As she finished her coffee, she looked up at him. ‘Why are you keeping me here? If it’s money, my parents do okay but they don’t have millions or anything.’
So young, he thought. So naive.
He motioned for her to sit back so he could put the manacles on again. She did as she was told. As he knelt next to her, he sensed that someone else was in the room with them. Not a person. Something much bigger than they were. Bigger than the boss.
Later, he would reflect that he didn’t think it was God, or the Virgin, or Santa Muerte, because what washed over him was beyond a thought: it was something far more powerful. His face was close to hers and for a split second he thought he might throw himself on the floor and weep for what he was doing. But the core of him, which allowed him to function, reared up again, pulling him back from what was surely an abyss. The feeling didn’t abate entirely but it retreated, like the tide.
‘Don’t tell anyone your family is poor, okay?’ he whispered. ‘If you have no money, they won’t keep you alive.’
He was so close that he could see flecks of green in her blue eyes.
She nodded.
He stood up, took the tray, walked out and locked the door behind him. His hands were shaking so hard that the coffee cup rattled in its saucer. He needed a drink. Needed it bad.
Thirty-six
Rafaela left them at a fast-food restaurant while she went to return the police wagon. They took a table near the back and ate in silence, the only Americans in the place. It was Ty, the only African American they had seen since they had crossed the border, who drew the stares. It had been the same everywhere they’d been. Not that Ty seemed to mind. Maybe he didn’t notice it, or maybe, thought Lock, he just figured that with his height, build and rugged good looks, he was a pretty tough guy to ignore.
Thirty-five minutes later, Lock received a text: ‘Meet me out back.’
He tapped Ty’s arm. They got up, went outside and strolled round to the back. Rafaela pulled up next to them in a Chevy Camaro. They got into the back seat. She had changed into sneakers, jeans and a white blouse. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Show me this bar.’
‘It’s in Diablo. I’ll tell you the name when we get there.’
She eyed him in the rear-view mirror. ‘You don’t trust me?’
‘You were ready to kick us out of the country a couple of hours ago.’
‘I was saving your skin.’
‘Anybody ask what happened to your prisoners?’ Ty said.
Ty’s question seemed to leave her on the verge of laughter. ‘Here, when you don’t come back with prisoners, no one asks questions. Not if they’re smart. Some things are better not to know about.’
Rafaela’s cell phone rang. She reached over on to the passenger seat and plucked it from her handbag, answering in Spanish. A few seconds later she ended the call. She glanced at her passengers. ‘We have to go somewhere else first. When we get there, stay in the car, and don’t move. If anyone asks who you are don’t say anything.’
‘I think we can manage that,’ said Ty.
She eyed Lock. ‘I’m not so sure about your friend.’
Ty shrugged. ‘Don’t worry. Nobody is.’
She tugged down hard on the steering-wheel and spun the car round. Lock was thrown back in his seat as she buried the gas pedal, weaving through the late-night traffic. As they drove through the city one thing stood out to him: an absence of the normal. There were no young women out alone, and the people who were on the streets scuttled purposefully towards their destination, like beetles, heads down, focused solely on getting to where they had to go.
A truck full of soldiers was parked at an intersection. They eyed each passing car, weapons tucked between their knees, cigarettes dangling from their lips. Rafaela didn’t appear to register their presence as she zipped past. They were so much background scenery, so commonplace that they warranted no comment.
The lights of the city fell away as they hit the freeway. Lock opened the window for some air. He leaned forward in his seat. ‘Can I ask you something?’
Rafaela turned her head slightly to look at him. ‘What is it?’
‘Who’s the bodyguard?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I thought we were going to be straight with each other. I told you exactly why we’re here. You only got interested when you saw that picture so you have to know who it is.’
‘I don’t know his name. But, yes, I recognized him.’
‘From where?’
Her hands tightened on the wheel and she stared out of the windshield as the car swallowed the surface of the road. ‘He’s one of them. Very dangerous.’
‘Who’s them? Part of a cartel?’
He saw her eyes shift towards him and her jaw tighten. She looked down and away before her eyes settled back on the road. ‘Yes.’
He grabbed the back of the front passenger seat, and pulled himself forward. ‘That’s not what you meant, though, is it? When you said “them”, you weren’t talking about a cartel.’
‘No, I wasn’t.’
‘So what did you mean? Who are they?’
Another army truck sped past them. One of the soldiers leered at Rafaela from the back.
‘He’s one of the men who are killing the women here.’
‘If you know he’s killing women, why don’t you go arrest him?’ he asked.
He caught sight of Rafaela’s lips parting in a sad smile in the rear-view mirror. ‘How long have you been in this part of the country?’
‘People don’t get arrested here?’
‘That depends on the evidence — and who they are.’
‘So, who is he? There’s something you’re not telling me.’
She turned, facing him briefly. ‘He’s a police officer.’
Thirty-seven
Rafaela turned off towards the centre of Diablo. They were moving down a main avenue, busy with bars, stores and restaurants. The traffic began to slow. Through the front windshield, Lock could see people crowding a small section of sidewalk and spilling out on to the road. At first he thought it must be another killing, with the inevitable ghoulish assembly that death attracted. Rafaela braked.
‘Someone been shot?’ Ty asked.
‘No,’ said Rafaela. ‘It’s a shrine.’
As they drew level it didn’t look much like a shrine, and the people gathered around it didn’t look much like worshippers. It was a plain storefront with a couple of tables stacked out front, and the crowd was low rent — lots of overweight girls sporting tattoos, and men clutching beer bottles or smoking spliffs.
‘A shrine to Santa Muerte,’ Rafaela said. ‘Saint Death.’
That was when Lock, who was still digesting the notion of a police officer moonlighting for a major drugs cartel, saw it. Right at the front, bathed in candlelight, a human skeleton was wearing a blonde wig covered with a black shawl.
‘They believe she can offer protection. They come here every night and bring her offerings.’
