Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller) (40 page)

“She will be dressed in red,” he told Beth. “You must change her into this and hide the baby under your robe.”

Nodding, Beth took the robe and mask from him as Cristo turned to Vargas and Ortiz. “I will go with Elizabeth. Do you have the map?”

Vargas reached under his robe and brought out the drawing. Cristo traced their route with an index finger.

“You must follow this tunnel to the cages,” he said. “Then go here, where the children sleep. Many of them will not want to come, but you must tell them that Cristo says it is safe.”

Vargas nodded, then reached under his robe again and brought out the Glock, offering it to Beth. “I don’t want you going in there without protection.”

Beth stared at it a moment, then took it from him and tucked it into the top of her pants, beneath her robe.

Suddenly the loud, musical blast of a horn echoed through the cave and excited murmurs rose from the crowd. Then a tall female figure in a gold robe and red skull mask stepped out from behind one of the statues and the crowd erupted in applause and cheers.

The woman raised her arms, signaling for them to quiet down. Then she began to sing, her sweet, soulful voice filling the air.

At the sound of that voice, Beth felt a chill of recognition run through her. Images of her night aboard the cruise liner filled her head: sitting with Rafael in the jazz bar.

The singer was Marta Santiago.

“We must hurry,” Cristo whispered. “Next El Santo will speak and then the sacrifice will begin.”

As Marta continued to sing, all eyes riveted to her, Beth nodded, then followed Cristo to the stone archway.

Gesturing her inside, Cristo stepped back into the shadows to wait.

96

W
HEN SHE ENTERED
the small chamber, Beth felt her heart skip a beat.

Jen was sitting on a wooden cot, wearing a red hooded robe, a black skull mask covering her face.

Little Andy was in her arms, sleeping quietly.

Outside, Marta finished singing her song and the crowd cheered and applauded, and Beth knew she had to work fast.

“Hello, Jen.”

The hooded head jerked up sharply. The baby stirred in her arms.

“Who’s there? Who are you?”

“It’s me, Jen, Beth. I’ve come to get you out of here.”

Beth’s first instinct was to throw her arms around her sister and hug her. But there was time for that later. Instead, Beth reached up and lifted her mask.

Outside, the crowd began to chant, “Santo, Santo, Santo, Santo…”

And Beth heard Cristo’s voice behind her in the doorway:

“Hurry. We must hurry.”

Jen was looking at her, eyes wide behind the mask. “Is this some kind of trick? Beth is dead.”

So they hadn’t told Jen. Probably thought she’d be easier to handle this way.

“Look at me,” Beth said. “Do I look dead to you?”

“You’re not Beth. Beth was shot.”

Her speech was slow, lethargic. It occurred to Beth that Jen may have been drugged in preparation for the ceremony. She moved closer, crouching down in front of Jen, stroking little Andy’s head.

He didn’t stir. Had he been drugged, too?

“It’s me,” she said to Jen. “I’m here. They may have stopped me, but they couldn’t kill me.”

Jen pulled the baby away from Beth and hugged him to her breast. She began muttering rapidly in Spanish. Words Beth didn’t understand. A prayer of some kind.

What the hell had they done to her?

But then Beth knew, didn’t she? Cristo had told her what El Santo did to his women, and the irony of all this suddenly came home to her. A man who worships an all-powerful female saint yet treats the women in his life like dogs.

Then again, judging by the burns on Rafael and Cristo, maybe this was equal-opportunity degradation.

“We have to hurry,” she said to Jen. “You need to change into this mask and robe.”

Beth reached to remove Jen’s mask, but Jen brought a hand up, stopping her.

“No,” she said, her voice rising. “You’re not Beth.”

“We don’t have time to argue about this,” Beth told her, then reached for the mask again, grabbing it firmly.

But as she pulled it off, Jen said, “Beth is dead. I know she is. I know because I shot her.”

And then the mask came off and Jen’s hood fell away, revealing a sight so shocking that Beth felt her heart freeze in her chest and she stood up, stumbling backward.

Jen’s hair was gone, her bald scalp shining in the candlelight. But that was nothing. That wasn’t the worst of it. That was something that could be remedied with time.

But what couldn’t be remedied was Jen’s face.

Every inch of it was covered with burn scars, as if she’d been dipped in acid and left to dry. She had no nose, no lips, no eyebrows, no ears, her skin a blotchy, waxy, melted mass of flesh.

And suddenly Beth felt it. The switch being flipped. And all the dark shapes that had been struggling to get through finally came to the surface, and she saw herself huddled in that desolate house in the desert, little Andy in her arms, Sisters Imelda and Christina and Miranda and Lasarte standing around her as the door flew open and two men entered the room, followed by Marta and the hideous creature who had once been Jen. Then the guns started blazing and the sisters were screaming as Jen snatched the baby from Beth’s arms, then pushed her toward the mattress, raised a pistol, and shot her twice in the chest.

And Beth fell in slow motion, landing next to Sister Christina—who was surely as dead as Beth would soon be—blood spreading out beneath her, her energy draining away as Jen looked down at her, only the eyes recognizable, a fierce, untamed hatred in them as she spat on Beth and said, “He’s mine, you fucking whore.”

And then she was gone.

Beth looked at her sister now, sitting there in the candlelight, clutching the baby, and the weight of those final moments came crashing down on her, disbelief spreading through her as the crowd continued to chant, “Santo, Santo, Santo, Santo,” and Beth heard Cristo shout behind her:

“Elizabeth! Look out!”

And as she turned, she saw Marta coming straight for her, swinging something heavy at her head, and before she could duck, it connected, knocking her sideways.

The gun in her waistband clattered to the floor and she went down.

Hard.

97

All of the Above

“
WHAT ARE YOU
doing?”

The drug they had given Jennifer seemed to have worn off a bit.

But that didn’t matter now.

“What does it look like?” Marta said. “I’m taking her robe off.”

“But why?”

Marta looked up at Jennifer. She was no longer the beautiful young woman Marta had met at that party in Los Angeles so long ago. Would never again be the object of desire that she was that night—using her hands and body and mouth and tongue to spread the joy of God—but Marta still loved Jennifer with her heart and soul and did not want to see her die.

Even if it was meant to be, even if El Santo commanded it, Marta could not bear the thought of a life without her Jennifer.

And this was her chance to change that.

Elizabeth’s presence here was a surprise, but coupled with Rafael’s sudden failure to call, it meant only one thing to Marta. That Rafael was gone and this bitch surely had something to do with it.

So it seemed only fitting that Elizabeth take Jennifer’s place. El Santo would be angry when he found out, but when Marta explained that this was vengeance for their beloved Rafael, he would understand. And he would forgive.

“You’re not going to die tonight,” she told Jennifer. “Take your robe off and help me put it on her.”

“What?”

“It’s simple,” Marta said patiently. “We will dress her in the ceremonial robe, put the baby in her arms, and be done with her.”

Jennifer shook her head. “No…I have offered myself and the life of my child to La Santisima. I won’t let you or her take that from me.”

Marta went to Jennifer, kissed her. “And I will not let La Santisima take
you
from me. Not now.”

But Jennifer pulled away. “Why?” she cried. “Why would you do this after all the promises that this day would come? Look at me. Look at what I’ve done to myself. Look at what I did to my own sister. Do you think I take my commitment lightly? I want to prove my love to La Santisima. To offer her my soul, and the soul of my—”

Marta slapped her across the face. “I am the daughter of El Santo,” she said. “You do not dictate what will and will not be done.”

Tears sprang into Jennifer’s eyes. “You lied to me. First you say my sister is dead, then you promise me a chance to see my mother and father in the loving arms of La Santisima. But it was all lies, wasn’t it?”

Marta stared at her. No matter how she felt about this woman, Jennifer had no right to speak to her this way.

Reaching to the floor, she picked up the gun that lay near Beth and pointed it at Jennifer. Marta had no intention of using it, but Jennifer didn’t know that.

“The decision is made,” Marta said. “And you will obey me.”

Then a horn sounded and the crowd roared, and Marta snapped her fingers.

“The robe. Give me the robe.”

98

I
T HAD TAKEN
Vargas and Ortiz longer than they expected to find the cages. Vargas had misinterpreted Cristo’s map and had taken a left when he should have gone right. So he and Ortiz had doubled back, finally finding two small caves fronted by iron bars and locked with chains and padlocks.

At first he thought no one was inside of them. But as he and Ortiz drew closer, he saw them: several women in each, huddled in the shadows at the back of the cells. They were dressed in frayed and dirty street clothes—probably the very clothes they’d been wearing when they were snatched off the street—some of them drugged, others mumbling incoherently, and still others crying softly, bewildered looks on their faces.

As Vargas and Ortiz approached the bars, several of the women recoiled, retreating to the very back of their caves.

There was the distinct smell of feces and urine in the air, and in a corner of each cave a small bucket overflowed with waste.

The two men looked at each other in surprise and disgust. And though he had listened to Cristo’s story, Vargas couldn’t have imagined anything like this.

He knew that human beings were often the cruelest creatures on earth. History had proven this time and again. But to see it firsthand, the stark reality of it, was as painful as a dagger to the chest.

Turning again, he noticed that Ortiz was staring intently into the two cages, looking at all the faces, studying them—and he knew exactly who Ortiz was looking for.

“You won’t find her here,” Vargas said. “It’s been too long. Either she’s been shipped off to one of the brothels or she’s dead.”

Ortiz nodded and his face hardened. “We don’t have all night,
pocho.
Let’s get these fucking things open.”

Then he pulled the SIG from his belt, pointed it at the first lock, and fired, blowing it off the chain. The shot echoed loudly in the tunnel, several of the women flinching and yelping in surprise, but Vargas was pretty sure the roar of the crowd upstairs had kept the sound from escaping the immediate area.

Ortiz aimed again, blowing open the second lock, then he and Vargas threw open the cage doors, expecting the women to jump to their feet—

—but no one moved. Just stared at them with wide, frightened expressions on their faces.

Then Vargas removed his mask and looked in at them, smiling. “Come,” he said. “Come with us. You’re free.”

And as his words sank in, several of the women rose to their feet, tentative but hopeful looks on their faces.

“You’re free,” Vargas repeated, gesturing for them to step out of the cages. “Come. We’ll take you out of this place.”

Then the smiles came, the looks of relief, as they began helping one another to their feet, the drugged or injured women carried along by the healthier ones as they stumbled out, moving faster with each step.

“Stay together,” Vargas said.

Vargas and Ortiz led them through the tunnel, moving as quickly as they could, but as they rounded a corner, Vargas saw Cristo running in his direction, a frantic look on his face.

“
Senor
Vargas!
Senor
Vargas!”

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Cristo was out of breath, could barely get the words out. “…Elizabeth,” he said. “They have Elizabeth.”

“Who does? El Santo?”

“Marta and Jennifer. They put her in the sacrificial robes.”