gathers them for Lobo. The girls, the young boys. Maria Elena has probably already been sold. They take them to Miami for display. That is all I know. I beg you to let me live.”

  Bart wiped the box cutter on Luis’s shirt, slid the blade back into place, and stuffed it back into his pocket. He eased the hammer down on the Kimber and placed the bottle at Luis’s side. Then he took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to the bleeding man’s check. Luis snatched the bottle and parted his lips. He took a deep breath and coughed. The stink of his breath hung in the air like a foul cloud. He took a long slug. There was agony emanating beneath the terror, and an unspoken look of farewell.

  “Vaya con dios, amigo . . . and buena suerte. You will need it.”