Purgatory

by K M Stross

  “I just saw them,” Cross said, opening his eyes and staring at the faceless blanket. “When I first came looking for you. They were sitting in the exact same spot.”

  “It happens, Padre.”

  Cross stood up and looked at Cantrell, who was leaning against the back wall with what looked like an amused face hidden under the brim of his cap. “How?” he asked.

  Cantrell took another puff and shrugged. “Maybe they were just stragglers. Maybe there was a husband…”

  “There was. The little girl told me he was out working.”

  “Right.” Cantrell took another drag, exhaling it away from the bodies. “Maybe the husband got caught. Or maybe he saw his chance to start over and just got the fuck outta this town.”

  “So why didn’t they get help?” Cross asked. “I was right here, and they didn’t ask for help. They didn’t even ask for food. I gave them money. They could have used it to buy something. Snuck out and came back without anyone realizing.”

  Cantrell stared at him a moment, then walked back over to the bodies. Carefully, he drew the blanket away from the woman’s midsection, using his hand to feel around her jeans while the cigarette dangled from his lips. Cross wanted to tell him to stop, but before he could take a breath, Cantrell reached into the front pocket, felt around and pulled out the crumpled cash.

  “Bingo,” he said through gritted teeth. He put the blanket back over the cold, forgiving brown eyes and handed Cross’s money back to him.

  Cross hesitated to touch more than a finger to the bills, feeling the sickness in his stomach beginning to return. He imagined the woman’s clammy thin hands wrapped around the money, imagined the smooth skin on her fingertips rubbing against it while her heart stopped beating.

  “They won’t need it. Come on,” Cantrell said, leading Cross back into the first room.

  “Why didn’t they buy food?” Cross asked, following him. “I gave them money. They could have bought something with it.”

  “Not at night,” Cantrell said with the cigarette tightly between his teeth. “Not with those fuckers in the hills on the hunt. They patrol the town.” He took the small hammer out of his belt loop and began tapping at the far wall that was layered with dirty yellow floral wallpaper. “Mexicans—legal and otherwise—don’t go out at night in Purgatory.”

  “I just…” Cross sighed. It doesn’t matter, he told himself. But if he had been able to see more clearly, with both eyes, maybe he would have noticed how emaciated the two had been under the glow of the candlelight. Maybe he would have tried to get them to a hospital. Maybe, he thought. Maybe not.

  “What is it, Padre.”

  “I feel like I wandered into a fucking vampire town.”

  Cantrell grunted. “Wouldn’t be far off the mark, I guess.” He tapped on the wall again. When he found a spot that was distinctly hollow, he spun the hammer around and tore into the drywall with the claw. He used his fingers to tear away the broken chunks until he could reach his fist in and grab at the copper wire.

  “We’re taking the wire?” Cross asked.

  “Just the copper,” Cantrell said, pulling hard so that the wire began to come loose inside the foundation. “It’s the only thing the owner wants.”

  “For what?”

  Cantrell tugged hard at the remainder of the line of copper, pulling out the last meter and tossing the long, curled line onto the wooden floor. “It’s the only thing of any value. And if the owner doesn’t take it, whoever tears it down will.”

  “When is the building coming down?” Cross asked, helping him tug at another line of wire and lay it on the carpeting.

  “Dunno,” Cantrell said. “Could be any day now.”

  “Tight time frame.”

  “Yeah, well.” Cantrell let the cigarette sway from his lip. “The landlord’s a bit of an alcoholic.”

  “What would have happened to them if I’d have gotten them to a hospital?” Cross asked, glancing back to the heavy blanket in the next room. It was a shroud now. Its purpose had changed so quickly. But regardless of its use, it had always been a cover.

  Cantrell pulled the cigarette from his mouth. The color-coated filter peeled away from his dry lips like Velcro. “Same thing that would have happened if they’d gone out at night. Get it?”

  “No.” Nor should you care, he told himself. Their problems weren’t his concern. Still, he couldn’t shake their faces from his mind. They didn’t have to die.

  Cantrell returned to the wall, tapping at intervals until he reached the corner, pounding in three more holes. “Put your fist in,” he said.

  Cross reached into one of the small holes, pulling away the cracked drywall as he did then. It fell to the floor in a mixture of fine powder and brittle gray chunks. Gray mold lined the end that had faced the inside of the wall, adding a new dizzying scent—rotting grass—to the already dense bouquet of flavors mixing in their nostrils.

  “Now use your fingers to find the three wires running along the wall,” Cantrell said. “Got em?”

  “Yeah,” Cross said, running his middle finger along the three thin wires.

  “I thought you were left-handed.”

  “What?”

  Cantrell shrugged. “You were using your left hand to drink your beer yesterday.”

  “I was born left-handed. I learned to use my right hand.” To accommodate the tunnel vision in my left eye, he almost added.

  “Take the middle one and pull it away from the wall,” Cantrell said. “Got it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Pull it.”

  Cross pulled at the wire, feeling it dig into his skin until the small plastic braces finally snapped under the pressure. He pulled out the first end of the wire and wrapped it around his fist before pulling again. The wire cut through the loose drywall, and snake-like cracks appeared on the wall. The wire began to slide out.

  “How much will this get the owner?” Cross asked.

  “Dunno,” Cantrell said. He gave his wire one strong yank with his boot against the wall for leverage and then very casually pulled the rest of it from the wall, tossing it on the floor and moving to the last hole. “Ten times what we’d make working a farm for the day, I’d figure.”

  “And it doesn’t bother you that you’re tearing apart this building? I mean, come on… level with me. Chances are the owner just walked away from his mortgage.”

  “Lotta people did that,” Cantrell muttered. He proceeded to the next wall and tapped out a handful more holes. “But you’re right; the bank does own this now. Owns a lot of places in this area, but if we don’t take this copper, someone else will.”

  “Like squatters,” Cross finished.

  “Now you’re getting it.” Cantrell yanked hard again and began pulling out his third line of copper. “Not that it would have helped these young ladies. They were too terrified to go outside, for Christ’s sake. Not much use in tearing out the copper if you can’t go out and sell it.” He took a thoughtful drag of his cigarette. “Not that they even knew about it, I suppose.”

  “What about the sheriff?” Cross asked, pulling out the remaining wire and tossing it on the floor. Already, his head was beginning to bead with sweat. “Are they afraid of the sheriff too?”

  “Naw,” Cantrell said with a smile. He tossed his cigarette on the floor and stamped it out with one black boot, scraping the ashy entrails along the blue carpeting. “Just the vigilantes. La gente de las colinasas the Mexicans call them. You ever seen The Hills Have Eyes? The original?”

  “No.”

  Cantrell shook his head. “Shame. Scary movie.”

  Cross closed his eyes and leaned against the partially demolished wall. When he opened them again, Cantrell was watching him.

  “You all right?”

  “Fine,” Cross said. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. “My medication just takes a lot out of me.”

  “We can take a break.”

  “No. I’ll be fine.”

  Cross followed Can
trell to the next wall, where they repeated the process. The lack of windows kept the room cool for the most part, but still Cross could feel sweat beginning to trickle down his back. He let Cantrell hammer the holes, and then he followed by pulling the copper wire out, using his fingers to do the work of his eyes. It was a slow process, and all of the remaining wires seemed to only come out with much greater force.

  When they were finished, Cantrell sighed and lit a fresh cigarette. He was breathing heavily, leaning hard on his left leg.

  “What now?” Cross asked. He could no longer smell the bodies through the thickening smoke that wafted between the rooms. That, or he had gotten used to their stench, a thought that made him uncomfortable. Use this for what it is, he thought; use it as practice for the next dead body you come across.

  Cantrell motioned with his head—his cigarette, mostly—to the next room. “There’s only two left in the other room. I can get those, and you can start taking all of this into the cab outside. Put a little stride in your step, if you can. I’d like to get all of this to the scrap yard by tonight.” He pulled out his keys and was about to toss them, then simply handed them to Cross instead. “In the trunk. And make sure it’s shut every time you come back in.”

  Cross gathered up the lines of wire, taking them in clumsy clumps out of the building to the rusty old yellow Cadillac with a white TAXI sign sitting on top. Cross put them in the trunk and went in for more, repeating the process until the floor was clean and then stood outside under the sun, leaning against the hot door.

  He wiped the sweat away from his forehead, aware of the shadow in the left-hand corner of his vision but ignoring it. It was nothing, he told himself. A flicker of pressure deep inside his eye, nothing more. He wouldn’t have even noticed it if he wasn’t nervous about standing out in front of the taxi—he had become thoroughly convinced while standing out in front of the cab, that he had just committed a property crime.

  Cantrell came out with the last two lines of wire.

  “How did you know there were only two lines left in the other room?” Cross asked.

  Cantrell opened the trunk, threw in the last lines, and shut it. “I helped build that place. Lived there for twenty-two years. Come on; I’ll give you a free ride.”

  Cross opened the passenger’s side door and got in. The car was hot and suffocating. It smelled like rotten fish and stale soda water dried long ago on the black leather upholstery. “Why did you move out?”

  Cantrell started the car and popped the cigarette lighter, holding a fresh cigarette between his sweaty lips. “I worked on a ranch for fifteen years. Then I got fired so the landowner could hire two Mexicans at the same price. ”

  “Now you do odd jobs,” Cross finished. “And you drive a cab?”

  The cigarette lighter popped out. Cantrell grabbed it and lit his cigarette, pushing the lighter back into place. “I drive a taxi to make ends meet. I do odd jobs so I can get drunk.”

  “I can’t imagine a lot of people need a taxi around here.”

  Cantrell smiled, gripping the steering wheel with one hand. “Some people do.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Shortly after eight pm, Cross found himself standing once again in front of the café. He was still groggy from the three-hour nap, wondering exactly why he wanted to gorge on the terrible cold sandwiches and stale coffee that would constitute a dinner in this town. He was about to turn away when a warm hand touched his shoulder. Cross flinched instinctively. He turned and found Maria standing in front of him. She was wearing a plain red dress, loose enough to fight off the sticky weather but still tight enough to clutch at her petite waist.

  “I thought it was you, Father,” she said.

  Cross smiled, honing in on her bright brown eyes. Maintain eye contact, he thought—feel comfortable, sexually neutral… act like a goddamn priest. “Not many people wear black around here… Maria, right?”

  She smiled. So many years out in the sun had aged her skin, wrinkling it around her forehead and lips, a painting canvas improperly stretched around its corners. And yet she still retained a look of innocence deep within her dark brown irises, a flash of sincerity that refreshed with every blink. He felt himself drawn into her eyes, jealous of the way they both absorbed the world. “How is your investigation coming along?”

  “Good enough,” Cross said. “I have to admit, I’ve been enjoying exploring your town. It’s such a fascinating place.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way,” she said, still smiling. She motioned toward the café’s glass door with her head. “You are not planning on eating there, are you?”

  “Well.” Cross grimaced at the thought of drinking another cup of cold coffee. “It had crossed my mind that I should eat something today, even if it isn’t completely edible.”

  Maria touched his elbow. “Come with me. My sisters cooked chicken soup tonight. You will have a bowl.”

  “I couldn’t impose,” Cross said, not fighting when she began tugging. His stomach had already begun to burn for something other than stale coffee, and it was rare for the medication to give him permission to feel anything other than gut rot. He wondered why he felt a pain of guilt—only a year ago, he had spent a month living with an old Catholic shut-in and eating her home-cooked meals every night. Telling her about mission trips he’d never taken. Taking her to her church—St. Thomas Aquinas—and helping the priest there with spring-cleaning during the weekend, all the while spending his nights searching town, questioning drunks in bars about a man who’d spent time in the town.

  Gabriel Morrissey.

  “You are not imposing,” Maria said, laughing. “You are a guest in this town!”

  He let her lead him to the doorway next to the café’s large window. There was a scratched-off address on the door as well as on the small black mailbox hanging next to the door on the bricks.

  “I would have liked to buy the local literature on Father Aaron from the antique store down the street,” he said, “but their hours are so erratic. They’re never open except in the morning.”

  “They only open when the Mexicans are working on the ranches,” Maria said, the tone of her voice rising by a decibel. “They do not want Mexican customers.”

  She used her key to unlock the door and led him up the bare wooden staircase. At the top, she unlocked the next door and pulled him into the small apartment that must have been directly above the café. It was dark, with one dimly lit overhead fan light fixture that cast a faint glow on the otherwise colorful living room complete with two large couches surrounding a large tube TV sitting against the opposite wall. Scattered on the floor were shorts and small shirts and a few colorful bras.

  Maria quickly guided Cross left into the kitchen and ordered him to sit at the table. “I am so embarrassed. Those are not my clothes. My sisters are the messy ones.”

  “It’s a nice place,” he said while she fumbled around inside the refrigerator for the leftovers. He tried not to stare at the stained wooden tabletop or the stack of dirty dishes in the sink. The microwave and toaster sitting on the countertop looked old, their black finishes crusted over with bits of food and smudged with other less solid edibles. Brown and yellowed crumbs looked glued to the wood countertop.

  Sitting on the countertop were three white candles. On each candle was a drawing of a man with slightly tanned skin and short hair and an awkward smile. “Father Abaddon?” he asked, pointing.

  “Yes,” Maria said. “My sisters always buy candles with his picture on them. They believe he watches over us. They heard from another ranch hand that, a few months after he took over the church, Father Abaddon moved the service for Mexicans upstairs. He said that all of God’s children are loved, and he abolished services in the basement.” She sighed. “I think that is a good thing to do. I think, in a town like this, it is very brave.”

  “Do you just live with your siblings?” he asked.

  Maria grabbed the large Tupperware container of soup and placed it in the microwave. “Yes. M
y parents still live in Mexico. They will not move here.”

  “I would imagine it’s difficult to leave one’s home behind,” he said, surprised at how easy such alien words could come out. He’d made the decision to leave his entire life behind in one instant, a moment of clarity when the entire world lost its color. But for others, he’d noticed the pull of home was much stronger.

  Maria seemed to find the idea just as absurd, scoffing as she set the timer and turned on the microwave. “They are just stubborn, like our grandparents. Mexico is not hard to leave behind unless you are rich. Especially not on the border.”

  Cross watched her sit down on the opposite side of the table, wondering vaguely if she was trying to get a reaction from him. Testing him, perhaps, to see whether his allegiance might lay with the vigilantes who hunted at night on the outskirts of town. “Is that so?” he asked finally. “I’ve never visited, I’m afraid.”

  Maria smiled. “Have you never been to college? Mexico is a popular Spring Break destination.”

  “I went to a technical school,” Cross said. “In my hometown.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Oh, it’s like a college,” Cross said. “But it focuses on technical trades.”

  “And where is that?” she asked with a wry smile.

  “Wisconsin,” he said simply. He didn’t want to tell her more because it was all too true. He wanted to stick with the carefully worked script he had prepared for personal questions. A script that distanced his previous life from what he now had become. But he felt compelled to continue, “I went to get my degree so I could be an airline mechanic. I couldn’t finish, though; I was diagnosed with glaucoma.”

  “What is that?” Maria asked.

  Cross pointed to his left eye. “Pressure behind my eye. In my eye. It… I need a lot of medication.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. Behind her, the microwave shut off and only the gentle hum of the refrigerator broke the silence. She pulled out the container, stirred the thick red soup with a small silver spoon, then put it back inside for another thirty seconds. “Is that why you became a priest?”