Forgiven

by Gina Detwiler

  Mace has told Torega that I go to Silo City every Friday afternoon. It’s a ritual for me, like visiting a gravesite on an appointed day—and it’s how Mace found me in the first place. He kept his voice reasonably calm on the phone, although he sweated and fidgeted and practically hyperventilated. He was terrified Torega would want to meet in person and make him shoot up to prove he was still an addict. We gathered around and prayed him through that call. Torega bought it, in the end. Maybe his desire to get to me overcame his caution.

  If Mace is putting on an act, he’s a stellar actor…yet I’m still not sure we can trust him. But Silas, Ralph and Penny are praying for me, Ripley is tracking my bracelet, Jared is close by and, as Ralph loves to remind me, God is in control.

  I leave the Mini in the gravel parking lot and walk past the chain-link fence to the embankment that leads to the river. This is the same route I took when I met Mace. The grass is dead with pockets of old snow. The wind howls, rippling the water. Spring in Buffalo.

  I sit on a block of concrete—the same one I sat on the last time. My heart beats so fast I think it will burst through my ribs. Can Jared hear it? It’s a weird thing between us, how we hear each other’s heartbeats at the strangest times. My legs shake and my breath comes in short bursts. I stick earbuds in my ears. They aren’t connected to anything but it has to look as though I can’t hear anything around me.

  Shadows lengthen on the river. The wind penetrates my sweater and prickles my skin. I hug my knees to my chest in an attempt to block out the cold, then press my face to my knees and pray.

  Finally, I hear the crunch of snow and the faint crackle of footsteps on dead grass. I keep my head down, pretending I’m unaware, lost in my own thoughts. Fear constricts my throat.

  Lord, make me brave.

  It’s quick and sudden like a car crash, only quieter. I’m jerked backward, a bag slides over my head, my arms are pinned. I scream and twist, trying to fight off my unseen assailants. They stuff part of the bag in my mouth and wrap tape around my head. My arms and ankles are bound. I am immobile.

  It all happens as expected, and yet it’s surreal, like a nightmare. They carry me roughly up the embankment and throw me into what I presume is the trunk of a car. I’ve been in this situation before. What little light I can see filtering through the bag disappears as the trunk closes. Doors slam. An engine rumbles and the car lurches into motion.

  I pray.

  Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…

  I will fear no evil, for You are with me.

  This is what the shadow of death feels like.

  It’s a long ride—too long—with many twists and turns. Evasive driving, I realize. Do they know they’re being followed? This worries me. My body rolls from one side of the trunk to the other and I gag at the strong, acrid stench of gasoline. I focus on breathing through the bag, pursuing every molecule of air I can. Panic will make it harder. Every intake of breath is a prayer. I asked for this. I willingly stepped into this pit and can do nothing now but trust. Trust the cops to find me. Trust that Mace isn’t lying. Trust God to rescue me.

  It seems an eternity before the car swerves and screeches to a halt. The doors open and slam shut again. Hurried voices speak Spanish and then the trunk clicks. I’m pulled out and hauled up several steps into someplace warmer. I smell incense, and very loud African drum music rattles my ribs. My captors drop me on the floor, then unwind the tape and remove the bag from my head.

  I blink as my eyes adjust. I’m in a cramped, smoke-filled living room, crammed with strange figurines and idols and skulls, all elaborately decorated. A woman scurries by carrying small jars. She glances at me but looks away quickly and says something to the men who stand over me, arms folded, smiling in satisfaction.

  “It’s her.” I recognize Torega’s voice above the drum music. He looks so different from the school boy I knew. He has a mustache, and his hair is long and stringy. He wears a heavy gold cross on a chain around his neck. Ironic. “At last.” He kneels and puts his hand on my neck, tracing the scar left by Azazel. “The mark of Ogun,” he whispers. “So it is true. She has been touched by the god. This is why her voice has magic.”

  Wrong, moron.

  “Did you see the other one? The white-haired one?” Torega questions his men.

  “No. He’s gone. Disappeared. That’s why she goes to the Silos. To mourn him.”

  “What about the cops?”

  “We lost them.”

  A weight presses into my chest, squeezing my heart. Lost them?

  “I knew that culero Mace was setting me up.” Torega gets to his feet. “Put her downstairs and watch her. We must wait until La Parca gets here.”

  “La Parca is coming?” The others buzz with excitement.

  “Yes. I told him we would have her. He wants to see for himself.”

  La Parca is coming. Does Beranski know? Or did Torega’s men really lose him? Is my bracelet working? If it isn’t, I will spend the last few hours of my life in this house of horrors.

  I’m lifted again and carried downstairs to a basement. It’s dark but for a string of colored bulbs hanging from the ceiling and a few smoking candles. It smells like blood and death. This must be the shrine, where they do their sacrifices. Skulls—animal and human—line the walls. Candles and bowls filled with powders and liquids crowd the tops of small tables. In one corner, a life-sized skeleton is dressed in a multicolored robe and flower garlands, a crown on its ghastly skull head.

  The woman I’d seen upstairs squats before a cauldron in the middle of the room. She sprinkles something onto its contents—blackened sticks and bones. She glances at me, her eyes dark and piercing. She whispers incantations in Spanish and rocks in rhythm.

  At her side, a teenage boy sings and rocks as well. His hands are folded in prayer and his eyes downcast.

  The men toss me on the floor. One of them speaks to the woman in rapid Spanish. She nods and replies. Then, the man speaks to the boy in English.

  “Watch her. We will be back soon. ¿Tú entiendes?

  The boy nods and produces a long knife from his belt. I catch my breath.

  God, help me.

  The men and the woman leave me alone with the boy. After the door at the top of the stairs slams shut, he fingers the knife handle and watches me. Something lurks behind his gaze. Drugs? Fear? Hunger? Maybe all three. He continues to chant as he turns the blade in his hands.

  At least I know they will wait for La Parca before performing the ritual. That gives me a little time. But I don’t know for sure if the cops, or even Ripley, know where I am. I need some sort of plan, in case they don’t come. I look around, searching for something—anything—that can give me hope, and spot a small window near the ceiling, above some shelves.

  My gaze settles on the boy, who continues to rock and chant to himself. I notice a plastic water bottle on the floor beside him. It seems such a strange, incongruent thing in this room of ancient magic.

  “Could…I have a drink of water…please?”

  He stops chanting and looks at me. His eyes flicker with uncertainty. He glances at the bottle then picks it up and puts it to my lips. I barely get a sip before he takes it away again and drinks the rest himself.

  “Thank you. Gracias.” I struggle to sit up. My arms and legs ache. “What is your name?”

  “Pedro.”

  “I’m Grace. How old are you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “What is that?” I indicate the robed skull.

  He looks at me like I must be an idiot. “Santa Muerte.”

  Santa Muerte. I remember my high school Spanish. Saint Death.

  “So she’s a saint?”

  He frowns.

  “Sorry, but I’m scared to death right now, and it helps to talk. Do you mind? Just talking?”

  He shrugs. I wonder if anyone ever talks to him. It seems like they just yell or give orders.

  “So tell me about your religion.” I keep my voice frie
ndly, so he won’t be alarmed. “What does Santa Muerte do for you?”

  “She protects us.”

  “From the police?”

  He nods, his gaze on the floor. “And our enemies.”

  “Like your…business rivals?”

  Another nod.

  “So you make offerings to her? What kind of offerings?”

  “Anything. Candy. Flowers. Tequila. Wine. Cigarettes.”

  I glance at the cauldron. “Bones?”

  He follows my gaze. “Sometimes.”

  “But upstairs they were talking about Ogun…do you pray to him too?”

  “Ogun is an orisha. A spirit in human form. We make offerings to Ogun to gain strength and power for war.” Pedro points to another corner of the basement, where old tools and scrap metal lie in a heap, overlain with dried palm fronds. “That is his shrine.”

  “And what kind of offerings does he like?”

  “Tobacco. Coffee. Meat.”

  “Meat? What kind of meat?”

  Pedro hesitates. “Dogs,” he murmurs.

  I feel a wave of nausea. But I need to keep him talking. Even if I die, the pendant will record his words, assuming it’s working.

  “That woman who was here—is she your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Manuel?”

  “He is my brother.”

  A family affair.

  “And this is where your brother runs his drug operation?”

  Pedro looks at me, alarmed.

  “You might as well tell me,” I say. “Who will I tell? They are going to kill me anyway.”

  “Kill you? No, no.” Pedro shakes his head. “They won’t kill you. Just take some blood. Enough for the offering.”

  “You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”

  “It’s true.”

  “Look around. Look at these skulls. Those bones. Where did they come from?”

  “The cemetery.” But his voice wavers. “They take the bodies from the graves. No one cares.”

  “Pedro.” I level my gaze on him. “Do you really believe your brother doesn’t kill people here?”

  He jumps up and goes to the stairs but stops. He sits on the bottom step. I swivel around to look at him.

  “Do you believe in God, Pedro?”

  He doesn’t look at me but he fiddles constantly with the knife. “Yes.”

  “You know that worshipping other gods is a sin?”

  “No, no. They are not gods, they are saints. Spirits. We pray to them. We honor them.”

  “God doesn’t honor kidnapping and murder. Or hurting people to get what you want. He condemns such things.” I pause and take a breath, gathering courage. “That skeleton over there doesn’t have power. It’s only a skeleton.”

  Pedro shoots to his feet, the knife pointed at me. “You can’t say those things about Santa Muerte!”

  I stare at the knife as a shockwave of fear slides through me. But the boy who wields it is more afraid than I am. I swallow and press harder. Nothing to lose now.

  “Think, Pedro, think for yourself. For once, stop listening to the lies your mother and brother tell you. You know these idols have no power. You know they are false gods. Will any of them stand by you on the final day? Will any of them be able to defend you against the True Judge? Look at that skeleton dressed up in flowers and a crown. What is that compared to the God of the Universe—”

  “No more talk! Shut up.” He paces as he slams the flat of the blade against his palm.

  “You don’t want to live like this, do you? You want to get out. You want to be free.”

  “Shut up!”

  “Cut my bonds, Pedro.” I hold my hands up. “Let me go and I will help you be free.”

  “Cállate!”

  The basement door opens and heavy footsteps thud on the creaking stairs. One of the men barks at Pedro, probably wondering what is going on. He responds, shrugs, and points to me. The man crosses the room, puts his boot on my shoulder, and presses me back to the floor.

  “You. Quiet. Or I take your tongue.” He snaps an order to Pedro and disappears up the stairs.

  “See? You got me in trouble,” the young man says.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “But Pedro, please…help me. You can come with me. We can get out that window—” I tilt my head to the small basement window above the shelves. “But we have to do it now before they come back. I’ll help you, I promise. The police will help you too, if you tell them what you know. They’ll give you a new name, a new identity, a new family…” My voice falters. “You can be free of all this. You want to be free, don’t you?”

  “Shut up!” He lunges at me, fury in his eyes. His arm raises high, the knife pointed at my head. I fall flat and shut my eyes—and my mouth.

  42: Get Up and Fight

  Jared

  The radio picks up only static.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong,” says Jason, the radio operator, as Beranski and I look on anxiously. “All I get is interference.”

  “Can we get closer?”

  We’re a block away from the house. Beranski doesn’t want to get closer for fear Torega’s men will spot us.

  A SWAT team has deployed, hidden in the bushes and on rooftops of adjoining houses. They are waiting for the signal to move but Beranski refuses to give it.

  “It could be the wrong house,” he says. “Maybe she’s not even in there.”

  The whole operation has been a massive screw-up. Torega must have suspected Mace would double-cross him, because the drug dealers showed up in three cars, all the same model, all black. After they grabbed Grace, the vehicles left together and then went in different directions, forcing the cops to split up too. They led the police on a wild goose chase for nearly an hour, taking random turns down one-way streets and alleys. Grace’s tracker wasn’t working either. The drug dealers must have had jammers in the cars. Torega knew he would be followed. He’d taken precautions. All of our carefully planned measures had failed.

  Beranski screamed into the microphone the whole time. He’s a big man with a bald head and a red face, the lead detective in Vice, so this is his game. But even he was losing his cool. A young woman’s life was on the line.

  I felt utterly helpless. Grace was in the hands of violent drug dealers who wanted to use her for a ritual sacrifice, and there was nothing I, with all my power, could do about it.

  Michael, why did you send me here for this?

  Then a name came to me, like a billboard in my mind. Babcock.

  “Babcock,” I said aloud.

  Beranski looked at me. “How do you know?”

  “I know.”

  The detective rolled his eyes but spoke into the mic.

  “All units head to Babcock. Now.”

  A few minutes later, one of the cruisers called in a confirmation—one of the black cars was located at a house on Babcock Street.

  Beranski eyed me suspiciously, but ordered the van driver to head to that location. We cruised past rows of small, neat houses, some boarded up and abandoned, others with trimmed grass and fresh paint. An unmarked police car sat on the curb across from a white two-story row house with peeling paint and a detached garage. Colored lights glowed through the curtains in the main window. A black sedan was parked in the narrow driveway, practically invisible in the dusk.

  I let out a silent breath. We’d found her. Thanks Mike.

  ***

  But Jason gets nothing from Grace’s pendant except random static punctured by African drum music.

  “Something’s blocking the signal,” he says. “They’ve got jammers in the house. Or maybe she’s in the basement. Concrete walls.”

  “You need to get her out,” I tell the detective.

  “We don’t even know if Torega is in there.”

  “Go in there and get her out!”

  “You are not in charge of this operation,” Beranski says. “Sit down and be quiet. Look, the SWAT guys can be in there in twenty seconds. We’ll
give it another few minutes and see if we can get anything on the radio. If we bust the wrong house, we’re dead in the water.”

  “But the ritual—”

  “Rituals are not illegal.”

  “What if they kill her?”

  “That would be illegal. But if we go in now, we have nothing.”

  “I don’t care.” I throw the back door of the van open.

  “Hey! Get back here! What the—”

  Ignoring his protests, I run across the street toward the house.

  I hope the SWAT guys don’t shoot me.

  A strong odor of incense wafts from inside. I knock on the door.

  No one answers, but I hear scuffling and voices. I knock again. The door opens a crack. An older woman’s face appears. She peruses me with suspicion and says something in Spanish.

  I don’t bother to answer. I push the door open and shove her aside. She yells and two men appear behind her, their assault rifles trained on me. One is big and muscular, the other shorter with bad skin. Before they can pull the triggers I advance on them, I grab the barrels and rip the rifles out of their hands. Startled, they come at me with their fists and I fling them into the wall, knocking down pictures and shattering furniture. The woman screams again. I pick up the rifles, break them in half and toss them to the men, who don’t get up.

  I turn to find another man advancing on me, holding a machete. He’s smiling.

  “You must be Jared,” he says.

  Manuel Torega. I’ve never met him, never seen him. If I had, I could have warned Penny before she got involved with him. The man is infested with demons.

  “They said you were gone, but I knew you weren’t.” He grins. “Ogun told me you would come.”

  “Where’s Grace?”

  “She’s alive—for now. But if you make one move, I will order her killed. You won’t get to her in time.”

  I stare at him, reading his demons.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Without warning, I lunge at him, grab the wrist that holds the machete, and snap it. Torega screams and falls to his knees. The woman runs past us into the kitchen. I follow her, taking the machete with me. She stands before a closed door and shouts in Spanish with one hand raised in a devil sign, obviously putting a curse on me. I almost laugh.