by Logan Fox
“Jesus. Next time, maybe don’t aim for the wildlife?” Lars said as he clambered through the passenger side door.
“I was—” He cut off when Lars popped the hood.
“Still can’t take a joke, Milo?” Lars tried jumping the Jeep from the mess of wires dangling from the steering column. The engine gave a reluctant whine before cutting out. He climbed out again, coming around to peer under the hood beside Finn.
“Hey, could you check if the shut off switch tripped?” Lars asked.
Finn popped the trunk and went around to the back.
“Switch trip?” Lars prompted a second later. And then stuck out his head from behind the hood when Finn remained silent.
Obviously, his glare was answer enough.
Lars gave him an easy smile. “Let’s try the battery.” He yanked at the clamps until they both came off, and then dusted snow off the engine block. “We don’t get this thing running—”
“Then I’ll take her on the snowmobile.”
“Abandoning me at the cabin?” Lars dusted his hands as he straightened. “No thanks. I’ll take her.”
“We’ll flip for it.”
Lars studied him for a second, and those pale green eyes flickered. Then came that incorrigible smile again. “Sure, Milo. Whatever you say.” Then he turned his head, scanning the snow. “We should grab that deer. I’ll skin it and keep it in the freezer.”
Finn rolled his eyes, but began trudging to the spot where he and Cora had dragged the deer. Buried under three foot of snow, the animal was already frozen. He and Lars dragged it back to the jeep and wedged its stiff body in the back.
When they reconnected the battery and Lars hopped in the driver’s seat, the engine started up with a roar. He kept his foot on the gas for a few seconds. Dark exhaust fumes tainted the white world behind the Jeep and Lars carefully released the gas. The engine purred, hiccupping every few seconds, but not cutting out.
“Not sure—” Lars began.
“We’ll risk it.”
“No coin toss then?”
Finn didn’t reply, climbing into the passenger seat and slamming the door behind him.
8
Flogging a dead horse
Despite dawn’s glittering clarity, Zachary’s barn remained gloomy and cool. Rodrigo went inside first, Ailin taking up station outside with Lady and Blue. The dogs and his lieutenant tolerated each other like estranged siblings, wary but accepting of each other’s place alongside their master. When Zachary glanced at Lady, her tail swished just once through the dirt before stilling. She kept his gaze until he looked away, and then turned to scan the surrounding fields with a stare identical to that of Ailin.
Angel had stopped on the threshold of the barn and it took a gentle shove to the small of his back before the boy moved forward into the grasping darkness beyond.
The smell of unwashed flesh met them when they were halfway across the dusty, straw-littered floor. Animals hadn’t lived in the barn for a long time—years, possibly—but neither the farm’s previous owner nor Zachary had bothered to sweep in here.
A shaft of light speared down from a large crack between two ill-fitting boards in a nearby wall. It illuminated a strip of the barn floor and an overturned votive candle, now dusty.
Angel stopped again.
Zachary wrapped his fingers around the back of the young man’s neck and drove him forward.
Rivera didn’t stir. The man could have been dead, but then the stink of his rotting flesh would have filled this barn to bursting rather than just his stale sweat and bodily excretions. Close to the votive candle, plump maggots crawled through the remains of a ham and cheese sandwich.
The man still hadn’t eaten since his capture.
“Angel, this is Antonio Luis Rivera, capo of the El Calacas Vivo cartel.”
Under his hand, Angel’s neck muscles stood proud. “Si, Don Zachary.”
“He is a stubborn man,” he said, stepping closer to Angel. “He refuses to tell me what I wish to know. There are many ways to persuade a man to do your bidding. Pain. Humiliation. Degradation. Pain is the easiest to inflict, but sometimes the easiest to endure. We’ll start your lesson today with pain.”
When he touched the young man’s belt, Angel stiffened and made a sound in the back of his throat. “Did your father ever hit you, Angel?”
Angel let out a strangled, “Si,” as Zachary undid his belt and slid the strip of leather from his jeans.
He took Angel’s hands, wrapped the belt around his palm, and urged the boy forward again. Angel stumbled, threw Zachary an incredulous look over his shoulder, and then straightened. He stalked closer to Rivera, watching the man as if he expected Rivera to jump up and attack him.
“Antonio!” Zachary called out, making Angel jump. “Have you reconsidered your position since we last spoke?”
Rivera stirred. With what looked like tremendous effort, the man lifted his blindfolded head. That strip of cloth and a pair of dirty trunks was the only thing Rivera wore; they’d long since stripped him of his Gucci suit, leaving only his Egyptian cotton underwear. There hadn’t been much fat on Rivera—he’d arrived at the barn as lithe as Angel—and after a week of starvation, his body had begun cannibalizing itself to survive. Pronounced knees and elbows, the hint of ribs beneath his purple-blue bruises, all spoke of his stubborn refusal to eat.
“Take it off,” Zachary murmured, tilting his head toward Angel. The young man darted forward, ripping away the blindfold. Rivera’s head bobbed forward before the man could straighten his neck again. A gaunt face stared up at Zachary. It took several long moments for recognition to touch those empty eyes, slitted against the meager light inside the barn.
Rivera said nothing.
Angel looked over at Zachary, concern etched in furrows above his black eyes. Zachary flicked his fingers and set his mouth in a line. Angel hesitated, lifted the looped belt above his head, and then paused.
The young man’s chest rose and fell like he couldn’t catch his breath.
“Por favor, Senor Rivera,” Angel murmured. “Tell Don Zachary—”
Zachary’s warning hiss cut him off.
Angel brought the belt down on Rivera’s hip. Rivera flinched, but didn’t make a sound.
“He has a strong arm, Antonio. And enough motivation to light up the night sky.” Zachary came close enough to crouch in front of Rivera. The man opened eyes encrusted with dried tears and mucus, face contorting into disgust. He made a spitting sound, but he was obviously too dehydrated to produce saliva.
“I want the names,” Zachary hissed. “Your inbetweeners. Your contacts. Tell me where the archives are, and this will all be over.”
Rivera’s mouth worked. Eventually, those cracked, blood-stained lips parted. There was a murmur of sound, too low for Zachary to make out. He leaned in, fingertips resting on the dust beside Santa Muerte’s overturned votive candle for balance.
“…Fuck…you…” Rivera whispered.
Zachary rose in a rush, dusting his fingertips against his checkered shirt. His jaw bunched before he could force his teeth to unclench. He stepped back, inhaled a deep breath, and waved a hand at Angel.
Angel hesitated, eyes drawing down in sympathy for Rivera.
“Marco will thank you,” Zachary said quietly. “Lesson one. Pain.” He nodded at Rivera.
This time, the boy didn’t hesitate.
A dull crack sounded through the barn as the belt connected with Rivera’s hip. The man fell onto his side, his feeble breath barely disturbing the dust and straw in front of his mouth.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Angel paused, glancing across at Zachary. But he didn’t look away from Rivera’s face and, a second later, Angel continued.
Crack. Crack.
Rivera’s eyelids quivered with each blow, but he didn’t cry out once.
It was like flogging a dead horse.
“Enough,” Zachary said.
Angel lowered his hand, breathing hard,
and stared at Zachary from under lowered lashes. Blood tinted the boy’s cheeks with spots of color.
“Lesson two. Humiliation.”
Angel’s eyes went wide, but he didn’t say anything. Zachary’s gaze flickered to him, and he cocked his head to the side as he studied Angel.
“Was the coyote kind to you, Angel?”
“No,” Angel said, sounding confused.
“It must have been a long journey to the border from Michochoan. What did he do to you? To Marco?”
The young man spun to him, lips parted as he strove for breath. “¿Que?” came Angel’s flustered question. But he’d heard right—the shock on his delicate face was proof enough.
“Humiliation,” Zachary said quietly. “Sometimes it’s the only thing that can break a man’s spirit. Don’t you agree?”
Angel’s face became a blank slate.
Zachary held a hand to the side. Seconds later, Rodrigo put a blade in his hand, the same he’d used to carve Noah’s tongue from his mouth. “I see great potential in you, Angel,” Zachary murmured as he held the knife out to the young man. “Now show me what you’re capable of.”
Anger flushed Angel’s cheeks and dashed venomous lights through his eyes. His jaw clamped shut as if he refused to speak. But he took the knife, and went down on his knees beside Rivera, using the blade to slice through the man’s grimy trunks. Then he paused, flicked the fabric aside, and twisted slightly toward Zachary, not meeting his eyes.
“You have…bazuko?”
Zachary cocked his head. “Why would I want to make this easier on him?”
“Is for me,” Angel said, rolling the ‘r’ in a strange way as he touched fingertips to his chest.
He stepped closer to the young man, and laid a hand on his shoulder. “And why would I want to make this easier for you? Confronting the past is what purges it from us.”
This time, Angel didn’t pull away his shoulder. But he didn’t move, either. After a few seconds, the young man rested his cheek on Zachary’s knuckles. “Por favor, Don Zachary.”
Zachary snatched away his hand. He drew a long breath that he let out in a hiss through his teeth. He snapped his fingers behind him without turning. “Get him his fucking churro.”
“Cremita, por favor,” came Angel’s soft plea. “Cremita.”
Zachary gave a nod, and listened to Rodrigo’s boots thumping out of the barn. The man returned a few minutes later and held out a lighter and a thin joint for Zachary.
He handed both to Angel. The young man lit the churro and took a long draw, resting his forehead briefly on the back of his hand. He blew out a pale plume of smoke and then took another hit. Another. Until Zachary tugged what was left of the intoxicating mix of weed and coke from his lips.
Angel rose to his feet. Without looking at Zachary, he murmured a quiet, “You wait outside, Don Zachary?”
Rodrigo’s boots scraped on the barn floor as the man hurried forward a step. “You loco, boy? What makes you think jefe—”
Zachary lifted a hand, and Rodrigo’s mouth clamped shut with an audible click. “You have ten minutes to make him tell me where the archives are.” He stepped forward, and took hold of Angel’s chin, turning the boy’s face to him. It had gone slack, his dark eyes the black of crow’s feather dipped in ink. “Ten minutes, or the next time you see Marco, it will be before they shovel dirt over his eyes.”
Angel jerked like he’d slapped the boy. Then he lifted a trembling hand.
“You’ve had enough,” Zachary said, his lips lifting in a snarl.
He didn’t like to think that he’d underestimated Angel’s capacity for violence, but perhaps he had. If he’d need an altered state of mind to perform anything more violent than a belting, what use was—
“Globo,” Angel said. His eyes flickered away from Zachary to Rodrigo who stood statue-still beside him. “Por favor.”
From the corner of his eyes, Zachary watched as Rodrigo rummaged in the pocket of his denim jacket. He drew out something held in a cupped hand, glancing askance at Zachary before tossing the foil packet at Angel.
They left Angel standing with a bowed head, knife in one hand and condom in the other, and partly closed the barn door behind them.
Ailin was smoking a cigarette, which he hurriedly ground out under his heel like a school kid who hadn’t expected a teacher to come around the corner. Then he ran a hand through his red hair, glancing circumspectly at Zachary as if to see if he’d noticed.
Zachary ignored the furtive motion, choosing instead to scratch Lady behind an ear. The dog gazed up at him with the fervent supplication that only an animal could have for its master. Blue just glanced at them, and came to sit beside Zachary’s boots. He very rarely wagged his tail.
From inside the barn came the sound of a brief, furtive struggle.
Some of the dank, flowery stink of weed had followed them out. To him, it coiled around his body like an invisible serpent. The smell—no matter the strain, how it had been cured, or what other drugs had been added—would always bring back a tide of unwelcome memories.
Memories he’d confronted a long time ago. Do unto others what has been done unto you. It was a form of catharsis, one he’d readily employed in his hard struggle up this cartel’s ladder. He was almost thirty when he earned his nickname—El Macabro. The macabre.
Angel didn’t need the full ten minutes Zachary had allotted him. In less than seven, Lady’s ears pricked up at the hollow sounding of boots against a wood floor.
Zachary turned to the barn door. It opened another foot. Angel stood bathed in light, radiant as his namesake, sweat glittering on his forehead and down his naked chest. Ailin had dressed him in jeans, a white vest, and a dark green shirt. The shirt hung from his hand, the other held the knife and the bundle of his blood-and-shit-streaked vest.
Angel hesitated, swaying, and then pushed the door open all the way to step outside.
“His daughter. She—she has it,” Angel said. His voice was so tight, so unsteady. Tears filled his eyes a second later. “Eleodora. His, his—”
Angel stumbled forward, words cut off by a throttled sob. He fell to his knees, and Lady surged forward. Zachary called the dog back with a loud, “Tsk,” and the pitbull froze inches from Angel’s exposed back.
The boy slammed his arms into the dust, a wracking sob making the muscles on his back convulse. A small smudge of blood painted the inside of one wrist, disappearing when Angel dragged his hands through the dirt to fold into a fetal position.
Zachary crouched beside him, but didn’t touch the boy. Instead, he patted the ground beside Angel’s quivering, clenched hand.
“It becomes so much easier over time.” Zachary rose up and cocked his head at Angel, giving Rodrigo a meaningful look. The man came forward and scooped Angel from the ground, gripping him tight when the boy began to fight him. “Next time, you will not smoke first.”
Angel gave him a loathing glare, eyes red-rimmed and dusty face streaked with tears. “Never!” he howled in a hoarse, broken voice. “I will never—”
“Oh, but you will,” Zachary cut in quietly. He clicked his fingers, and Lady came to his side as he made for the distant ranch house. “And soon…” Zachary glanced back at him over his shoulder. “Soon you will come to enjoy it.”
9
Bone & ivory
Cora was nursing a cup of coffee in the kitchen, when the Jeep pulled up outside the cabin. When she opened the cabin’s door, the cold stole her breath away in a plume of vapor. She watched silently as Lars and Finn dragged a stiff deer though the snow, to the back of the cabin.
Finn came back a few minutes later, but not Lars.
“We’re leaving in ten,” he said, pausing just long enough to rake his gaze over her before disappearing inside.
Well, it wasn’t as if she had anything to pack. All she had in her possession were the clothes she was standing up in. She took her coffee with her as she picked her way to the back of the cabin.
The w
orld had transformed into a monochromatic canvas overnight. Everything was white or a shade of grey; the snow, the firs, the gloomy sky.
There was a small lean-to built against the side of the house, beside the generator. She’d seen its roof from the upstairs window when she’d overheard Lars and Finn talking last night. From it, came a steady thump-thump-thump, like someone practicing their tennis stroke. A garish orange light glowed from behind the ajar door. Cora’s shoes crunched through the snow as she crept closer and peeked inside.
Lars stood over a wooden table. There was a bucket beside him, into which sluggish blood streamed from the lip of the table.
Air stirred inside the small room and brought with it metallic blood and the bittersweet stench of intestinal juices.
Cora forced a hard swallow, and stepped inside.
Lars paused, shifting slightly to the door but not looking at her. Then his arm lifted, and came down with a thump on the deer’s body.
It looked alien; stripped of its hide, pink marbled muscles standing proud. Lars severed a leg and tossed it to the side of the wide table.
“You need something?” he asked.
There was that strange lilt to his voice again.
“Where are you from?”
“Colorado,” he said without a pause.
“I mean…you speak with an accent.”
“So do you.” He turned, this time glancing at her before returning to his work. “What of it?”
She gave her head a shake. Did the military train each soldier to avoid personal questions at pain of death or something?
“Will it take long to get to Texas?”
“We’ll be there tonight.”
Her stomach tightened at the thought. Or maybe it was the way Lars was hacking through the deer’s spine that was making her queasy.
“Guess I’ll wait in the car.”
“No hard feelings, right?”
Cora hesitated, giving Lars a frown when he looked her way. “Excuse me?”
