The Ninth Day

by Jamie Freveletti

  Half a mile down the road he encountered two stone pillars spanned by an iron gate inscribed with the letter “P” in script. Floodlights and cameras were mounted on each. Oz stopped three feet in front and watched as the machinery pivoted to point at him, their LED lenses glowing red in the dark. He noticed an intercom system set on a pole near the gate’s hinges and inched closer and pressed the button.

  “What do you want?” The voice barked at him in Spanish. Oz answered in English.

  “Johnny sent me.”

  The speakers remained silent. Oz waited.

  “Drive to the house and keep going to the outbuildings in the back.” The gates emitted a buzzing sound as the lock disengaged. The sides swung open without a creak and Oz drove through.

  He’d gone another four hundred yards when a large, two-story hacienda appeared, its white adobe walls shining in the beam thrown by the motorcycle headlight. Oz whistled at the sight of it. Terra-cotta roof tiles and elegant archways framed a massive facade. A circular driveway, lit by solar lamps, passed under an overhang that jutted out from the villa’s front, framing an imposing two panel door complete with elaborate iron handles. To the right and set back was a one-story rectangular building, with five separate doors, that appeared to be a garage. Oz skirted the house and followed the drive, heading behind and moving farther to the right. He came upon a corral with an attached stable. Next to it was a wide gravel-covered expanse that acted as a parking lot.

  Oz pulled up next to a white van and killed his engine. Two men sat in the van’s front seat. He heard the beep of a two-way radio and he watched as the driver spoke into a black cell phone. The guy in the passenger seat threw a glance Oz’s way before climbing out of the vehicle. He moved to stand next to the van’s back doors. The driver strolled around the front bumper and headed Oz’s way. The sky had lightened just enough that Oz could make out the man’s features, as well as a large diamond-encrusted gun pendant that he wore around his neck.

  “Johnny says you’re the tech guy.”

  Oz hesitated at that. While he could make a computer sing if he wanted to, he hadn’t expected Johnny to pitch him as a tech guy to the cartel. All he wanted to do was transport the marijuana and get on with his life. He decided to downplay his knowledge.

  “Low tech. Yeah.”

  The man snorted. “We don’t need much more than that. I’m Raoul. Follow me.”

  Raoul headed toward the hacienda. Oz followed at a slower pace. A third man emerged from the back of the van and Oz stopped short when he saw who came out next. A woman, slender, with light brown hair and dressed in athletic clothes and running shoes stood between the van’s open back doors. Plastic white strips secured her hands behind her back and a bandanna was wrapped around her head. Below the bandanna her mouth was set in a grim line. Oz felt his stomach twist.

  “What are you doing with her?” he said. The two men ignored him. The skinny one pushed the woman forward, while the other man took her arm and guided her toward the stable entrance. Oz took a step in their direction.

  “Hey . . .” he said. He saw the woman’s head turn.

  “Tech guy, come on!” Raoul yelled at Oz.

  Oz stood for a moment, unsure. The two surrounding the woman kept moving her toward the stable. Oz jogged to catch up with Raoul.

  “What are those guys going to do to that woman?” Oz said.

  Raoul didn’t bother to glance back. “That’s not your concern.”

  “I agreed to transport some weed over the border. That’s all. I don’t want any part of a kidnapping.”

  Raoul kept marching toward the villa. “You’ll transport whatever Eduardo La Valle wants you to transport. What did you think you were doing when you joined the Latin Imperials?”

  Oz stopped. “I didn’t join anything. I just agreed to move some weed.”

  Raoul stopped walking and turned to face Oz. “You joined the minute you entered that gate. La Valle won’t let you go, so you’d better just follow behind me and do what he says.”

  Oz dug in his heels. “No! I don’t want any part of that. I’m not looking to hurt anyone.”

  Raoul snorted. “Listen, fool, you’re in Mexico now. La Valle owns this area, and the minute you stepped foot on his property, he owned you. You keep your mouth shut and do what he says, or the only thing you’ll be moving is the earth that he’ll make you shovel to dig your own grave.”

  Panic ran through Oz and his stomach clamped into a tight cramp. His first thought was to run back to his bike, throw it in gear, and drive away as fast as he could. Raoul must have read his mind, because he shook his head.

  “Don’t even think of it. They’ll gun you down before you hit the main road. The villa is guarded twenty-four/seven, and they shoot on sight.” Raoul considered Oz for a moment. “What’s your name?”

  “Oswald Kroger, but everyone calls me Oz.”

  “Well, Oz, you’re now the paid mule for one of the strongest cartels in Ciudad Juarez. If it makes you feel any better, no one’s gonna touch you. They do, they die.”

  “What about the woman?” Oz said. “Are they going to kill her?”

  Raoul shook his head. “Only if no ransom is paid.”

  “Will they rape her?”

  Raoul shrugged. “Eventually.” He gave Oz a shrewd look. “You got any money? Maybe you can ransom her.”

  Oz spread his arms out, palms up. “If I had any money, do you think I’d be doing something as stupid as this?”

  Raoul turned, and for a moment Oz thought he saw sadness cross the man’s face. “If any of us had any money, we wouldn’t be doing this. Come on, La Valle is waiting. He wants to give you your first assignment. Try to act like you want to be here. He’ll crush you if you show any fear, and your bones will decay in the ground with the others.”

  Chapter 4

  Emma felt a push on her back and she stumbled face-first into some straw. One of her captors clipped the wrist ties, and she sighed in relief and brought her arms forward to rub out the creases in the skin where the hard edged plastic had cut into them. She heard the sound of a door slamming and the footsteps as the men walked away. She yanked the bandanna off and looked around.

  She was in a stall, ten by ten, with a half door made of wood on the bottom and iron rails on the top. A high square window, covered with bars, let in a feeble ray of moonlight. The only other source of light came from the corridor. She could make out streaks of blood on the walls. The sight of it made her skin crawl. She went to the door to test it and was unable to move it. The bottom of the door sat on heavy iron wheels set into a track, and when she peered out of the rails, she could see that it employed a steel bar mechanism that shot into supports at each end, locking the panel in place. She strained to hear the sounds of animals, but there were none. The other stalls were empty.

  Emma crouched down and pulled off the thickest rubber band around her wrist. She turned it inside out and bent the edges back. A slit ran the length of it, and when she pulled it apart she could see the red tape nestled inside. She pulled a small portion of it out and broke it off. She attached the tape to the stall door’s outside corner and pulled a card out of the side pocket of her running pants. It looked like a credit card, complete with fake logo on the front and magnetic strip on the back. She swiped the strip across the wooden wall and the edge of the card lit into flame. Emma reached out to ignite the red tape.

  The sound of gunshots, screams, and wailing made her freeze. She pulled her arm back in, blew out the match, put the card back in her pocket, and sat down in the stall’s corner. Seconds later she heard boot heels hitting the concrete floor, coming fast. The skinny coyote peered into the stall for a moment, before unlocking the door and swinging it aside. His eyes held a frantic look and he waved her out, yelling, “Fast, fast!” in Spanish. As soon as she cleared the entrance he grabbed her by the arm and jogged her down a gravel drive.

  The sun bathed the area in a soft pink glow. The coyote steered Emma toward a two-story hac
ienda. They passed a large swimming pool, complete with its own pool house, and an expansive terrace set up for entertaining. At thirty feet from the house, Emma heard a man’s guttural voice yelling in Spanish. She couldn’t speak the language, but the meaning was clear. The man sounded angry, furious, but also fearful. The coyote stepped to the French door at the back of the house and opened it. He pushed her inside.

  Emma entered a large family area, complete with a massive big-screen television, oversized sectional couch, and fireplace. To Emma’s right, a large wet bar, well stocked, covered half the wall. In front of her sat three men. The man with the gun-pendant necklace, another well-dressed Latin man with wild eyes who was breathing heavily—Emma guessed he was the screamer—and a third, who looked American. The third wore a leather motorcycle jacket, scuffed, dirty boots, and well-worn jeans. He had long brown hair that brushed his shoulders and a lean face with dark eyes, angular cheekbones, and full lips. He appeared masculine, despite the long hair. Emma thought he was quite handsome in an ascetic, almost artistic way. He stared at her with an expression of relief, as if he had been worried but was no more. His relief was overlaid with an edge. If she had to guess, Emma would have said he was nervous, perhaps frightened.

  The man with the gun pendant spoke first.

  “I’m Raoul, and this”—he indicated the other Latin man—“is Mr. La Valle. We need to ask you some questions.”

  Emma nodded. “Okay.”

  “You said you were a chemist looking for plants. Do you know anything about them?”

  Emma nodded again. “I do.”

  “What about herbicides?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  La Valle turned toward Raoul and rattled off a long sentence in Spanish. He gestured with his hands, and for the first time Emma saw that he held a gun in one. He was short, with cropped hair graying at the temples and a paunch falling over his waistband. He wore a black shirt, sleeves rolled up, and dress pants with wing tip shoes. When he stopped talking he stared at Emma without emotion. It was as though he was a snake, with no thought other than his next meal. She wondered how many people this man had killed.

  “The crop is dying,” Raoul said. Emma raised an eyebrow. There was only one crop that Emma expected this crowd to tend.

  “Marijuana?”

  Raoul nodded. “I’ll show you.” He cast a glance at La Valle, who rose and walked up to Emma in two quick strides, and pushed the gun’s muzzle against her forehead, right between the eyes. Emma steeled herself to stay still despite her jangling nerves and fear.

  “You make it stop, or you die. Understand, gringa?” he said in English.

  Emma didn’t. She focused on her breathing, trying to stay still.

  Raoul spoke to La Valle in a soothing tone. La Valle dug the tip of the gun farther into her skin, pushing her head back, then stepped away. She let her breath out slowly.

  “Come with me,” Raoul said. “Oz, you too.”

  The lean man stood.

  Emma followed Raoul out of the house and over to the gravel parking lot. The van that she presumed had transported her sat there, as did a motorcycle and a Jeep. Raoul climbed into the driver’s side of the Jeep, while Emma and the American walked around to the passenger side, meeting at the door.

  “I’m Oswald Kroger. Oz for short,” the American said.

  Emma recognized his voice as the man who had peppered her captors with questions when she had stepped out of the van. She gave him a curt nod before sliding into the Jeep next to Raoul. Oz sat in the back. They bumped along a tree-lined dirt road for ten minutes, emerging into a meadow the size of a football field and filled with marijuana plants. Raoul cut the engine.

  Emma stepped out and gasped. She had never seen a growing thing that looked as these plants did. Wart-like growths of various sizes covered the leaves and stems of the plants. Each was black or mottled red and some grew in clusters, with six or more piled on top of one another. Emma moved closer and saw that the host leaf was decomposing. It was as if the growths were chewing away at the plant’s structure. The stems fared no better, with some sections chewed so deeply that the plant was leaning to one side. The entire field, which should have been green, was black and smelled of decay, the way cut flowers smell when they’ve been in the same water too long.

  “Do you have any gloves?” Emma asked Raoul.

  He shook his head.

  “Not here, but there are some back at the barn. I don’t recommend you touch the plants.”

  “Has anyone touched them?”

  Raoul nodded. “We have migrant workers who have.”

  “And? Any rashes? Problems?”

  Raoul waved her back toward the Jeep. “I’ll show you.”

  She crawled back into the car and they bounced along to a long row of cinder-block buildings surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. A lone guard sat at the entrance in a cheap plastic chair. A rifle rested in his lap and he was reading a tabloid magazine. He got up and opened the gate for Raoul, who drove through and stopped inside.

  “You want me to come?” Oz said from the back. Emma started. She’d forgotten the man was there.

  “Yes. You’re going to have to transport some of this, so you’d better know what you’re getting into.”

  Emma didn’t like the sound of that, and when she glanced at Oz, it was clear he didn’t either. Frown lines creased his forehead. They left the Jeep and followed Raoul through one of the first doors.

  They entered a small, dark room. At first Emma thought that there were no windows, but once her eyes adjusted, she could see that someone had covered them with a black cloth. The only light came from two oil lamps set in the corners. Ten men lay on grass mats on the floor in a row. Each was stripped to their underwear. A man squatted at the head of the group, rocking back and forth on his heels while making murmuring noises. In the corner sat a terra-cotta pot filled with leaves. The smoke in the room was suffocating, thick, and filled the area with a sickly sweet smell.

  Two of the men on the mats were breathing in short gasps and their eyes were open, but they stared at nothing. A man on the end giggled uncontrollably. Emma watched his emaciated shoulders shake with mirth. His eyes, though, remained lifeless. The men’s skin was covered with the same growths that had been on the plants. One man’s calf had a curved section eaten out of it. Their hands were the worst, though, and in some cases the fingers could no longer be seen; just a mass of wart growths covering their skin.

  “Jesus,” Oz said.

  Raoul pointed to the squatting man. “He’s a medicine man. From Mazatec. He’s given them a potion to incite hallucinations in order to gain an insight into what is eating them alive.”

  Emma noted that Raoul sounded scared. She thought he had every right to be. What was happening to these men was hideous.

  “Have they been seen by a doctor?” Emma crouched down to take a closer look at the growths covering the nearest man’s skin.

  “A dermatologist and an internist. They had no explanation. At first they thought it was a type of fungus, but their tests came back negative.”

  “Did they attempt any treatment? If they thought it was a fungal growth, there are several antifungal drugs out there.”

  Raoul sighed. “They gave those to the first batch.”

  Emma straightened. “First batch?”

  Raoul nodded. “Of migrant workers.”

  “And?”

  “They died.”

  “How long did it take these growths to appear?”

  Raoul fired off a question in Spanish to the medicine man. He answered in a low voice with a slow cadence.

  “He says the growths appeared in forty-eight hours. The first batch died seven days after that.”

  “Any other diagnoses? Treatment attempts?”

  “The internist thought it was the same disease described by that man they call the tree man in Thailand. He sent a sample to the Thai’s treating physician, but that, too, didn’t pan out. The internist a
dministered antibiotics to try to slow their growth, and then chemotherapy drugs to kill any unusual cells. It didn’t work. The second batch died as well.”

  “What batch is this?”

  “The sixth.”

  Emma swung around to face Raoul. “You continued to send men out there? Why?”

  Raoul looked angry. “The crop is worth millions! We need to save it. The men are expendable.”

  Emma heard Oz’s sudden intake of breath. Clearly he wasn’t used to the idea of human beings as expendable. She wasn’t sure how this Oz character got caught up with this bunch, but she could tell that he was out of his element. Far out.

  “But now you must stop this, because something terrible has happened,” Raoul said.

  Emma waved at the men on the mats. “Worse than this?”

  Raoul nodded. “La Valle’s mistress just discovered a spot on the tip of her finger. She’s never gone near the plants.” The medicine man stopped murmuring. Emma walked to him and squatted down to his level. He looked to be in his forties, with hair just starting to gray at the temples, broad, flat features, and a compact, wiry body.

  “Please ask him what he thinks is happening here,” she said to Raoul.

  Raoul started to speak, but the medicine man waved him off. “You are American.” He spoke to Emma in English. Emma was relieved to be able to communicate directly with him.

  “I’m a chemist. From America. I know something about plants as well.”

  “Do you know anything about curses?” the medicine man said. “Because La Valle is cursed, as is everyone who has contact with him. This sickness will spread throughout. All will die.”

  Raoul stalked to the medicine man and hovered over him. “Either you fix this problem or you won’t just be cursed, you’ll be dead! Did you hear those shots? That was the medicine man from Chiapas. He, too, talked of a curse and La Valle put a bullet in his brain. Perhaps you want to end up like him?”