The Power Of The Dog (70 page)

Callan kneels there, looking down at the dead priest, as Fabián raises his rifle, aims and deliberately puts two more shots into the side of Parada’s head.

Blood sprays onto the white paint of the car.

And hunks of Parada’s white hair.

Callan turns around and says, “He was already dead.”

Fabián ignores him, reaches into the front seat of the car, pulls out a briefcase and walks away with it. Callan sits down and cradles Parada’s shattered head in his arms and, crying like a baby, asks over and over again, “What did you say? What did you say?”

He’s oblivious to the battle going on around him.

Doesn’t care.

Adán does.

He doesn’t see Parada get killed; he’s a little busy completing the execution of Güero Méndez, who’s ducked behind the Buick, just realizing that he has fucked up. Two of his guys are already down and the car, even though it’s armored, is vibrating with the number of bullets hitting it and isn’t going to hold up much longer. A lot of the glass has finally shattered and the tires are shot out and it’s only a matter of time before the gas tank explodes. He’s badly outnumbered by the Barrera hit squad disguised as Jalisco cops, and this whole kiddie brigade bullshit was just that—bullshit. And now they’ve got him on three sides and if they can make it around to the fourth—behind the Buick—it’s over. He’s dead. And while he’d be perfectly happy to go if he could take Adán and Raúl with him, it’s pretty clear now that isn’t going to happen, so the thing is to boogie the fuck out of there and try again another time.

But getting out isn’t going to be easy. He decides he has about one chance, and he takes it. He reaches into the backseat of the car and pulls out a tear-gas grenade and lofts it over the Buick toward the Barreras, then yells to his surviving four men to make a break for it, and they do, running parallel to the terminal, shooting as they go.

Adán’s hit squad has a lot of hardware, but gas masks they don’t have, and they start retching and coughing and Adán feels like his eyes are on fire and struggles to stay on his feet then decides that because he can’t see and there are bullets zipping around, maybe that isn’t such a good idea, so he lets himself drop to his knees.

Raúl doesn’t.

Eyes on fire, nose burning, he charges toward the fleeing Méndez group, shooting from the hip. One of bursts takes Méndez’s chief sicario in the spine and drops him, but Raúl watches in frustration as Méndez makes it to a parked taxi, throws the driver out on the pavement and gets behind the wheel, waiting just long enough for his three surviving tiros to jump in before he peels out.

Raúl fires at the car but can’t hit the wheels and Güero speeds out of the parking lot, ducking low, his head just high enough to see, as the Jalisco cops who weren’t hit by the tear gas fire away at the rapidly disappearing taxi.

“Son of a fucking bitch!” Raúl yells.

He turns to his right and sees Callan sitting there, holding Parada’s body in his arms.

Raúl thinks that Callan has been hit. The man is crying and there’s blood all over him and, whatever else Raúl is, he’s not ungrateful, he remembers his debts, so he squats down to pick Callan up.

“Come on!” Raúl yells. “ We have to get you out of here!”

Callan doesn’t answer.

Raúl smacks him on the back of the head with his gun butt, hauls him to his feet and pulls him toward the terminal. Yelling as he does, “Come on, everyone! We have a plane to catch!”

Out on the tarmac, Aeromexico Flight 211 to Tijuana is already fifteen minutes late taking off.

But the flight waits.

The “Jalisco cops” peel off their uniforms to reveal civilian clothing underneath, toss their guns on the sidewalk and calmly walk toward the departure gate. Then the Barreras and the surviving gangbangers and the professional hit squad enter the terminal. They have to step over bodies to get there—not only Poptop’s and Méndez’s two shooters’, but also six bystanders hit in the cross fire. The terminal is bedlam, people crying and screaming, medical personnel trying to sort out the wounded and Cardinal Antonucci standing in the middle of all this shouting, “Calm down! Calm down! What’s happened? Will someone tell me what’s happened?!”

He’s afraid to go out and see for himself. He has a sick, sinking feeling in his stomach, and it isn’t fair that he is in this position. All Scachi had asked him to do was to meet with Parada, that was all, and now there is this scene, and he feels a shamed relief when a young man strolls by him and answers his question.

“We gassed Güero Méndez!” Dreamer tells him. “El Tiburón gassed Méndez!”

The Barrera group walks calmly down the passageway toward their flight and lines up to hand the gate attendant their tickets, just like they would for any normal old flight. The attendant takes the tickets and hands them back their boarding passes and then they walk up the gangway and get on the plane. Adán Barrera is still carrying his equipment bag with the AK in it, but it’s just like any carry-on, especially as he’s in first class.

The only problem is when Raúl gets to the gate with the unconscious Callan draped over his shoulder.

The attendant’s voice shakes as she says, “He can’t get on like that.”

“He has a ticket,” Raúl says.

“But—”

“First class,” Raúl says. He hands her their tickets and walks right past her up the gangway. Finds Callan’s assigned seat and dumps him in it, then covers up his blood-soaked shirt with a blanket and says to the shocked flight attendant, “Too much partying.”

Adán sits down next to Fabián, who looks at the pilot and asks, “What are you waiting for?”

The pilot closes the cabin door behind him.

When the plane lands, they’re immediately met by airport police and escorted through a back entrance into waiting cars. And Raúl issues one order:

Scatter.

Callan don’t need to be told that.

He gets dropped off at his house, where he stays long enough to shower, change out of his bloody clothes, pick up his money and go. Takes a taxi to the border crossing at San Ysidro and walks over the bridge, back into the United States. Just another drunk gringo coming back from a bender on Avenida Revolución.

He’s been gone nine years.

Now he’s back in the country where, as Sean Callan, he’s wanted for conspiracy to distribute narcotics, racketeering, extortion and murder. He doesn’t care. He’d rather take his chances here than spend another minute in Mexico. So he walks over the border and gets on the bright red trolley and rides it all the way into downtown San Diego.

It takes him about an hour and a half to find a gun shop, on the corner of Fourth and J, and buy a .22 in the back room without showing any papers. Then he finds a liquor store and buys a bottle of scotch, then walks over to an SRO hotel and takes a room for a week.

Locks himself in his room and starts drinking.

I forgive you, is what the priest had said.

God forgives you.

Nora’s in her bedroom when she hears the news.

She’s reading, with CNN on for background noise, when her ear catches the words, “When we come back, the tragic death of Mexico’s highest-ranking cleric …”

Her heart stops, and there’s a pounding in her head and she hits the speed dial for Juan’s number as she sits through the endless commercials—hoping, praying that he’ll answer the phone, that it’s not him, that he’ll pick up the phone—Please, God, don’t let it be him—but when the news comes back on there’s an old, posed photo of him on one half of the screen and the scene from the airport on the other and she sees him lying on the pavement and she doesn’t scream.

Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

On a normal day, the Cross of Squares in Guadalajara is filled with tourists, lovers and locals out for a midday stroll. On a normal day, the walls of the cathedral are lined with stands where hawkers sell crosses, rosary cards, plaster models of saints, and milagros, tiny clay sculptures of knees, elbows and other body parts that people who feel they’ve been cured by prayer leave in the cathedral as a memorial.

But this isn’t a normal day. Today is the funeral Mass for Cardinal Parada, and now the twin yellow-tiled steeples of the cathedral loom over a plaza crowded with thousands of mourners, lined up in a serpentine formation, standing for hours to walk past the coffin of the martyred cardinal to pay their respects.

They’ve come from all over Mexico. Many are the sophisticated Tapatíos, in expensive suits and stylish, if subdued, dresses. Others have come from the countryside, campesinos in freshly cleaned white shirts and frocks. Others have made the trip from Culiacán and Badiraguato, and these men wear cowboy garb, and many of them were christened by Parada, received their First Communion from him, were married by him, watched their parents be buried by him when he was still just a rural priest. Then there are the government bureaucrats in gray and black suits, and priests and bishops in their clerical uniforms and hundreds of nuns in the varied habits of their particular orders.

On a normal day the plaza is alive with sound—the rapid-fire chatter of Mexican conversation, the shouts of hawkers, the music from busking mariachi groups—but today the plaza is strangely silent. All that can be heard are the murmurs of prayers, and darker mutterings about conspiracies.

Because few in the crowd believe what is now the government’s explanation of Parada’s death, that he was a victim of mistaken identity, that the Barreras’ sicarios mistook Parada for Güero Méndez.

But the talk of conspiracy is subdued. Today is a day of mourning, and the thousands who wait patiently in the serpentine line and then move into the cathedral do so mostly in silence or in quiet prayer.

Art Keller is one of them.

The more he learns about Father Juan’s death, the more troubled he is about it. Parada was riding in a white Marquis, Méndez in a green Buick; Parada was wearing a black sourtane with a prominent pectoral cross (now missing), Méndez was garbed in full Sinaloa cowboy chic.

How could anyone mistake a 6‘4?, sixty-two-year-old, white-haired man wearing a soutane and a crucifix for a 5‘10” blond guy wearing narco-cowboy gear? At point-blank range? How could an experienced killer like Fabián Martínez do that? Why was an airplane waiting? How could Adán and Raúl and all their hitters get on board? How could they get off in Tijuana and get escorted right out of the airport?

And why, even though dozens of witnesses described a man identical to Adán Barrera at the airport and on the plane, did a Father Rivera in Tijuana—the Barreras’ family priest—come forward to announce that Adán Barrera was the godfather at a christening performed at the exact time that Parada was gunned down?

The priest even displayed the baptismal records, with Adán’s name and signature.

And who was the mysterious Yanqui a dozen witnesses saw cradling Parada’s body? Who was carried on the plane with the Barreras and has since dropped out of sight?

Art says a quick prayer—there are people in line behind him—and finds a seat in the crowded cathedral.

The funeral Mass is long and moving. Person after person stands up to speak about what Father Juan had done in their lives, and the sound of weeping fills the large space. The atmosphere is quiet, mournful, respectful, subdued.

Until the president gets up to speak.

He had to be there, of course, the president and the entire cabinet and a score of other government officials, and as he gets up and walks to the pulpit an expectant silence falls over the crowd. And El Presidente clears his throat and begins, “A criminal act has taken the life of a good, clean and generous man—”

And that’s as far as he gets because someone in the crowd shouts, “¡Justicia!”

Justice.