“So who is he? Some kind of pagan god?”
“We’re dealing in rumors again. Rumors that are far less reliable than the ones about Rojas. But it’s said that there is a cult of La Santisima’s followers, a cult that has distorted these simple beliefs and offers blood sacrifices in her honor. Led by someone known only as El Santo.”
“Blood sacrifices,” Vargas said. “These don’t sound like friendly people.”
“Just the opposite. El Santo is believed to be a messiah-the direct descendant of their God. And his followers will do anything he asks of them. Including kill.”
“Shades of Charlie Manson.”
“Some say they’ve been trafficking in drugs, but if that’s true, they’ve managed to avoid territorial disputes with the other cartels. Not an easy thing to do.”
“Does this cult have a name?”
“I’ve heard it called by many different names. But the one that seems to stick is La Santa Muerte.”
The Holy Dead.
Vargas felt his gut tighten. The words triggered a memory. Something Junior had said.
You’re a dead man.
You’re one of the dead men.
Vargas thought about this a moment, then looked at Garcia.
“Thanks for your hospitality,” he said, “but it’s time for me to go.”
51
It took him nearly two hours to find it.
It was little more than a paragraph in the August 14 edition of the Albuquerque Examiner, a short blurb about the body of a female being discovered in the parking lot of a Taco Bell.
No identification, no description, but she’d been found by a security guard who was making his rounds.
The victim had “multiple gunshot wounds” but was still alive and had been taken to Burke Memorial Hospital.
Albuquerque was close to a four-hour drive from Juarez but not beyond the bounds of possibility. If Rojas had been concerned enough about his career to commit murder, he surely wouldn’t have hesitated to make the drive. The farther away from his jurisdiction, the better.
There were no follow-up stories. Nothing more about the victim-which, in Vargas’s experience, was not unusual. There was a time when multiple gunshot wounds would have been big news, but nowadays such things were an everyday occurrence. Fresh new stories of violence popped up so frequently that the old ones were quickly forgotten.
Vargas stared at the computer screen and wondered what his next move should be.
He sat in an Internet cafe located in a strip mall on Triunfo de la Republica. After leaving the Velvet Glove, he had gone back to his motel and slept fitfully through the rest of the night, dreaming about Mexican wrestlers who looked like Rojas and Mr. Blister and Charles Manson.
At one point, Carmelita entered the dream, buck naked, carrying a wad of cash in one hand and a tray of ice cubes in the other. But before she got three feet into the room, she morphed into La Santisima, a grinning skull in a red satin hood and, like something from one of his brother Manny’s ghost stories, said, “I want my ring. Give me my beautiful ring…”
Vargas had awakened at the crack of dawn, relieved to discover he was still in his motel room. He took a quick shower, checked his head wound and found it healing satisfactorily, then pulled on some fresh clothes and his baseball cap and started driving, looking for an Internet cafe that opened early.
He’d found this one almost immediately.
After paying his fee, he went to a cubicle near the back, then fired up the computer and began his search. He had accounts with several newspaper archival services-an expensive but professional necessity-and after two hours of searching had finally struck gold.
At least what he hoped was gold.
Pulling out his cell phone, he cycled through his address book and found the number of a guy named William Brett, a reporter he’d met back in the old days who-if he recalled correctly-worked for the Albuquerque Examiner.
He got him on the phone, reminded him who he was, and discovered that Brett didn’t need reminding.
“What do you want?” he asked.
As with many of Vargas’s colleagues these days, there was unmistakable resentment in the guy’s voice. Vargas had, after all, betrayed their profession and had tainted everyone in the process-much like Rojas had tainted the Chihuahua state police.
“I need a favor,” Vargas said.
“Please don’t tell me you’re looking for a job.”
Vargas paused. “No, I need information on a story your paper carried back in August. No byline.”
“You’re actually working again?”
There was just enough incredulity in Brett’s voice to irritate Vargas, but he kept his cool.
“Strictly freelance,” he said. “The story is dated August fourteenth of this year, a woman with multiple gunshot wounds found in a Taco Bell parking lot. She was taken to Burke Memorial.”
“Doesn’t sound familiar.”
Vargas hadn’t expected it to but pressed on.
“I’m hoping you can find out who worked it and see if they have any follow-up notes. She may be connected to a story I’m working on.”
“That’s a tall fuckin’ order,” Brett said. “What’s in it for me?”
“If it pans out, I’ll give you first shot. An exclusive. Drug smuggling, murder, and the possible involvement of a Mexican religious cult. I’m working on a book, so anything you print is bound to help me down the road.”
“Yeah? And how do I know you aren’t making all this shit up? I mention your name to my editor and he’ll laugh me out of his office.”
“Fuck you,” Vargas said. “You don’t have to source me. You want in or not?”
There was a pause on the line as Brett thought it over.
“I’ll call you back,” he said, then hung up.
The call came forty minutes later.
Vargas was on the road again, traveling back along Highway 2, this time headed toward Columbus, New Mexico, where he hoped to cross the border without incident.
Grabbing his phone from the passenger seat, he clicked it on. “Hey, Bill. Any luck?”
“Your victim was a Jane Doe. Spent seven hours in surgery for gunshot wounds to the head and chest, almost died twice on the table. She was comatose for three days, but finally managed to pull through.”
“Jesus Christ. She’s alive?”
“Isn’t that what I just told you?”
“Right, right,” Vargas said. “So what happened to her?”
“Don’t know, didn’t ask. And that’s all the charity work you’re getting out of me.”
“What are you talking about? I told you you could have an exclu-”
“Dream on, Nicky boy. You’ve got about as much chance of anyone taking you seriously as I do of getting a blow job from an Argentinian whore. So I’m giving you this one because I’m a nice guy, but that’s it. Don’t call me again.”
Then he hung up.
Vargas dropped his phone onto the seat, feeling heat rise in his cheeks, wanting to put a fist into the dashboard.
Fucking prick.
But the sad sorry fact was that Brett was right. Getting anyone to take him seriously would be an uphill battle.
