Wrath of God

by Jack Higgins

  ‘I can’t say, never having been there.’

  ‘I have visited the fringes only when I first came to this country. It is not like your Ireland, I assure you. A savage, sterile place. A nightmare landscape of mesas and buttes, lava beds and twisted forests of stone. Life there would be a struggle most days of the week.’

  ‘It sounds interesting,’ I said, humouring him.

  ‘The Apache are known as the enemy of all men,’ he said. ‘Yet they fear the Yaqui. For over four hundred years, since Spain first claimed these lands, they have fought the invader and with considerable success, I might add. For many years the government, in despair, attempted a policy of extermination. A cruel and barbaric people, Keogh. They mutilate the bodies of their enemies.’

  ‘I’ve seen men maimed just as effectively with a Mills bomb.’ I rammed my foot hard down on the brake as a horseman cantered over a rise to the left and reined in his mount in the middle of the road.

  I knew who he was instantly for there was no one else it could be. He sat there, slim and erect in the saddle, black jacket and tight-fitting black trousers, not a silver button in sight to relieve his sombre appearance. The face beneath the black sombrero was the face of a ravaged saint, an Anthony burned through to the bone by the heat of the wilderness. The pale blue eyes were quite empty. No love, no cruelty either. Nothing.

  He said calmly, ‘Tomas de la Plata at your orders, gentlemen.’

  ‘At yours, señor.’ Janos gave him back. ‘My name is …’

  ‘I know who you are, just as I know why you are here. This dream of my father’s, an old man’s foolishness, is this not so?’

  On first sight he was not armed, but as he leaned forward slightly, I saw that he carried a revolver in a strap under his left arm.

  I said, ‘How can we know this until we’ve had a chance of inspecting the mine?’

  He nodded slowly and sat there silently staring into space, his face calm as if waiting for something. On the face of it, I would never have a better chance of killing him. He was mine for the taking. Above us on the hill, birds lifted in alarm from the shelter of the cottonwoods.

  It had happened once before, just like this, outside a village in County Clare, just after the start of the Civil War. A damned rogue of a tinker leading us in and he playing both sides against the middle. The rooks calling angrily as they drifted up out of the beech trees at the side of the road should have warned me, but by then it was too late and a heavy machine-gun cut down every man in the first Crossley tender.

  We learn by our mistakes. I said politely, ‘Your sister has invited us to inspect the mine in the morning, señor.’

  He said abruptly, ‘Two days, no more, then you go and I see your report before she does. Do you understand?’

  He raised his hand and half a dozen riders emerged from the cottonwoods, each man carrying a rifle. They milled around the Mercedes, an unsavoury-looking group, mostly dressed like working vaqueros, but all heavily armed.

  ‘This priest you brought with you,’ Tomas de la Plata said. ‘He goes back with you when you leave and only because I am in a good humour. Tell him this from me, and in the meantime he approaches the people of Mojada at his peril. No services, no religious propaganda of any kind. I will not have it here.’

  Janos cleared his throat. ‘We are not his keepers, señor.’

  ‘You would perhaps prefer to be his mourners?’ he smiled gently. ‘There is no choice for this man, señores. There never was. If he stays, he dies.’

  He put spurs to his horse and galloped away followed by his men. Janos sighed heavily. ‘For a while there I thought you might try to take him. If you had, we would both have been meat for the crows by now. You knew they were there?’

  ‘They shouldn’t have disturbed the birds,’ I said.

  He chuckled. ‘By God, sir, but you know your business, I can see that.’

  As I drove away, I could feel the sweat soaking through my shirt and jacket and my hands were trembling.

  I left Janos at the Casa Mojada to settle in and strolled through the streets, smoking a cigarette and greeting whoever I saw, although not one single person gave me as much as a good evening in reply.

  These were poor people, leading lives as wretched as any lived before the Revolution and their condition made its ideals laughable. Truly, nothing in this life ever did change. What was virtually an open sewer ran down the centre of one street, little children playing listlessly in an atmosphere where the stench of urine and human dirt touched everything.

  It ran into a small plaza with a well standing in the centre. An old woman, so old that it seemed a miracle she lived at all, struggled with a stone pitcher of water.

  I took it from her, in spite of her protestations and followed her when she turned and fled to one of the hovels opposite. I stooped to enter the door which gives some indication of its size, considering my modest height, and almost choked on that fetid air. When my eyes grew accustomed to the half light, I saw that there were no windows and that the only furniture, if you could call it that, was a heap of Indian blankets for bedding in the corner. The old woman crouched fearfully by a smouldering fire. I put the pitcher of water down, pressed a five-peso piece into her hand and left hurriedly.

  When I emerged, I saw van Horne standing outside the porch of the church looking down towards me. He was wearing his cassock and clerical collar again.

  ‘Good evening, father,’ I called loudly as I got near.

  ‘Mr Keogh,’ he turned and led the way into the church. ‘What have you been doing? Visiting the poor?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put a hound dog I thought anything of into that place,’ I said. ‘God knows, I’ve seen poverty in my time, but the worst slum in Dublin would seem a palace to these people.’

  ‘A hard country,’ he said. ‘I told you that. Now, what happened at the hacienda?’

  I told him everything from the first incident with Jurado to the final confrontation with Tomas de la Plata. When I had finished, he sat on the edge of the vestry table staring into space, a frown on his face.

  ‘Two days,’ he said at last. ‘That doesn’t give us very long.’

  ‘Why do you think Bonilla kept quiet about the old man being crazy? He must have known. Damn it, he knows everything else about the family.’

  He looked at me, frowning slightly. ‘I get the impression you have your own answer to that one?’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘If you must know, I think you are more important to this business than Bonilla made clear. I think he intended you to be a stalking horse.’

  ‘To draw him in from the mountains where you could get a crack at him?’ He shrugged. ‘That’s all right by me, boy. I will kill him myself on the first opportunity, I promise you.’

  ‘Then you will disregard the message he sent?’

  ‘I did not come here to take his orders, Keogh. I came to see him under the ground, and from what I hear, I’d be performing a public service.’

  ‘And what about the woman? What kind of game are you playing there?’

  ‘What game would you have me play?’ He was genuinely puzzled. ‘I’m priest here, boy, and priest I must be. Does that offend you in some way? I had got the impression that religious belief was hardly a strong point with you.’

  ‘It isn’t,’ I said. ‘You seemed to be someone else again, that’s all.’

  ‘You’ll have to take that further. I don’t follow you.’

  ‘For God’s sake, man. I accepted you for a priest myself, watching you with her. The way you spoke and acted. Don’t take yourself too seriously, that’s all.’

  I walked out of the vestry into the church, my knees shaking for some reason and he followed me, catching me by the arm, turning me easily with that enormous strength of his.

  ‘I’m a murderer, Keogh, and a thief many times over. God doesn’t exist for a man like me. He can’t.’

  ‘If that’s true,’ I said. ‘If he doesn’t exist, then why do the things you’ve don
e bother you so much?’

  It was the one and only time I got through to the heart of him. His face, or the mask that was his face, melted away and underneath was a man in torment if ever I have seen one. He reached out and grabbed for the front of my coat. I have never known such pure, elemental strength. He had me off the ground like a rubber ball and I thought my final hour had come. And then abruptly, he seemed to be shaken with some kind of spasm and released me.

  ‘And what about you?’ he said. ‘A man who lives for nothing, believes in nothing not even himself any more. No emotion left in you. Neither love, nor hate. A dead man walking, Keogh.’

  He turned, went into the vestry and closed the door and I stood there, filled with a kind of horror for in describing me he had duplicated, almost word for word, my own impression of Tomas de la Plata.

  I started to turn away and paused, the breath catching in my throat. The obscene chalk drawing on the front of the altar had been washed away and on top stood a small wooden crucifix, another of the items from the trunk. The figure of Christ was in silver and a final dying ray of the evening sun reached in through the narrow window to touch it brightly.

  I turned and fled as if all the hounds in heaven were snapping at my heels.

  The rooms at the hotel were as spartan as I had expected with the whitewashed walls, old brass beds and furniture that looked as if it had been made locally and not by an expert.

  I found Janos sitting by the side of his bed at the open window. He had a cloth spread across his knees and was engaged in cleaning his revolver, a Smith and Wesson .38.

  ‘Did you see van Horne?’ he asked me.

  I nodded. ‘Yes, I saw him.’

  ‘And quarrelled from the sound of you.’

  ‘Something like that, but it isn’t important. I looked in the mirror for a moment and didn’t care for what was there.’

  ‘A pointless exercise, my friend, as I discovered long ago. Let’s see if we can get some food out of our reluctant host and perhaps a drink or two. You’ll feel better for it.’

  Reluctant Moreno certainly was although he certainly saw that we were fed in a private room at the back and served by his wife who was obviously having trouble in hauling herself around with that great swollen belly of hers. I felt like telling him so forcibly, but then it was hardly my affair and this was a land where women, at least in the back country, were beasts of burden from the day they were born.

  I watched her drag herself out at the end of the meal and Janos said, ‘She doesn’t look too healthy.’

  ‘An understatement,’ I said. ‘If she carries on like that, she’ll be in real trouble.’

  ‘But of course,’ he said. ‘I was forgetting. You had medical training. But never qualified?’

  ‘A year to go.’

  ‘Which seems a pity. Have you ever considered going back to complete the course?’

  ‘To Dublin?’ I laughed shortly. ‘I’d get short shrift there, believe me. Let’s try the bar and see what he’s got to offer.’

  Which was as good a way of cutting off the conversation as any as I think he knew. A wise old bird, there was no doubt about that.

  Moreno was not in the bar when we went in, which was fortunate in a way for when I went behind to help myself, I discovered a stock of Scotch whisky of excellent quality. I could guess who it was kept for, but helped myself to a bottle anyway and two glasses. Moreno came in at that moment and seemed about to protest but thought better of it.

  ‘Is there anything else you require, señores?’

  ‘A pack of cards, I think, or perhaps even two.’ Janos looked at me hopefully. ‘You don’t play bezique, by any chance?’

  ‘No, but I once spent two months with my leg up in a Connemara farmhouse with an English general we were holding hostage who taught me a diabolical little game called piquet.’

  An expression of complete and utter delight suffused his face. ‘My God, sir, but I never thought to see the day again when I could play a gentleman’s game.’

  He gave me a cigar and while we were lighting them, Moreno returned with the cards. He put them on the table and said diffidently, ‘Perhaps the señores would be more comfortable in a private room. It gets a little crowded in here later on.’

  ‘We’re perfectly happy where we are, man,’ Janos snapped, his hands already busy with the pack, discarding the cards below seven. ‘Now leave us in peace.’

  I should have known how good he would be, but even being rubiconed by Janos was an enjoyable experience. It took my mind off things admirably to such an extent that when we paused after the first hour, I was surprised to find a dozen or fifteen other customers in the place.

  We were intruders, so much was obvious and mostly they sat in silence, watching us sullenly while they drank or muttered together in low voices. They were all local men, simple peons from their dress and certainly nothing to worry about.

  We started on a fresh game and I was on the third deal of the partie when the door opened and Raul Jurado entered, spurs jingling. There were two other men with him, dressed like him as vaqueros, pistols at their belts and one of them had been with Tomas de la Plata when last I saw him.

  Jurado scowled heavily and stood glaring at us for a moment, a leather quirt dangling from his left wrist. He would have dearly loved to throw us out or worse, but that course of action was denied him now on the word of the man who was obviously his true master.

  He moved to the bar and ordered tequila for himself and his friends from Moreno who looked absolutely terrified. A moment later the door opened again and Oliver van Horne stepped inside.

  There was complete and utter silence of a quite remarkable kind and the astonishment on the faces of everyone there was something to see.

  Van Horne said pleasantly, ‘Good evening.’

  ‘And a good evening to you, father.’ I was the only one to speak.

  He was wearing his cassock and shovel hat and carried a bundle under his arm wrapped in a woollen blanket. He went over to the bar and addressed Moreno.

  ‘Señor, I’m sorry to bother you but I’m in urgent need of one or two items and thought you might be able to assist.’

  Moreno stared at him, petrified, and Jurado turned to watch, an ugly glint in his eye.

  ‘A mattress for my bed,’ van Horne continued in the same calm voice. ‘An oil lamp and as much whitewash as you can spare and the brushes to apply it.’

  ‘There is nothing for you here,’ Jurado said. ‘Go away.’

  Van Horne said mildly, ‘I am a poor man and unable to pay in cash until my funds come through, but it occurred to me that you might be willing to hold this as security.’

  He unwrapped the blanket and set the image of St Martin de Porres on the bar counter. There was a startled gasp, more than one, a chair went over with a crash as someone rose involuntarily. Two men went down on their knees and most there crossed themselves.

  ‘Merciful heaven,’ Moreno said, and there was awe on his face. ‘But where did you find him, father?’

  ‘You recognize it?’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Moreno crossed himself with as much devotion as any man could. ‘He belongs here, father, here in our own church where he stood in the side chapel from the day the church was built. For two hundred years. He is ours, father, he belongs to the people of this place. When he was taken during the Revolution, he took out luck with him.’

  ‘He will be yours again, my friend,’ van Horne told him. ‘Back in his place in the chapel once the church has been cleaned and reconsecrated.’

  ‘I will get you the things you need now, father,’ Moreno said, ‘If you will come this way.’

  Jurado’s quirt lashed down across the bar counter. ‘And I say no!’

  Van Horne faced him. ‘By what authority?’

  ‘Will this do, señor priest?’

  Jurado pulled out his pistol, extended his arm and shoved the muzzle into van Horne’s belly.

  I had my hand inside my coat ready to draw, but there
was no need. Van Horne calmly pushed the barrel of the pistol to one side. ‘Hardly a contest, señor, when I am not armed. I had thought you a man of honour.’

  Jurado was stupid enough to fall for it. He glared at van Horne, looked around the room as if to assert authority and bolstered his pistol. ‘You are proposing some kind of contest?’

  ‘Why not?’ van Horne said. ‘A little harmless amusement and no harm done. A trial of strength. If I win, you must allow Moreno to give me what I need.’

  ‘And if you lose?’

  Van Horne shrugged. ‘That will be up to you, señor.’

  Jurado laughed, and struck his nearest companion in the chest sending him half across the room. ‘Trial of strength – with me? That’s funny, isn’t it? That’s the funniest thing I ever heard.’ He turned back to van Horne. ‘What do you propose?’

  ‘Indian wrestling,’ van Horne said.

  Jurado’s mouth gaped. ‘Indian wrestling? A game for children.’

  He looked angry, suspecting he was being played with. Van Horne said, ‘I have a variation which adds a little interest. Let me show you.’

  There were several candles burning in holders on the top shelf behind the bar. He asked Moreno for two of them, took them to the nearest table and positioned them carefully. I saw the purpose of this at once as did most others watching. In Indian wrestling the antagonists sit opposite each other, right hands clasped, elbows on the table and the object is to force the opponent’s hand down on to the table. Van Horne’s variation meant a nasty burn for the loser into the bargain.

  Jurado laughed and grabbed a chair. ‘Heh, I like this. I like this very much indeed, though I warn you, señor, I may forget to let go.’

  Van Horne sat opposite him, they placed their elbows on the table and clasped hands. Jurado was grinning, teeth bared, but I could not see van Horne’s face for his back was towards me.

  A muscle ridged in Jurado’s face, his smile was a little tighter now as he realized he had taken on more than he had bargained for. Van Horne’s arm started to go, slowly, but surely, down towards the candle flame.