certainly seemed to back that up.
A second source told him of larger cooperation among the villagers. The sort of cooperation that was always disturbing, if only for its ability to spin out of control. Once you allowed peasants to feel powerful, the first casualty was respect for authority. And once people stopped fearing authority, violence was inevitable.
So here he was, in the unlikeliest of places-a tiny country church-having to mete out discipline to the unlikeliest of people. “Father, be reasonable,” Palma said. “The questions I ask are simple to answer. It needn’t be this difficult.”
Father Peron stood naked at the altar, his hands folded across his privates. It was a supplicant posture, an attempt to mine dignity out of a confrontation that would ultimately allow none. Members of the clergy in general- priests in particular-posed special annoyances for Palma during interrogations. They seemed to feel that the costumes they wore and the deference given to them by their followers earned them a kind of immunity. Palma had seen it so many times that he’d come to expect it. There was a time in his life-his adult life, even-when it might have worked; but that was well before the cartels had started running the country. With all that money to be made, there was precious little room in the world for magical deities and superstition.
Nakedness was in itself a form of torture for some people. The sense of helplessness and exposure went beyond bare flesh, and the more power the individual perceived himself to wield, the more devastating the humiliation. With the clergy, the underlying sexuality of nakedness made it an especially useful tool. Sometimes, being stripped naked was all that it took to glean the information he sought. If more effort was required, then the subject’s nudity took on a practical efficiency.
“I cannot answer your questions,” Peron said. “The sanctity of the confessional-”
“Please spare me,” Palma interrupted. He rolled up the sleeves of his uniform to reveal heavily muscled forearms. “This needn’t be complicated, Father. In fact, by embracing the inevitable, you can save us all a lot of time, and yourself a lot of discomfort.”
“I am not choosing not to tell you,” Peron said. “I
Palma paused, pretending to collect his thoughts. Timing was an important element of interrogation, an element that less experienced soldiers often neglected. Moving slowly prolonged the subject’s mental agony. Each additional second of discomfort led the subject a step closer to revealing the information that would bring the return of comfort.
“How did that vehicle end up being stored in your barn, Father?”
“Someone stole the truck that the parish owns,” Peron said. “I don’t know how that other vehicle got there. I didn’t even know that the Pathfinder was missing.”
Palma sighed deeply. He was going for the sound of a disappointed parent. “Please don’t insult me and disgrace yourself with a lie, Father. Don’t disappoint the Lord that way.”
“I am not lying,” Peron insisted.
“Then who stole it?”
“I have no idea,” the priest said. “You must believe me.”
So, this was the way it was going to be. Ruis nodded to one of his non-commissioned officers, Sergeant Sanchez, who nodded in return and left the sanctuary. He knew exactly what he was supposed to do.
“I’ll make a deal with you, Father,” Palma said. He paced at the foot of the altar, measuring his words carefully. “I will start believing you when you start telling the truth.”
“But I’m telling-”
“I know about the Yankee missionaries,” Palma interrupted. “The two men and the boy. I know that you helped them get away.”
Peron’s veneer cracked. Not much, and not for long, but for long enough for Palma to know that he’d touched the right nerve. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Another sigh. “You surprise me, Father,” he said. “And you disappoint me. For the record, I am not insensitive to your predicament. You committed yourself to a lie, and now you feel compelled to defend it. In your job, you must encounter such dilemmas among your parishioners all the time. Now, I’ll ask you again. How did that vehicle get into your garage?”
Peron’s posture straightened. He stopped covering himself, and he put his fists on his hips. Palma recognized it as the second or maybe third stage of the interrogation process: rebellion. He’d done this enough that he could even have predicted what the priest was going to say.
Peron didn’t let him down. “If you already know the answers, Captain, why is it important even to speak with me?”
“One never has
“My
In Palma’s mind, that was a gesture of pure defiance.
“And according to your uniform,” Peron continued, “your employer is the United Mexican States.”
Palma let those words hang in the air, hoping that their absurdity alone would cause Peron to recant. When he didn’t, Palma allowed himself a laugh. A loud, boisterous one. As he climbed the three steps up to the altar, Peron resumed his supplicant pose. Palma came in close, to within inches of the priest’s face.
“And who does the United Mexican States work for, Father?”
Without hesitation, and with no waver in his voice, Peron said, “The people.”
Palma could feel the fear spilling from this man, and as he did, he found his tolerance for these games diminishing. “The people don’t know what they want,” he said. “The people are sheep. They line up and wait to be told where to go. Like the rest of the world, we all work for the United States of America-but more specifically, for the drug addicts of the United States of America. More immediately, however, we work for the people who supply the drug addicts.”
He moved in so close that their noses nearly touched. He could smell the soap that the priest had used. Ivory. “So let’s not fool each other, Father,” he said. He’d modulated his voice to a barely audible whisper. “Let’s not even try. The political government means nothing in this part of the Mexico. Money rules, and the money is controlled by Mr. Felix Hernandez. It’s important to him that intermediaries like me are feared, and through that fear are treated with respect. Are you seeing the circularity of all this, Father?”
Something changed behind Peron’s eyes. Finally, there was the fear he’d been waiting for. “So, Father, one more time before you leave me no choice, how did that truck end up in your garage?”
Peron’s eyes reddened, and tears balanced on his lids. “Our truck was stolen.”
Another deep sigh. “Oh, Father, there comes a point where bravery and foolishness become one.”
He turned to another of his noncoms. “I want thirty villagers in here in the next ten minutes. I don’t care how you get them. I want ten of them to be children.”
Eight minutes later, the church was filled with sleep-starved villagers. Palma’s men stood behind them with their weapons at a loose port arms. Their stances were threatening, but the directions of their muzzles were not.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Palma said. The crowd before him was mostly dressed, but entirely barefoot. Two or three of the men were bare-chested, and five of the women wore nightclothes that would otherwise never have seen public scrutiny. A few of the children appeared to still be asleep, but Palma forgave that. It was the wailing baby that he could not forgive. With a single glance, he granted special dispensation for the baby and her parents to leave.
“We are here for a difficult task,” Palma went on. “Your village had visitors tonight. They are known murderers, and wanted by the police. I asked Father Peron for details, and he refused to give them. Now he has to pay the price.”
A man stepped forward from the crowd. Palma recognized him as Roberto Gonzalez. “I know who took the truck,” he said.
“Many of you know who took the truck,” Palma replied, “Father Peron among them. Even I know the truth of who took the truck. But I need to know it from this man.”
The parishioners had difficulty looking at their pastor in this condition. They diverted their eyes.
