Ibarra turned back to them as he disconnected his call.
He said to Serrano, “We need to leave.”
Serrano said, “Where?”
“Pátzcuaro.”
Pátzcuaro was a town located in Michoacán.
Carlos said, “What’s in Pátzcuaro?”
The agents traded a quick glance before Ibarra cleared his throat.
“Earlier this morning the Devil attacked a convoy. They had been working as a decoy to lure him out with the idea they were transporting the wife and children. One of the men was missing, from what we understand, and it’s believed the Devil tortured him for information.”
Ramon said, “What kind of information?”
“The whereabouts of the wife and children.”
“How do you know?”
“Because their bodies were just found.”
There was a brief silence as the men digested this new information, and then Carlos shook his head.
“Wait a minute. Pátzcuaro has to be at least one thousand kilometers from here.”
The agents said nothing.
Carlos said, “Just to be clear, do either of you think this man was killed by the Devil?”
The agents said nothing.
Carlos said, “You guys have been a lot of help, you know that?”
Serrano said, “We need to head out. Send us updates as they come in.”
The PFM agents left them and hurried up the alleyway toward where they’d parked their car.
Carlos watched them and muttered, “Assholes.”
He and Ramon stayed motionless for a long time, both staring down at the body in the barrel.
Carlos lit a cigarette and shook his head.
“Who in the hell did you piss off, Miguel?”
Forty-One
Dorado sits perched on Yolanda’s lap, staring at me.
I sit on the couch across from Yolanda, staring back at the cat.
It’s late in the day now, the sun already starting to fade, and the narcos haven’t made another attempt to enter the town. So we’ve been waiting here in the house, Yolanda and I, and as I don’t feel much like talking, we’ve mostly just been sitting in silence.
“Would your parents be proud of you?”
The old woman’s question catches me off guard. I glance up at her, breaking my staring contest with Dorado.
“What kind of question is that?”
Dorado, triumphant with his staring contest win, hops off Yolanda’s lap and scurries out of the room into the kitchen.
Yolanda says, “A simple question. Would your parents be proud of you?”
This gives me pause. Truth is, I’ve never really thought about it. Or, well, if I had thought about it, I didn’t care much. But is that true? Screw this—I decide to throw the question back at the old woman.
“Were you proud of your son?”
Maybe it’s the way I say it—a little too glib—but something changes in her face. It’s clear I’ve hit a nerve.
I sigh, leaning forward on the couch.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
She watches me for a long moment, then shakes her head.
“No, I deserved it. I was making you uncomfortable, so you decided to make me uncomfortable.”
Neither one of us says anything for a long time.
Dorado reenters the room. He stands there for a couple seconds, looking toward Yolanda and then toward me, before lying down on the carpet to stretch.
Yolanda says, “They will come back, won’t they?”
“I don’t know.”
She holds her gaze steady with mine.
“Yes, you do.”
“Fine. Yes, they will come back. When, I have no idea, but you said it yourself, Fernando isn’t like his father. He’s more vicious. He won’t be able to let go of what happened today.”
Again, neither one of us says anything for a long time. We watch the cat, stretching on the carpet, until he rolls over onto his feet and pads over to Yolanda. He sits in front of her and meows.
She leans forward.
“Are you hungry?”
Another meow.
“You ate a half hour ago. You do not need anymore. What you do need is to lose some weight.”
The cat meows a third time, like a protest, and then scurries back into the kitchen.
I say, “My mother doesn’t know what it is I do.”
Yolanda looks like she was about to push herself out of her chair to follow Dorado into the kitchen. Clearly, she’s ready to give in to the cat. But she pauses and glances up at me.
“And what is it that you do?”
“I can’t tell you. But I recently walked away from my job. And my mother, she never knew what it was I really did. The same with my father; she never knew what he really did. She’s been lied to for the better part of half her life. Or no—not lied to. It was never something intentionally devious. Just her … ignorance was meant to keep her safe.”
I shake my head again.
“Never mind. I feel like I’m rambling. I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. But my mother … I think she always wanted something better for me. And she’s always been disappointed that I didn’t turn out differently. Or at least the way she thinks I should have turned out. Except the truth is she has no idea what I’ve done. All the people I’ve killed. I should be ashamed about it, I guess, but all those people were bad people. And to keep my mother safe, she’ll never be able to know the truth. She’ll always … be disappointed in me.”
Silence again. After a couple moments, Yolanda looks like she’s going to say something, but that’s when the front door opens.
I reach for the Glock as I stand and turn toward the door.
The boy from earlier hurries inside, a cell phone swinging in his hand.
Yolanda asks, “What’s wrong?”
The boy pauses to catch his breath. Then he holds up the phone, its screen facing us.
“La Baliza. This was posted … a couple minutes … ago.”
The boy steps forward and hands me the phone. The webpage is centered on a video. The headline reads JOURNALIST WHORE.
A dark foreboding tinge in my stomach, I press the play button.
At first the video is shaky, so it’s unclear what’s going on, but soon the camera steadies and focuses on a girl kneeling on the ground. A cinderblock wall is behind her. The girl’s been stripped of her clothes and is completely naked, making it easy
