The Devil You Know

by Robert Swartwood

  I keep the SIG secured to the back waistband of my shorts. I throw the backpack over my shoulder and exit the room, looking up and down the hallway. Nobody around except the cleaning cart propping a door open several rooms away.

  The car outside is a Honda Civic, maybe ten years old. Completely anonymous. When I had originally crossed the border, the CRRC was hidden in the trunk along with a suitcase. The weapons I had—the two pistols and garrote and knife—were hidden underneath the car. There hadn’t been much concern about being stopped and searched on my way into the country—nobody gives a shit what goes into Mexico—and I was waved through with barely even a glance.

  Now I know leaving Mexico will be a piece of cake. Even if they search the Civic from top to bottom, nothing will be found. Most likely, I’ll just be waved through like before. I’ll meet up with James, swap out the car, get my new identity, and start my new life.

  I keep thinking about Maria and the children. The girl holding that water bottle, having not even cracked the cap yet.

  For all I know, they’re still at the place I left them. Or maybe they’ve walked to the closest town. Or maybe somebody came and picked them up and gave them a ride home.

  Or maybe somebody came and raped them, left them beaten and battered by that abandoned building to bake as the sun rose higher and higher in the pale sky.

  You promised to keep us safe.

  I close my eyes. Take a deep breath.

  The woman and the children are fine. They’re not my concern, anyway. I did all I could for them.

  I put the Civic in gear. I go two blocks when I spot the kid from the other day. He’s an early riser, apparently, already on the street corner hawking his fireworks.

  I stop the car, power down the passenger side window.

  “Hey, kid.”

  He smiles at me, already a natural salesman as he runs through his pitch.

  “Good morning, senorita. Would you like to buy some fireworks?”

  “Not today. But those firecrackers you sold me? They came in handy.”

  I toss him some pesos and power back up the window and keep driving down the street.

  A stop sign looms at the corner. I pause for traffic, and as I wait I glance at the rearview mirror and see the kid still on the sidewalk with his fireworks. He can’t be more than thirteen years old, much older than Jorge and Ana, much older than even David and Casey Hadden. For a moment I wonder if the kid has a loving family, whether his parents treat him right, and what inspires him to get up so early every morning to sell fireworks on the street.

  I close my eyes and shake my head.

  “Goddamn it.”

  Twisting the steering wheel, I pull a U-turn and head back the way I came.

  Ten

  I spot the smoke a quarter mile away.

  It’s late morning now, forty-five minutes since I pulled that uey, and the main road has been busy except for this deserted patch. A few cars ahead of me, a few passing me by, and a quarter mile away I spot the smoke and something with sharp claws grips my heart.

  It could be nothing, of course, but deep down I know that’s not true. My foot grows heavy on the gas pedal, pushing the Civic faster. Very soon that quarter mile turns into a tenth of a mile and I spot the brick building off the main road, that deserted relic, and as I had guessed the smoke is coming from there.

  I take the turn hard and accelerate down the dirt road. Because of my speed, the rutted drive causes the Civic to bounce and jump all over the place. I grip the steering wheel tight, trying to keep the car on the drive, and when I reach the building I slam on the brakes and throw open my door.

  A dust cloud hangs in the air behind me, connecting the Civic to the main road. Not very inconspicuous, but I don’t care as I hurry around the building, calling for Maria and the children.

  The door at the back of the building stands open. It looks like someone took a crowbar to it. The edges are ragged and blistered.

  Black smoke pours out of the doorway.

  I sprint toward the edge of the bluff to check the beach below, hoping maybe Maria and the children ventured back down there for some reason.

  Empty.

  I return to the building and the black billowing smoke. I stare into the smoke but can’t spot any flames.

  How much time has passed since I left Maria and the children? Three hours? Four? If it weren’t for the smoke, I’d think they had walked on to the next town over. But I didn’t see Maria or the children anywhere as I drove through that town. There’s a chance they may have gone south, toward whatever town lay in that direction, but still, what explains the smoke?

  Leave. That’s what part of me thinks. Just get back in the Civic and head north. Cross the border in Nogales and meet up with James and start my new life. That’s the plan, after all. That’s the end of the plan, really, the thing that will put all of this to rest. I can get on with a normal life, or as much of a normal life as somebody in my situation can. Find a job. Meet a guy. Get married. Have children. That’s what you’re supposed to do with your life, right?

  I pinch the neck of my T-shirt, pull it up to my nose. I take in a large gulp of air and run into the smoke.

  For the first couple feet the smoke is thick and dense. But as I move deeper, cautiously leading with my right foot so I don’t run into anything, the smoke starts to clear.

  The building itself is all but deserted. No forgotten chairs or tables. Nothing.

  Which makes it easy to spot the bodies.

  They lie in the corner. The woman in the middle. The children flanking her on each side.

  I don’t bother rushing forward. I know it won’t make any difference. The bodies are no longer on fire. Their clothes and flesh have become charred. Now all that keeps going is the smoke. There’s nothing at all for me to do, so I duck back outside.

  Stumbling several paces away from the building, I take in the fresh air, drawing in large gulps. My heart is pounding. Blood screams in my ears. It’s almost enough that I don’t hear the approaching vehicle at first. It’s only after a couple seconds I realize there’s something wrong and turn to see the police car heading my way.

  My hand automatically reaches for the gun pressing against the small of my back.

  But no, I can’t have a shootout with the police. Killing Ernesto Diaz and his men was one thing, but killing police is a whole different thing.

  The car is almost here. I step toward the building, enough so that my view of the car is blocked, and I pull the gun out and raise it above my head and throw it as hard as I can toward the bluff. There isn’t much of a beach, so hopefully it drops into the water. And hopefully, fingers crossed, the surf doesn’t push the gun back toward shore. Because once the cops get here and see what’s happened, they’re going to search the area, and the last thing I want them to find is a gun with my fingerprints on it.

  On the other side of the building the car has come to a halt. I hear doors opening and slamming shut.

  I stick my finger back deep in my throat. I’ve only ever done this once before, and even then it didn’t really work right, and I realize there isn’t much in my stomach but that shouldn’t matter.

  I start gagging, picturing vomit, forcing myself to remember what it smells like, and it’s enough to do the trick.

  I fall to my knees right as I throw up.

  Right as the policemen hurry around the building and shout at me in Spanish to put my hands on top of my head.

  Part Two

  The Beacon

  Eleven

  By the time they arrived at the scene, the smoke had cleared and there were now five police cars parked around the brick building, as well as a dark blue Honda Civic.

  Ramon parked the pickup truck, killed the engine, and then reached for his mask. He only paused when he noticed Carlos grinning at him.

  Ramon said, “What?”

  Carlos adjusted his sunglasses.

  “Nothing. I think it’s cute.”

  Ramon held the m
ask for a beat, suddenly embarrassed.

  Carlos said, “I’m just busting your balls. You have a young wife and baby at home. I would wear a mask too. But I’m an old man whose wife is gone and whose children have moved out. I have nobody to protect.”

  Without another word Carlos stepped out and met up with one of the officers coming their way. That officer also wore a mask. The fact was, over half the officers at the scene had masks covering their faces. Ramon had always thought it silly, though he understood the reasoning behind it. At the time he hadn’t had a wife and daughter. Now he did, and the last thing he wanted to do was put them in danger.

  He hurriedly secured the mask over his nose and lower half of his face and stepped out of the pickup truck. He met up with Carlos and the other officer as the officer pointed at the brick building.

  “Three bodies inside, what look to be two children and one adult.”

  Carlos said, “Where’s the woman?”

  The officer stepped a few paces past them to point again toward the building. Ramon and Carlos shuffled closer to the officer to see a young woman sitting on a rock by the bluff. Two other officers stood near her.

  “She was throwing up when we arrived.”

  Carlos said, “She have identification?”

  The officer nodded eagerly, pinching a notepad from his shirt pocket and paging through.

  “Samantha Lu. Twenty-seven years old. A graduate student from California.”

  “What is she doing here?”

  “Vacation.”

  “Is she with friends?”

  “No.”

  Ramon and Carlos traded glances.

  Ramon said, “Did she say what made her decide to travel through Sinaloa by herself?”

  “She said she needed to get away for a while. There’s bruising on her face.”

  Carlos said, “What do you mean, bruising?”

  “Bruising. Like somebody beat her up.”

  “Does the bruising look recent?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a week or so.”

  “Did you ask her about it?”

  “No. At the time I didn’t think it was relevant.”

  Ramon and Carlos traded another glance.

  The officer said, “It didn’t happen here, if that’s what you’re thinking. I asked her if she’d been mugged or attacked since being in the country. She said no.”

  Ramon said, “Even if she had been, there’s a chance she may not have told you the truth.”

  Carlos said, “Where is she staying?”

  The officer named a hotel in Culiacán.

  “We contacted the manager and he confirmed she has a room there for the next two days.”

  Ramon said, “What brought her this way?”

  “She said she was driving south and noticed the smoke. She said she was worried so she pulled in to make sure nobody was hurt.”

  Carlos said, “You arrived not too long after she did?”

  “Yes. Maybe only minutes after.”

  “She saw the bodies?”

  “We think so. She was definitely inside the building. We know she saw something, though we’re not sure if she saw the bodies because of the smoke. But she did throw up.”

  Ramon and Carlos looked at each other again.

  Carlos asked him, “What do you think?”

  Ramon said, “It’s probably nothing, but I’ll speak to her. First let’s check inside.”

  They waved off the officer’s offer to lead them into the building and entered to find three other officers standing around the charred bodies. They were young, probably at their first murder scene. One of them had his phone out to take pictures.

  Carlos cleared his throat.

  The three officers froze, turned to look at them. The one taking pictures quickly pocketed the phone, his face burning.

  Carlos said, “Get the fuck out of here.”

  The officers hustled outside.

  Ramon and Carlos approached the charred bodies. Just as the officer outside had said, two children and an adult.

  Ramon glanced at Carlos.

  “Do you think it’s her?”

  “After what happened last night at the Diaz compound, it has to be.”

  “But how would they have even gotten here? The Diaz compound is at least ten miles away.”

  Carlos’s only answer was a slight shake of his head.

  They were silent for a long moment, staring down at the bodies, when footsteps crunched the dirt behind them. They turned to find the officer who had spoken to them outside standing in the doorway.

  “Another car just arrived.”

  Carlos said, “Do you know who it is?”

  “I believe it is Comandante Espinoza.”

  Ramon closed his eyes, muttered a curse.

  Carlos thanked the officer and turned to Ramon.

  “He shouldn’t be here.”

  “I know.”

  “We told him he shouldn’t come.”

  “I know.”

  Before anything else could be said, their commanding officer filled the doorway. Geraldo Espinoza was in his late-fifties but looked much older. He wore dress pants and a dress shirt, typical office attire. He had dark close-cropped hair sprinkled with gray, a thin goatee, and glasses perched on his weathered face. Normally he looked calm, composed, completely in control, but now it looked like he was about to fall apart.

  Carlos stepped forward, blocking the older man’s view of the bodies.

  “You don’t want to see her. Not like this.”

  The desperation on the comandante’s face was so palpable at that moment Ramon could feel it.

  “Can you even tell—”

  Carlos shook his head.

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “The bodies are too badly burned. They’re just”—he hesitated, clearing his throat—“remains at this point.”

  The comandante took another unsteady step into the room.

  “I need to see her.”

  Carlos shook his head again.

  “Sir—”

  “I need to see her, goddamn it.”

  Ramon and Carlos didn’t need to exchange glances this time to know what the other was thinking. They both stepped out of the comandante’s way. The older man went forward. But he stopped short before dropping down next to the bodies as protocol kicked in. He stepped back, his body trembling, though strangely there were no tears in his eyes when he turned back to them.

  “I shouldn’t be here.”

  Saying it as if the thought had just occurred to him.

  Ramon and Carlos said nothing.

  The comandante nodded, as if just now hearing his own words.

  “I shouldn’t have come. I know I shouldn’t have come, but I—”

  His voice cracked, and he shook his head.

  “We’re going to find the son of a bitch and we’re going to make him pay.”

  Ramon and Carlos only nodded.

  The older man looked down at the bodies one last time before he turned and hurried outside.

  For a moment, there was complete silence in the cramped building. The smoke may have cleared, but the stench of burned flesh still hung heavy in the air. Even the mask covering Ramon’s nose did little to slow the stink. Ramon didn’t know about Carlos, but it was causing his stomach to churn.

  He said, “Let’s get some fresh air.”

  They walked outside. Comandante Espinoza had returned to his car, but he hadn’t gotten back into it yet. He stood beside it, now smoking a cigarette, all the other officers avoiding him.

  Carlos asked, “Remember the pay phone on the way in?”

  “What about it?”

  “I’m going to see if any of these officers were smart enough to check it out.”

  “You think he would have used it?”

  “Not the Devil, no. But maybe she did.”

  The Devil. Ramon hated the name given to the killer, but it was the one the newspapers had given him and it had stuck
ever since.

  Ramon said, “We don’t even know if it’s a she in there. We don’t even know if those bodies are related to the others.”

  Carlos sighed.

  “I think at this point it’s safe to assume we know who those bodies are and who killed them.”

  “Something about it doesn’t feel right.”

  “All of it doesn’t feel right. Now I’m going to check on the pay phone. Why don’t you talk to the woman and see if there’s anything one of the officers may have missed.”

  “And then what should I do with her?”

  “Cut her loose.”

  Twelve

  I can’t see the gun.

  Not from where I am at least, sitting here on this rock, my back to the building and all the police.

  I can see the ocean but I can’t see the beach down below, and it’s because of that I can’t see the gun.

  I mean, yes, I don’t want to see the gun. If I threw it hard enough, it should have splashed down into the water. If luck is on my side, the tide would have taken the gun out far enough where it would have sunk to the bottom.

  But if luck isn’t on my side—if I didn’t throw the gun out far enough or the tide somehow washed it back onto shore—then I’m screwed.

  There’s no telling how long they intend to keep me here. I’ve given them my information, answered questions, played the part of a worried, frantic tourist the best I could, but maybe it wasn’t enough. Because they told me I couldn’t leave yet, that I had to wait, and just what the hell am I waiting for? To give them time to canvas the area? So that somebody can make their way down to the beach and maybe stumble across the gun I’d thrown. If it hasn’t touched water, there’s a good chance my prints will still be on it. And if it did manage to get in the water … would that be enough to scrub my prints? Even if they find the gun, there’s a good chance they won’t immediately link it to me, but still I don’t want it to get to that point.