27
The old woman was dying.
At her son’s request, Father Francisco Ortero’s weekly visits had become a daily ritual, now that she was so close to death.
She lived with her family at the hamlet’s edge in a shack built of wood salvaged from pallets discarded by the fruit warehouse in the next town. The priest always declined the family’s invitation to supper, not wanting to further strain their meager means.
He always arrived when the woman’s daughter-in-law was washing her battered pots and pans, or taking dried linen down from the line. The little house was well kept and the corner of it where the old woman was confined to a narrow bed smelled of fresh flowers.
She always took Holy Communion from the priest, who would talk with her into the evening, telling her that she would be with her husband soon, for it was his job to prepare her to meet God. His words comforted her and she smiled.
When Father Ortero left, the moon was rising, washing the dirt road in blue as he walked back to the rectory. Finding peace in the evening, he looked back on his day. His foremost thought was the
The priest wondered if he had done enough to guide the killer back to God. Should he somehow alert police investigating the double murder south of Juarez? Wouldn’t that break the seal of the confession, violate his vow? Perhaps he should talk to his bishop. His questions fell into the silence that cracked with the long, wild cry of a coyote, reminding him that primitive forces were near.
No one else was on the road tonight.
It was a lonely walk, his only company being his thoughts and the mournful wail of the predator in the darkness. This one was likely hunting mice or lizards. While coyotes were common here, they did not attack humans. He was not concerned. He’d walked this road many times and was often serenaded by coyotes.
A stone hit the ground and rolled behind him. Instinctively, the priest stopped and turned.
Nothing was there.
When he turned back, a figure was standing before him, a few feet away, blocking his path. He was slender, taller than the priest, who stood five feet eight inches. A young man, judging by his build and his posture.
A bandanna covered his face, allowing the priest to see only his eyes and short hair. He wore jeans, a T-shirt and a shoulder holster that cradled a semiautomatic handgun.
“Father Ortero.”
Immediately, he recognized the voice.
“Do you remember me?”
“Yes.”
“I asked for you in the town. They told me I would find you here tonight. Don’t be afraid.”
“As I recall, you are the frightened one.”
“You insult me. I have killed men for less.”
The priest extended his arms, opened his palms.
“Go ahead. Guarantee your seat in hell.”
The moon was ablaze in the
“I have given more thought to my situation, my offer to the church and what you said.”
“You wish to confess here, now, and surrender to police?”
“I need to understand redemption and salvation. If I am truly repentant and I make my generous donation, will I receive absolution?”
“How old are you?”
“I am twenty.”
“You are naive to think you can manipulate favor with God.”
“I am sorry for my sins and I am willing to give the church more money than it will see in a thousand years.”
“You murder two hundred people and you expect to buy eternal salvation with blood money?” The
“My nightmares torment me and a rival gang wants to kill me. I must be absolved. I now know that Santa Muerte is a false saint. I leave my calling card now for effect only, to impress police. But I know she cannot protect me. I must make things right with God. I have given more thought to what you said.”
“You will confess and surrender?”
“In a few more days, I will finish my next job, the one that pays large. Then I want you to arrange for me to tell my story to a trusted journalist, so police cannot twist it. Then I will surrender if I can work a deal with police.”
“What sort of deal?”
“I want to go into witness protection in the U.S. or in Canada, in exchange for information I will give them about cartels, very important information that could end a lot of bloodshed.”
“What is this next job?”
“I don’t know. I will be told details later.”
“Why not surrender now, end the killing now?”
“I need the money from this last job for my new life and to give to the church. Can you help me do this?”
“I do not like your proposal.”
“It is not for liking. Can you help me?”
“Yes, I can help you surrender.”
“And can you assure me absolution and save me from eternal hell?”
“Determining the destination of your soul is for God. I can assure you that if you go back on your offer, if you fail to surrender and atone, your soul will remain outside of God’s light forever.”
“I give you my word. I will surrender. I will be in contact.”
The priest’s rectory had one of the few phones in Lago de Rosas and the
The priest stood alone.
He cupped his hands over his face. His heart was still racing as he tried to comprehend what had transpired. Did it even happen? It was as if the
As the priest resumed walking, a desert wind tumbled across the land carrying with it the long rising howl of the coyote. It turned into yapping that fell into a growl, triggering a sudden high-pitched scream of something dying out there in the night.
28
It didn’t add up.
As night fell, Percy Smoot wet the tips of his nicotine-stained fingers with his tongue and counted the cash at the Sweet Times Motel register.
Worn and torn fives, tens and twenties piled on the front desk. When he finished counting, the total was four hundred and eighty dollars.
Percy pushed aside the long strands of greasy hair that curtained over his face. His bloodshot gaze traveled
