by Steve Alten
Andrew forced a nervous grin. “Easy big fella. We’re on track, at least we were until Mary found out she was pregnant. Things got sort of complicated, but we’re working it out, I swear.”
Lozano backed off the bed. “Is it yours?”
Andrew sat up, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead. “That’s where it gets complicated. Mary’s a strict Catholic girl. Last April, we went to Cancún together and sort of got toasted doing shots of tequila.”
“So you busted her.”
“Yeah, but she doesn’t remember anything about it, and all things considered, I figured it’d be best if I left it that way. But now that she’s pregnant…”
“You told her?”
“I tried. She’s convinced it was an immaculate conception. You gotta understand what I’m dealing with here. When it comes to biowarfare and genetically altering viruses, Mary Klipot’s as brilliant as they come. Stuff like sex and emotional bonding and normal-relationship crap, she’s like a functional retard. I mean, there’s some seriously dark shit floating around in this chick’s head… spooky shit. So hell yeah, if she wants to believe she’s carrying Jesus’s kid, who am I to tell her otherwise. As long as you keep paying me, I’ll play father Joseph to her mother Mary, but the moment Scythe is ready for deployment, I’m outta there.”
Lozano crossed the room, returning to the desk chair. “When is she due?”
“Third week in January, though she’s convinced the doctor’s lying. She swears baby Jesus will be born on Christmas Day.”
“You need to stabilize the situation.”
“How?”
“Propose marriage. Move in together. Tell her you want to be the baby’s surrogate father. Don’t do anything to rock the boat. Meanwhile, tie in the Scythe deadline with the baby’s birth. Push her to finish as soon as possible, so she can take a long maternity leave.”
“That could backfire. Scythe’s supervisor, Lydia Gagnon, is already talking about bringing in another microbiologist or two. Mary agreed we need to keep things as proprietary as possible, especially after all those sanctions.”
“What sanctions?”
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, friend. You and your CIA pals started offing microbiologists at a steady clip right after 9/11. Six Israeli dudes shot down on two different airliners, that cell biologist at the University of Miami… the Soviet defector who had his head smashed in with a hammer. Mary knew Set Van Nguyen, and she went to grad school with Tanya Holzmayer. Tanya was shot dead when she answered the door for a pizza-delivery boy. Guyang Huang was shot in the head while jogging in a park in Foster City. Nineteen dead scientists in the first four months following 9/11, another seventy-one while Bush and Cheney were still in office. Bodies found in suitcases, two in freezers, a half dozen in car accidents. No arrests, everything kept out of the news and swept conveniently under the carpet. All of these eggheads had two things in common: Each worked for facilities that performed black ops biomedical research for the CIA, and they were all considered frontline scientists who would be selected to stop a global pandemic, should one ever break out.”
Andrew got up off the bed, his feeble act of defiance building into a rehearsed speech. “You wanna use Scythe to wipe out a bunch of towel-heads, go for it, but here are my terms: First, forget the hundred grand, that was a down payment. I want two million deposited into my Credit Suisse account, fifty grand a week from now through March, with the balance due the week we turn over Scythe. Second, as insurance against pizza-delivery boys carrying guns and hammers, I’ve instructed attorneys in several different states to deliver the details of Scythe and our little arrangement to certain members of the foreign press in the event something should happen to me.”
Lozano’s expression caused Andrew’s cockiness to crawl back up his sphincter. “Deliver Scythe by March 1, and you might just live to spend your money. Fail, and you’ll join the Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus in an unmarked grave.”
VA Medical Center
Manhattan, New York
11:22 P.M.
The East River glistens olive green as they head south across the bridge for Brooklyn.
“Your fastball had nice movement, your breaking ball froze their right-handed batters. But the college ranks and minor leagues are full of losing pitchers with great stuff. We need to start working on your mental game.”
Coach Segal is driving the van, one of two school vehicles transporting Roosevelt High’s varsity baseball team home from a 3-to-1 playoff victory in the district quarterfinals. Patrick Shepherd is up front in the passenger seat. The sixteen-year-old junior is today’s winning pitcher. Squeezed in between Patrick and his baseball coach is Morrie Segal’s daughter. Shep’s classmate and best friend is resting her head against his left shoulder, her eyes closed—
— her right hand snaking its way playfully beneath the baseball glove and warm-up jacket resting on his left thigh, her touch sending jolts of electricity through his groin.
“…your front shoulder and head were locked onto your target throughout your stride, and you kept your shoulder and hips closed, ready to uncoil, just like we worked on. You had perfect symmetry today, Patrick, but form will only you carry you so far. Sandy Koufax said many pitchers master the physical aspects of baseball, but most never become big winners because they fail to develop the mental part of their game. Sure, you thrive in the pressure situations — I love that about you. But games can be won and lost with two outs and no men on base. You gave up a meaningless home run to a backup catcher hitting.225 because you didn’t feel challenged. Mentally, you had already ended the inning. As a result, you rushed a curveball that never broke instead of delivering it smooth and easy.”
Her bare right thigh is pressed against the back of his left hand. Her tan flesh is silky smooth. He attempts to inch his hand beneath her leg, only to jam his finger painfully against the buckle of her seat belt.
She closes her eyes, stifling a giggle.
“Every pitch counts. You need to play mind games. Challenge yourself so that you attack every hitter. Steve Carlton would visualize the lanes of each pitch before he threw, as if the batter weren’t even there. Focus on the catcher’s sign. Take a moment to visualize the successful flight of the pitch. Inhale slowly as you visualize, smell the fear in the batter’s sweat.”
Strands of the girl’s long blond hair lay on his left shoulder. He inhales the scent of jasmine shampoo, her pheromones an aphrodisiac to his senses.
“You make a bad pitch… let it go. Walk off the mound. Get your anger under control by breathing. Remember, breathing is affected by what and how you think. Clear the negativity. Visualize success. Retake the mound only when you’ve regained control of your emotions.”
The tips of her fingers inch closer to his groin, the girl now in full control of his body. What had begun as an innocent game of chicken has turned into something far more exciting, and he’s unsure of what to do next. Sitting upright and at attention, he’s afraid to breathe as she casually inches her hand closer to his genitals, the fabric of his uniform stretching…
“—ice the shoulder as soon as you get home, the last thing we need is swelling.”
Her fingernails work the inside part of his plate — teasing him before retreating high and outside. Completely under her spell, he exhales and closes his eyes as she moves in again.
“I know pitching again on two days’ rest is asking a lot, but if we can get you on the mound again Friday, then you’ve got a week to rest before the finals. Are you sore? How do you feel?”
“Baby, I feel great.”
Patrick Shepherd sat up in bed. Eyes wide. Heart pounding. Tee shirt matted to his back and neck in perspiration. Anxiety builds. He searched the darkness. Focused on the glowing red exit sign. A temporary lifeline.
Reaching to the bedside table on his right, he searched inside the top drawer for the envelope. Inside was the partially burnt Polaroid. Taken before his first deployment, the picture was shot inside Fenway Park just aft
er he had been called up from the minors. In the photo, his wife was holding their two-year-old daughter while Patrick, wearing his Red Sox baseball uniform, was leaning in from behind, embracing them in his arms.
A sudden rush of phantom pain. Shep squeezed his eyes shut, the crushing, bone-stabbing sensations causing every muscle to quiver.
Breathe! Regain control of your emotions.
He forced slow, deliberate breaths. The agony tapered off to a more tolerable level.
He sank back against the pillow. Attempted to sift through the shards of memory that always seemed to accompany the bout… the memory of the accident, the last day of his final deployment.
Gray sky. Warm metal in his left hand. A blinding light. The skull-rattling blast obliterating all sound, the sensation of his liquefying skin submerging him in blackness.
Shep opened his eyes. He shook loose the horror. Returned his attention to the Polaroid.
The explosive had been doubly cruel; not only had it robbed him of his left arm while gouging a hole in his memory, it had stolen the lasting images on the photo, singeing his wife’s head. Try as he might, Patrick could not lock down her face, his mind’s eye catching only fleeting, frustrating glimpses.
For wounded vets, the psychological scars associated with losing a limb run deep, often leading to bouts of depression. For Patrick Shepherd, the burden is nothing compared to the empty feeling of being separated from a wife and child whose presence he registers in his heart but whose faces he can no longer remember. The loss remains a constant assault on Shep’s identity. In waking hours, it could be overwhelming; during sleep, it fostered intense nightmares.
His doctors in Germany had given him a choice as to which stateside VA hospital he wished to be sent, and the choice was simple. From that day forth, he had imagined himself lying in bed, or perhaps engaging in therapy when his soul mate and daughter — now a teen — entered to reclaim him.
Through the partitioned curtain surrounding his bed, he listened to the snores and catcalls of his fellow war vets, his eyes glazing over with tears as he locked his gaze upon the glowing red exit sign, feeling as alone as a human being can possibly feel.
November
"The force of a correction is equal and opposite
to the deception that preceded."
—“The Daily Reckoning”
Tepito Flea Market
Tepito, Mexico
5:39 P.M.
Situated on the outskirts of Mexico City’s historic downtown, the town of Tepito was located in the borough of Delegaciôn Cuauhtéemoc, an area composed of three neighborhoods — Tepito, Lagunilla, and Peralvillo. Together, they made up one of the largest flea markets in all Latin America. Lagunilla and Peralvillo are bohemian markets, selling everything from tee shirts to antiques and jewelry. Tepito, also known as the “Barrio Bravo” (tough neighborhood), was strictly black market.
Tepito’s history dated back to the Aztec Empire, which established the area as part of its slave trade. When the people were forbidden to sell their goods in Tlatelolco, the Tepiteños set up their own market — a place where thieves could move their stolen goods.
Today, the neighborhood was ravaged with crime, policed by more than fifty gangs, and ruled by drug cartels. Enter the market, and you would find fake designer clothes, stolen cameras, and stall after stall of pirated CDs and DVDs. Used electronics were sold as new, cookware and other goods bore unbeatable prices, having “fallen off the truck.” Lose your passport, and you could probably buy it back in Tepito for $5,000. Need phony documents or a gun while visiting Mexico? Tepito was your destination.
The people of Tepito were very religious. There were altars erected on almost every corner, dominated by the presence of La Santa Muerte—Saint Death.
No one knew for certain how this female Grim Reaper came into being. Historians traced her origins to Mictlantecuhtli, an Aztec death goddess whose skeleton was said to belong to the Virgin Mary. Condemned by the Roman Catholic Church, the cult of Sante Muerte remained underground until 2001. From one altar in Tepito rose twenty, the “skinny girl’s” growing congregation demonstrating that the power of prayer was not limited to those who chose to live life without sin.
To gangbangers and members of Mexico’s drug cartels, “Santisima Muerte” was a spiritual figure whose presence provided psychological strength. Prisoners prayed to her for protection against other inmates. Mexico’s poor, sick, and oppressed sought the salvation she offered, free of judgment.
Others prayed to the female Grim Reaper to strike their enemies dead.
* * *
The taxi motored north along the Avenue Paseo de la Reforma, the driver glancing every few minutes at his female passenger in the rearview mirror. Gold cross, no other jewels. Plain purse, no designer wear. Still, an American, and pregnant at that. The wedding ring is probably in the purse.
He flashed a false smile. “Senorita, you have been to the Mercado de Tepito before?”
The woman continued staring out the window, absentmindedly palpating her swollen abdomen with her right palm, her left hand twirling a strand of silky red hair.
* * *
“I love you Mary. I want to be there when you have our baby. I want us to be a family. Marry me, Mary, and make me the happiest guy in the world.”
If Andrew Bradosky’s proposal was a blessing from heaven, then the two-carat engagement ring was the icing on the cake. Her head in the clouds, all Mary could think about was making arrangements for a December wedding.
Andrew had other plans. “Mary, darling, a December wedding… it’s too soon. We’d have to rush out invitations, secure a banquet room, there are a million details. June is better for a wedding. The baby will be born, you’ll have your figure back. Plus, I can hire a wedding planner while you focus on finishing Scythe.”
Andrew’s sentimentality touched her to the core. And he was right. How could she possibly prepare for the best day of her life while her mind remained absorbed in untangling the genetic secrets of the Black Death? And so she threw herself into her work, intent on finishing the weaponization of Scythe a full week before Baby Jesus’s birth. After the blessed event, she’d take a six-month leave of absence, giving her time to bond with her child and plan out her wedding. She could not recall being so happy, feeling so alive.
Three weeks later, she began having doubts.
The cost of her diamond ring was beyond Andrew’s means, but she had dismissed it as an emotional buy. His new suits and plasma television were justified by his decision to sell his condo and move into Mary’s farmhouse, a recent investment in a down real-estate market. Then there was his new Mustang convertible. He had shrugged the purchase off a month earlier, explaining that his lease was expiring and he had gotten a good deal. When she decided to contact the salesman, another red flag popped up — he had paid cash for the new car.
Where was the sudden influx of money coming from? Could she risk allowing Baby Jesus to be raised under the same roof with a man she wasn’t sure she could trust?
Mary had met Rosario Martinez at the gym, the two women sometimes working out together. Her curiosity was piqued by the female Grim Reaper tattoos that covered the Mexican woman’s arms and back, one of which bore a six-inch scar across her left scapula.
“Saint Death watches over me. When I was younger, I was arrested for selling cocaine. The judge sentenced me to seven years’ hard time at Almoloya de Juárez, a maximum-security prison. My cellmate had painted the skinny girl on our cell wall. Many of the inmates had Santa Muerte tattoos. My cellmate told me the skinny girl watched over her flock, especially the women. One day, two gangbangers jumped me in the shower. One hit me in the throat, another stabbed me in the back, the blade slicing through my tattoo of Santa Muerte. I woke up in the hospital, having been in a coma for two weeks. My doctor said it was a miracle I survived. But I knew Saint Death had saved me, you see, I saw her in my dreams. She was standing over me, wearing a red satin dress, her hair as dark as midnig
ht. I promised that if she saved me I would make something of myself when I left prison. And I did. I owe my life to her.”
“I’d rather be dead than worship Satan.”
“This is not Satan worship. I go to the same church and believe in the same God as you. But all of us are going to die, and I want my death to be sweet, not bitter. I’ve done things in my life I’m not proud of. Saint Death forgave my sins, now she takes care of me. One day you may need protection. One day you may wonder about your man’s intentions. There is a place in Mexico called Tepito. On the first of each month is a holy day, dedicated to the ‘skinny girl.’ Thousands of people go there to ask her blessings for the coming month. Go there, ask for her help. If you wish for money, she will grant you prosperity. If you are in danger, she will protect you from those who wish you harm. If you fear your man will leave you, pray to her, and she will punish him should his eye ever wander.”
* * *
It was dark by the time the taxi exited the Avenue Paseo de la Reforma thoroughfare onto Calle Matamorosa, one of the local roads into Tepito. The traffic was congested. The crowd spilled over the sidewalk into the streets. A local startled her by banging on her window. He held up a baggy of marijuana. Despite her objections, he continued to barter until the taxi moved on.
The driver stared at her in the rearview mirror. “Tepito can be a dangerous place, Señorita. Tell me what you seek, and I can take you where you need to go.”
She unfolded the paper given to her by her Mexican acquaintance, then read the address. “Twelve Alfareria Street.”
The driver’s eyes widened. “You are here to see the skinny girl?” He crossed himself, then surged through an opening in the traffic, vanquishing all prior thoughts.
He drove another half mile before pulling over. “The crowd is too large, Señorita, they’ve shut down Alfareria Street. You’ll have to walk from here.”
