The Devil You Know

by Robert Swartwood

  “What about your parents?”

  “I’d rather not talk about my parents.”

  Yolanda nods, focusing again on the frying pan.

  “Very well. Then we will not talk about anything. We will stay silent here in the kitchen while our food cooks.”

  Dorado moves from his spot in the doorway. He slinks over to me and starts rubbing his face up against my leg. When I don’t give him any attention, he drifts over to Gabriela, who bends down and strokes his back.

  I ask Yolanda, “What about you?”

  She doesn’t bother to look back at me when she answers.

  “What about me?”

  “Tell us about your family.”

  She stares down at the frying pan, moving the cubes of pork around as they sizzle.

  “My parents, as you can imagine, have long since left this earth. As for children … I only ever had one child. A son. He grew up a good boy. Always listened. Always followed the rules. He was ambitious. He wanted to go to Mexico City and become a lawyer. I never understood why he wanted to become a lawyer. One day I asked him, and he said it was because lawyers made a lot of money. He said that was his goal—to make a lot of money. He always told me that one day he would make enough money so that he could buy me a place to live along the ocean. He was a sweet boy who meant well, but …”

  She lets it hang there and doesn’t complete the thought.

  I say, “Was a sweet boy. Does that mean he passed away, too?”

  “Yes, but not in the way you might think. All his talk about becoming a lawyer was when he was just a boy. My son meant well, but he was not smart. At least not smart enough to become a lawyer. To get into the right schools. I think he realized this as he got older. When he became a teenager, he realized that if he wanted to make money, he would need to find something else to do. He did not want to become a farmer and work in the fields all day. He did not want to leave me by myself either, so he decided to stay in town, but …”

  She pauses again, turning to look at us.

  “Fernando Sanchez Morales did not always own that house up on the hill. His father lived there before him. His father also worked for the cartel, but he wasn’t so awful.”

  Another pause. Yolanda shakes her head again, wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “I know that sounds strange, but he was good to the people here. Morales would never have allowed those narcos to terrorize the town. He understood that towns like ours were just part of life. We were here to stay. When he became older, I worried something might happen to him. I worried somebody worse would take his place. As they say, better the devil you know than the devil you do not. I suppose Fernando could be even worse than he is, but he is bad. He is ruthless. And he was just a boy at the time, too, and my son knew this, and somehow he managed to meet Fernando somewhere and convinced Fernando to let him work for the cartel.”

  “Your son was a narco.”

  The old woman nods. The cubes of pork keep sizzling in the pan. They’ve been on much too long, and Yolanda suddenly realizes this. She takes the pan off the stove, turns to a large bowl, and drops them in.

  “As I told you, my son was not very smart. He thought being a narco would pay a lot of money. And yes, it did bring him more money than he would have gotten working the fields, but it was dangerous work, too. I told him that. I pleaded with him. Begged him. He knew how I felt about the narcos, especially after what they did to me. But he did not care.”

  “What happened to him?”

  Yolanda covers the pork. She grabs another frying pan, sets it over the stove, and begins sautéing the onions.

  “I do not know. I finally had enough. I told him that if he wanted to continue living in this house—if he wanted to continue being my son—then he needed to quit being a narco. He left that night, and I never saw him again.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  She pauses for a beat, thinking about it. Then she shrugs, shakes her head, as she keeps moving the onions around in the frying pan.

  “I cannot remember. It has been at least thirty years. Maybe thirty-five years.”

  “Maybe he’s still out there somewhere. Maybe he’s just been saving enough money to buy you that place by the ocean.”

  Yolanda wipes the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand again.

  “No, he is dead. He has been dead for some time now. A mother knows. She feels it.”

  Before I can say anything to this, the front door bangs open.

  The Glock has been in my right hand this entire time. I raise it as I turn toward the front of the house, ready to shoot whoever’s burst inside, but it’s the boy from earlier, who had found me and Gabriela standing outside and took us to the town meeting.

  He stops short when he sees the gun, his eyes widening. He’s breathing fast, like he just sprinted a mile, and his face is flush from the exertion.

  I lower the gun to my side.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He pauses to catch his breath and blurts out the two words I’ve been waiting to hear since the moment the townspeople agreed to kick out the narcos.

  “They’re coming.”

  Thirty-Nine

  They come in three vehicles—two pickup trucks and an SUV.

  The SUV is sandwiched between the two pickup trucks as they tear into town down the unpaved main road toward the square.

  That’s where I’m waiting, right in the middle of the road, the Glock held loosely at my side.

  The first pickup swerves and skids to a stop. Several men are crowded in the back cab, all of them armed with rifles, and the moment the pickup stops, they jump down and aim their rifles at me.

  I don’t move. I don’t raise the gun. I just stand there and wait for the other two vehicles to stop, for the men in the cab of the second pickup to jump down and aim their rifles at me too.

  I barely glance at them. I keep my focus on the SUV. It just sits there for several long seconds before the passenger side door opens and Fernando Sanchez Morales steps out.

  At least, I assume it’s Morales. He’s dressed nicer than all the rest of the men, in slacks and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His sunglasses look designer, not the cheap ones the rest of the men wear. He holds a gun at his side but doesn’t aim it at me as he slams the door shut and starts to wander out into the middle of the road, scanning the empty square.

  I say, “Stop right there.”

  He pauses a beat, clearly surprised by my forceful tone. But then he shakes it off and keeps advancing. He takes his time, a simple stroll, walking past his men who stand motionless with their rifles trained on me.

  “Where is everybody?”

  I don’t answer. Besides the rumblings of the vehicles’ engines, the square is quiet.

  Morales asks, “Are they hiding in their homes?”

  I say nothing.

  He pauses again, now maybe thirty paces away from me. He takes my measure, apparently finds me wanting, and shakes his head dismissively.

  “Who the fuck are you, anyway?”

  I say nothing.

  He takes another step toward me.

  “Are you the one who ran off my boys?”

  I keep my mouth shut.

  His face flushes. His teeth even clench as he growls at me.

  “Answer me, puta.”

  I mimic an overdramatic yawn.

  Morales sneers.

  “Fuck this.”

  He starts to raise his gun.

  I say, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  This causes him to pause again. But it’s only for an instant, and then he keeps raising the gun until it’s aimed right at my face.

  That’s when the rest of the townspeople show themselves.

  First the men on the rooftops rise up and aim their rifles down into the square. There are six of them, each with AK-74s, and they’re spread out around the square so that the narcos are surrounded.

  Then the other townspeople drift
into the square. Some of them are carrying bats and metal rods. Many others carry guns.

  I say, “Maybe you didn’t get the message, but your boys were asked to leave and never come back. That means their asshole friends, too.”

  I pause, squinting at Morales.

  “That especially means you.”

  The man’s face burns. He’s visibly shaking, doing everything he can to hold in his rage. Because he knows that if he lets it out, things are going to get worse.

  “You’re Fernando Sanchez Morales, aren’t you?”

  He says nothing.

  “From what I hear, your father was a reasonable man. I mean, as reasonable as somebody who works for the cartel can be. But at least he didn’t fuck with townspeople. He let them be. Let them go about their lives.”

  Behind Morales, the narcos haven’t moved. They’re still aiming their rifles at me, but they’re looking around the square, especially up at the rooftops where the men are aiming their own rifles down at them.

  “In case you didn’t notice, Fernando, you and your men are in what’s called a kill box. Are those men up on the rooftops skilled marksmen? No. But from where they’re positioned, all they need to do is shoot and they’re likely to hit somebody. Somebody like you.”

  He says nothing.

  “Speaking of which, some of those AK-74s are courtesy of your men. Which is kind of funny, if you think about it.”

  I let it hang there, and it’s enough for him to finally break his silence.

  “What’s funny?”

  “That you and your men might get killed by the same guns your boys had hidden in their house.”

  Morales says nothing.

  “You and your men have less chance of walking away from this than the people of this town do. Is that something you want to risk?”

  He says nothing, though his gun starts to dip, slowly, until it’s hanging at his side.

  I say, “Why did your men come here last night and kill those people?”

  He shakes his head.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Part of me wants to force him to admit he was the one who ordered those men to come here last night, but another part—a more rational part—knows that now is not the time.

  “You and your men might be able to kill me and a few other of the townspeople right now, but many of your men are going to die in the process. I know you probably don’t give a shit about them, but here’s the thing, Fernando. You will die, too. I know you probably don’t believe me, but I promise you, that if you want to start something here, you will die.”

  Morales doesn’t answer, just stands there seething.

  “You don’t own this town. You don’t own these people. They just want to live their lives. Are you going to let them live their lives?”

  He says nothing, keeps glaring back at me. Finally he glances over his shoulder at his men, then glances back at me.

  “It’s not going to happen today, but one of these days, I am going to kill you.”

  He’s still seething, but he knows he has no choice. At least, not if he wants to make it back to the hill alive.

  Fernando Sanchez Morales starts walking backward, slowly, toward his men.

  “Soon, puta.”

  I give him a smile.

  “Can’t wait.”

  He glares at me for another moment and then turns and motions his men to disperse. They’re leery, still watching the rooftops, but they start back toward their respective pickup trucks. It takes a minute before they’re all loaded in the back of the cabs.

  Morales takes his time walking back to the SUV. He pauses before he climbs inside, just long enough to glare back at me one last time.

  Without a word he gets into the SUV, and almost immediately the driver pulls a slow U-turn to take them back down the unpaved road they came in on, the two pickup trucks following close behind.

  I don’t move—the entire town doesn’t move—until the three vehicles are far enough away that we can’t hear their engines anymore.

  That’s when the town starts cheering. Just like last time, they whoop and holler and act like it’s New Year’s Eve. When the cheering dies down, I shout so everybody can hear me.

  “Remember, don’t get too excited. They will come back. You need to decide who will keep watch. Make shifts. All day, all night.”

  Everybody nods in agreement, says they understand. A few even thank me, tell me that I’m a hero.

  I want to tell them I’m no hero, but I don’t want to ruin their good spirit. So after a couple moments, forcing a smile, I turn and start toward Yolanda’s house.

  Gabriela is waiting for me around the corner. Her eyes are wide with excitement.

  “That was amazing! Weren’t you scared?”

  “Not really. It’s not the first time I’ve been in a situation like that.”

  “But you could have died.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you have a gun aimed at your face. That’s why I just always expect I will die. That way I’m not scared.”

  She stares at me, stunned, and then frowns as she reaches for her pocket.

  I ask, “What is it?”

  Gabriela pulls out her cell phone.

  “A message just came in.”

  She stares at the screen for a moment, and then her eyes go wide again.

  “Holy shit, they found him.”

  “Who?”

  “Miguel Dominguez.”

  “Is he alive?”

  She scans whatever message came through and shakes her head.

  “No, they only found his body. But I know where it is. Shit, I need to go there right now.”

  I glance back toward the square and the few townspeople milling about.

  “After what just happened, I should stay here.”

  “I shouldn’t be long. Maybe by the time I get there the investigators will be there. I’ll tell Ramon you said hi.”

  “That’s probably not a good idea. Look, Gabriela, you need to be careful.”

  “I know.”

  A Beretta PX4 Storm Compact has been pressing against the small of my back this entire time. It’s one of the guns we found in the narcos’ house.

  I grab the gun, hand it to her.

  “Take this.”

  She stares down at the gun for a long moment.

  I say, “You’ve fired a gun before, right?”

  “Of course.”

  But the way she says it, she doesn’t sound very convincing.

  “See this thing here on the side? That’s the safety. Just flick it like this and then point and squeeze the trigger.”

  She nods and takes the gun from me.

  “I’ll be fine. I won’t have to use it.”

  “Let’s hope not. Now, I want to get back to Yolanda’s before the food gets any colder than it already is.”

  Forty

  Ramon stared into the barrel and thought of a jigsaw puzzle.

  Years ago, a foot had been found by children playing in a field. The foot was bare and severed at the ankle. They had searched the area but found no other body parts. Then, a week later, an arm was found across town. A week after that, a leg. Little by little, a body had begun to emerge from all the missing pieces until finally the last piece, the victim’s head, was found on the doorstep of the police station. At that point they were able to establish who the victim was—a shopkeeper who had gone missing the previous month—but it was unclear what sin the man had committed to deserve such a vicious and elaborate death.

  They had never figured out who murdered the shopkeeper, which wasn’t rare in their line of work. They were crime scene investigators, yes, and they were pretty good at their jobs, but they didn’t have the resources they needed to follow up on leads. Still, following those body parts week after week had stuck with Ramon ever since, and now as he stared into the barrel, he was reminded of how disgusted he was at the world then, and how he had been disgusted at the world ever since.

>   Miguel Dominguez had been cut up in pieces much the same way as that shopkeeper years ago. Only the killer had been kind enough not to disperse his body parts all over the city. At least, it didn’t appear that way from where Ramon stood. Everything was in the barrel—Miguel’s feet and legs and torso and arms and hands. His head was at the very top of the heap, staring up at the cloudless sky.

  Carlos said, “I have a hunch our friend here pissed somebody off.”

  Ibarra and Serrano stood around the barrel with them. A few other officers sealed off the area the best they could. They were in an alleyway, and crowds had begun to form on both ends.

  Carlos stepped back and looked at Ramon. When he realized Ramon was still staring into the barrel, he reached out and snapped his fingers in front of his face.

  “Hey.”

  Ramon blinked, looked at his partner.

  “What?”

  “You look pale. You’re not getting soft on me, are you?”

  Ramon shook his head, focusing again on the barrel.

  “I’m just thinking about that shopkeeper from a couple years back.”

  “Oh yeah. Whoever did that was one sick fuck. Hell, whoever did this is one sick fuck. Maybe it’s the same person.”

  Carlos chuckled at his own joke and then went quiet. He squinted at the two PFM agents.

  “What do you two think?”

  Serrano said, “Doesn’t add up.”

  “How so?”

  “Call it a gut feeling.”

  Carlos snorted.

  “My gut is telling me this guy pissed off the wrong person.”

  Ramon murmured, “You said that already.”

  “Well, I think it bears repeating. From what we can tell, Miguel wasn’t a drug dealer. He worked at that shitty motel and made shitty money and lived in a shitty apartment. Not the kind of person somebody would want to cut up and stuff in a barrel.”

  Ibarra pulled his cell phone from his pocket and turned away as he placed it to his ear.

  The other men didn’t say anything while the agent spoke quietly on the phone. They stared down at the pieces of Miguel Dominguez’s body. Right now they couldn’t do much until the barrel was transported to headquarters so that Jorge could start his work. Though at this point Ramon didn’t know what more Jorge would be able to tell them except maybe what kind of blade was used to sever the body parts. There was the possibility the can was covered in prints, but it was a good assumption none of those prints would belong to the killer.