Saint Death

They looked up at her but no-one spoke.

Pope smiled at her. “Take your seat,” he said. “Wheels up in five minutes.”

40

There was a sign on the wall of the room that said that the motel had wifi. Caterina booted up her laptop, located the network, and joined it. She had installed police sca

The police said that the girl had been identified as Guillermina Marquez.

The body had turned up on scrubland near to the Estadio Olimpico Benito Juárez. The Indios played there, Leon had taken her to see them once. It was close to the motel. A twenty minute walk, maximum. Fifteen if she ran. She thrust her camera and her notepad into her rucksack, scribbled a quick note to Milton explaining where she was going, locked the door behind her and set off towards the river.

It was growing late and the light was leaving the city. Caterina crested a shallow hill and looked out across the border to El Paso, the lights twinkling against the spectrum of greys across the desert and the mountains beyond. She wondered what it was like over the border. She had never been. She had an idea, of course, on a superficial level — she was in contact with journalists on the other side of the line, there was television and the movies — but it was more than the superficial things that she wondered about. She wondered what it would be like to live in a city that was safe. Where you were not woken with yet another report of dead bodies dropped on your doorstep. Where the army and the police were not as bad as the criminals. Where children were not abducted, were not tortured, mutilated, bruised, fractured or strangled or violated.

The stadium was across a bleak expanse of scrub. Other girls had been found here: she thought of the map in her room, with the pins that studded this part of town, a bristling little forest of murders. She remembered two of them, left in the dust with their arms arranged so that they formed crucifixes; she remembered those two particularly well.

She walked faster.

Dusk was turning into night. Two police cruisers were parked on the scrub next to a thicket of trees and creosote bushes. Blue and white crime scene tape had been strung around the trunks of three of the trees, fluttering and snapping in the breeze, forming a broad triangular enclosure. Uniformed officers were inside, gathered around a shapeless thing on the floor. Caterina ducked down, pulled the tape over her head and went forwards. She could see the body covered with a blanket, the naked feet visible where the blanket was too short. She took out her camera, shoved in the flash, and started taking pictures.

One of the policemen turned. “Excuse me.”

She moved away from him, circling the body, continuing to take pictures.

“Excuse me, Señorita. No pictures, please.”

“What was her name,” she asked, the camera still pressed to her face.

“I recognise you,” the policeman said.

She lowered the camera. “Do I know you?”

“I’m Capitán Alameda. You don’t remember?”

“No, I—”

“It’s Caterina, isn’t it?”

“Yes — how do you know my name?”

“I was at the restaurant on Monday night. I was with you in the hospital.”

“Oh.”

He put a hand on Caterina’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Who was she?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“When was she found?”

“A couple of hours ago.” He guided her back and away from the covered body. “Come on. It’s not safe. I thought you were going over the border.”

“Soon. Tomorrow, I think.”

“You need to keep off the street until then. If they find out where you are — look, where are you staying?”

She paused.

“Don’t worry — I know the cook is looking after you. My colleague — Teniente Plato — he’s been speaking with him. I’ll take you back there. We can talk about what happened here in the car. I’ll answer all your questions.”

She paused.

“Caterina — I’m the captain of the police. Come on. You can trust me.”

She relented.

41

Felipe excused himself from the party. It would continue in the grounds of the mansion but, out of sight, the garages were busy with activity. He had called in his best men. His best sicarios. Their cars were parked in the wide bay before the triple garage and they were milling there, waiting for his instructions. Pablo had opened the arms cache and was in the process of distributing the heavy artillery. The way Felipe was thinking, if Adolfo wasn’t returned to him soon, he would have to do something to focus the attention of the authorities. Firing a few AR-15s in the marketplace, tossing in a few grenades, that ought to do the trick. They knew, but perhaps they needed to be reminded: there were some things that could not be allowed to stand.

An unmarked police car rolled up the slope that curved around the mansion and parked next to the garages. Two of the men broke away from the rest, their hands reaching for their pistols. Felipe watched as the door opened and a man he recognised stepped out.

The municipal cop. Capitán Alameda.

The two men recognised him, too, and stepped aside.

“El Patrón.”

“Not now, Capitán. I’m busy.”

“I know about Adolfo.”

“Then you’ll understand why this is not a good time.”

“No — I know who has him. And how you can get him back.”

Felipe turned to Pablo. “You go in five minutes,” he called.

“Yes, El Patrón.”

“Be quick, Alameda. And don’t waste my time.”

“The girl from the restaurant. The one you didn’t get. The Englishman is trying to keep her safe.”

“And?”

“I have her. There was a body in the park next to the stadium. She was there. Taking pictures.”

“Where is she?”

He nodded in the direction of his car. “In back.”

“Get her.”

Alameda went back to the car and brought the girl out. She was cuffed, her wrists fastened behind her back.

“Do you know who I am?” Felipe asked.

She spat at his feet.

“She’s feisty,” Alameda suggested. “Took a good swing at me before I got the bracelets on.”

“Where is the Englishman?”

“Come mierda y muerte.”

“If you help me get my son back I’ll let you go. You have my word.”

“Your word’s no good.”

Felipe shifted his weight. “Look around — you’re on your own. The Englishman can’t help you now. You don’t have any other choice.”

42

Beau pulled the Jeep into the motel parking lot. Milton opened the rear door, stepped outside and pulled Adolfo out with him. Beau followed close behind, the barrel of his pistol pushed tight into the small of the Mexican’s back. Milton unlocked the door and opened it.

The room was empty.

“Caterina?”

The bathroom door was open. Milton checked. It was empty, too.

“Where is she?” Beau said anxiously.

“I don’t know.”

Her laptop was on. Milton checked it: a police sca

“There’s been another murder. She’s gone to cover it.”

“We don’t wa

“Not without her.”

“I know, but we’re not on home turf here.”

“It’s not open to debate. You can go whenever you want, but he stays until I have her back.”

Milton’s phone started to ring.

He looked at the display: an unknown number.

“Hola.”

He didn’t recognise the voice. “I think you have the wrong number,” he replied in Spanish.