What she wanted most from herself was to think clearly so she could ascertain where she was, who was holding her, and what she could do. But she was finding that hard because of the fear, drugs, and sense of dislocation. In her sleep she was haunted by dreams of being chased by animals and strangers. And when awake, her mind seemed to fixate on strange things like her husband’s schedule, or household budgets, or unpleasant experiences from her past.
Despite her hunger, she pushed the salad away. Then, glancing up at the good-looking young man with the nasty-looking submachine gun and a silver crucifix around his neck, she said politely, “Excuse me, but I need to use the bathroom.”
There was no reason not to maintain her dignity and appear polite.
“Of course, Señora,” the young man answered. “You are not hungry today?”
“No. My stomach is bothering me.”
“It’s upset, Señora? I will call someone.”
“Thank you.”
She had to wait for a female guard to accompany her. As the young, oval-faced woman looked on, Lisa did her business, washed her hands, and drank heartily from the bathroom tap. Somewhere she had read that a person could live for two weeks or more without food, but only a couple of days without water.
The last day and a half had been weird, disorienting, and frightening, but not unpleasant as far as her physical comfort was concerned. Aside from the fact that she was being held prisoner; had been drugged; wasn’t allowed access to a phone or computer, books, newspapers, or news of any sort; and was watched 24/7 (even by a female guard as she took a shower), she had been treated relatively well.
Her current surroundings reminded her of a very upscale resort, not unlike the one in Sedona, which felt like it was a million miles and many years removed.
She had her own beautifully appointed room and bath with sixty-four-inch plasma TV equipped with Netflix, the finest bath and spa products, and a closetful of resort attire and shoes in her size. Anytime she wanted anything from the kitchen, all she had to do was ask one of the young guards-all of whom were well groomed and polite-and it was served to her by a servant dressed in white.
Her primary worry had been her daughter, whom she loved more deeply than she had even realized. But as the hours and days passed and she didn’t see or hear her, she became more and more convinced that Olivia had managed to escape or had been spared.
She held on to that belief because the alternative was too awful.
Every time she asked why she was being held and who was in charge, she was told that the jefe would arrive soon and explain. But she was given no indication who the jefe was.
Since jefe was a Spanish word that meant “boss” and the people guarding and attending to her spoke Spanish, Lisa concluded that she was somewhere south of the border-maybe Mexico or Costa Rica, two places she had visited in the past.
Turning to the young woman who was sitting with her now, she asked again politely in English, “Can you please tell me when this is likely to end?”
The young woman shook her head. “I’m sorry, Señora. I don’t know.”
“Does the jefe want something specifically?”
The young woman smiled. “We all want something, Señora.”
“Do you know the jefe personally?”
“Of course. He’s like my father.”
Lisa tried not to reveal anything about herself, or what she was feeling, or to offend her captors. The room was elegant, with ornate Moorish-style plaster flourishes in the cornices and on the walls, but didn’t say much about the people who owned it, or ran it, because there were no personal or unusual items in it, except for a large framed picture of a skeleton in black nun’s robes holding a scythe on the wall beside the bed.
She thought it looked vaguely Mexican and might have something to do with a Catholic sect or cult.
“Who’s that?” she asked, pointing at the picture and feeling relatively clearheaded for the first time since her abduction.
“La Santísima Muerte,” the woman answered.
“La Santísima Muerte.”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t muerte mean death?”
“Yes.”
Lisa, who had been raised Catholic but had rarely gone to church before she was married, had never heard of La Santísima Muerte. Her husband studied and regularly quoted the Bible, but she had never heard him mention anything like this.
“Who is she?” she asked.
“La Santa is a very powerful force,” the young woman answered. “Some say she’s an incarnation of the Aztec goddess Mictecacíhuatl, who is the wife of the death god Mictlantecuhtli.”
Lisa wasn’t familiar with Mictecacíhuatl and knew very little about Aztec culture and worship, except that the Aztecs had devised an elaborate sun calendar and believed in human sacrifice.
“Others say she is the spirit of the Virgin Mother, who still haunts the earth.”
Lisa shivered, then asked, “What does she represent?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“What does she do?”
“She’s very powerful and grants special favors to people in need,” the guard answered. “If you pray to her, she can protect you from all kinds of violence.”
“Violence?” The word frightened her.
“Yes, Señora. For the magic to work for you, you have to give up your conscience first. Because the black arts demand this.”
“I don’t understand.”
“La Santísima Muerte knows the reality,” the young woman explained. “This is a dark world, Señora. We didn’t create this world of violence, obstacles, and enemies, but we are not naive. We know that love and kindness don’t work.”
“Who are we?” Lisa asked.
“The people, Señora. The ones who understand the power.”
Pushed by the same wild, relentless energy he’d had since he was a kid, Crocker rode his Harley south, winding through country roads, not really aware of where he was going or why, just enjoying the rural scenery, the sunshine, smells of nature, and fresh air. There was something liberating about being on the open road with no real destination. Edenton, Tarboro, Rocky Mount, Smithfield, Clinton, Whiteville, Marion, Lake City. Towns flew by, schools, churches, golf courses, junkyards filled with rusting cars and buses, lakes.
He was searching for an answer or direction. Was it time to retire, leave the teams, and start something new? Had his string of narrow escapes from tragedy run out?
As he rode, he thought about his mother and father, and the cycle of life and death.
His mother had died of emphysema several years ago, but his father was still alive and living in Fairfax, Virginia. Lately, he’d befriended a thirty-five-year-old Gulf War vet named Carla and her nine-year-old son. According to Crocker’s sister, their dad had been giving Carla money-possibly as much as twenty thousand dollars so far.
Maybe the old man was lonely and she was taking advantage. Or maybe Carla was a good person and meant to pay him back.
When Crocker was eighteen and constantly in trouble with the police, his father had told him a Cherokee story about a man and his grandson.
The grandfather, seeing that his grandson was being self-destructive, said, “My son, there’s a battle between two wolves inside us. One is evil. It’s jealousy, greed, resentment, inferiority, lies, and ego. The other is good. It’s joy, hope, humility, kindness, and truth.”
The boy thought about it and asked, “Grandfather, which wolf wins?”
The old man replied quietly, “The one you feed.”
For the past twenty-some years, since joining the navy, Crocker had fed the good wolf. But now he could sense the bad wolf’s hunger. It was a big hole at the bottom of his soul carved out by the people he’d killed in the line of duty, and his anger at life’s injustices, and the wrongs that had been visited on the people he loved.