Alexander Death(72)
“And what great monument to your vanity will you leave behind?”
Alexander smiled. “Perhaps it will be a great monument to your beauty.”
“Beauty is not my strong point in this lifetime.”
“I disagree.” He drew her close and kissed her.
“Alejandro,” a man said. “We must talk.”
Jenny saw Ernesto Calderon, the big boss's nephew, crossing the lawn, his usual entourage of gunmen in tow. Ernesto, she'd learned, was the regular contact between Alexander in Chiapas and Papa Calderon in Tijuana, hundreds of miles away.
Alexander released Jenny. “Then let's talk.”
“Privately.” Ernesto glanced at Jenny.
“One second, Jenny.” Alexander kissed her again before going into the house with Ernesto.
Ernesto's gunmen lingered behind, looking at the corpses holding their AK-47s, and then at the shattered targets.
“Where did you get these men?” one of them whispered to Jenny. “They look...strange.”
“They look strange because they are dead,” Jenny said. “The bodies are swept up from the streets of Juarez.”
“How do you make them walk?” he asked.
Jenny held up a hand. Bloody lesions opened all over her fingers and palm. “Come closer, and I will make you into one of them. Then you will understand.”
One of the men crossed himself, and all three backed away toward the main house.
“Come on,” Jenny said. She stalked toward them, letting more blisters open on her face and throat. “Doesn't anyone want to try?”
The men ran inside the house, whispering the word bruja to each other, and Jenny laughed at the terrified looks on their faces.
***
In his office, Alexander poured a small glass of local mezcal for Ernesto, then another for himself. They sat on facing couches.
“How was your trip from Ciudad de Mexico?” Alexander asked.
“I am always traveling.” Ernesto shook his head and sipped his mezcal. “It seems the whole country is full of people I must see.”
“That's why I like it down here. Summer all year, the beach, not many people around.”
“Except for the dead.”
“The dead never make problems. Nice and quiet.”
“The girl? Does she seem trustworthy?”
“She is. We could not accomplish so much without her.”
“And my uncle is pleased with the size and speed of the harvest,” Ernesto said. “He wanted me to convey this.”
“Is that the reason for your visit today?”
“No.” Ernesto sipped mezcal again. “This is good.”
“It's made about twenty miles from here.”
“There is a man you must meet,” Ernesto said. “Felix Arellano Francisco.”
“And he is...?”
“Among many things, an agent with CISEN.”
Alexander raised his eyebrows. The Centro de Investigación y Seguridad Nacional, or CISEN, was the country's intelligence agency, the Mexican equivalent of the CIA. “Is he investigating us?”
Ernesto laughed. “He is an important friend. He keeps several units of the Mexican military friendly to us.”
“He hands out bribes for us.”
Ernesto smiled. “We wish to keep him as a close friend.”
“Then what does he want with me?”
“Only to speak.”
“About what?”
“He says it is personal.”
“I've never heard of him before,” Alexander said. “How can it be personal?”
“You will have to ask him yourself. Do not upset him.”
“But you're certain we can trust him?”
“I am not certain of that with anyone. Least of all government agents. Or sorcerers who use the witchcraft to raise the dead. But we all do what we must.”
Alexander nodded. “Tell me where to meet him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Seth rode in Heather's car all the way to Atlanta. If he hadn't been groggy, tired and more than a little hung over, he might have driven separately, but he was already struggling to keep his eyes open.
He didn't trust the doctor, but she had showed him pictures of her daughter Tricia, including a couple of cell phone pictures of the tiny girl wasting away in the hospital. Heather did seem desperate. If this was a trap, they'd put it together very well.
He'd already asked if Heather knew where to find Jenny, but Heather claimed nobody knew.
Seth watched the mile markers and cow pastures whip by—Heather was really pressing the gas pedal. She didn't speak much, just stared at the road. Her radio was tuned to NPR, which had a very long report about a struggling sweater factory in New Hampshire.
“What's it like?” Heather asked, after a long period of silence.