Down Among the Dead Men

99

Beth 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 Juarez 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.