Road to Justice

by Glenn Trust

  “What you talking about? I always make the coffee.” Zabala leaned forward, peering at his partner over the paper. “Besides, you look like shit. Claire must have rode you hard last night.” A lurid grin crept across his face. “Or the other way around.”

  “Claire does what I say,” Krieg snapped back.

  “Sure, sure.” Zabala nodded and went back to his paper, lifting it wide and turning a page then spreading it out on his desk again.

  “Why the fuck you still reading a newspaper?” Krieg eyeballed him, annoyed, still feeling the animal inside raging.

  It was different from the earlier sadistically sexual need to possess and ravage Claire. This was a restless, pacing rage, like a tiger roaming from one end of his cage to the other, looking for a place to rest, never satisfied, never at peace.

  “Laredo Morning Times.” Zabala tapped the paper on his desk. “Have it delivered to the ranch every day. All the news you ever need is right here.”

  “They make apps for that. Get all the news you want on the phone, or is that something a Mex can’t figure out?” Krieg sneered.

  Zabala looked up from the paper. He folded his hands on the desk. “You best keep in mind that I’m not your whore or one of the hired hands around here.” His eyes narrowed. “And I’m not a Mex. I am a Tejano. You know this, so I figure you’ve got something eating away at you, or you wouldn’t go out of your way to insult me and risk me cutting your throat.”

  “Just restless.” Krieg sipped his coffee and then figured he should make peace with his partner. “Sorry.”

  “I see it building in you. Like a pipe about to bust open.” Zabala nodded, accepting the apology. “Seen it happen before. When it does, it’s always after dealing with the boy.” He stood and walked to a bank of television monitors and hit a control button on the console. “Let’s see what we got today. Bet there’s something here to take the edge off for you.”

  The monitors flickered to life. Zabala clicked the selector, and a room appeared on one of the screens. There were eight beds in the room. Four were occupied.

  “There.” Zabala pointed to one of the beds where a young girl slept, curled on her side. “The priest sends you a present.”

  “Not a virgin.” Krieg shook his head. “Too valuable for resale.”

  “No. no.” Zabala shook his head, a curious expression on his face. “Not a virgin, but, I have never understood the attraction of a virgin. Give me a woman who knows her way around a bed.” He laughed. “And one with lots of curves to hold. That’s the woman for me.”

  “You don’t have to understand. Our customers want virgins when we can get them and pay a premium for them.”

  “True enough.” Zabala nodded. “And these are not virgins, but the young one there, she will be like a virgin to a man like you.” He laughed. “That will take the edge off you for a while so we can all get some work done without you snarling all the time.”

  “Where are they going?” Krieg leaned back in his chair, his eyes unmoving, focused on the young girl in the bed, sleeping and unaware that the cameras watched.

  “They are promised to a buyer in Baton Rouge.” Zabala shrugged. “If they get three instead of four, we will make it up next time.”

  ***

  It was a side business and a profitable one. They delivered ninety-nine percent of the people they brought across the border as promised to a place where they could make their way into the interior of the country. An exclusive one percent was reserved for a specialized market.

  That one percent brought Krieg and Zabala more revenue than all the others combined. Sold to brothels and human traffickers in and out of the United States, those girls would spend the rest of their lives as prostitutes. Most would not survive a decade. Drugs would take some. Others would succumb to untreated sexually transmitted diseases. Some would take their own lives out of desperation.

  The demand grew with every passing year. Zabala had discovered the market for the young girls one night while visiting a strip club in Atlanta.

  A drunken conversation with another patron as they paid for lap dances opened his eyes to the possibilities. He had taken on the mission of expanding their business. He moved carefully, making contacts in the dark corners of every major city in the country. It was slow going at first, but once he knew where to look, and they understood his almost limitless source of young women, finding buyers was not difficult.

  The four young women in the room were part of the one percent. The future—unknown to them as yet—would be a dark one. In the end, they would be used up and thrown away, to be replaced by others.

  ***

  Zabala and Krieg were friends only to the minimal extent that either held any real feelings for anyone but themselves. Their relationship was more symbiotic than anything else. They needed each other to survive and prosper.

  Now, Krieg was in one of his periodic rages. It was a side of his personality that Zabala accepted, and one for which he had the cure.

  “Come.” Zabala turned for the door. “Let’s go examine the merchandise.”

  “Wake up, ladies!” The door crashed open, and three men entered the room. “Time to go to your destinations.”

  The man with the paper had returned. Two others accompanied him. They smiled pleasantly.

  “Hurry and dress now, and as promised, we will get you to your destinations.” The man with the paper made an act of scanning the document in his hands and looked at three of the women. “You three will go with this man.” He pointed to Raul Zabala. “He will see that you arrive at your destination.”

  “You.” He looked at Jacinta. “You will go with this man.” He indicated a stern-looking man standing to the side.

  “But we do not go together?” Jacinta’s eyes widened, suddenly afraid.

  “You are going to Houston, correct?”

  “Yes, Houston.” She nodded.

  The man with the paper looked at Tom Krieg. “He will take you to Houston.”

  He looked at the others. “Now get ready. Wash up. Have something to eat from the refrigerator. In thirty minutes, you go.”

  The men left the room. The girls exchanged hugs and said goodbye to Jacinta.

  “Don’t worry,” they said. “This is just the last part of the trip. Soon you will be with your uncle in Houston, and we will be with our families.”

  Thirty minutes later, they left the room. The three girls climbed into a van. Raul Zabala smiled at each and helped them in, saying a few words to each. Then they were gone, and the last three faces from her journey across the border were gone from Jacinta’s life.

  Zabala directed her to a large pickup truck where the stern-faced man waited. Without a word, he opened the passenger door for her and then closed it firmly behind her.

  They drove along dirt roads for almost an hour before he turned the truck onto a long drive that passed through a gate. A large house loomed out of the prairie dust a mile ahead. The man stopped the truck and got out, opened the passenger door and motioned Jacinta out.

  “But aren’t we going to Houston?” Her voice trembled as she fought to keep the tears from rolling down her face.

  Everything had been a lie. She felt herself sinking into an abyss, unable to stop the fall. The world was full of deceit, and there was no one left to trust, especially not this stern-face man.

  “Out,” Krieg ordered.

  She had to jump from the high truck seat to the gravel drive, stumbling to her knees as she landed.

  “There.” He pointed to the front porch

  They mounted the steps, and Jacinta’s shoulders began to shake with her sobs. “But this is not Houston. You said you would take me to Houston.”

  He made no reply. They stood on the porch, and he turned the door handle. The interior of the house loomed open, wide and dark, full of uncertainty and fear.

  Her tears were uncontrollable, her sobs becoming a wail as she stood before the dark opening shaking her head.

  “No! Father Alfonso prom
ised me a door to a new life.” She shook her head in denial as if that would make the man and the door and the house vanish. “Not this. It can’t be.”

  She stood frozen on the porch. Tom Krieg put his hand in the middle of her back and shoved her through the doorway.

  Jacinta toppled forward onto the cold tile floor. She turned and looked up into the face of the man. His eyes were slits, snake eyes, devil eyes. They stared down at her, and she knew now. The door to the new life Father Alfonso had promised was the devil’s door, and she had fallen into hell.

  22.

  Shake on It

  A tousled-haired figure walked in, dressed in the same blue jeans and tee-shirt from the day before.

  “Well, Bill Myers. We were wondering if you were going to drag out of bed today.” Sherm Westerfield spun on his stool to grin at John Sole.

  “Good morning.” Sole yawned widely and sat on a stool beside Sherm. “Least, I guess it’s morning.” A question crossed his eyes. “Did I miss dinner?”

  “Son, you missed everything.” Sherm laughed. “Had us worried.” He leaned toward Sole, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Isabella even sneaked in to check on you when you didn’t show out for supper or beers last night.”

  “She did?”

  “Yep. Said you were passed out snoring up a storm, sounded like a freight train roaring through town.” Sherm grinned. “Don’t worry. She didn’t take advantage of you in your weakened and helpless condition.”

  “I wouldn’t remember if she had.” Sole smiled. “And that would be a damned shame.”

  “That it would, son.” Sherm slapped his knee, laughing. “That it would!”

  “Morning. What you two gabbing about?” Isabella came from the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee, placing it on the counter in front of Sole.

  “Just letting Bill here know you didn’t have your way with him while he was incapacitated.”

  “Humph. He’d remember if I had.” She turned to Sole, leaning her hip against the counter in the way that was becoming familiar to him and that never failed to catch his attention. “That was a hell of a nap.”

  “Sorry.” A sheepish grin spread across John Sole’s face as he reached for the coffee. “Guess I was more tired than I thought.”

  He sipped the coffee. It was rich and dark and fragrant. “Damn, that’s good. I needed it.”

  “That all you need?”

  The words hung in the air. Sole hesitated, then swallowed the coffee, aware of Sherm’s grin and crinkled eyes watching from the side.

  Isabella laughed. “I mean breakfast. Do you want something to eat?”

  Her tone was frank, without flirtatious undercurrents. Nothing was implied or promised, and there was no indication that she expected anything other than an answer to her question.

  Sole looked into her brown eyes. They were rich and dark like the coffee, and more satisfying. “For now,” he said, lifting the mug. “This will do.”

  “You missed the party last night,” Sherm broke in.

  “Party?”

  “Yeah, party. Most everybody in fifty miles showed up. Filled the place ‘til they were standing in the street.”

  “What was the attraction?”

  “Fiesta for Isabella’s son, Sandy.” Sherm slapped his knee. “Helluva good time. Young Sandy is gonna be leaving us soon, headed off to Austin or Dallas or somewheres. Old Carl Chaney pulled out his guitar and played and sang, and everyone joined in on the choruses with him and danced with the ones they come with or with someone else’s. Even that little snot, Doyle Krieg got to having a good time, dancing with one of Mazey’s girls.”

  “Sounds like I missed something big.” Sole looked at Isabella. “Sorry about that. I would have liked to meet your son.”

  “Oh, you will.” She smiled and ran the rag over the counter by Sole’s hand for no particular reason. “He hasn’t gone anywhere yet. Still saving his money. He’ll be around a while yet.” She nodded at Westerfield. “Old Sherm organized it for Sandy.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter in front of Sole. “I think it was his way of putting pressure on Sandy to make his move and get out of Creosote.”

  “Hell, it was my way of having a damn good time,” Sherm said. “If it helped young Sandy make up his mind to get out of here, so much the better. Hate seeing that boy waste his life away.”

  Sole noticed Isabella’s smiled turned down. “I take it you don’t share the same feelings.”

  “Oh, no. I agree. He needs to find his way out of here.” Isabella nodded, staring at the spot she wiped on the counter in slow circular motions. “I mean, look around. There’s nothing here for a young man unless he works for Krieg or Zabala, and that …” She shook her head. “I don’t want that for him. There’s so much more for him out there, somewhere, anywhere. It’s just …”

  The prolonged seconds of silence signaled her discomfort in talking about her son’s possible, if not pending, departure. Sole made an attempt at changing the subject.

  “Anyway, sorry, I missed the party.” He smiled. “I think I will have something to eat. What’s for breakfast?”

  “Same damned thing as every day!” Sherm chimed in with a chuckle. “You can have eggs, bacon, beans, and tortillas, or for a change, there’s tortillas with bacon, eggs, and beans. Take your pick.”

  “Believe I’ll take the second. Let’s lead off with the carbs.” Sole shot a smile at Isabella, letting his eyes linger on hers.

  She returned it with one of her own and held his gaze for several seconds longer than necessary. “I’ll bring some breakfast out for you.” She turned and walked to the kitchen.

  “I’ll be damned.” Sherm watched her go, a curious smile on his face.

  “What?” Sole asked, lifting the coffee mug.

  “I saw something in her face, I don’t recall seeing before, at least not for a long while.”

  “What? Speak up.”

  “She’s a hard one to read, a real woman, not some gossipy windbag like those city girls. She keeps things down inside, but I been knowing her all of her life, and I believe I saw something in her eyes just now.”

  Sole put the coffee mug down and turned to Sherm on the stool. “You going to tell me, or not?”

  “Yeah, I’ll tell you.” Sherm focused on Sole’s eyes, trying to read them the way he had Isabella’s. “What I read in her face was feelings … feelings for you, Bill Myers.” His eyes squinted as if peering through a telescope, trying to discern the minutest features on the distant planet of John Sole’s face. “But I’m not sure what I read in your face. Some pain, I think … loneliness … carrying your own hurts around like her, pushed deep down inside.”

  “You read a lot in a face, Sherm. Maybe it’s not all true, though.” Sole felt like squirming.

  “Could be.” Sherm shrugged. “But enough of it’s true. That worries me.”

  “Why?” Now, Sole’s eyes narrowed.

  “Hurt, pain, loneliness … in a man like you …”

  “A man like me?” Sole watched Sherm’s face, but the old man held his ground.

  “Yes, a man like you.” Sherm shook his head. “Those things drive a man like you … take control of him sometimes … make him do things to hurt other people, even if he don’t intend to.”

  “I wouldn’t hurt Isabella.” Sole’s voice was quiet, chastened by the words of a man who could see past his shell.

  “I hope not,” Sherm said. “I don’t know anything about you, Bill Myers, except you stood up for Isabella and faced down Doyle Krieg and his daddy. That’s something, I’d say, but there’s more to a man than that. Something inside is driving you, but you best keep it reined in, son. I’d rather see you dead in a grave than hurt that woman or her boy.”

  “I will not hurt her. You have my word.” Sole nodded. “Besides, I don’t think there’s as much going on there as you think.”

  “There is. I can see it, even if you can’t … or don’t want to.” Sherm picked up his m
ug and sipped the coffee, thinking things over. “Anyway, I’ll take your word that you’ll treat her right like she deserves.” He extended a leathery hand. “Shake on it, Bill Myers, or whoever you are.”

  They shook. Sole tried to ignore the ‘whoever you are’ comment, annoyed that his eyes must have telegraphed to Sherm that he had hit on a truth about his identity. Sherm smiled knowingly.

  “Your secret is safe with me.” His bushy brows rose as he grinned. “But you treat her right, or this old man will put a hurtin’ on your ass you’ll remember, and it won’t matter what name they call you by.”

  “I believe it.” Sole smiled.

  “Breakfast is on.” Isabella walked in from the kitchen carrying two plates and placed them in front of Sole.

  “What the hell?” Sherm opened his eyes wide in astonishment. “That’s a goddamned T-Bone steak!”

  “Looks good.” Sole picked up the knife and fork, cut a piece of steak, and swirled it through egg yolk.

  “All I ever get is beans and bacon with my eggs,” Sherm complained.

  “You never backed down Lucky Martin and Tom Krieg all in one day, not to mention run that foul-mouthed Doyle Krieg out for his rudeness.” Isabella leaned against the counter watching and smiling as Sole ate.

  “Well, I woulda,” Sherm moaned. “If I’d a known there was a T-bone steak to be had, I sure as hell woulda.”

  23.

  Savior

  The massive oak door swung open, flooding the interior of the church with the sunrise. The darkest corners of the ancient building glowed orange and pink, the statues and shrines casting long shadows across the pews.

  Alfonso Alberto Cordoba Maria del Castillo Cabeza looked up from his chair in the small apse that held the shrine to Saint Manuel Moralez. It was a nook really, modest and without the trappings of other shrines. Moralez was only a minor saint, a Roman Catholic layman whose execution was ordered by President Plutarcho Elías Calles for refusing to renounce and deny the Church during Mexico’s Cristero Rebellion.