Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller) (41 page)

“What?”

“Come quick! They take her to the altar!”

99

B
ETH FELT WOOZY
. Knew that her head was bleeding.

Marta had stuffed something in her mouth—a balled-up rag, she thought, pushed deep to prevent her from crying out.

Marta was yelling at Jen now, but Beth couldn’t quite make out the words as they drifted in and out like a bad radio signal. And all she could think about was that house in Juárez and Jen’s waxy face as she pointed a gun at Beth.

He’s mine, you fucking whore.

What had they done to Jen? How could they have warped her this way? Bled her of all humanity and turned her into some brain-dead true believer?

It wasn’t unusual for people like this to go after the emotionally vulnerable, but while Jen may have been constantly searching for some kind of meaning in her life, she had also been strong-willed and stubborn, traits they had always shared.

Beth remembered now the nights in the cage, the drugs, the beatings—some of them administered by Rafael himself—but if
she
had managed to resist, why hadn’t Jennifer? Was Jen’s dissatisfaction with her life enough to force her to relinquish all power to these maniacs?

Apparently so.

Beth felt herself being lifted now, but the blow to her head had rendered her too weak to resist as her arms were shoved into the sleeves of a robe and a mask was placed over her face.

She smelled the faint odor of what she thought might be kerosene and realized that the robe and mask had been treated with a flammable liquid.

Then Marta moved to a nearby curtain and pushed it aside, uttering a sharp command to someone behind it.

She pushed little Andy into Beth’s arms as two men entered the room and grabbed Beth by the elbows, pulling her toward a dark doorway.

Despite her wooziness, she knew what was beyond that door. Could see the flicker of the altar torches at the far end of another tunnel.

Someone was standing out there now, a tall, powerfully built, barrel-chested old man in a white robe, his arms raised, standing in front of a sea of masked faces.

She recognized him. Had seen him many times, had forced herself to share his bed—as she had with Rafael and Marta—participating in their pagan rituals as a way of survival, a necessary sacrifice to facilitate the escape of the children and little Andy.

It was El Santo. The Holy One. The direct descendant of God and La Santisima. A man whose evil seemed to know no limits. A man whose followers would do anything to promote his cause.

They were cheering for him now.

Their messiah.

And as he lowered his arms, a silence fell over the cavern, and he spoke to them in Spanish.

Beth had heard the words many times in the months she’d spent here, words that Cristo had translated for her:

“Oh Holy Death, our great treasure, we offer you these gifts as a symbol of our love, and ask only that you smile down upon us. That you protect your children and give us food and shelter. That you provide us with an abundance of riches and hide us from those who mean us harm.

“Oh Queen of Darkness, please hear our prayer and take these souls as your own.”

And as he finished his prayer, he waved his arms and the two men holding Beth moved forward, walking, half-dragging her and Andy out onto the semi-circle toward the stone chair.

Beth started to struggle now but was still feeling weak, and there wasn’t much she could do with little Andy in her arms. The men carrying her tightened their grip. They were used to this, a last-minute change of heart that always came too late. The crowd began cheering as the men brought her and Andy out onto the altar and sat her down, draping the bottom of her robe over the large stack of twigs at the foot of the chair.

Andy began crying now, the roar of the crowd frightening him, and the two men stood on either side of Beth, each with a firm hand on one of her shoulders, holding her down.

Then El Santo moved in front of her, placing his palm first on her head, then on Andy’s, and said, “Go with God, my children.”

Reaching down to an urn by her feet, he picked it up and held it high in the air, and the crowd’s cheers grew louder, wilder, the chants beginning again: “Santo! Santo! Santo! Santo!”

El Santo brought the urn down and began pouring liquid over the twigs, the smell of kerosene rising into Beth’s nostrils—and Andy’s, too.

And as they both coughed and choked, Beth desperately looking for a way out of this, El Santo reached for one of the torches—

—and smiled at them.

100

B
Y THE TIME
Vargas reached the cavern, the men had already put Beth and the baby in the chair.

He pushed frantically through the crowd toward her, watching as the man in the white robe—El Santo, he presumed—placed his hands on Beth’s and the baby’s head, then stepped over to one of the torches and picked it up.

El Santo turned, smiling at them, holding the torch high, and the crowd roared around Vargas, hungry for blood. He continued forward, shoving people aside, hoping he could reach the altar before that torch touched those twigs.

But he knew he wouldn’t make it; there wasn’t enough time.

If only he hadn’t given his gun to Beth.

Reaching under his robe as he moved, he grabbed one of the Jarritos bottles and he knew he was taking a chance, knew he might miss, but he had no choice. So he wound back and hurled the bottle—which he and Ortiz had filled with gasoline—straight at El Santo’s head.

El Santo didn’t see it coming—no one did—and a moment later Vargas saw that his aim had been good, as the bottle slammed against El Santo’s skull and shattered, flooding his face and robe with gasoline—

—and the torch in his hand exploded in flames, engulfing him quickly as the two men holding Beth stumbled back in surprise, and—

—Vargas reached the front of the crowd and leaped onto the altar, grabbing hold of Beth and the baby and pulling them away from El Santo, ripping Beth’s robe off, as the old man screamed in agony and fell to the floor, his flesh bubbling hideously as the fire consumed him.

And suddenly the room was filled with screams and cries of horror, people rushing to the altar to help El Santo as others turned and fled and still others swarmed around Vargas and Beth.

Then, from out of nowhere, came another Jarritos bottle, this one with a flaming rag stuffed in it—a Molotov cocktail. It hit the back of one of Vargas and Beth’s attackers and shattered against the cavern floor, bursting into flames. The attacker’s robe caught fire and he screamed, tearing it off, as Vargas saw Ortiz across the cavern, lobbing another Jarritos bottle, creating a distraction as Cristo led the women toward the tunnel they’d started from. There were kids with them now, running alongside as—

—another bottle hit the ground, exploding in flames—

—and now Ortiz was firing his handgun into the air, the echo of gunshots scattering people in every direction, as—

—Vargas ripped his robe and mask off, shouting, “Let’s get the fuck out of here!”

Beth seemed dazed, but she didn’t hesitate, she didn’t falter, as she pulled a wad of cloth from her mouth, then clutched the baby to her chest and ran, she, Vargas, and Ortiz tearing down the tunnel like the last cars on a speeding rain.

As they rounded the bend, Vargas slowed down, reaching for his flashlight, when Beth suddenly shoved the baby at him.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Jen. She’s still back there. We came to get her out of here. I can’t just leave her.”

“All right, I’ll go with you.”

But Beth wasn’t having any. “No,” she said. “You need to take care of Andy.”

Then she turned abruptly and ran back toward the Great Chamber, leaving Vargas with the squirming baby in his arms.

101

W
HEN SHE GOT
back to the Great Chamber, much of the crowd was gone, but several people were huddled over El Santo, who lay still near the altar, looking like something fresh off a Labor Day barbecue spit.

Beth battled a savage stab of nausea as she pushed past them, looking around the cavern, seeing no sign of Jen or Marta.

Which meant they couldn’t have been around when this all happened. They must have left shortly after Marta had hijacked Beth. Otherwise, Marta would be at the center of that huddle, sobbing her eyes out.

And Beth knew there was only one place they could have gone.

The High House.

T
HE HOUSE WAS
a large multi-roomed mansion that stood near the edge of a cliff overlooking the Sea of Cortez. It was the center of the La Santa Muerte compound—the center of La Santa Muerte itself—where El Santo had sat like a king, overlooking his criminal enterprise.

The clarity with which Beth remembered all this was shocking to her, and she wondered if one of the bullet fragments in her brain had shifted somehow, taking pressure off the section that had been causing her memory loss.

She knew that the room behind the altar held another curtained doorway, this one with a set of steps that led upward to the High House.

Slipping into the room, she found the stairs, then took her flashlight from her pocket, flicked it on, and started up them.

As she reached the top, Beth hung back, hearing the sound of running footsteps, car engines starting. The party had been ruined and El Santo’s so-called followers were fleeing the scene, skittering back to the holes they’d come from.

The house was usually heavily guarded, but as she peeked past the doorway at the top of the stairs Beth saw no sign of any guards now, figuring they’d fled, too, or were still down in the tunnels, looking for Vargas and Ortiz.

And her.

Beth stepped through the doorway and quickly made her way down a corridor to another set of steps—a wide stairway that led to the second floor. Marta and Rafael’s suite was up there, and Beth had no doubt that this was where Marta had taken Jen.

S
HE HEARD SOBBING
when she got to the second-floor corridor, a sound muffled by walls and doors, but she knew exactly where it was coming from. She had been in that room more times than she could count, playing her charade as she had dreamed of escaping this terrible place. Of taking Jen and Andy far away from here.

Back in Playa Azul, when Beth had complained of always being forced to play the mother, Jen had told her that it was a role she had chosen for herself. And Beth now knew that Jen was right. She was Beth the Dutiful, and it had been her nature to do whatever it took to protect her cub.

But she had failed. Despite her own narrow escape, the Santiagos had won, simply by virtue of the fact that they had managed to steal Jen’s soul.

But maybe the deaths of Rafael and El Santo would change all that.

M
ARTA’S PRIVATE ROOM
was at the end of the corridor. Beth quietly approached the door, listening to Jen’s sobs, and felt her heart break. What they’d done to her, what Jen had done to herself, was unspeakable. Unforgivable.

Beth reached a hand out, slowly turned the knob, and pushed into the room.

Jen was on the bed, facedown, sobbing into a pillow, Marta sitting next to her, her back to the doorway, rubbing Jen’s shoulders.

Beth spotted Vargas’s pistol lying on a nearby chair. It was almost, she thought, as if God had been expecting her.

Destiny, you might say.

Marta continued to rub Jen’s back. “It’s all right,
cielito.
You’ll see.”

“You lied to me,” Jen said. “You all lied to me.”

“No, my darling. We told you only truth. But I could not bear to let you go. You can understand that,
sí
?”

“How true can it all be, if you can bend the word of God to suit you? If I was meant to give myself today, why am I still alive?”

“The fact that you are alive must mean that it is God’s will, no? And in the end, El Santo will surely bless you.”

“El Santo won’t be blessing anyone,” Beth said.

Both Jen and Marta looked up sharply, staring at Beth, who now held Vargas’s gun in her hand.

Marta’s eyes narrowed. “How could you still be alive?”

Beth nodded toward the bedroom window. “Look outside. The rats are abandoning ship.”

Marta frowned and climbed off the bed, moving to the window. She parted the curtain, staring at all the activity below, then turned and looked at Beth again.

“What happened? Where is El Santo?”

“He’s got a bit of a sunburn,” Beth said. “I don’t think he’s gonna make it.”

Marta’s face went through several different expressions, most of them involving some form of disbelief.