Beth was surprised. With the kind of money El Santo had to be making through his drug and prostitution rings, you’d think he would have wired the place for electricity.
But since the cult seemed to be living in a kind of netherworld between the old and the new, basing their lives on traditions and rituals that were modeled after some ancient pagan society, maybe torches was the way to go.
What would a good old-fashioned cleansing or ritual sacrifice be without the proper ambiance?
“Wait here,” Cristo said, and started to leave.
Beth grabbed his hand. “Where are you going?”
“I come back soon,” he said, pulling away. Then he darted through the tunnel, stopped at a junction to peek around the corner, then continued on, disappearing from sight.
Beth had butterflies in her stomach. The plan, they had decided, was for Beth to find Jen and the baby and get them out of there as quickly as possible before the ceremony began.
Meanwhile, Ortiz and Vargas would go to the cages and release any women who might be held there, then round up as many of the children as they could find and take them all to safety.
It was an ambitious and maybe even a foolhardy plan, but they thought they might be able to pull it off while all attention was centered on the festivities in the Great Chamber.
Even the guards attended these festivities, Cristo had told them. So if all worked out right, they’d have plenty of time to do what they needed to do and remain undetected.
Maybe.
Based on the story Cristo had told them earlier, it was painfully obvious that such plans didn’t always work.
After several nervous minutes, Cristo returned carrying black hooded robes and gold skull masks and handed them out. As Beth put hers on, she suddenly remembered a Stanley Kubrick movie she’d seen a few years back, where Tom Cruise and Sydney Pollack dressed up in robes and watched people have anonymous sex in a New York mansion. The filthy rich caught up in a decadent fantasy.
It wouldn’t surprise her, she thought, to discover that many of the people who attended this shindig were equally rich-and emotionally empty. People who rationalized their callous indifference to the suffering of others by wrapping it in pseudo-religious hokum.
It would almost be laughable if it all weren’t so deadly serious.
Nevertheless, Beth felt ridiculous wearing this thing. But she had to admit it was a great way to enter the place undetected.
Their backpacks, which were filled with the Jarrito bottles, would have to be left behind. So Vargas and Ortiz stuffed their pockets with as many of the bottles as they could fit. Which wasn’t many.
“Where’s your robe?” Beth asked Cristo.
“The children do not wear robes,” he said, then showed her his skull mask, which was white instead of gold. “Come. The ceremony is about to begin. I show you where they keep Jennifer.”
Feeling the butterflies fluttering away, Beth followed him.
95
As they turned the first corner, the tunnel started to narrow slightly and, as promised, its walls were lined with torches, lighting their way.
Beth heard the buzz of conversation ahead, and when they turned the next corner they stepped into yet another cave, this one at least twice the size of any of the previous caves. It was filled with two or three hundred people, standing shoulder to shoulder, every one of them wearing a black robe and gold skull mask.
Beth, Vargas, and Ortiz followed Cristo into the crowd, Beth suddenly feeling exposed, waiting for someone to point a finger and shout, Stop her! She’s not one of us!
But as they continued through, there were no shouts, no accusations, only the excited hum of spectators waiting for the show to begin.
All eyes were fixed on the front of the cave, which was dominated by several large stone statues of La Santisima Muerte, a huge, circular slab of intricately carved stone at their feet, looking like something out of an Aztec nightmare. Flaming torches lined the circle, throwing light on the focus of everyone’s attention: a large fire pit with a crude stone chair standing at its center. And high above it was a man-made wind tunnel, carved into the roof of the cave, where smoke from the torches funneled into the night sky.
Beth stared at the stone chair, knowing that if they didn’t work fast, Jen and little Andy would soon be sitting in it, waiting to die.
Cristo cut abruptly to the right. Beth turned quickly to make sure that Vargas and Ortiz were behind her, then followed the boy out of the crowd toward yet another tunnel.
Stopping at the mouth of the tunnel, Cristo waited for Beth and the others to catch up, then pointed past the crowd toward a small stone archway on the far right side of the sacrificial altar.
“In there,” he said. “She will be alone with the baby. Given a last moment of reflection before the final walk.”
Moving deeper into the tunnel, Cristo shoved a large rock aside and came away carrying another black robe and gold skull mask.
“She will be dressed in red,” he told Beth. “You must change her into this and hide the baby under your robe.”
Nodding, Beth took the robe and mask from him as Cristo turned to Vargas and Ortiz. “I will go with Elizabeth. Do you have the map?”
Vargas reached under his robe and brought out the drawing. Cristo traced their route with an index finger.
“You must follow this tunnel to the cages,” he said. “Then go here, where the children sleep. Many of them will not want to come, but you must tell them that Cristo says it is safe.”
Vargas nodded, then reached under his robe again and brought out the Glock, offering it to Beth. “I don’t want you going in there without protection.”
Beth stared at it a moment, then took it from him and tucked it into the top of her pants, beneath her robe.
Suddenly the loud, musical blast of a horn echoed through the cave and excited murmurs rose from the crowd. Then a tall female figure in a gold robe and red skull mask stepped out from behind one of the statues and the crowd erupted in applause and cheers.
The woman raised her arms, signaling for them to quiet down. Then she began to sing, her sweet, soulful voice filling the air.
At the sound of that voice, Beth felt a chill of recognition run through her. Images of her night aboard the cruise liner filled her head: sitting with Rafael in the jazz bar.
The singer was Marta Santiago.
“We must hurry,” Cristo whispered. “Next El Santo will speak and then the sacrifice will begin.”
As Marta continued to sing, all eyes riveted to her, Beth nodded, then followed Cristo to the stone archway.
Gesturing her inside, Cristo stepped back into the shadows to wait.
96
When she entered the small chamber, Beth felt her heart skip a beat.
Jen was sitting on a wooden cot, wearing a red hooded robe, a black skull mask covering her face.
Little Andy was in her arms, sleeping quietly.
Outside, Marta finished singing her song and the crowd cheered and applauded, and Beth knew she had to
