The Dead Women of Juarez

Sunlight didn’t cleanse him. He felt the inside of the building crawling on his skin, beneath his suit, in his hair. Again he heard the metallic screech and he clung to the sound because it was normal and ordinary and brought him back to a place where men worked and had families and never came near a place like this.

After a long while he picked up the cut chains and strung them through the handle of the side door. No one looking closely would be fooled, but from a distance of just a few feet it was identical to the way Sevilla found it. He realized he’d left the bolt cutters inside, but he retreated down the steps and across the street not caring. He sweated more than the day’s heat demanded.

SIXTEEN

TWO MILES AWAY SEVILLA FOUND A drug store that seemed unchanged since the 1960s. It still had a lunch counter and an old man who jerked sodas from an ornate fountain with chromed spigots. Sevilla ordered food he did not want to eat and forced himself to bite, swallow and chew until the whole plate was empty.

He put down payment and a tip. His phone rang.

“Sevilla,” he answered.

“It’s Palencia.”

“Enrique,” Sevilla said. He hoped he did not sound so utterly spent on the other end of the line. “Where are you?”

“I’m coming back. I saw Rojas.”

Out in the sun, Sevilla’s eyes were hurting again. The headache was back. He had a bottle of aspirin in his pocket and he took two, grinding them between his teeth and tolerating the horrible bitterness because at least it was better than concentrating on the pain in his head.

“Are you there?” Enrique asked. “Can you hear me?”

“I’m here,” Sevilla said.

“I spoke to Rojas. He knows about it, Rafael. He knows all about it. Ortiz—”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Sevilla interrupted.

“What do you mean? What’s going on there?”

“I killed Ortiz,” Sevilla said.

Nothing but silence greeted him on the other end of the line. Sevilla heard the crackling of an unclear signal and the ghost whispers of other callers somewhere hundreds of miles away. Finally he heard Enrique clear his throat. “What happened?”

“He told me everything,” Sevilla replied.

“What happened?”

“I’ve seen the place. I’ve been inside. I saw where they do it, Enrique. It’s done in plain sight, all of it. They aren’t afraid of anything.”

“The Madrigals—” Enrique started again.

“It doesn’t matter to you anymore. Listen to me, Enrique. Listen carefully: I want you to walk away from this. You don’t want to be a part of it anymore. There’s no good that can come of it. Put your nose back into your paperwork. You’re safer with La Bestia.”

Sevilla caught the sound of a car’s engine in the background. He heard anxiety notching into Enrique’s voice. “What are you going to do?”

“It’s too late for me,” Sevilla said, and he closed his phone.

Enrique called back three times, but all three times Sevilla ignored the call. He took a walk with only his thoughts for company, moving through sidewalk vendors and farmers’ stalls until he was back at his car again. Back where he began with nothing to show for his effort.

He wanted to talk to Enrique because there was no one else. A part of him thought he should return to Kelly because he might not have a chance to explain himself. When Kelly woke — if he woke, Sevilla reminded himself — there would be no one to tell him the story of Paloma. But perhaps it was better that way. If Kelly woke they would put it all on him. El Cereso would seem a paradise compared to the hole they’d find for an American who raped and murdered a Mexican woman.

This time when he came to the neighborhood he parked in front of the apartment building he’d noted earlier. He considered hiding his car, but it seemed like there was no point; no one knew him here and no one would be watching.

There were seven apartments in the little building, each one marked with a little slip of paper and a buzzer. Sevilla pushed the buttons for the units on the second and third floors and said nothing if someone answered. A third-floor unit unlocked the front door without calling down. Sevilla went inside.

The hallway was narrow and the little space near the mailboxes smelled heavily of old cooking. A building this old had no elevator, so Sevilla mounted the stairs one at a time. He heard television sounds and radio sounds and the warble of people talking loudly to one another. On the third floor he found the foremost unit and knocked on the door.

Sevilla waited until an ancient man answered. The man peered through the space between jamb and the edge of the door at Sevilla’s battered face. A brass chain held the two together. The man looked Sevilla up and down. “What do you want?” he asked.

“Policia. My name is Sevilla. Here is my identification. Open the door.”

The ancient man squinted at Sevilla’s badge and ID. Sevilla saw an idea skitter across the man’s face — slam the door and call the police — but eventually he undid the security chain and let Sevilla inside.

The apartment was small but drenched in light from the casement windows at the front of the unit. The ancient man had an equally antiquated black-and-white television set and a portable record player on a folding table. Playing cards were spread out across an undersized coffee table opposite a threadbare couch.

“I have done nothing wrong,” the ancient man said.

“You aren’t in trouble,” Sevilla replied.

He looked out the front window. His car was below and then the street and then the terrible building. The angle was not perfect and Sevilla could not see all three sides of the structure, but it was good enough for what he needed that he didn’t think to complain.

When he turned back to the ancient man, Sevilla saw fear on the man’s face. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to cause any problems for you. But I will need to stay here for a while. I’m sorry.”

“What are you looking for? I have nothing here.”

Sevilla motioned the ancient man closer. In his pocket his phone began to vibrate. It was Enrique. He paid the call no attention. “Come here,” he said. “You see that building over there?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever seen anything happening there? People coming and going?”

The ancient man thought for a while and then nodded. “Sometimes I’ve seen many cars. At night when everyone else has gone home. Fancy cars. But I don’t pay such things attention, senor. I mind my own business.”

“Of course you do. When do the cars come?”

Again the ancient man considered. “Sometimes every month. Less when it’s cold.”

“They are coming again tonight,” Sevilla said. “I will watch for them.”

“Are they narcotraficantes? I watch the news. I know they are everywhere.”

“They are,” Sevilla lied. “And if all goes well tonight, you’ll never see them again.”

“Good,” the ancient man said. “We don’t need their kind here.”

Sevilla prevailed upon the ancient man to bring him a chair to put by the window and another of the little folding tables on which to put his notepad and his phone. Without being asked the man brought Sevilla something to eat, and though he was still not hungry Sevilla made himself finish this meal, too.

They had nothing else to say to each other. The ancient man went back to his game of solitaire. From time to time he shuffled, the cards purring in hands with big knuckles that looked as though they were arthritic but clearly were not. Sevilla looked at the man and saw himself in twenty years if he would live twenty years more. It was not as terrible as he thought it might be.

“What is your name?” Sevilla asked the ancient man at last.