Name of the Devil (9 page)

B
ACK IN THE
hotel, I click on my television and don't like what I see. The Spanish version of CNN is showing the aftermath of the church explosion juxtaposed with images of the sheriff. You don't need to know Spanish to understand the words “
caníbal
” and “
zombi
.”

It's futile to point out that technically, the sheriff isn't a cannibal. He just used his teeth in the attack. Of course, the fact that if he
was
in the explosion he would be dead by now doesn't deter the zombie theories. Not that anybody takes them seriously. Scratch that, nobody serious takes them seriously. Unfortunately, there are a lot of people out there that do.

The television cuts back and forth to clips of helicopters buzzing over the hills of West Virginia, Virginia, Ohio, Maryland and Pennsylvania. Tracking teams with dogs are scouring the ground. Even heat-sensing drones and satellites have been called into the search.

“This is getting out of hand,” I tell Ailes on my check-in call.

“Wait until the details of the satanic symbols gets out. We're going to move on from half-joking zombie panic to something worse.”

We saw this happen before, with the case of the Warlock. A case too sensational to be true is irresistible to the media. “And I thought things here were crazy,” I say, dreading the escalation of things.

“Anything come of Dr. Moya?”

“He says the toxin is from a cave fish. They're nocturnal and only come out in the moonlight. We're getting a sample tonight.”

“Of course,” he replies dryly. “What about the mud?”

“One of his students showed me the area it came from. It's a shantytown barrio. They collected samples after the last mudslide buried half the village. They're hoping to find some kind of shrub or tree with deep roots to plant there to keep it from happening again.”

“Anything to suggest how that mud got tracked all the way to West Virginia?”

“Tixato has a strong gang presence. Especially in that barrio. It's X-20 territory. We know they're involved in cross-border narcotics smuggling. If I was going to hire a killer, that'd be where I'd look.”

“The Hawkton incident seems a little more sophisticated than a gang-style slaying.”

“True. But X-20 has a number of former Mexican Special Forces guys. Our sixth man may have grown up in Tixato, gone off to serve, then come back. I'm sure X-20 pays better. Some of those Mexican troops were involved in Indian scuffles. There are rumors of death squads doing heinous stuff. Nothing that'd be out of place in Hawkton.”

“True, but how is our lead suspect, the sheriff, connected to them?”

“Directly? I don't know. But Moya told me the chemical we found could cause very violent auditory and visual hallucinations. Somehow there's a connection. That might explain Jessup's strange behavior.”

“The X-20 lead is interesting. It gives us another angle besides looking at locals. Maybe the sheriff did something to piss them off?”

“Like ticketing an X-20 lieutenant?”

There's a pause. “Sorry, dealing with another crisis. Maybe.”

“Here's the thing I've been trying to wrap my head around. This . . .
whatever
isn't a gang-style killing intended to warn off others. It was about the people who died, not the ones they left behind. They were the target.”

“Interesting perspective. Behavioral analysis has drawn a similar conclusion. If it's not just the sheriff, we might be dealing with a more complicated person than we realize. Several people with resources change the picture quite a lot. Has anybody ever explained how X-20 has been able to get hundreds of millions of dollars of narcotics across the border?”

“No,” I reply. “They're sophisticated. I guess that's the military training playing its part. They know how Border Patrol and the DEA work.”

“They appear to be a complex operation.”

“Yeah. And how widespread, if we're finding literal footprints in West Virginia? Speaking of which, any word from my friend Black Nick?” I ask.

Ailes hesitates. “I was going to wait until you got back to tell you.”

“What?”

“We sent some field agents to do an interview. When they got there they found his shack burned to the ground.”

“What? And him?” He was “out there,” but he had grown on me. He was helpful in his strange way and seemed to be concerned for me.

“No sign of him. It looks like he may have set the fire.”

“Christ. Crazy bastard. Keep an eye out for him. I'm pretty sure he's harmless. Pretty sure . . .”

“You've said that. I hope that's the case. I'll make some calls to Customs so we can get your fish across the border. How is the chemical extracted?”

“It isn't. Moya said the shaman would eat the fish whole and
they'd produce the toxin in the stomach. Apparently, because they've evolved to the harsh chemistries of the cave, they can swim for a while in your gut and keep producing the hallucinogen.”

“Delightful. Well that raises the question of how one got into the sheriff's stomach.”

“Hawkton's not known for its sushi.”

“Wouldn't be the strangest thing you could find to eat in West Virginia. And if the fish have to be transported live, that does play into the X-20 connection. They'd certainly have no trouble getting them across the border. Psychoactive fish . . .” I can practically hear him shaking his head.

“Remember, these gangs compete in horrific ways to torture each other. Have we had anyone follow up on what the deputy's daughter told me, about strange stuff going on?” I ask.

“Actually, yes. It's hard to make sense of things. Digging a little deeper, we're getting stories ranging from odd lights in the sky to Jesus visitations. Some people talked about the feeling they were being watched. Apparently the Alsops had called in to Jessup several times about trespassers, then their dog was killed. McKnight too. We're looking into the more unusual sightings.”

“Didn't he say he found hoof prints near his house?”

“He told Deputy Baldwin he saw glowing eyes outside.”

“Christ.”

“It all stopped on the night of the explosion. People say they haven't felt the ‘presence' since then. The one upside, if you can consider it that, is they're not talking to the press about it.”

“I think they have enough attention with their cannibal zombie sheriff on the loose.”

“Did you talk to anyone down there about the case?”

“Not in specifics. I told Moya what you told me to say. I've kept my purpose here close to the vest.”

“Hold on . . . Interesting . . .”

“What's interesting?”

“We just got a tip passed on to us from our Mexico City office. I'm watching the wires for Mexico while you are down there.”

“What is it?”

“A name of a possible suspect. Nèstor Albó. He has ties to Tixato and has been arrested for dealing in the US. He calls himself a ‘shaman' and sells mainly to college kids in the North East.”

Now I shake my head. “I hear more of that now. Drug dealers calling themselves ‘shamans' so everyone feels more enlightened about the experience of getting high. What do you think?”

“It's an interesting lead. He's been to the US and Tixato. No known ties to X-20, though.”

“Hard to imagine anyone involved in drugs who has links down there
not
being connected to them,” I reply.

Ailes, cautious about jumping to conclusions, points out, “He could be in a rival gang, or we just don't know the connection.”

“Curious. Any idea of where he is now?”

“We're looking into him. We believe the US. The Mexican police are known for not wanting to go out of their way to tell you where their sources come from.”

“I'll let you know what I hear.” I glance out the window. “Got to run. It's dark out. I think the bats have left the cave. Time to go get our fish.”

“Blackwood, be careful.”

“Hopefully your tip works out and the sixth man is a long ways away from here, off in the woods with the sheriff.”

W
HEN
I
PULL
up to Moya's location, his Ford Explorer is parked near the mouth of the cave. The tailgate is open and the coolers he uses to carry samples are still sitting there. His headlights are on, cutting through the darkness into the brush. His toolbox of scalpels, pipettes and other instruments is wide open, but there's no sign of him.

I take a closer look at his toolbox. I spot a drop of blood on the plastic. It could be nothing, but . . .

Just beyond the front of the SUV is the cave entrance. A hole in the ground, in the moonlight it looks like a black puddle with the top of the aluminum ladder poking through.

“Dr. Moya?” I shout below.

There's no reply except for my echo. I go back to his SUV and rummage around for one of the powerful flashlights he uses in the caverns. A branch snaps behind me. I wheel around and see the outline of someone standing in the dark.

“Are you a friend of Dr. Moya's?” the stranger asks in slightly accented English.

“Yes. Who are you?” I keep close to the SUV. I have a gun under my jacket, but his hands appear empty so I don't reach for it just yet.

“I'm Officer Esteban. I'm with the Ministerial Federal Police. I came to check up on the doctor. I'm a friend of the family.”
He steps into the headlights. He's young, in his mid-twenties. Dressed in slacks and a tailored shirt, he looks like he'd be more at home at a Mercedes dealership than in the police force. He carefully pulls out a badge and shows it to me. I notice the gun under the hem of his shirt. “I'm a cop, like you.” He gives me a broad smile of perfectly veneered teeth.

I nod back at him. “I was supposed to meet Dr. Moya. There's blood here. I think he's in trouble.”

Esteban walks over and takes a look at the splatter. “Is there a first-aid kit here?”

I see a white box with a red cross and remove it from a plastic crate. Esteban pulls out a flashlight, walks over to the hole, and aims the beam into the dark. “I can barely see the bottom. We should go and check on him.”

I join him with the first-aid kit. Then something dawns on me as I turn my back on him, about to climb down the ladder: How did Esteban know I was a cop?

How did he even know to speak to me in English? With my dark hair, I often get mistaken as Latina.

I don't trust him.

He's a little too concerned with me, and not so much Dr. Moya.

Something is wrong.

“Ladies first,” he says smoothly as he points to the ladder.

I glance back and give him a bashful grin. “You go. I'm a little unsteady with heights.”

“I'll hold the top of the ladder for you.”

I could just be hysterical. Maybe Moya told him about me? If Esteban wanted me dead, he could have shot me from the trees. Unless . . .

My mind goes into overdrive. If he needs to make it look like an accident . . . An FBI agent found dead with a gunshot wound would certainly bring more attention than Esteban wants. An
accident is different. If I fall down the ladder and get killed, that wouldn't raise an alarm. Especially because there's no reason anyone down here should want to kill me, at least that I know about.

Killing cops who are chasing down clues only brings more cops. The surest way to look suspicious is to do something dumb like that. It doesn't make any sense right now.

I was abducted once before. Ever since then I've been a little paranoid. Maybe that's why I've been dwelling on the Buick recently. I swore I'd never let it happen to me again. Much of my free time since the incident has been spent at the Academy, working on my martial arts skills.

I take a breath. I need to test Esteban before giving in to my paranoia full-force. “Hold on. Let me call a friend before we go down there. Better that someone knows where we are if we get lost too.”

“Sure thing. Good idea,” he agrees, as relaxed as can be.

He doesn't make any effort to stop me from pulling out my phone. Now I wonder if I
am
overreacting. I decide to follow through with my ploy anyway, and walk over to the bumper of Moya's SUV to sit with the first-aid kit on my lap. I call Ailes's direct number. While I wait for the connection I absentmindedly sort through the open toolbox, keeping an eye on Esteban.

The phone keeps ringing, but there's no answer. I try the FBI direct line next. The call doesn't connect.

“Trouble?”

“I can't get through.” Great.

“The signal here sucks,” Esteban says. “If Moya is hurt, we really shouldn't keep him waiting.”

“You're right.” I come back to the cave mouth and hand him the first-aid kit. “You go down while I try to get through.”

He takes too long to respond. “I really wouldn't know my way down there.”

I play up my helplessness. “Neither would I.”

“There's no point in both of us getting lost.” He reaches for his phone. “I might get a better signal. Why don't you go down while I call?” There's an urgency to his voice that he didn't have before.

This is a setup.

I reach for my gun. Esteban is faster getting his out. He points it at my head. I freeze.

“Sorry, sister. Too slow.” He drops the helpful act.

“Is Moya even alive?” I ask.

“Probably. Now go down the fucking ladder.” He's lost his smoothness. There's more than anger in his tone, maybe even desperation.

I don't move. One twitch and I could be dead.

Esteban grabs me by the neck with his left hand and pushes his muzzle to my temple with his right. “I said move, bitch!”

I have to think my way through this. What does he want? “You squeeze any harder, you're going to leave a bruise. Tell me that won't look suspicious?”

He relaxes his grip and moves the barrel a centimeter away from my temple, then uses his left hand to grab my ponytail. “Don't do what I say, and by the time they find you, it won't matter.” He yanks my scalp toward the hole. “Down.”

I flash back to that moment outside the Texas church when I let my guard down. After I was rescued, I'd vowed never to make the same mistake. That determined vigilance has affected me in a lot of different ways.

Now, when I feel the hint of something odd, I find myself subconsciously preparing for an attack.

I think it's my past playing into it too. Magicians practice a coin vanish or a card sleight to the point where we aren't even conscious of doing it. The first step is to practice until you can fool an audience. The final step is to fool yourself. You work to get so good, you don't even know you did it.

I know theatrical pickpockets who have to make embarrassing phone calls to the booker after they get home and find an extra watch they slipped off a stranger's wrist at an opportune moment.

Instinct.

There's something cold and metallic in my sleeve. While I was trying to reach Ailes on the phone, I stole a scalpel. As I kneel, Esteban reaches for my gun. He sees the flicker of reflected moonlight as the blade appears at my fingertips.