Vargas could barely contain himself. “Come on, Ortiz, we’re wasting time. We have to get moving.”
He was standing in Ortiz’s toolshed, looking down the steps into the hidey-hole. Ortiz was moving around down there and taking forever.
“If we’re going to kill a man, pocho, we’ll need the right tools to do it. And not that popgun you bought from me.”
“All right, fine, just hurry it up.”
A moment later Ortiz climbed up the steps carrying an armload of weapons, then dumped them onto a workbench.
“A couple of these should do the trick.”
Vargas looked down at them, a variety of handguns, the makes and models of which he couldn’t even name.
“Pick your poison. But I got dibs on the SIG.”
It was a classic case of overkill. They already had the Tomcat and the gun Mr. Blister had left on the hotel room floor, and Vargas just wanted to get on the road.
He grabbed a handgun and stuffed it in his belt. “All right, you happy now? Let’s go.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Ortiz said. “Don’t you think we’d better talk about where we’re going, first?”
“I told you, Ciudad de Almas.”
Ortiz picked up the SIG. “That’s an all-night drive and then some, amigo. How do you know that’s where he’s taking her?”
“I don’t. But it’s all I’ve got.”
“This is where you say the dead nuns came from, right? From the church there?”
“Right,” Vargas said. “Iglesia del Sagrado Corazon. But we can talk about all this on the road. We’re wasting time.”
“That’s another problem, amigo.”
“What?”
He nodded toward the taxi, which was parked in the drive. The side mirror was history, but the car itself was still in pretty good shape.
“That spare tire we put on is one of those temporary things. It won’t last all the way to Ciudad de Almas.”
They’d thrown the spare on as quickly as possible, wanting to get away from the hotel before the police showed up. No way they’d be able to pass off the gunshots as pre-festival fireworks, and involving the Mexican cops in this thing was a recipe for disaster.
When Vargas had tried to retrieve his Corolla from the parking lot, he’d discovered the tires had been slashed. Courtesy of Mr. Blister, no doubt.
“Christ,” Vargas said. “What about one of your friends? Don’t they have cars?”
“My friends find out we’re fucking around with La Santa Muerte, they’ll shoot us just to be merciful. So I wouldn’t count on them.”
“Then what the hell are we supposed to do?”
Ortiz thought about it a moment, then an idea struck and his eyes lit up.
“We’re about to go where no man has dared to tread, amigo.”
“What do you mean?”
Ortiz gestured. “Come over here; let me show you something.”
They crossed the yard to a small garage at the end of the driveway. Glancing around, Ortiz grabbed hold of the handle and yanked on it, rolling the door open.
Inside was a sight to behold: a pristine black 1970 Plymouth Barracuda with a monster Hemi-head engine.
“Jesus Christ, Ortiz, how long have you been hiding this thing?”
“I haven’t been, pocho. This is Yolanda’s ride.”
85
Despite all of Rafael’s talk and all of his revelations about Peter and Jen and Marta and their sordid little orgy in the name of God and La Santisima, Beth still had a giant blank spot where the last ten months should have been.
Still working at the rope, she asked, “What happened after Playa Azul? Where did you take us?”
“I already told you. Home.”
“Ciudad de Almas?”
Rafael nodded.
“That’s your home, not mine.”
“ Si, but you came to accept it. You were quite a handful in the beginning, but like a wild mare, with time and patience you were tamed. You learned to laugh with us, pray with us…and share your flesh with us.”
The ball of bile in Beth’s throat grew hotter, acidy. She really was going to throw up.
But she didn’t buy this for a minute. No way she’d ever let these sickos get control of her like that. She was a fighter. Always had been.
But she also knew about the techniques religious cults used on their victims. She’d once prosecuted a sweet, elderly “Christian” couple for imprisoning several teenage runaways and subjecting them to starvation and sleep deprivation and sexual depravity, all the while praying for their salvation.
The kids had resisted at first but had finally broken. And the abuse might have gone on forever if a suspicious neighbor hadn’t called the police.
Beth was no teenager, but could she have been broken, too?
“What about Jen?” she asked. “You still haven’t told me what happened to her.”
“Jennifer was quite another story,” Rafael said. “She all but ran into our arms. But there were some complications in the beginning. She needed a bit of chemical persuasion. To show her the light, so to speak. But she came around quickly. And she and Marta have grown quite close.”
Beth felt a spark of relief. “She’s alive?”
“Alive and well and thriving in our community.”
Thank God, Beth thought. Thank God. “And what about the baby? What about Andy?”
“A beautiful, healthy boy. Probably in his mother’s arms as we speak.” Rafael glanced back at her. “You should be proud of your sister, Beth. She was instrumental in getting you to accept your destiny.”
Beth frowned. “Which destiny is that?”
“The only one you have. She convinced you that the way to true glory was to offer yourself to La Santisima unconditionally, and to accept me as your master.”
“My what?”
Rafael paused again. In a way he reminded her of Dr. Stanley-eternally patient as he explained the facts of life to the girl with the battered brainpan.
“We have simple beliefs, Beth. The women in our family always serve at the pleasure of their men and their God.”
“Whether they like it or not.”
She kept working at the rope and felt it loosen slightly. Not enough, but it was a start.
“If my visit to Los Angeles these last few days is any indication, they like it quite a bit.”
“Oh? And what about Marta?”
“What about her?”
“She didn’t strike me as particularly subservient. From what I could tell on board that ship, she seemed to be running the show.”
“Marta is an exception. She is a bruja, and the direct descendant of El Santo.”
“How nice for her. But you’re not fooling me, you know.”
