I look around the garage. A Mercedes is parked next to us.
“I see your grandmother does well for herself.”
“Yes, she does.”
We step out of the car and I follow Gabriela into the house. The place is spotless. A TV plays from one of the rooms. Gabriela leads me into the room where an old woman sits in a chair swiping at a tablet.
“Grandmother, this is a friend from school. We’re going up to my room.”
The old woman smiles at me, says hello, and goes back to swiping at her tablet.
I follow Gabriela upstairs. Her room is bare. Besides a bed and a desk, there are two bookshelves filled with books but that’s it. No pictures on the walls.
She sets her phone on the desk to charge, drops into her chair.
“I know it’s not much to look at it. After my parents died and I moved in here, I didn’t unpack most of my stuff. I guess”—she shrugs—“I guess part of me felt that this would only be temporary. Like if I didn’t unpack, what had happened to my parents didn’t really happen.”
She shakes her head as if to clear it and turns to her computer. Powers it up, enters a password, and then brings up a browser. Seconds later she’s on the site that gives her access to the cloud. All the pictures she took today—at the motel and then at the apartment building—are right there on the screen.
I’m in only three of the pictures. Gabriela deletes them with a few easy clicks and then glances up at me.
“There, they are gone for good. Happy?”
I just stare at the pictures.
Gabriela says, “Are we done now?”
“What are these pictures for?”
Gabriela doesn’t answer.
I look at her.
“Why were you at the motel in the first place?”
She doesn’t look like she’s going to answer this question either, but then she frowns.
“Answer my question first.”
“Okay.”
“Why are you in Mexico?”
“I’m on vacation.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m a college student. I came here to see the sights.”
“You were the one who found the bodies. And then you followed those investigators to the motel. And then you followed me to that apartment building. That’s not normal college student behavior.”
“Really? Then what exactly was it you were doing? You said you were a journalist. Who do you write for?”
She opens a tab on the browser, types at the keyboard, and brings up another page.
La Baliza, the headline of the webpage reads.
I say, “What’s The Beacon?”
“An independent news publication. It’s outsourced by people like me all over the country. Most news nowadays won’t tell the truth because they’re afraid of the cartels or the government or sometimes both. We work in anonymity so we have nothing to fear.”
“How did you end up at the motel?”
“There’s an online portal where people can anonymously leave tips. Many police officers do. They keep me updated when something big happens. Today one of them left a tip that an American tourist found three bodies burned to death. They also mentioned the phone call sent to the motel. I went straight there.”
“After those investigators left and you went inside, how did you know where they were headed next?”
“I gave the clerk inside twenty dollars. He was happy to give up the information anyway. He said one of the investigators assaulted him.”
“So what’s your story about so far?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Somebody’s already posted about the attack at the Diaz’s place.”
“Somebody?”
She shrugs.
“We all act as separate units. None of us knows who the other is. That way we can move about safely.”
“So you’re writing about these burned bodies.”
“Yes.”
“And the police believe this Miguel Dominguez is the killer?”
“No way he’s the killer. But a call was made from the pay phone to the motel, and Miguel was working there last night, so the police want to question him.”
I glance at the computer again.
“Why are you so certain he’s not the killer?”
“You saw his apartment. I’m no cop, but he doesn’t strike me as somebody who could pull that off.”
“You mean burning a woman and two children alive?”
Gabriela frowns at me.
“Why do you think the bodies belong to a woman and two children?”
Whoops.
I say, “I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me. Something I’m missing. You don’t seem too shocked to find out those people had been burned to death.”
“I’m not. This isn’t the first time it’s happened.”
Now it’s my turn to frown.
“What do you mean?”
Gabriela says, “He’s been doing this now for over a year. This is the sixth time he’s struck.”
I think about Maria and those children, leaving them there at the brick building by themselves in the dark.
You promised to keep us safe.
I stare hard at Gabriela.
“What are you talking about?”
“Nobody knows his name, but everybody calls him el Diablo. The Devil. He’s a serial killer taking out the mothers and children of cartel families.”
Twenty
Ramon stood on sand, inches from the incoming surf, and stared out at the ocean.
Behind him, Carlos said, “Tell me why we climbed down here again.”
Ramon turned to him.
“I told you already.”
“Yes, and it didn’t make much sense then, so why don’t you try it one more time?”
Ramon stepped back, surveying the small beach.
“After I spoke to Samantha Lu and told her she was free to go, she stood up and stared out at the ocean for a couple seconds.”
Carlos lit a cigarette, blew out smoke through his nose.
“And?”
Ramon glanced up toward the top of the bluff, then back down at the beach.
“And I think she was looking for something.”
“Like what?”
“I have no idea. I didn’t think much of it at the time. I thought maybe she was just looking at the ocean. But after what we now know about her …”
Carlos said, “We don’t know much.”
“No, but what little we do know is suspicious enough.”
“If she was looking for something down here, what do you think it was?”
Ramon was quiet for a moment, surveying the beach once again.
“I’m not sure. But we’re, what, ten miles down the beach from the Diaz place?”
“Give or take, sure.”
“How did the victims get here so fast? I mean, assuming they left around the time of the attack.”
Carlos was quiet for a couple seconds, thinking it over. He took one last drag on the cigarette, flicked it out into the water, and sighed.
“I hate it when you start to make sense.”
“You see my problem with this, don’t you? Not to take away from the fact that a woman and two children are dead, but how did they get here? They could have driven, yes, but not down the drive from the house and then onto the main road. Narcos were headed to the place while it was being attacked. The woman and the children would have been seen.”
“So the other options?”
“Walk down the beach is one that first comes to mind. But it would have taken too long. How long do you think it would take a woman and two children to walk the beach in the middle of the night? And let’s not forget they’re being forced against their will. The kids were probably crying. From the time of the attack to when they were—”
Ramon paused, the image of those three charred bodies flashing in his mind. He cleared his throat, tried again.
“From the time of the attack to when they we
re murdered, it doesn’t give us a very large window.”
Carlos nodded.
“I agree. So what’s the next option?”
“They took a boat.”
“A boat.”
“Makes much more sense than flying. There’s a possibility this guy has a helicopter, but it doesn’t seem too realistic.”
“So you think they took a boat.”
Ramon paused a beat, giving it some more thought, and then nodded.
Carlos said, “Okay, but there’s a problem with that theory.”
“Which is?”
Carlos spread his arms, motioning at the beach.
“There’s no evidence of a boat.”
“He obviously took the boat with him.”
“That’s not what I mean. Look at the sand. Any trace of a boat being docked here?”
“Maybe he kept it farther out. Dropped an anchor. Forced the woman and the children back onto the beach, had them walk up to the bluff, and then—”
Flash of those three charred bodies again.
“—and then did what he did.”
Carlos stared at him, not saying anything.
Ramon said, “I know I sound crazy.”
“No, you don’t sound crazy. That’s the troubling part. A boat makes the most sense. The question is where did he go afterward?”
“Maybe we need to start looking at places along the coast.”
Carlos looked out at the ocean and issued a heavy sigh.
“So you think Samantha Lu was looking for something down here.”
“I do, yes.”
“But you have no idea what she might have been looking for.”
“No.”
“It could be anything.”
“Yes.”
“I saw an empty water bottle on the trail leading down here. And over there by the rocks is a deflated soccer ball.”
“Your point?”
“My point is the only thing I see down here is junk. Do you think she was looking for junk?”
Ramon said nothing.
Carlos sighed again and said, “Do you think she had something to do with the murders?”
Ramon just gave his partner a look.
Carlos said, “Yeah, I’m having trouble on that point, too.”
“Seeing the smoke from the highway and coming here to try to help and finding the bodies—okay, I’m willing to believe that. But then she follows us into the city? And beats up those two pimps? And then takes out the kids those pimps sent to kill her? She doesn’t sound like any graduate student I know.”
Above them on the bluff, an officer called down to them.
“They’re here!”
The officer waved to them to come up and then disappeared.
Carlos said, “About time. The sun goes down in another hour.”
Ramon looked at his partner and took a breath.
“Ready for this?”
“Not climbing back up that hill, no.”
They started back up the trail that they had taken down twenty minutes earlier. Ramon was barely thirty and in shape and the climb didn’t faze him at all. Carlos, much older and overweight, needed to rest three times to catch his breath. When they reached the top they saw the building and the police cars still parked around it. As well as a new car that hadn’t been there earlier.
Carlos said, “Looks like they’re already inside.”
They were. There were two of them. Both males wearing khakis and polo shirts, their pistols holstered to their belts. They were crouched around the charred bodies which hadn’t been moved yet (they had been given strict orders from Mexico City not to move the bodies until somebody arrived). They glanced at Carlos and Ramon when they entered the building but didn’t give them more than a couple seconds’ attention before directing their focus back on the bodies.
Carlos said, “You’re the PMF agents?”
The Policía Federal Ministerial was a federal agency tasked with fighting corruption and organized crime. Once the Devil started targeting cartel families, President Cortez ordered a task force to lead up the investigation. Cortez wanted to stop the cartels, but he also wanted to make it known it was still illegal to murder the wives and children of those cartel families.
The men stood up and approached Carlos and Ramon. Each of them held out his hand.
One of them said, “Sorry about that. We thought you were just officers.”
Carlos introduced himself and Ramon to the men and the men introduced themselves to Ramon and Carlos. Their names were Ibarra and Serrano and they had been tracking the Devil for over a year. When they heard about the bodies being found this morning they got on a plane as soon as possible.
Ibarra said, “And now we’re here. What can you tell us about this?”
Carlos and Ramon told the agents as much as they knew. They didn’t hold back. They even went so far as to tell them about Samantha Lu and how she had evidently followed them into the city.
Serrano said, “So you don’t know where this young woman is now?”
Both men shook their heads.
Ibarra said, “What about Miguel Dominguez?”
Both men shook their heads again.
The agents traded glances and then turned to look once again at the bodies.
Ramon said, “It doesn’t sound like you’re too worried about either Miguel Dominguez or Samantha Lu.”
Ibarra shook his head.
“We’re not. We would certainly like to speak to both of them if possible—the phone call to the motel is especially interesting—but right now they’re not our focus.”
Carlos said, “Why is that?”
“Because neither of them is the Devil.”
Now it was Carlos and Ramon’s turn to trade glances.
Carlos said, “How do you know that?”
Serrano crossed his arms and turned back to the bodies. When he spoke next his voice was low and hushed, almost conspiratorial.
“Because by now we think we know who the Devil is. And he’s a ghost.”
Twenty-One
I rip open the plastic packaging as I exit the corner store and slip the disposable phone out and power it on. It takes about a minute before everything is up and ready. As it’s brand-new, the phone has little battery life, but it’s more than enough for my purposes. I dial the number on the card to add minutes to the phone, then dial the number I had memorized days ago before coming to Mexico. I toss the packaging in the nearest trashcan as I walk down the street back toward Gabriela’s house.
After three rings, a female voice answers.
“Thank you for calling Scout Dry Cleaners. Our normal business hours are Monday through Friday, seven a.m. to seven p.m., and on Saturday eight a.m. to three p.m. We are closed Sundays.”
Then there’s a beep and at first I’m not sure what to do, thinking maybe I have the wrong number. I even glance at the screen to double-check the number in case I’d somehow mixed it up. But no, that’s the number Atticus had me memorize. Then thinking about Atticus and Scout Dry Cleaners, I shake my head and roll my eyes.
“Call me back. I don’t know the number—this is a disposable—but hopefully it shows up on your end.”
I disconnect the call and pause at the end of the block, surveying the street to make sure I’m not being followed. Gabriela loaned me one of her hats, so at least my face is somewhat hidden from those keeping an eye out for a young Asian woman.
A minute passes before the disposable rings.
I hit the green button and place the phone to my ear.
“Atticus?”
Silence for a moment, and then Atticus’s quiet voice.
“How far out are you?”
“Yeah, about that …”
He sighs and says, “What happened?”
I’m quiet for a moment, but that moment is all Atticus needs.
“You went back for them, didn’t you?”
I close my eyes, not wanting to get into it. Instead, I try to change the subject.
“Scout Dry Cleaners. That’s pretty clever. I didn’t know you were a Harper Lee fan.”
Atticus says, “Holly, I may not know you very well, but I knew your father quite well, and despite what you want to believe, you are your father’s daughter. So please don’t waste my time any further than you already have.”
It’s true—Atticus doesn’t know me very well, just as I don’t know him very well. The only reason our paths crossed was because, despite being retired, Atticus is still somehow wired into the system. And when my father—who I thought was dead—needed me to steal something, he sent me to Atticus, the man who had once trained my father to kill, and Atticus, because children’s lives were at risk, agreed to help me. And then, when it was clear my own family’s lives were at risk, Atticus had agreed to help me again. So really, when you come right down to it, I have no reason not to tell this man the truth.
“I’m sorry, Atticus.”
“What happened?”
“Like you said, I went back for them.”
“And?”
“And”—I swallow, clear my throat—“and they were dead. Murdered. Burned to death, actually. Can you believe that, Atticus? Burned to death.”
He says nothing.
“So yeah, I’m still in Culiacán. Which means James is right now wasting his time heading to the rendezvous point. I would have called you sooner but this was the first chance I had to get away and find a disposable phone. But I want you to know I had planned to head straight for the border—I was even driving in that direction—but I just … I couldn’t leave them like that. I wanted to make sure they were in a better place before I took off. But then I saw smoke from the highway, and when I got there …”
I trail off, not sure what more I want to say. I glance at the phone to check the battery life. Ten percent remaining.
Atticus says, “I’m sorry about what happened, Holly, I truly am. And I know for some reason you blame yourself for what happened. But right now you—”
I cut him off.
“No, Atticus, you don’t get it. I took them there. I left them there. I practically delivered them to whoever the fuck killed them.”
Atticus says nothing.
“And this isn’t about some kind of guilt on my part. Yeah, I do feel guilty about what happened, but that’s not all. From what I’ve been able to figure out, the person who did this has done it before. Several times. He’s a serial killer, Atticus. Do you understand me? There’s somebody out there killing the wives and children of cartel families.”
The Devil You Know Page 8
