by K M Stross
“I went around and asked, but when no one knew shit, I started wondering if maybe I wasn’t just going crazy. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“You didn’t go to the sheriff?” Cross asked.
Cantrell looked up, smiling. “Sheriff Taylor doesn’t take too kindly to me. If I went and told him that story after Father Belmont went missing? He’d probably lock me up and throw away the key. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he doesn't spend a lot of time working cases when he doesn’t have to. Hell, the county sheriff office is out on the highway a dozen miles west of town. Last time I was in the drunk tank, the air conditioner was on the fritz.”
“How many ranchers live in the area around the church?”
“I’ve worked for three,” Cantrell said. “Two more that I know of, farther east. But Jesus Ramon’s property makes the most sense. It stretches out toward the Church, out to the hills.”
Cross signaled to the waitress for another round of beers to keep Cantrell talking. “Did you check the other properties?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because the only time I could talk to any of them was if I showed up for the early service,” Cantrell said, shifting under his weight. “And when I started prying, people started talking. So I stopped. Before word got back to our new priest.” He took a sip of beer, staring into the dark dimples of the wooden table. “Maybe it did.”
“So you think Father Aaron murdered Damien Belmont?”
“Didn’t say that.”
“But you believe what you saw that night, right? That it wasn’t a dream.”
Cantrell nodded. “I believe what my two eyes showed me that night, yeah.”
Cross leaned back in his seat and pulled out a cigarette, offering one to Cantrell who politely declined. “And then Father Aaron cornered you one day after Mass, and told you to stop wearing your hat to church.”
“Imagine my relief. You speak Spanish, Padre?”
Cross shook his head absently. He was thinking about Gabriel Morrissey. He was picturing Gabriel Morrissey inside St. Joseph’s church, leading Mass. Only without the scar on his face. Could he pull off such a complex hoax? Why would he come down here and impersonate a priest?
“You should learn Spanish,” Cantrell said. “It makes more sense than English. Comes in handy around here nowadays. You earn respect when you level with the immigrants, legal or otherwise. That, and sometimes you can pick up some juicy little rumors.”
“Yeah, well.” Cross took another drag. “Learning a new language isn’t all that high on my list of priorities, thanks.”
“Spanish isn’t that hard to figure out,” Cantrell said, staring at the waitress who was standing at the bar, her legs squeezed into tight shorts. “You just gotta be careful sometimes. La Libreria isn’t a library.”
“Are you saying I should talk to the ranch workers?”
“Naw,” Cantrell said. “There ain’t many left who were around when all this bullshit went down. Not even the wonderful Saint Aaron can keep them here for too long. But there’s still one woman here who remembers it all.”
“The blind woman,” Cross said. “Gabriella Marcia.”
Cantrell nodded and took a sip of his beer. “There’s someone else, from what I recall.”
“Who?” Cross asked.
“Soledad Marquez. She went missing a few months after Father Belmont did. She was what you would call a devout Catholic. Took up residence in old Damien’s room to help out Father Aaron while he took over his new position as a full-time priest.”
Cross leaned forward. The room had begun to tunnel, the low-watt overhead bulb barely offering any luminescence between the two men. “No body?”
Cantrell shook his head. “No one knows where she is, according to Sheriff Taylor.” He laughed. “According to Sheriff Taylor.”
“What did you do after you followed Father Aaron out of the church that night?”
“I took a long way home,” Cantrell said, “in the opposite direction of Father Aaron.” He circled his finger around the table, cutting through the water ring left by the beer glass.
Cross let his eyes lose focus in the direction of the table. “He was dragging Father Belmont. That means he wasn’t walking too fast. He couldn’t have been. And if he didn’t see you, then he didn’t need to dispose of Belmont's body immediately. It would have had to be at least half a mile. At least.”
Cantrell frowned. “It’s a pretty wide-open area to be making half-assed assumptions and guesses, Padre.”
Cross shook his eyes back into focus. His right eye, at least, complied. “Tell me about Soledad’s disappearance.”
“Got nothing on that,” Cantrell said. “You wanna know more about her, you go talk to Jesus.”
Cantrell cocked his head.
“Ramon,” Cantrell said with a smile. “Jesus Ramon. Not the legendary Christ, Padre.”
“Of course,” Cross said. “Did he know her well?”
“Well enough to tell you some about her before she moved into the church. She was a ranch hand for a short time.” Cantrell didn’t touch his new beer. He was staring at Cross, examining the white collar with a diamond cutter’s eye.
“All of this happened so fast,” Cross said. “I remember hearing… reading about it.”
Cantrell nodded.
Cross could feel his stomach beginning to churn and wondered which pill the beer was having trouble with. He’d felt it before but passed it off as hunger pains. This time it was more pronounced, deeper in the pit of his stomach.
“Seemed like Father Aaron was only here a few months, and then all sorts of shit started happening and then it was all over,” Cantrell murmured. “Just like that.”
“Father Belmont must have been digging around,” Cross said. “Maybe he contacted Father Aaron’s seminary and found something.” A discrepancy. How hard would it have been for Gabriel Morrissey to impersonate a priest for a few months? Not hard. But Morrissey was always a sloppy person; Cross remembered that much clearly. Morrissey could have slipped up, left something missing, and then had to speed up his plan suddenly.
“Anything making sense yet?”
“Yes,” Cross whispered.
Cantrell shook his head and grabbed the glass of beer. “Fuck.”
CHAPTER 11
Cross woke at noon with a mild hangover behind his eyes and a dry mouth that tasted like old tobacco. He got up and walked slowly over to the sink, splashing cold water on his face and rinsing the crust away from his eyes. He stood in front of the mirror for a moment, mildly stunned at how old he looked already, how much his left eyelids scrunched protectively around the inebriated orb of white tissue.
This crusade was killing him.
“Doesn’t matter,” he told his reflection. He took his pills and took his clothes off the shower’s curtain rod. He’d at least had the foresight to wash them in the tub last night before passing out and now they were mostly dry.
“Not very priest-like,” he muttered, putting on the cool, damp shirt. It had been a mistake to drink so much with Cantrell. He was a fraud, just like Father Aaron had been, and if he slipped up, that would be the end of things. Sheriff Taylor would kick him out of town or worse, and Gabriel Morrissey’s trail would go cold again. Cross couldn’t let that happen. It had been so long since he’d felt so close.
Outside, Abaddon Drive was bustling with life, mostly older white folks walking along the sidewalks and glancing into the dusty store windows. All of the shops were open while the Mexican laborers were busy on the ranches.
Cross reached into his pocket and pulled out the napkin with the directions Cantrell had scrawled out with a blue pen. Jesus Ramon’s ranch was northeast, just out of the town limits where the main road turned into the highway heading toward Texas. He turned and began walking, taking in the various men and women with his good eye. They were going from store to store, from knickknack shop to liquor store and then across the street to the general store, all t
he while gathering more plastic bags around their bent arms. They all had sunburned skin. Most were older.
The town, Cross thought, was enjoying its bull market. Where most had begun to struggle with higher gas prices and insurance expenses, the people of this town who could tolerate the infusion of immigrants were capitalizing on a blessing from God and had wasted no time embracing this new era. Those who couldn’t tolerate the Mexicans for whatever reason lost money and accepted it.
When Cross reached the town’s limit and passed a large billboard sign next to the road, he half-expected it to feature a picture of Father Aaron with a map of the town’s “Miracle Points” that were conveniently located by the local restaurants and shops. It was, instead, a warning for people to dispose of their unused prescription drugs in a safe way, underwritten in Spanish.
Just beyond the sign was the on-ramp for a northbound highway, which crossed over the eastbound highway in the form of the low-rise bridge that offered a very welcoming strip of cool shade out of the sun. Cross sat on the concrete slope under the bridge, listening to the traffic crossing overhead while his head continued to clear away the exhausting side effects of the drugs. His elbows rested on the concrete, the little pebbles and rocks digging into his skin. It was uncomfortable, and yet the idea of moving in any way, of expending more energy, didn’t appeal to Cross enough to shift and find a more comfortable position. He was in the shade. The dizziness that he’d gotten so used to was wearing off. His stomach felt good—not great.
A dark blue Dodge Ram passed him slowly, three white men in their early thirties watching him from the pickup bed. They looked tired, dirty, still wearing their windbreakers from the night before when they had been camped at the border. Hunting in packs. Cross wondered how many guns they had. He wondered which ranch they used to work on before cheaper labor began flooding into their town.
He wondered, watching them disappear into town, what each one of them might do if they stood face to face with their former employer. “Old Testament Justice,” Cantrell had said. The words stun Cross hard—he’d never connected this quest of his to anything in the Bible. That was the type of thing Gabriel Morrissey used to do. But now Cross couldn’t shake the thought. It was the truth. If he had the opportunity, he would kill Morrissey.
And maybe…
No.
But maybe… just maybe… this curse in his eyes would be lifted.
He stayed a moment longer before finally forcing his body to stand and walk back out into the sunlight. He crossed the road, stepping onto flat dry dirt that crunched under his boots. He was doing this to lift the curse. He knew that, but it was too hard to admit. He wasn’t sure if he believed in God anymore, but that didn’t prevent God from existing.
The Ramon ranch stood out in the middle of the plain away from either road. Barbed wire spread out in every direction, ending at the highway on one end and stretching out into the desert on the other end. Off in the distance was a narrow orange barn with a herd of dark black and brown cattle milling about like customers outside of a movie theater. The house, a simple one-story ranch with chipped red paint and dirty windows, stood next to it behind a gravel road leading back to the empty highway.
Cross followed the gravel road up to the house, keeping his eyes in the direction of the barn to see if anyone might poke out from behind the old wooden doors. He was glad no one did, hoping instead to hold a conversation out of the hot, sticky weather with a complimentary glass of ice water and a soft place to sit. He felt the cool sweat under his armpits beginning to drip down his torso, making for an uncomfortable last few steps.
He knocked on the front door and stepped back on the creaky porch, cramped between an old rocking chair on one end and an empty table on the other. Thick black flies swarmed over some dried liquid on the table. When no one came, he opened the storm door and knocked harder. After a moment, a chubby Hispanic man came to the door. He had a thick black mustache, thinning dark hair and dark skin. He was short, and the long menthol cigarette that was dangling from his mouth sent smoke drifting up into Cross’s nostrils. Cross tasted it in the back of his throat and coughed mechanically.
“Don’t need no more workers this season,” he said.
“I’m not looking for work, Mister Ramon,” Cross said.
The man squinted and eyed Cross up and down. He opened his mouth, letting the cigarette dangle from his lower lip. It clung to the dry brown tissue like flypaper. “Ah. Official church business, then? Come in, Father.”
Cross walked into the living room, noting the strong smell of vanilla incense and fried rice. The room was dim; sunlight filtered through faded brown curtains on the empty wall to Cross’s right. The tall lamp next to the couch was off, and the cool air coming from the window unit seemed to cling to Cross’s wet skin.
Ramon shut the door and glanced at the clock hanging over the large TV near the center of the room. The TV was on, tuned to CNN which was running a new story on border patrolling perspectives. “My piece of shit clock says it’s almost eleven, but the sun outside says it’s close enough for a lunch break. Do you have the real time, Father?”
Cross shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s fine,” Ramon said. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable while I send some people on a break?”
“Thank you.” Cross waited for Ramon to disappear into the kitchen before taking a seat on the couch, reserving the easy chair for his host. The couch creaked uncomfortably under Cross’s weight as he shifted back to find an acceptable level of comfort. The springs were worn, broken in various places and poking up into the thin cushion cover. Through the dirty front window, he could see a handful of men walking away from the direction of the barn, toward the empty open road that intersected the highway.
Ramon returned and sat down in the easy chair, lighting a fresh cigarette. He took a drag and slowly exhaled. “Hot day outside, no?”
Cross nodded, licking his dry lips. “Too hot for a northern boy like myself.”
Ramon raised one bushy dark eyebrow. “Where are you from?”
“Wisconsin,” Cross said.
Ramon smiled. “The cheese state. Long ways away from here.”
“The Church asked me here on account of Father Aaron’s canonization.”
“You’re a couple years too late. Anything left of Father Aaron is scattered in the wind by now.”
“I’m surprised to hear you say that,” Cross said. “I get the feeling people think Father Aaron’s soul is still hanging around Purgatory.”
Ramon continued staring at him, his expression unchanged. “This town is full of wackos, Father. No one in this town has any idea of what they’re talking about anymore. It’s a mania, like the Bigfoot sightings. Everyone’s got a story to tell.”
“What about the disappearance of Soledad Marquez?” Cross asked.
Ramon took another drag of his cigarette.
“I understand she worked for you.”
“That’s right,” Ramon said. “If your next question is whether I noticed anything strange before her disappearance, I’m afraid I can’t give you any better answer than the one I gave to Sheriff Pig.”
Cross laughed. Ramon watched him with scrutiny for a moment, then joined in. “I didn’t think priests were allowed to have a sense of humor.”
“I’ve had the opportunity to speak with the sheriff a few times.”
Ramon pulled his cigarette from his mouth so he could laugh harder. After a moment, he slowed and wiped at the corners of his eyes with one dirty thumb. “I can tell you what I told him if it will help make your job easier.”
Cross pulled out his tape recorder. “For my records. Do you mind?”
Ramon waved away the thought with his cigarette. “Not at all. I have a wonderful voice, perfect for radio. In another life, maybe.”
Cross started a new audio file and set it on the table. “What did Soledad Marquez see on the night of Father Belmont’s disappearance?”
Ramon smile
d, taking another long drag of his cigarette. The smoke hung in the air between them. “You’ve been here a while, haven’t you?”
“Long enough.”
Ramon leaned back and shifted his weight in the recliner. “You want to know what Marquez saw?”
“Yes,” Cross said.
“The truth is I don’t know what she saw. I don’t know what she heard, either. Marquez was a Central American—a real one. She spoke a dialect of Maya I have never heard before, and I haven’t heard it since.”
“Do you think her leaving had anything to do with Father Aaron?”
Ramon cocked his head. “What? No. It was Father Belmont. He’s the one who disappeared around here. He’s the one Marquez probably saw that night, which is why the town put out a reward for whoever found Belmont’s body.”
“A reward?” Cross asked. “I don’t remember hearing about that.”
Ramon smiled and leaned back in the chair. “It’s still good. Twenty thousand dollars from the Vatican, plus twenty thousand dollars from the city council to find the old man’s bones, wherever they are, so he can be put to rest in a proper funeral. That’s a lot of money for this town to be throwing around, especially with so many People in the Hills without jobs. Even if the council used that money on the town, I don’t think the People in the Hills would take it. They care more about attacking Mexicans than making money.”
“Some think Father Belmont might have been murdered.” Cross quickly corrected himself, shifting uncomfortably, “According to what I’ve read in the newspaper archives.”
“Maybe,” Ramon said, putting the cigarette out in the ashtray on the table. “You know how reporters are about those things. They showed up long after everything happened, so their stories are based on whatever the immigrants told them. The immigrants have fantastic imaginations.”
“Do you always employ so many of them?” Cross asked.
Ramon shrugged. “For now, until they find something that pays better. They are not all ranch hands.”
