Haunted (Anna Strong Chronicles #8)

Haunted (Anna Strong Chronicles #8) Page 10

Chapter 26

THE VILLAGE IS MORE PRIMITIVE THAN I IMAGINED. It's like something from the nineteenth century. A well stands in the middle of a courtyard from which four dirt roads radiate outward like the points of a compass. There are no more than a dozen houses  - shacks really -  scattered off the roads. Simple wooden structures each with a patchwork garden in front and chickens pecking in pens on the sides. The only vehicles I see are two ancient trucks with wooden beds parked side by side near the one brick structure in town. A church... a tiny church with a steepled roof and bell tower.

Good cover for a drug kingpin used to living in luxury. It's unlikely the cops on either side of the border would think to search for him in a place like this.

Still, I can't imagine Santiago living like a peasant in one of those shacks. There must be more to this village.

Or one of those simple structures has an underground mansion like Ramon's underground cave. Money makes all things possible. Big money works miracles.

I keep to the shadows, out of sight of prying eyes. The presence of a stranger, especially a gringa, would certainly attract attention. So I circle the village in a wide arc, keeping to the trees and whatever scrub brush I can use for cover.

It's fast approaching dawn. The village is still asleep, no stirrings at all from any of the houses. There are several more shacks separated from the cluster around the courtyard. They look no different from the others. No big black Escalades parked in front, no AK-47 gun-toting toadies standing guard, nothing that shouts major narco kingpin in residence here.

Well, this scouting trip has been a bust.

And I have to wait until nightfall for Culebra.

I hunker down in a cluster of bushes, hoping the green leafy ground cover under my ass isn't poison oak or ivy. Vampire or no, an itch is an itch. I burrow in like a fox until I'm sure no casual passerby can spot me. I have a semi-clear view to the center of the village and a better view of the shacks on the outskirts.

Nothing to do now but wait.

And think.

Is Ramon really launching this preemptive strike to protect his family from Santiago's wrath? Or is it something else? How much does Maria know about the death of Rojan? About Ramon's part in it? She seems to take his word as law. Gabriella is far less accepting. She hasn't romanticized her father the way Maria has. Still, they are blood. It would be a mistake to look on her as an ally.

I wonder if Maria would have shot me to keep me at the cave simply because Ramon told her to. I'm glad I told Culebra to keep an eye on Ramon and to protect Max. I can't shake the feeling that Culebra is more a pawn in this game than a partner. And I believed Maria when she said Max was expendable. What she and Ramon don't realize is that Max and Culebra are a formidable pair. More than a match for Ramon now that they have been warned.

The far-off sound of a motor snaps me to attention. It's full light out now. A plume of dust rises from the eastern radial of the roads stretching from the well. The timbre and decibel level of the engine marks it as a big vehicle... a truck, maybe. I lean forward to get a better look.

And pull back immediately. From my left, from one of the shacks closest to my hiding place, a man sticks his head out a window. He watches the truck approach and when it has reached the center of the village and come to a stop by the well, he leans back inside and yells.

"Las muchachas. Ahora."

The door opens. A man steps out first, an AK-47 strapped bandolier style across his chest by a loose cord. He's barrel-chested and squat, hair secured by a handkerchief tied around his head. He wears sweatpants and a T-shirt straining over a big belly. He's barefoot.

The toadie I've been looking for?

He has a cigarette in his hand and he waves it in a come-along motion. He stands beside the door and barks something sharp.

As if propelled from behind, three young women stumble out. They blink at the light and clutch at blankets thrown over their shoulders. They are barefoot and dirty, hair unkempt, faces smudged. None of them could be older than sixteen. They cower together, eyes on the toadie. He gets behind them and uses the stock of the rifle still tied across his chest to move them forward.

"Muevanse, putas," he says.

They remain close, moving as one, trying to keep as far away from the guard as they dare. He keeps prodding them toward the well and the waiting truck.

The arrival of the truck has awakened a few of the inhabitants and curious faces poke from windows and doors. As soon as they see who is behind the wheel, see who is approaching from the shack with the girls, they disappear back inside like wisps of smoke.

The driver's door opens and a man who could be the toadie's twin  - overweight, dirty T-shirt, jeans hung so low I can't imagine what's holding them up -  jumps to the ground. They embrace, patting each other on the back, mumbling something in Spanish too rapidly for me to catch. Then they go to the back of the panel truck and the driver opens the rear doors.

"¿Cuatro esta vez, huh?"

"Al jefe le crece el apetito por las chicas. Esta aburrido," the toadie replies with a laugh.

I understand the boss is bored but he wants four this time? Four what?

In a moment, I know. The driver yells something through the open doors and four girls appear from inside. Roughly, the driver drags one after the other to the ground and shoves them toward the waiting toadie. The girls are all dressed in simple dresses, sandals on their feet. They are thin, young, younger even than the three standing in the front of the truck, and big-eyed with fear.

The toadie steps up to each, and in turn, lifts a chin, cups a breast, runs a hand up between legs and pinches. The startled girls yelp and pull back. The toadie grins and spits out his cigarette.

"El Jefe estara contento," he says. He jabs a thumb toward the front of the truck where the other three girls wait, their faces drawn with uncertainty. "La basura esta lista para hechar afuera."

The garbage is ready to be taken out. My guts churn as the two pigs laugh. Another round of backslapping and jokes aimed at the "education" the new girls are about to receive and then the guard moves the new arrivals back toward the shack.

The driver watches a moment, then he snaps at the three to come to the back of the truck. He lifts each one into the back, a hand snaking under the blanket of the first, pulling it down to expose the breasts of the second and finally ripping the blanket completely off the third. He bends that one back against the bumper, grinding himself into her until she cries for him to stop. He laughs and turns her around, using a hand under her ass to propel her roughly into the truck. "Mas tarde, chica," he says, slamming the door.

Chapter 27

I CAN'T WRAP MY HEAD AROUND WHAT I JUST WITNESSED. The new girls can't be more than twelve or thirteen. Are they being fed like takeout to someone in that shack and then thrown out like garbage when he's ready for the next course?

Is that someone Santiago?

This is the person Culebra swore allegiance to? That Ramon works for?

As soon as the truck with the girls departs, a van pulls into the village and stops in front of the church. This time, the villagers begin drifting outside. My rage extends to them, too, the ones who withdrew quickly when they saw what was happening.

Or does this happen every week? Every day? Are they afraid for their own wives and daughters? Is that why they raise no objection?

I remember what Ramon said. The village has been bought and paid for.

I now have a decision to make. Do I go after the truck? I could free the girls, see they make it to safety. Kill the driver.

Then what?

There is most likely someone waiting for the truck to return. I could make the driver talk and tell me where and when.

I peek out. The bell in the steeple begins to ring. The villagers move toward the open church door, including the toadie, who shuts and locks the door to the shack where he brought the girls. Three men are hauling bags from the back of the van and bringing them into the church.

I can't remember. Is it Sunday? Are the villagers going to mass? They actually have a priest in this devil's playground? Where was the priest when the girls were being abused by the toadie and his buddy?

The bags being unloaded are too big and heavy-looking to hold communion wafers. Should I move closer?

I look toward the shack where the girls were taken. The door remains closed. It's quiet inside. I'm torn between attempting to get a look inside the church and rescuing those girls. Part of me wants to burst in, haul the girls out before the pig gets his hands on them. But the saner, logical part of me says there's another reason I'm here.

The village courtyard is deserted. The church bell has stopped ringing. Whatever was being delivered, is now inside the church. Everyone in the village seems to be inside, too. The van stands open and empty. I can do more good in the long run if I go after the truck that took the girls and get the driver to tell me what's going on.

If I'm going to get away, it will have to be now.

I slip out of my hiding place, pulling brush tamped down back into place. I keep an eye out for any strays, but everyone seems to have marched like good little ants into the church. I only have to scurry a little deeper into the brush before I can safely pick up speed. I run parallel to the road, watching for the truck.

It hasn't gone far.

The truck has been pulled off to the side of the road. I don't have to use vampire hearing to know what is going on. The driver has climbed into the back, the cries of his victim shattering the early morning quiet. When I leap inside, I can scarcely believe what I see.

Two of the girls are lying in pools of blood, their throats slashed. The third is barely visible under the half-naked body of the man on top of her. He is pushing at her and grunting, a knife at her cheek.

I feel my control slipping. Fight to get it back.

You need the man. Take control, Anna.

It's too late. The smell of spilled blood turns my mind as black as night. Vampire roars in blood lust and rage. I can't hold back.

The driver turns to look at what beast screams in a human voice but with such inhuman fury. His eyes widen and he pulls away from the girl, backing himself into a corner. His member shrivels and the sharp smell of urine staining the front of his pants is evidence that his fear has made him lose control.

I approach like a stalking tiger.

He holds out the knife.

As if that flimsy blade is any match for vampire. It takes the merest flick to break his hand at the wrist and fling the knife away.

He screams.

I want him to scream. I want to break every bone in his body, tear limbs one by one, until there are only pieces left and I can suck the life juices from them.

I make him cower in that corner. Make him wait for the pain to come.

But vampire is too caught up in the feast she is about to devour. She doesn't see until it is too late.

The girl. She is on her feet. She snatches the knife from where it fell on the floor. Too fast and too filled with rage even for vampire, she lunges before I can stop her. The knife slashes across the man's throat. The arterial spray covers my face, and its smell and texture is too compelling. His body spasms. With a glance back at the girl, I grab him, hold him to my chest, bury my face in his neck and drink.

Chapter 28

REALIZATION AND REASON RETURN WITH A JOLT.

The human Anna comes back in an eye blink, horror at what vampire... at what I have done.

Shit. I sit back on my haunches, wiping blood from my face with the sleeve of the pristine white shirt Maria gave me.

Pristine no more.

What do I do now?

A sound, a small, mewling whimper makes me jerk around.

The girl, the one attacked who became attacker, sits beside the bodies of the slain girls, crying softly.

Surprise that she's still here, that she didn't run away in horror when she saw me feed, that she's not screaming, shakes me.

She looks up when she feels my eyes on her. Her expression doesn't change. There's no fear, no tensing of her body in preparation for fight or flight. There's only resignation in her gaze. As if surrounded by so much death, she accepts that hers is inevitable.

After all that's been done to her, does she welcome it?

I don't know what to do. I rack my brain for some phrase to offer comfort, to offer assurance that I mean her no harm.

"No te hara dano. Soy amigo. ¿Habla Ingles?"

Even as I say the words, I mean no harm, I wonder how she can believe it after what she saw me do.

But she only shrugs and replies, "Si."

Relief washes over me. At least we have a chance to communicate.

She wipes at her eyes with the corner of the blanket she's pulled back around her trembling body. But she says nothing. She's waiting for me.

I place a hand on the center of my chest. "My name is Anna. What's yours?"

She squares her shoulders, sits up straighter. "Adelita."

Still no emotion. She doesn't seem to care what I am or what I did. She asks no questions.

Better not to push. She is calm. I will be, too.

"That's a beautiful name. You are very brave, Adelita. Now we need to move this truck off the road and hide it until we can decide what to do. I have some friends not far from here who will help us. You are barefoot. Do you think you could walk if I gave you my shoes?"

She shakes her head. "I will take his," she says, pointing to the man, spitting the words as if having to mention him raises bile in her throat.

I am sitting closest to him so I reach over and untie the shoelaces on what looks like a brand-new pair of Nikes. Thankfully, they are clean inside. I hold them out to Adelita. "He has surprisingly small feet for a pig," I say.

She understands and a slight smile touches the corners of her mouth. She holds up a thumb and forefinger and squeezes them close. "He was small in many respects," she says.

She slips the shoes on her feet and laces them. She has delicate features, brown eyes and hair. The small smile she showed me before is gone, her lips pinched tight. But it gave me a hint of the pretty girl she must have been.

I wish I had clothes to offer her but I didn't exactly pack for this trip. I motion to the open door and climb out. She follows, trying to manage the blanket. It's too coarse too wrap like a sarong.

"Maybe I can fix it a little," I offer, holding out a hand.

I think she may object, but surprisingly, she simply hands the blanket to me and stands naked and still.

Maybe she's been through so much, she can't imagine things could possibly get worse.

Her frail body is mottled with bruises.

I think I guessed right.

I fold the blanket in two and rip a hole in the middle with my teeth. When I hand it back, she slips it over her head, and it falls around her like a poncho, the ends reaching almost to the ground. There is a roll of twine and some duct tape lying in a heap by the door. I measure out a length of twine and snap it off. She winds it around her waist, tucking the sides of the blanket close so her body is covered.

She nods her thanks.

And waits for me to take the lead once more.

We walk to the front of the truck and I peek inside. The keys are in the ignition. "Get in. We'll move the truck so it can't be seen if someone comes by."

She crosses to the passenger side and slips in. The windows have been rolled up and the cab smells of sour breath and sweat-stained clothes, nauseating reminders of the dead man in back.

For the first time, the young girl, the raped and beaten little girl, cannot control the responses of her horrified mind and body. She flings open the door, leans out and retches.

I don't move. Don't offer a comforting hand. Don't utter false comforting words.

Nothing I say or do could make things better. She's been through hell. Maybe her body's way of coping is to purge. Vomit out some of the misery and despair and make room for something better. Maybe with the emptiness can come a little hope.

Maybe.

But for now, I leave her alone. After a moment, she stops. Her breathing becomes more regular. She remains leaning out of the truck.

I look around the cab. There's not much here... a pack of cigarettes and some matches, a half-empty bottle of water, a rag stuffed behind the seats. The rag is dirty and reeks of oil and gasoline, but it's all we have. At least it doesn't carry the scent of the dead man. I hand it to her along with the water bottle. Adelita takes them, rinses her mouth with water and spits, wipes her mouth and nose, and releases a deep breath.

"Gracias," she says, straightening in the seat, slamming the car door closed. She drops the rag to the floor and turns a tear-streaked face to mine. "We can go now."