Authors: Christopher Valen
Black clouds moved like shadows across the moon as Santana turned onto a dirt road, the jeep bouncing hard off the shoulder. He followed the beams from the headlights through thick stands of
guadua
for a half-mile until he swerved onto the grassy floor of the forest and into a small clearing near a wooden bridge that crossed a river. There, he shut off the engine but left the lights on.
He sat quietly in the jeep for a time, remembering this clearing in the forest as a special place where his parents would take him as a child to fly kites during
los vientos de agosto
, the winds of August. The air smelled of wet leaves, and clouds of mist hung like spider webs around the trees. He could hear the rumble of thunder from the approaching storm now, the river running over the rapids, the incessant buzzing of
chicharras,
and the sound of his breathing.
“
Bajate del carro
,” he told the one sitting in the passenger seat.
The man obeyed and Santana walked him to a thick
guadua
tree. Directed him to stand with his back against it. Then he went back to the Suzuki and got the other one out of the back seat and walked him to a spot five feet in front of his brother, who was still standing passively against the tree, squinting into the glare of the headlights.
Santana removed the wallet from the second man’s back pocket. The ID inside read Emilio Estrada. He tossed the wallet on the ground and took the British made .38-caliber revolver out his jacket pocket. He released the top catch so that the barrel and cylinder swung down, exposing the back of the cylinder. He removed five of the six cartridges, leaving a round to the left of the hammer. Then he closed the barrel and cocked it. He placed the gun in Emilio Estrada’s right hand and stood directly behind him. Told him to raise his arm and fire at the tree in front of him.
Sparks flew out of the barrel as the shot echoed through the forest. Enrique Estrada let out a grunt as the bullet slammed him back against the
guadua
. A dark circle of blood formed in the center of his chest as his legs gave out and he slid down the trunk until he was sitting on the ground. He sat there with his head resting against the base of the tree, his breath rattling in his chest and blood trickling out the corner of his mouth. Then he rolled on his side like a listing ship and lay still.
A long wisp of smoke drifted out of the muzzle of the gun and rose up and into the mist. A bank of dark clouds veiled the moon and a branch of lightening broke across the black sky. A sudden wind shook the leaves in the trees and rain began falling.
Santana took the gun from Emilio Estrada, the barrel hot in the palm of his hand. He walked over to Enrique Estrada and looked down, wondering if what he had heard about evil as a child was true, if, in fact, Estrada’s soul would burn in hell for all eternity because of the crimes he had committed during his short but violent life.
As he watched blood flow out of Enrique Estrada’s body and form a widening pool of darkness, Santana felt as though his innocence was draining out of him. He wondered about his own soul now, wondered about the warning Father Gallego had given him in the chapel of the Gemelli School.
El fin no justifica los medios,
the end does not justify the means. Sweat dampened his shirt and his body began to tremble in the cool night air. It would be hard to kill the twin, harder than he had ever imagined. He felt sick to his stomach.
“Enrique!”
The voice seemed as loud as the roar of the gun, and Santana’s heart leapt into his throat as he spun quickly toward the sound.
Emilio Estrada stood in a low crouch, unsteady on his feet, his dead eyes staring into Santana’s.
Santana fumbled for the bullets in his jacket pocket, but before he could reload the gun or react, Estrada jumped him, knocking the .38 from his hand, and sending them both to the ground. Santana felt his right hand slam against a
guadua
, and he cried out as the sharp
riendas
around the trunk of the young tree sliced open the back of his hand.
Fueled by anger and revenge, Estrada forced Santana on his back and sat on top of him, his knees straddling Santana’s chest. Using his forearm as a wedge, he pressed it against Santana’s throat.
Water soaked through Santana’s jacket, and he could smell the mix of rum and cigarettes on Estrada’s breath as the man leaned closer to his face. He punched Estrada hard in the side with one hand, tried to push the forearm off his neck with the other. Struggling to breathe, his consciousness beginning to slip away, he heard the distinct click of a switchblade, saw the glint of the blade in a flash of lightening as Estrada brought a knife out from behind his back and raised it over his head.
Santana reached out with his left hand and grabbed Estrada’s wrist. He pushed with all his strength. Tried to hold the knife away from him. But Estrada was too strong.
In that moment before the blade ripped open his chest and he knew his life would end abruptly at sixteen, he smelled his father’s cherry blend pipe tobacco, his mother’s French perfume. He saw her watching a kite rising high above the forest floor in a gust of wind, its white rag tail looking like a vapor trail against a blue sky.
With his heart thudding against his ribs and pumping massive amounts of adrenaline into his blood stream, his will to survive overcame his deficiency in strength. His bloody right hand shot straight up, and he buried two fingers deep in Emilio Estrada’s dead eyes.
Estrada let out a scream and sat up, instinctively reaching both hands toward his eyes for protection.
Santana felt the weight lessen on his chest as Estrada’s balance shifted. He pushed Estrada off and scrambled to his feet.
In the glare of the jeep’s headlights, Estrada stood up, eyelids blinking, face twisted in anger, wet hair matted against his skull. “Emilio’s got something here for you
hijueputa!
Something from me and my brother! Why don’t you come and get it you piece of shit!”
He rubbed his eyes with one hand and swung the knife wildly in front of him with the other, as if clearing a field of sugar cane with a machete.
Santana stood in the hard rain with his fists balled tightly at his sides, taking short, quick breaths of oxygen between his clenched teeth. Then he felt something cold and dark rising like a serpent inside him.
“Where are you,
hijueputa?
” Estrada yelled.
Santana picked up the gun lying on the ground and loaded a round into the chamber.
“I’m here
malparido
.”
Cocking the revolver, he stepped closer, aimed, and fired.
The bullet struck Emilio Estrada squarely in the face and blew out the back of his head.
Chapter 23
“R
AISE THE BODY A LITTLE SO THE
cord slackens,” Reiko Tanabe said to a couple of uniformed officers. “And then cut the cord near the top. Leave the noose on the neck and be careful.”
She was peering at Hidalgo’s body hanging from the second floor landing like she would a slide under a microscope.
The officers did as they were told and then laid Hidalgo’s body gently on the hardwood floor.
“Make sure you cordon off the area outside,” Santana said to the two officers. “Nobody in or out unless they’re with the department.”
“You okay, John?” Tanabe asked, looking at Santana.
“I’m fine.”
“First hanging?”
Santana shook his head. “Not my first.”
Tanabe kept her eyes on Santana for a time. Then she crouched down next to the body.
The electrical cord had cut off drainage through Hidalgo’s jugular and other veins, forcing deoxygenated blood back up into the tissues of his face. Small capillaries had ruptured from the pressure on his neck and formed tiny rivers of blood in the sclera of his eyes, which protruded like a frog’s from his blue face.
“There’s a half-knot in the electrical cord,” Tanabe said. “You have anything that suggests this was a homicide?”
Santana’s gaze was focused on a stain on the wall, though in his mind’s eye he could see his mother hanging from a beam in his boyhood home in Manizales, her once beautiful face a contorted death mask exactly like the one now worn by Hidalgo.
“John. Did you hear me?”
Santana gazed down at Tanabe.
“You have any evidence that this was a homicide?”
“No,” Santana said. “Hidalgo committed suicide.”
“You sound awfully sure of yourself.”
As Santana was about to explain, James Kehoe came in the front door behind a blast of cold air, stomping snow off the soles of his shoes as he stood in the entryway. His electric tan had turned red compliments of the falling temperatures and increasing wind chill.
Santana said, “I was here just before it happened, Reiko.”
Tanabe rose to her feet and arched her back, as if easing a muscle cramp. “You were here?”
“Not in the house. I was outside in my car.”
“Doing what?” Kehoe asked.
Seeing Kehoe standing on the opposite side of Hidalgo’s body drew Santana’s thoughts away from the past and back to the present.
“Counting the crystals in a snowflake,” he said.
“Look, Santana, that smart ass attitude may play well around the water cooler, but it gets you shit upstairs where it counts. The Pérez-Mendoza investigation is history.”
“What makes you think I was here about the Pérez-Mendoza investigation?”
Kehoe hesitated before responding, his eyes betraying his momentary confusion. “What else would you be doing here?”
“Maybe I just wanted to talk to a priest.”
“Yeah. And maybe I’m Mother Theresa.”
He glanced down at the young priest’s body on the floor and crossed himself quickly.
Santana said, “I didn’t know you were Catholic.”
Kehoe gave him a dismissive look. “It’s apparent you don’t know a lot of things, Santana. Like you shouldn’t have been talking to Hidalgo when this case is already closed. What did you say to him anyway?”
Santana kept silent.
“Well, since you’re in the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease, let me refresh your memory. Ashford put me in charge of this investigation. Not you.”
Kehoe glared at Tanabe. “You let me know the results of the autopsy, Reiko, and no one else. ASAP.”
The ME looked at Kehoe and then at Santana.
“You hear me, Tanabe?” Kehoe said.
She glared back. “I heard you.”
Kehoe looked like he was about to say something else to her and then thought better of it. Instead, he turned back to Santana.
“I know you’re counting on Gamboni to protect your ass because she made a mistake and let you inside her pants, but that ain’t going to happen.”
Santana could see his own reflection and his blue eyes in the mirror on the wall behind Kehoe. They were as cold and flat as a frozen lake. His eyes locked on Kehoe’s. “How long has it been?”
Kehoe cocked his head, as if he had just heard a strange sound.
“John,” Tanabe said, clearing her throat. “Why don’t we wrap it up here?”
Santana ignored her. “Come on, Kehoe. You know what I’m talking about.”
Kehoe gave a little shake of his head.
“How long has it been since you’ve been laid?”
Kehoe’s complexion went from red to crimson. “All right, Santana,” he said, pointing a thick index finger. “You don’t want to talk to me about what you were doing here, fine. Let’s see if Ashford can change your mind.”
He turned and barged out of the room, letting the storm door slam shut behind him. The air that blew in the room felt like it had been chilled in a freezer.
“Kehoe always wound that tight?” Tanabe asked.
“Seems to be.”
“He married?”
“Was.”
She nodded, as if it all made sense. “You think Hidalgo’s death has something to do with the Pérez-Mendoza murders, John?”
“I do.”
“Want me to call you with the autopsy results?”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“You got it,” she said.
D
aniel McCutcheon was seated on the living room couch across from the fireplace with his face in his hands where Thomas Hidalgo had sat just an hour ago. He still wore his purple St. Thomas letter jacket with the white sleeves.
Santana stood in front of the couch with McCutcheon’s driver’s license in his hand.
Twenty year-old Daniel McCutcheon had blond hair, hazel eyes, and the narrow shoulders and hips of a long distance runner.
Santana said, “You have another place you can go for a while?”
“Yes,” McCutcheon said, without looking up.
“If you need someone to drive you somewhere, I can arrange that.”
McCutcheon lifted his head out of his hands and gazed up at Santana with eyes that were dark with frustration and confusion. “I don’t understand this,” he said, gesturing toward the dining room. “I don’t understand this at all.”
He had an innocent face that Santana rarely saw in the young men he often had dealings with.
“Father Hidalgo must’ve been murdered,” McCutcheon continued in a voice that was leaden with doubt. “He would never commit suicide. It’s against the teachings of the church.”
“I’ll get an officer,” Santana said.
“No. It’s all right.”
McCutcheon stood up slowly and shook his head, as if coming out of a trance. “I’ll drive myself.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” he said, and took a step toward the front door. Santana put a hand on the young man’s shoulder and said, “Why don’t you go out the back door.”
McCutcheon hesitated.
“You’ll need this.” Santana held out the driver’s license.
McCutcheon’s glazed eyes focused on the license and then on Santana.
“Nothing you can do now,” Santana said.
McCutcheon took the license and gave Santana a rueful, little smile. His hands shook as he put the license back in his wallet.
Santana handed him a business card. “Put this in your wallet, too. If you have any questions, call me. Also, let me know where you’re staying in case I need to get in touch with you.”
The young man slid the card in his wallet and walked away. His steps were short and tentative, like someone trying to cross a lake just after the ice formed.