Serrano went forward to embrace Martina, and was whispering “Gracias a Dios” over and over again, as Federales flooded the nave, beat Serrano to the floor and hauled him away.

  Chapter Six

  Lugar de Paz, Mexico

  Two days had passed since the attack in the Basilica. Serrano was still sore from the beating he’d taken, followed by a night spent in jail. A nasty place packed with lawbreakers who were still made-up to resemble ghouls and demons.

  But thanks to Martina, along with the efforts of the priests who’d been present during the attack, and those of the local bishop, Serrano had been released at 10:15 in the morning.

  The police chief thanked him. The bishop thanked him. And Martina thanked him with a kiss. And that was reward enough.

  The diocese paid Martina in spite of the canceled performance, and promised to bring her back at Christmas, which wasn’t that far away.

  The drive home was boring, except for the night in San Luis Potosí, which was very enjoyable indeed—even if some pain accompanied the pleasure.

  Now, back in Lugar de Paz, it was time to take out the trash. Meaning Officer Molina.

  Serrano couldn’t prove that Molina had leaked Martina’s travel plans to El Cuchillo, but all the townspeople agreed that he was a spy, and that was good enough.

  After feeding Macho, and buckling the rig into place, Serrano went out to the Taurus. The word lávame had been inscribed in the thick layer of dust that covered the car, and Serrano added wash car to his list of things to do.

  Molina lived in a one-room adobe dwelling just north of town. Serrano arrived shortly after nine to find that the policeman’s car was still there, parked next to an ancient pickup. Serrano wasn’t surprised. All the townspeople knew that Molina didn’t roll out until ten or so.

  Serrano saw no reason to be subtle. So, he drew the long gun and kicked the flimsy door open. It banged against a wall. As Serrano entered, Molina was reaching for the shotgun resting next to his rumpled bed. “Don’t do it,” Serrano advised.

  Molina let his hand drop and opened his mouth to speak.

  “Shut up,” Serrano said, as he sat on a wooden chair. “Here’s the deal. I know you told El Cuchillo about Martina Blanco’s performance in Guadalupe. But I can’t prove it.” He considered Molina for a moment. “So, rather than shoot you in the face, I’m going to send you out to pollute some other town. Hand me your phone.”

  Molina had to pat the bedding in order to find the phone, which he gave to Serrano. “Now,” Serrano said. “Jot down the password for the phone, and the laptop that’s sitting next to the sink. I’ll test both while you load your stuff into the pickup. And, if you have some blood money stashed somewhere, keep it. I sure as hell don’t want it.”

  It took Molina the better part of an hour to load his belongings into the truck. Serrano was there to see him off. “The way I see it, you have two choices: Run to El Cuchillo and ask him to hire you, or look for another town to infect. I suggest option two, because you no longer have anything to offer El Cuchillo. And he’s likely to use you for target practice. But hey, that’s just me. It’s up to you. Vaya con Dios.”

  Then, Serrano shot time-stamped video of Molina entering his truck and driving away.

  With that accomplished, Serrano drove to Mayor Aguilar’s office. Various citizens were waiting to get help. And Aguilar’s secretary tried to stop Serrano from entering the office but failed.

  An elderly lady was seated in the mayor’s guest chair and Serrano removed his hat. “Disculpe, señora. Tengo algo urgente que decirle al alcalde.”

  Then, turning to Aguilar, Serrano said, “Officer Molina asked me to pass along the following message: Rather than continue to work for the citizens of Lugar de Paz, he’s going to seek employment elsewhere, and wanted you to have this.”

  Serrano tossed the star-shaped badge onto the desk, turned to the woman and nodded. “Gracias, señora.” Then he left.

  Paco had just returned from school when Serrano arrived at the Blanco residence. He already had his mother’s permission to accompany Señor Serrano on “a special outing.”

  The old gravel pit was south of town, and the spot where the town’s gun owners went to bust caps and have some cervezas.

  As Serrano got out of the car, hundreds of empty shell casings twinkled in the afternoon sun. Serrano didn’t approve. Always police your brass. That’s what Papá said. And Serrano’s Marine Corps instructors agreed.

  Gravel crunched as Serrano went to the back of the car, opened the trunk, and removed a package. It was wrapped in camo patterned paper and tied with string.

  Paco was waiting nearby and Serrano gave him the box. “This is for you, son. Your mother said it would be okay.”

  The boy was no fool. So, given the location, plus the size of the package, Paco had a pretty good idea of what was waiting inside. And, after ripping the paper off and opening the box, Paco saw what he hoped to see—a pistol.

  “Go ahead, take it out,” Serrano said. “Never point it at someone or something you don’t plan to shoot. Especially me.”

  Paco took the weapon out and pointed it at the rusty gravel chute a hundred feet away. “What you’re holding is an Old West style, nine shot, .22 revolver with a swing-out cylinder,” Serrano said. “Happy birthday.”

  Paco looked at Serrano. “I was born in May.”

  “That’s right,” Serrano agreed. “But I couldn’t make the party.” Serrano patted Paco on the shoulder. “Alright. It’s time to memorize all the parts. There will be a test. And, if you score high enough, you’ll get to fire twenty-seven rounds.”

  The next forty-five minutes were spent naming the different parts of the revolver, as Paco cocked the hammer, eased it down, released the cylinder, swung it out, and pretended to insert bullets.

  The weapon was used, but in excellent condition. And, like most guns in Mexico, it had been purchased on the black market. That was because there were only two legal gun stores in Mexico. The Directorate for the Commercialization of Arms and Munitions located near the capital, and a second outlet in Apodaca, Nuevo León.

  That forced people who wanted to buy legally to potentially travel long distances and wait for months after completing a stack of paperwork.

  Background checks made sense in Serrano’s opinion. But the DCAM process was stupid. Especially in a country where it was so much easier to buy a smuggled weapon.

  The live fire exercise went well because Serrano did what Papá did, which was let Paco fire at empty Coke cans from twelve feet away. After scoring seven hits, the boy felt like a million pesos and the first class came to an end.

  Paco babbled like a magpie all the way home, about shooting, yes, but about other things as well. Serrano listened the way Papá always listened to him.

  Finally, when Serrano returned to La Casa Bonita, it was to find that two cop cars were sitting out front. And four Federales were there to greet him. One was a sergeant. Serrano held his hands up, palms out. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. Mayor Aguilar sent you.”

  “Yes,” the sergeant replied. “He says you murdered Officer Molina.”

  “Except that I didn’t,” Serrano replied. “And I’ll prove it. But I need to open the trunk of my car. You can stand next to me while I do it.”

  “Place your weapons on the ground,” the sergeant ordered. “Then you can open the trunk.”

  Serrano drew each weapon, using two fingers only, and laid them on the ground. Then, with the sergeant at his side, he opened the trunk.

  “That’s Officer Molina’s laptop,” Serrano said. “And that’s his phone. Both devices contain emails in which Molina conspired with El Cuchillo to attack Lugar de Paz.

  “Except it didn’t work. Martina Blanco and her guerillas defeated El Cuchillo’s men.

  “So,” Serrano said loudly, as he turned to face the rest of them. “You have everything you need to arrest ex-officer Molina and Señor Ramirez.

  “By the way, I taped Molina getting into his truck and leaving. Hopefully for good. The video is time stamped.”

  Of course, he could have murdered Molina after he left Luga de Paz. But, with no body, there was no case.

  Serrano watched the Federales exchange glances. They knew that some of their superiors were on the take. And they knew that trying to arrest Ramirez would be a suicide mission.

  “Gracias,” the sergeant said, as he took charge of the electronics. “We will investigate and let you know if we need more information.”

  “That sounds good,” Serrano replied. “And oh, by the way, I have copies of the relevant emails. So, should the messages on those devices go astray somehow, I can provide backups.”

  Serrano smiled broadly. No one smiled back. The Federales knew a threat when they heard one.

  Serrano watched the policemen get into their cars and drive away. Case closed.

  Life settled into a comfortable routine after that. Maintenance projects during the day, a session with Paco after school, and some quality time with Martina in the evening.

  Then Father Colon came to see him, and everything changed.

  Macho started yapping a full thirty seconds before Serrano heard the knock on the door. Serrano answered the way he always did, pistol at the ready. “Who is it?”

  “Father Colon.”

  Serrano peered through the peephole to confirm that the clergy man was alone. He opened the door. “Seven PM? What’s up?”

  “I need help,” Colon replied. “Your help.”

  “Okay,” Serrano said, as Macho nosed the priest. “Have a seat.”

  The cleric was clearly distraught, judging from the expression on his face, and the way he was fidgeting. “I have a confession to make.”

  “That’s supposed to work the other way around,” Serrano replied.

  “Give me your crucifix. The one hanging on the wall.”

  The cross had been placed there by Papá. Serrano had seen no need to remove it. He got up, went over, and took the crucifix down. Colon extended his hand. It was shaking.

  Then, with the cross clutched in both hands, Colon went to his knees. And, when he spoke, it was clearly to God rather than Serrano.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I am not asking for absolution, because I cannot absolve myself, and I don’t deserve your grace. There was a time, shortly after I graduated from seminary, that I fell in love with a congregant. And she with me. Part of that attraction was physical. An urge so strong that I couldn’t, and didn’t, resist. That in spite of my oath of celibacy. As a result, a life was created which could not be extinguished without committing an even greater sin. A baby was born. A beautiful girl baby, who was raised by her mother, with financial assistance from me. Eventually, roughly a year ago, this beautiful spirit fell into bad company—and became part of a godless group led by an evil man. And now, even though she wants to leave, she can’t. Her name is Pia. And I must free Pia if I can. I’m not asking for your blessing, which I don’t deserve, but I beg you to intercede for her. Amen.”

  As Colon looked up tears were streaming down his cheeks. Their eyes met. “You are my hope,” Colon said. “My only hope. I fear there will be fighting.”

  Serrano stood and offered his hand. “Get up, Father. We have work to do.”

  It took more than an hour to prepare for the 507-mile journey. Then Serrano made calls to Emilio and Martina, informing them of the trip. But not the reason for it, since that was a private matter. Emilio promised to feed Macho, and keep an eye on the house.

  A two-lane road led to an autopista that would take them south to Mexico City. Serrano drove while the priest shared what he’d been able to learn from Pia’s mother and the internet. The Acara Foundation was dedicated to “The Second Way,” meaning a more spiritual way of life. And, rather than a conventional building, the Foundation was housed in an imitation Aztec pyramid.

  “The organization is funded by ‘life tithes,’” Colon added. “Those who want to join, and thousands have, must donate one tenth of their net worth to the organization. And then, after being accepted, they’re required to surrender one tenth of their monthly income.

  “Their leader, a man named Sabastian Acara, is a body builder and ex-male model, who enjoys Mexico City’s nightlife.

  “More than that, Acara claims to channel the Aztec god Patecatl, who is the god of healing and fertility.

  “And according to historical records, Patecatl claimed to have discovered peyote, which his adherents use during their secret rites. That includes sex orgies—if the rumors are true. Which would help explain why people pay large sums of money to belong.”

  “Why doesn’t the government crack down on them?” Serrano inquired. “Peyote is illegal.”

  “Generally speaking, it is,” Colon agreed. “But peyote is allowed for religious purposes. And that’s what the Foundation is, according to Acara. A religion.”

  “So, Pia is a member?”

  “Yes,” Colon replied. “And according to Camila, her mother, she’s a prisoner.”

  “How does Camila know that?”

  “Camila found an anonymous letter in her mailbox from someone who identified themselves as ‘Pia’s friend.’

  “And, as reported by the friend, Pia is no longer allowed to come and go freely, and is being held in SL1. Whatever that means.”

  Serrano had questions. Lots of them. But decided to put them on hold for the moment. He could tell that Colon was distraught and there would be plenty of time to chat during the trip.

  They took turns driving, stopped for gas when necessary, and stayed the night in a midlevel hotel. Serrano took the opportunity to do some online research. The password for Papá’s laptop was written on the machine. A sure sign that no secrets waited within.

  It took fifteen minutes of trial and error to find the blueprints for The Azteca, the name by which the Acara step pyramid was known. In accordance with the law, the plans had been filed with the city of San Antonio Tecomitl, where The Azteca was located.

  The next two hours were spent poring over the blueprints floor by floor, searching for locations where Pia might be held. There were lots of possibilities.

  “That’s a lot of territory to cover,” Father Colon said, as he looked over Serrano’s shoulder.

  “It is,” Serrano agreed. “Especially with a lot of people around. But look at this.”

  The site had been bookmarked, and, as Serrano clicked it open, the priest found himself looking at the Foundation’s home page.

  Serrano chose a heading labeled “Events,” and clicked on it. As Serrano scrolled down, he noticed that almost every day featured an event of some sort. They had titles like: “Exploring the Space Within,” “Pilates and Patecatl,” and “Dreamscapes.”

  The one day that wasn’t given over to some sort of programming was Wednesday, which was labeled “Closed.”

  “Today’s Monday,” Serrano said. “We’ll go in day after tomorrow. And, if things get iffy, there will be fewer bystanders to worry about.”

  They rose early the next day, ate breakfast at Starbucks, and were on the road by seven. Traffic was light at first and they made good time. But, as they neared Mexico City, everything shifted to a crawl, and that was despite Serrano’s effort to circle around the famously congested metroplex.

  At one point it was necessary to venture off the freeway, where they purchased gas, items from a novelty store, and some tacos. Then it was time to resume the trip.

  Colon was uncommunicative, and Serrano knew why. For all the priest knew, his daughter was in great danger.

  By the time they arrived in San Antonio Tecomitl, it was too late to do anything other than check into a hotel and get some sleep, prior to what Serrano referred to as “D-Day minus one.”

  Serrano was about to hit the sack when his phone rang. It was Martina. “Where are you?” she wanted to know.

  “Mexico City. Or close by.”

  “Why?” Martina demanded. “If you weren’t with a priest, I’d be worried.”

  “Father Colon sought my advice regarding some personal matters,” Serrano replied. “And how could I refuse?”

  “By saying ‘no,’” Martina answered. “Perhaps you noticed that I am a woman.”

  “It came to my attention.”

  “Good. Women know things. They feel things. And I’m no exception. I sense danger. Be careful. I want you back. And Paco wants you back.”

  “What about Macho?”

  “He wants dog treats. It doesn’t matter who provides them.”

  Serrano laughed. The conversation ended. Dreams followed. None of them were good.

  Serrano awoke feeling tired, met Father Colon in the hotel’s restaurant, and ordered coffee before anything else. By prior agreement Colon was wearing street garb, rather than priestly attire, which would have made him more memorable.

  They spoke in low tones. “We need to reconnoiter,” Serrano said. “And there’s bound to be cameras, which may or may not photograph our plates. We’ll need to rent a vehicle under an assumed name. I can pay cash. But the rental agency will ask for ID.”

  Colon frowned and took a sip of tea. “Here’s an idea… I’ll wear my black cassock and white collar. And, when they ask for ID, I’ll tell them I lost it.”

  “A lie?” Serrano inquired.

  “Yes,” Colon admitted. “But for a good purpose.”

  Serrano grinned. “I like the way you think.”

  The waitress took their orders, and gave Serrano a refill. Then she left.

  “So,” Serrano began. “Let’s assume the rental scam works. The next step is a slow drive around the pyramid during which you’ll shoot a video so we can figure out where we can park and climb onto the The Azteca’s lowest roof. Maybe there’s a maintenance door there roof – we’ll need a big-ass crow bar. And we also need to figure out what ‘closed on Wednesdays’ actually means.”

  By the time they left the restaurant the men had a rough plan. Which will guide us until it doesn’t was the way Serrano put it.

  The first step went off without a hitch. Thanks to Colon’s attire, and priestly manner—plus a fistful of cash—he was able to rent a white van and drive it away.