“Why?”
“The way Gabriela put it, La Baliza was the first to report on the Devil’s killings. They didn’t call him the Devil at the time—some other newspaper came up with the name—but they made sure to get the story out there.”
“And?”
“And after Gabriela had uploaded her story about the three dead bodies in that building, the publisher emailed her saying he was taking out any reference to the Devil as there was no direct evidence identifying him.”
“Okay, but what if this guy was just being careful? You know, journalists are supposed to make sure they get their facts straight before they publish. They’re not supposed to speculate, even if it is for an online blog.”
“Maybe. But something tells me the guy who runs the website knows more than he’s letting on.”
“What something?”
“Just a gut feeling.”
Nova shakes his head and says, “You’re kidding, right?”
I don’t answer.
“Wait a minute. You said your friend used that Tor browser to hide her identity online. The guy who ran the website did the same. If that’s the case, how was Atticus able to track a location?”
Staring out my window again, I say, “The guy slipped up.”
“What do you mean?”
“I told you, he took the video off the website. When he did, he must have done it in a hurry. Maybe he didn’t use the same browser he always used. I don’t know. But Atticus said he managed to find a source and traced it to Colotlán.”
“Was he able to establish an exact location?”
“He did. And it’s a strange location.”
“How so?”
“It’s a church.”
Forty-Five
The church in question is much larger than I had imagined it would be. It’s several stories tall with two gothic towers reaching into the sky and stands in the middle of town.
Nova and I stand across the street. It’s just past five o’clock and around us the town is mostly quiet. A few people walking here and there. A few cars driving past. No narcos in sight. No police, either.
Nova says, “This is the one, huh?”
“Yep.”
“Maybe Atticus got it wrong.”
“Maybe. Only one way to find out.”
We cross the street and enter through the ornate doors into the church. The cathedral has a high ceiling and our footsteps echo through the mostly empty space as we advance toward the front.
An old woman sits in one of the pews, her head bent in prayer. At least, I assume she’s praying. For an instant, the image of Gabriela’s grandmother flashes in my mind, and I wonder if this old woman’s throat has also been sliced open.
The old woman shifts in the pew as she grips onto her rosary, running the beads through her fingers.
Nova whispers, “This doesn’t feel right.”
I say nothing as we keep quietly walking down the aisle toward the front of the church. There are several confessionals off to the side. I wonder if anybody’s in them.
As we near the front, a priest appears from a doorway in the corner. He’s in his forties with close-cropped gray hair. For a moment he looks guarded. But when he sees us, he adjusts the glasses on his face and smiles.
“Buenas tardes.”
I smile and ask, “Do you speak English?”
The priest nods as he approaches us. There’s something strange about the way he walks, something that probably nobody else would catch. It’s there for only a second or two, and then he’s standing right in front of us.
“Welcome. How can I help you?”
“My boyfriend and I are on vacation. When we saw this gorgeous church we wanted to stop in.”
The priest beams with pride.
“It certainly is gorgeous, yes.”
“Can we have a tour?”
The smile starts to fade.
“No, I am afraid that is not possible right now.”
“Are you the only one here?”
Now the priest’s brow furrows as he begins to frown.
“I do not understand the question.”
I glance around the vast cathedral, spot the old woman again, and turn back to the priest. I lean toward him, lower my voice.
“May I confess to you?”
“Are you Catholic?”
“Lapsed. But I’m hoping to start over again.”
This isn’t true on either account, but what the priest doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
He stands there for a long moment, clearly conflicted about something. He keeps glancing past us toward the entrance, as if he expects somebody to walk through at any moment.
I say, “Please, Father …”
He blinks, looks back at me.
“Crisanto.”
“Please, Father Crisanto. I did something terrible recently and I need to confess.”
Nova hasn’t moved from my side this entire time. Clearly he isn’t sure where I’m heading with this, but he doesn’t question it.
Father Crisanto stands there for another long moment, still conflicted, before he forces a smile and says of course and motions toward the confessionals.
Before I follow him, I turn back to Nova and whisper into his ear.
“See if you can get the old woman to leave. This may not turn out well.”
He frowns at me for a second, but then he says, “Sure thing, babe.”
I turn toward the confessionals before Nova can say anything else. Father Crisanto has already entered and closed his door.
As somebody who’s never been in a confessional before, I’m not sure of the exact rules, but I figure I can wing it.
I enter and kneel in front of a square panel. It smells stale in the cramped space. Which I guess is to be expected. This is where people come to confess their sins and ask for forgiveness. A whiff of desperation and regret fills the air.
The partition between us slides open, revealing a mesh screen. Father Crisanto on the other side, waiting for me to begin.
Because I’ve seen my fair share of confessions on TV, I say, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been several years since my last confession.”
Father Crisanto doesn’t say anything, just waits.
“I recently hurt someone close to me. Someone who I did not know very long but whom I considered a friend.”
Silence.
“She took me in when she didn’t have to. She gave me a place to stay. She was a good person. A strong person. A person who took
