He wondered if Mom’s excitement at sending him to Mexico wasn’t tied to just getting rid of him for a while. He’d become something of a pain in the ass in the past few years—ever since Dad’s cancer—but from where he sat, pains in the ass were in the eyes of the beholder. As Mom got more and more enraptured by God (Thank you very much for taking my mother away, Pastor Mitchell), she’d made it her mission to keep Tristan from having any fun.
And come on, let’s be honest. Tristan wasn’t a druggie and he wasn’t a boozer. He’d never even gotten a stern lecture from the principal, for God’s sake. Look up “good kid” in the dictionary. You’ll find Tristan’s picture.
But that wasn’t enough. Rachel Wagner—Mom—had taken it upon herself to monitor his email and the books he read. In the case of the latter, a single bad word rendered a book the work of the devil and it was therefore banned from the house. Hell was first and foremost a bad word, by the way, not a place of eternal damnation. Oops, damnation was a bad word, too. See how ridiculous this shit got?
As for his emails, Mom expected him to not use it. No shit. That was her solution. His time would be far better spent reading the Bible and surrounding himself with the wonders of the Lord’s love. Tristan didn’t even know what that meant.
Isolde, meanwhile, knew a losing battle when she saw it, and decided to stay on the sidelines. Just do what Mom says. Helluva battle cry, Sis. And brave, too, being fifteen miles away with her live-in boyfriend.
Tristan had actually tried to live with all the restrictions for a while, but it didn’t take long for him to start identifying with Carrie White from the Stephen King book. Having already been born into Ichabod Crane’s body, and carrying the name of some German knight, he didn’t need any other fictional metaphors in his life, thank you very much.
So he started to push back. Hard. In so doing, he discovered that Mom’s parenting weaponry was pretty much limited to guilt speeches and crying jags. As a teenager, you can adapt to those pretty quickly, but parents adapt, too. She started invoking Dad’s memory—specifically, how disappointed he must be in his son.
So Tristan adapted again. The secret to success, it turned out, was simply to hide everything and lie like a rug. It works, he figured out, because deep down inside, she didn’t want to know the truth. As long as he had the decency to pretend, she would never look past the thin outer crust that his private life had become.
Isolde had moved out by the time the craziness started, so she was totally disengaged, but Tristan worried about Ziggy. He wasn’t more than a few years past Santa Claus, so he took a lot of Mom’s bullshit as gospel—literally—and it was already beginning to get him beaten up in school. Tristan did what he could to serve as a sanity buffer, but next year he had an appointment with Buttscratch University, and when that train pulled into the station, there was no power on earth that would keep him from climbing aboard.
As the time for this trip had approached, he’d talked himself into believing that maybe it would be a good time. He did, in fact, spend too much time on his computer, whether with surreptitious emails or games—truly the devil’s work—so he’d suspended disbelief just enough to give it a try.
There were supposed to be more people than this on the trip back then. Bill Georgen was supposed to be here, and so was Bobby Cantrell. Neither were what he’d call good friends, but they were decent enough, and they’d shared a few laughs over the years. A week before the trip, though, both of them dropped out, leaving him alone with two jocks, a diva, and a cheerleader, all of whom seemed far more attached to the party potential than the doing of God’s work on Earth.
When Tristan had found out about the change in the cast, he’d considered petitioning his mom for a reprieve, but abandoned the thought before even trying it.
It wasn’t a battle worth fighting.
So here he was, the lone survivor, sitting among guns and explosives and gasoline, in the company of people whose primary talent seemed to be killing people. With his eyes closed, he could see the carnage all over again, the white flashes of bone against the crimson background of extruded tissue. If he allowed himself, he could even smell the blood. Who even knew that blood had a smell?
“You okay back there, kid?” the driver asked. Big Guy.
“Tristan. Not kid. Tristan. And no, not especially. To be really honest, I’m scared shitless.”
“Good,” Scorpion said.
“Excuse me?”
He turned in his seat to look back at him. “The thickest streams of bullshit flow from terrified people who claim not to be scared.”
“Does that mean that you’re scared, too?”
Scorpion thought about it before answering. “Scared’s not the right word,” he said.
“Frightened?” Tristan helped. “Terrified? Paralyzed with fear?”
Scorpion laughed. It was a hearty, happy sound that showed genuine amusement. “None of the above,” he said. “Big Guy and I have been doing this stuff for a long time. It’s more like that feeling you get before you walk out on stage to give a speech. Anticipation, I guess.”
Tristan smiled. “You must give some wild speeches, dude. Seriously, what do you think our chances are?”
“Chances are of what?”
“Getting home.”
The humor drained from Scorpion’s expression. “Remember that you asked,” he said. “And that I promised not to lie to you.”
Tristan felt the wash of dread.
“None of this is going to be easy,” Scorpion went on. “People want us dead, apparently in a bad way. If they want it badly enough, they’ll put bounties out on us, dangling cash for the person who kills us, or at least turns us in.”
“Holy shit,” Tristan breathed.
“While we’ve got a thousand miles to travel through some pretty hostile terrain. Then, when we finally get to where we’re going, it looks like we’re going to have to be smuggled out of the country.”
Boxers growled, “Christ, Scorpion. You’re depressing me.”
“Well, those are just the risks, Big Guy. Now, on the positive side—”
“There’s a positive side?” Tristan interrupted.
“There’s always a positive side,” Scorpion said. “On the positive side, these are by no means the darkest odds I’ve ever faced, and I’m still here. Plus, I have a team of colleagues back home who are moving heaven and earth to help us work out the details.”
“Mother Hen?” Tristan asked.
“And others,” Scorpion confirmed. “You eavesdrop well. You’ll make a good intel officer one day.”
Tristan assumed that to mean intelligence officer, and if that was a job that involved shit like this, he wasn’t interested.
“Plus,” Scorpion said, “be honest with yourself. I know you’ve seen a lot of trauma and you’ve lost friends, and I don’t mean to take anything away from that. You’ll have a whole lifetime to grieve. But ask yourself this: Aren’t you living pretty intensely right now? I mean, if you take away the fear and the loss and the pain, can you think of any time in your life that has felt like a bigger adventure?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Here it was nearly midnight, and when Captain Ernesto Palma of the Mexican Army’s La Justicia, or military police, should have been home with his mistress, he was instead in Santa Margarita, investigating the immolation of a telephone substation. The miscreants had used thermite, for heaven’s sake. They’d made no attempt even to give the impression of a natural fire. His sources here in the village told him of visitors who’d arrived in a vehicle that fit the description of the very vehicle for which he’d been alerted to be on the lookout. By all accounts, the occupants of that vehicle were American military, and the presence of thermite certainly seemed to back that up.
A second source told him of larger cooperation among the villagers. The sort of cooperation that was always disturbing, if only for its ability to spin out of control. Once you allowed peasants to feel powerful, the first casualty was respe
ct for authority. And once people stopped fearing authority, violence was inevitable.
So here he was, in the unlikeliest of places—a tiny country church—having to mete out discipline to the unlikeliest of people. “Father, be reasonable,” Palma said. “The questions I ask are simple to answer. It needn’t be this difficult.”
Father Perón stood naked at the altar, his hands folded across his privates. It was a supplicant posture, an attempt to mine dignity out of a confrontation that would ultimately allow none. Members of the clergy in general—priests in particular—posed special annoyances for Palma during interrogations. They seemed to feel that the costumes they wore and the deference given to them by their followers earned them a kind of immunity. Palma had seen it so many times that he’d come to expect it. There was a time in his life—his adult life, even—when it might have worked; but that was well before the cartels had started running the country. With all that money to be made, there was precious little room in the world for magical deities and superstition.
Nakedness was in itself a form of torture for some people. The sense of helplessness and exposure went beyond bare flesh, and the more power the individual perceived himself to wield, the more devastating the humiliation. With the clergy, the underlying sexuality of nakedness made it an especially useful tool. Sometimes, being stripped naked was all that it took to glean the information he sought. If more effort was required, then the subject’s nudity took on a practical efficiency.
“I cannot answer your questions,” Perón said. “The sanctity of the confessional—”
“Please spare me,” Palma interrupted. He rolled up the sleeves of his uniform to reveal heavily muscled forearms. “This needn’t be complicated, Father. In fact, by embracing the inevitable, you can save us all a lot of time, and yourself a lot of discomfort.”
“I am not choosing not to tell you,” Perón said. “I cannot.”
Palma paused, pretending to collect his thoughts. Timing was an important element of interrogation, an element that less experienced soldiers often neglected. Moving slowly prolonged the subject’s mental agony. Each additional second of discomfort led the subject a step closer to revealing the information that would bring the return of comfort.
“How did that vehicle end up being stored in your barn, Father?”
“Someone stole the truck that the parish owns,” Perón said. “I don’t know how that other vehicle got there. I didn’t even know that the Pathfinder was missing.”
Palma sighed deeply. He was going for the sound of a disappointed parent. “Please don’t insult me and disgrace yourself with a lie, Father. Don’t disappoint the Lord that way.”
“I am not lying,” Perón insisted.
“Then who stole it?”
“I have no idea,” the priest said. “You must believe me.”
So, this was the way it was going to be. Ruis nodded to one of his non-commissioned officers, Sergeant Sanchez, who nodded in return and left the sanctuary. He knew exactly what he was supposed to do.
“I’ll make a deal with you, Father,” Palma said. He paced at the foot of the altar, measuring his words carefully. “I will start believing you when you start telling the truth.”
“But I’m telling—”
“I know about the Yankee missionaries,” Palma interrupted. “The two men and the boy. I know that you helped them get away.”
Perón’s veneer cracked. Not much, and not for long, but for long enough for Palma to know that he’d touched the right nerve. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Another sigh. “You surprise me, Father,” he said. “And you disappoint me. For the record, I am not insensitive to your predicament. You committed yourself to a lie, and now you feel compelled to defend it. In your job, you must encounter such dilemmas among your parishioners all the time. Now, I’ll ask you again. How did that vehicle get into your garage?”
Perón’s posture straightened. He stopped covering himself, and he put his fists on his hips. Palma recognized it as the second or maybe third stage of the interrogation process: rebellion. He’d done this enough that he could even have predicted what the priest was going to say.
Perón didn’t let him down. “If you already know the answers, Captain, why is it important even to speak with me?”
“One never has all the answers, Father. Each new interview brings an additional detail, a tiny nuance.” He paused to allow himself a smile. “But mostly, it’s the principle, Father. My employer’s business runs on respect, and respect is born of fear. Surely you must know this better than most. Your business runs on the fear of Hell.”
“My business, as you put it, runs on the love of the Lord.” He started to cover himself again, but aborted the effort.
In Palma’s mind, that was a gesture of pure defiance.
“And according to your uniform,” Perón continued, “your employer is the United Mexican States.”
Palma let those words hang in the air, hoping that their absurdity alone would cause Perón to recant. When he didn’t, Palma allowed himself a laugh. A loud, boisterous one. As he climbed the three steps up to the altar, Perón resumed his supplicant pose. Palma came in close, to within inches of the priest’s face.
“And who does the United Mexican States work for, Father?”
Without hesitation, and with no waver in his voice, Perón said, “The people.”
Palma could feel the fear spilling from this man, and as he did, he found his tolerance for these games diminishing. “The people don’t know what they want,” he said. “The people are sheep. They line up and wait to be told where to go. Like the rest of the world, we all work for the United States of America—but more specifically, for the drug addicts of the United States of America. More immediately, however, we work for the people who supply the drug addicts.”
He moved in so close that their noses nearly touched. He could smell the soap that the priest had used. Ivory. “So let’s not fool each other, Father,” he said. He’d modulated his voice to a barely audible whisper. “Let’s not even try. The political government means nothing in this part of the Mexico. Money rules, and the money is controlled by Mr. Felix Hernandez. It’s important to him that intermediaries like me are feared, and through that fear are treated with respect. Are you seeing the circularity of all this, Father?”
Something changed behind Perón’s eyes. Finally, there was the fear he’d been waiting for. “So, Father, one more time before you leave me no choice, how did that truck end up in your garage?”
Perón’s eyes reddened, and tears balanced on his lids. “Our truck was stolen.”
Another deep sigh. “Oh, Father, there comes a point where bravery and foolishness become one.”
He turned to another of his noncoms. “I want thirty villagers in here in the next ten minutes. I don’t care how you get them. I want ten of them to be children.”
Eight minutes later, the church was filled with sleep-starved villagers. Palma’s men stood behind them with their weapons at a loose port arms. Their stances were threatening, but the directions of their muzzles were not.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Palma said. The crowd before him was mostly dressed, but entirely barefoot. Two or three of the men were bare-chested, and five of the women wore nightclothes that would otherwise never have seen public scrutiny. A few of the children appeared to still be asleep, but Palma forgave that. It was the wailing baby that he could not forgive. With a single glance, he granted special dispensation for the baby and her parents to leave.
“We are here for a difficult task,” Palma went on. “Your village had visitors tonight. They are known murderers, and wanted by the police. I asked Father Perón for details, and he refused to give them. Now he has to pay the price.”
A man stepped forward from the crowd. Palma recognized him as Roberto Gonzalez. “I know who took the truck,” he said.
“Many of you know who took the truck,” Palma replied, “Father Perón among
them. Even I know the truth of who took the truck. But I need to know it from this man.”
The parishioners had difficulty looking at their pastor in this condition. They diverted their eyes.
“Bring the cross forward,” Palma ordered.
Sanchez and Corporal Martinez walked up onto the altar to the life-size crucifix and pulled the statue of Jesus from its mountings. They brought the cross downstage and poised it next to Father Perón.
“Please don’t do this,” the priest whispered. He didn’t want to beg in front of his congregation, but neither did he want to suffer the agony that lay ahead for him.
Palma watched the crowd. They were appalled, but they were with him. Palma had found it to be a quirk of human nature that the torture of others served two masters. On the one hand, witnessed agony transferred as a negative—a fear-inducing event—to those who watched, even as it provided a sense of relief that the torture was being endured by someone else, and therefore brought a measure of peace.
Watching others suffer bred fear, and fear brought cooperation. People needed to understand that actions had consequences, and if the consequences were brutal beyond proportion, the cooperation was even more guaranteed.
Because today’s victim was a priest—and no matter how jaded to violence a soldier became, there was always a special place in the heart for a man of the cloth—Palma decided to drive the nails himself. With the hardwood cross on the floor, they forced Father Perón to lie with his shoulders at the spot where the horizontal members met the vertical members. Sergeant Sanchez literally sat on the priest’s chest to hold him in place while Palma stretched one arm as far out to the side as it would go. Planting a knee on Perón’s wrist, he pried open the priest’s fingers and pounded the four-inch twenty-penny nail through the flesh of his palm, directly below the space between the second and third knuckles.
That was when the priest screamed for the first time—the moment when the nail pierced his flesh and the oak with the same hammer blow. In Palma’s mind the scream was one of fear more than it was one of agony. How much could it hurt, after all? Palma had taken care to avoid bone and tendon, and he’d done this enough to be very skilled.
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