by Glenn Trust
Father Alfonso squinted into the light at the four figures silhouetted in the open doorway. They looked otherworldly, seeming to float above the floor in the glow from the door. Father Alfonso was not a superstitious man, but he made a quick sign of the cross to Saint Manuel.
The figures approached. Father Alfonso rose from the chair where he had been seated reviewing his sermon for the mass he was scheduled to conduct in an hour. The pages dropped from his hands as the apparitions approached, and the faces became clear.
“Priest, you look like you have seen a ghost.” Benito Diaz grinned a wide, toothy grin.
“I … I was not expecting anyone so early for mass.” Father Alfonso clenched the folds of his clerical vestments, trying to dry the dampness from his hands.
“Mass?” Diaz threw his head back, laughing. “Do we look like superstitious peasants to you, coming here to confess our sins?”
“We are all children of God.” Recovering from his surprise, Alfonso made an effort to speak in the modulated tones he employed during sermons. “We all must …”
“¡Por favor, sacerdote! ¡No llenes mis oídos con tu mierda!.” Please, Priest! Do not fill my ears with your bullshit!
Alfonso’s mouth snapped shut.
Diaz looked at one of the men with him, his youngest son. “The door.”
“Sí, Papa.”
The son went to the still open door and closed it. The sunlight disappeared. Gloom settled inside the church. Ice water flowed through Father Alfonso’s veins, chilling him to the bone.
“Please,” Alfonso croaked. Alone with Diaz and his sons, all pretense of priestly control vanished. “There is a mass soon. People will be coming.”
“Then you must speak quickly.” The whites of Diaz’s eyes shone brightly in the darkened building, seeming to float in the air, unconnected to the man who stared at Alfonso.
“Speak?” Alfonso shook his head. “But what about? I don’t know …”
Diaz’s arm came up, backhanding Alfonso across the mouth. Muffled laughter came from the young men standing beside their father.
“I believe you do know what about.” Diaz moved closer in the gloom until his face was only inches from Alfonso’s. “Do you recognize me?”
“Yes, of course.” Wide-eyed, Father Alfonso nodded.
“Then you have heard of my business.” He smiled. “It is no secret from Durango to Coahuila.”
Alfonso nodded again.
“Then you know what we will speak of.” Diaz leaned even closer so that his breath full of peppers and garlic filled Alfonso’s nose. “You will provide me the information I want.”
“Y-yes. Y-yes, of course,” Alfonso stammered. “But what is it you want to know.”
The grin was back on Diaz’s face. He nodded. “Everything.”
An hour later, Diaz nodded, satisfied. “This has been a good conversation.” He turned to leave. “We will speak again, Priest.”
Father Alfonso wanted desperately to shout, no. No more speaking together in closed churches! Instead, he dabbed with his sleeve at the blood that trickled from his lip where Diaz had backhanded him.
The church’s door was thrown open, and Diaz and his sons stepped out. It was full morning now and the first parishioners, mostly old widow women in black were lined up outside, wondering why the great doors had not already been thrown open for them.
Diaz grinned and nodded at them. They lowered their heads and stepped aside as he and his sons made their way down the steps. They may have wondered what Yaqui pagans like Benito Diaz and his sons were doing in the church so early, but they kept their thoughts to themselves. Perhaps, they came to confess their many sins. If so, that was between them and Father Alfonso.
The widows’ eyes opened wide when Alfonso came in to serve the mass. The swollen lip was noticeable. A few, whose eyes were not so old, also spotted the drops of blood on the sleeve of his vestments and nodded knowingly to each other. The Yaquis were pagans after all.
When the mass ended, the widows lit candles and knelt before the Virgin Maria, asking her to protect Father Alfonso from the pagans. Father Alfonso had never hurt anyone. He was a savior to the unfortunate, helping the needy to cross the border safely to the north in search of their families. Surely the Santa Madre—Holy Mother—would protect him from the likes of Benito Diaz and his unholy spawn.
24.
Friends
The bed moved and bounced as he rose. She remained frozen, turned away from him on her side, curled in a fetal position.
Heavy footsteps thudded across the floor as he made his way to the bathroom. Still, she remained frozen, her eyes squeezed shut.
A long sigh and yawn filtered through the sheet pulled over her head as he relieved himself and scratched. Her hand slid up under the sheet until her thumb rested against her lips like a child seeking the comfort of her mother’s breast.
She heard water run in a sink, then the sound of a toothbrush. He spat and gargled and spat again. A minute later, the shower hissed and started. He thumped about the room gathering his clothes while the water ran.
Cowering under the sheet, she curled up on her side and tried to remain completely still. Perhaps he would forget about her, go about his day and leave. Then she could escape, that is if she ever dared peek out from the under the sheet.
He was in the shower now. She could hear him, water splashing, an occasional grunt as he washed his privates and rinsed himself.
Soon, she thought. He would open the door and leave the room. That would be her chance. She tried to visualize where her clothes were scattered about the floor, left where he had pulled them from her before he …
She squeezed her eyes tighter, trying to forget that part. It was different than when the father of the children she watched forced himself on her. This man was rough. There was anger in him, and in the way he handled her body. It was as if she were to blame for some terrible wrong he had suffered.
He was out of the shower now, walking through the room, dressing. Drawers opened. Hangers in the closet tinkled, making an incongruously pleasant sound in the midst of her terror. The bed moved as he sat down to pull on his boots.
He stood, and his booted feet clomped across the room. Keys jingled as he thrust them into his pocket.
Soon. Another minute and he would be ready. He would leave. She would peek out from under the sheet to be sure first. Then, she would scurry about the room and find her clothes and creep out. When no one was watching, she would run down the stairs and out the door.
She had no idea where she was, but she would run into the countryside. Somehow she would find her way to Houston and to Uncle Arturo. The Blessed Virgin would not abandon her. Father Alfonso’s promises of a new life would be fulfilled. She had only to escape this devil who had lied to her and taken her.
Soon now. Very soon. She controlled her breathing so that there would be no movement. Just a little breath, then let it out and another very small one. He would forget about her hiding in the bed under the sheet.
“Get up!” Tom Krieg threw the sheet from Jacinta, exposing her nude body.
Reflexively, a hand rose to her breasts and the other between her legs trying to hide what he had already seen and taken from her.
Krieg reached down and took hold of her hair, turning her head back so that she was forced to look into his eyes.
“¡Levántate! Vístete!” He spoke Spanish to her. Getup! Put on your clothes!
Head pulled back so that she looked at him through slitted eyes, a tear formed and slid down her cheek. For a second, her eyes darted toward the window. It was a bright day outside.
His lips twisted into a sneer, and he released her hair. “Don’t even think about it, girl.” He shook his head. “Even if you get out, there is no place to run to.”
“But …” Somehow she managed to force the words through the fear and out of her mouth. “Houston. You said you would take me to Houston and my uncle. You had me, but surely now you can take me to …”<
br />
“Shut up.” There was disgust in his voice. “There is no Houston, not for you. There is only here. You belong to me now.”
Jacinta began to sob, her bare shoulders shaking as her hands went to her eyes, unconcerned with exposing herself to him now.
“No. This cannot be happening.” She shook her head. “After last night, I thought you might …”
“It is happening.” Krieg’s voice was blunt, unsympathetic. “You stay here … especially after last night.”
“I would tell no one,” she pleaded.
“I know.” He nodded. “There will be no one to tell because you will stay here. And at that, you’re better off. You’ll have food and clothes. You won’t want for anything, not like those girls who were with you. They will be sold from man to man until they are used up. You will only have one man … me.” He turned to the door. “Now clean up, get yourself dressed, and come downstairs. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
The door closed firmly behind him, and she heard him walk heavily down the hallway and then down the long stairs to the main level of the house. Dazed, she sat for several minutes before her body began to do what he had ordered.
Robotically, she gathered her clothes from the floor. The thought of standing in the shower he had used minutes before made her skin crawl, so she washed her body with a rag over the sink and rinsed her mouth with water. She had no brush and used her fingers to smooth her long, tangled hair.
Then, she left the room, closing the door firmly behind to keep the memories from that place from following her. The house was immense, but the sounds from downstairs guided her. People were talking.
She made her way down the stairs and hesitated. The front door stood open. Outside the prairie stretched to the horizon. No other habitation or signs of life were visible. She could leave, but he was right. There was no place to go and no place to hide in that vast, open expanse.
“Shit. What we got here?” Two young men walked through the front door as she stood by the stairs gazing out. The one who spoke came to her and leaned close. “Hey, baby, you here for a good time? You make my daddy a happy man?”
The man with him laughed.
“Once he’s through with you, maybe you can make me a happy man too.” Doyle Krieg grinned.
“And me too!” Paco González laughed.
“Get away from her.” Tom Krieg walked in from the next room, reached out and took Jacinta roughly by the arm. “Come with me.” He pulled her along behind him.
Doyle and Paco watched smirking as Krieg led the girl into his office and closed the door behind them.
“Sit down.” Krieg pushed Jacinta toward an oversized, leather chair. She sank into the seat and leaned back, instinctively trying to make herself as small as possible.
A woman laughed. Jacinta turned to the sound. She had not noticed the woman seated in an identical chair. The laughter faded, and the woman smiled. It was not an unpleasant smile, but it held something unspoken, some knowledge that made it less welcoming.
“This is Claire,” Krieg said. “Claire will look after you … show you around. You will be friends.”
Their new friendship was not a suggestion or a promise of the relationship to come. It was an order, and both women lowered their heads to acknowledge the command.
25.
Which Dumbass
“This is a long ways from proving a damn thing.” Salvia County Sheriff, Paul Dermott, tossed the plastic envelope containing the deformed bullet on his desk.
“Look at it again,” Emmett Brewer said calmly. He had expected resistance and prepared accordingly, willing to sit there all day if that was what it took.
“What is it you think I’ll see, Emmett?” A wry smile crossed Dermott’s face. “Or hope I see?”
“Do I really have to lay it out for you?”
“We both know where you’re going with this.” Dermott leaned back in his chair, propped his boots on the desk, and smiled. “And you know the position I’m in here. There’s no federal agency behind me. I won’t be transferring out to another post in a couple of years.” Dermott shook his head and leaned farther back in his chair, putting distance between himself and the Border Patrol’s District OIC. “Nope. I’ll be here dealing with the residents and voters of Salvia County.”
“You mean dealing with Tom Krieg and Raul Zabala.”
“Yes, they are two of the residents of the county. They are entitled to a voice in this office just like everyone else.” Dermott nodded. “And a listening ear.”
“Why do I get the feeling that you listen a lot closer to them than some of the other voices that come into your office?”
“Careful. I don’t care for the implication.” Dermott’s eyes narrowed, and his posture in the chair stiffened. “We enforce the laws of the state of Texas equally to all. No one gets special treatment.”
“I am not questioning your integrity, Paul. I am asking you not to look the other way.”
“Sounds like the same thing to me.” Dermott sat up straight, elbows on the desk, glaring at Brewer. “You show me a goddamned crime, and I will do what I can to find the perpetrator. But this …” He nodded at the bullet on the desk between them. “This is nothing … proves nothing. You are going to have to give me more than this if you want me to wade into the shit storm with you.”
“The bullet came from the leg of a man trying to cross from the Mexican side. He was shot by someone on the Texas side.”
“You say.” Dermott shook his head and peered at the slug. “To me, it’s just a bullet. Could have been found anywhere or pried from a piece of plywood where somebody was taking some target practice.”
“It comes from a reliable source. Enrique Valera over in Reynosa. He got it from the doctor who cut it out of the victim’s leg.”
“Reliable?” A smirk spread across Dermott’s face. “That word doesn’t mean the same thing on both sides of the Rio Grande.”
“That’s not fair, and you know it.” Brewer’s voice took on a hard edge. “You think you’ve got problems dealing with the voters in Salvia County? Put yourself in Valera’s place. He’s under pressure from every corrupt politician and cartel member in northern Mexico. Still, he is working with us to shut down the border crossings, and it’s having an effect.” Brewer picked up the bag with the bullet. “He gave me this, and I promised to find out where it came from.”
“You really think you’re going to find the rifle that fired that bullet.”
“I’m going to try my damnedest.” Brewer peered into the bag. “Winchester .30-30, not the most common rifle around.”
“Not uncommon either,” Dermott shot back. “Plenty of old cowboy types like to carry Model 94s.”
“True enough.” Brewer nodded. “That’s why I could use your help.”
“Did he die?”
“Who?”
“The man the doc pulled that slug from.”
“No. He’ll recover.”
“So, I don’t get it.” Dermott sighed and shook his head. “If someone is trying to help you control the border, and no one was killed, it seems like you should be welcoming the assistance.”
“Shooting innocent civilians is not help. If it were the other way around, you’d be taking raiding parties across the river to find the ones who fired that bullet into one of your citizens. Don’t deny it. You would.”
Dermott made no reply. The truth of Brewer’s words hung in the air between them.
“Valera didn’t do that.” Brewer shook his head. “He gave the bullet to me, and I promised to handle it on our side. I call that pretty reliable and fair.”
“Alright.” Dermott gave in. “What do you want from me?”
“I’m going to start by paying Krieg and Zabala a visit. It would help to have another law enforcement witness along, a local one, one that I can trust.”
“Trust?” A wry smile crossed Dermott’s face. “Even with all of the voters I listen to?”
“Never said I didn’t trus
t you, Paul, and I never said I didn’t understand your situation here.” Brewer grinned. Time to lighten the mood. “I promise not to stir the pot. Just going to ask questions and see where things go. Try and come up with enough to get a warrant to search for the rifle and find which dumbass pulled the trigger.”
“Which dumbass, huh?” Dermott allowed himself a smile. “Well, you’ll find Krieg and Zabala have no short supply working for them. Narrowing it down to just one dumbass could be kinda tough.”
26.
From the Mouths of Babes
The normalness of the day was pleasing and at the same time, disconcerting. Normalcy had not been a part of John Sole’s life since the day everything changed.
He had lingered over breakfast, making small talk with Sherm and Isabella. The topics were mundane, the weather and local gossip, mostly. Sole listened to the gossip, piecing together an image of life in Creosote and the character of these two people who were the closest thing to friends that he had met in a long while.
The little snippets of day-to-day existence in Creosote were filled with a sort of small-town charm, except for the ones that included Tom Krieg and his partner Raul Zabala. Sole sensed a dark side to things when they were the topic of conversation. Even Sherm lowered his voice to a whisper when he mentioned them.
After an hour of small talk, Sherm rose from the counter. “Gotta go.” He tossed some cash on the counter and headed for the door. A minute later, he was rolling down the road in his pickup, trailing a cloud of dust.
“Something we said.” Sole smiled at Isabella.
“Nope. He heads out every morning after breakfast.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “And at that he’s late. Must have been entranced by our riveting conversation.”
Sole laughed. “Never considered the weather to be that riveting a topic.”
