Walker had been the primary contact with the underworld, the real Judas of the act. Afterward, he'd needed Stern's assistance in covering the money trail and so had brought the agent in on the scheme. Juan had proof of Stern's complicity, of Walker's sins. They were sitting on Michael Kingsley's computer.
"I was going to give you the password and let you extradite Stern. Once he was here "--Juan had smiled with too many teeth showing--"I would have taken my revenge. It would have looked like an accident, of course, as I was supposed to be 'dead,' but I could have lived with that. The important thing is that the world would know, would understand that symbols mean nothing, the soul means all."
In this, I suppose, he's succeeded. Stern is mid-extradition. I hope he dies a horrible death in prison. I hold him and Walker most responsible for everything that has occurred. They made this monster, and if Juan had settled for visiting himself on just the two of them, I would have considered justice served. Instead, he wreaked indiscriminate destruction over many lives and numerous years. He destroyed the innocent and I can't forgive him for it.
We asked Juan about AD Jones. He'd revealed a surprising streak of pragmatism. "Too risky, killing an Assistant Director. I was willing to wait to kill him at a later date."
All of this explains why he had come out into the open. It was a confluence of events, designed to lead us to Cabrera and to expose Stern. Once Stern was here . . .
It gives me a chill to think of how close he came to pulling it all off. Juan blamed everyone on the original task force for not "seeing"
Walker's and Stern's true colors. In his mind, they were supposed to protect him. They failed. They deserved to die.
He was more merciful to the women because they weren't a part of the original betrayal.
"But they were harlots, blind to the inadequacies of their husbands' souls," he pointed out with calm rationality. They failed. They deserved to die.
It was about failure, I'd realized, all of it. Juan had been failed, probably from birth, and so he'd grown up to become a killer with no mercy for failure.
When Juan talked about Walker, I knew I was witnessing the closest thing to pure hatred I'd probably ever get to see. His face would go calm, but his eyes would crackle and his voice would vibrate with poison and death.
"He escaped my hand, but not his children or their children,"
he'd said, gloating and hating simultaneously. "I destroyed the Langstroms. You should have seen their sorrow. It was magnificent! And their death was my justice. Do you know why? Because I ensured they went to hell!" His eyes had been almost all pupil and black. "Do you understand? They committed suicide. Whatever else happens to me, they're burning in hell right now for all eternity!"
And he'd laughed and laughed and laughed. Madness. I'd been curious about his change of MO. He'd shot Haliburton after forcing him to write a poem, and he'd tortured and castrated Gonzalez.
"It wasn't about ritual," he'd explained to me. "It was about suffering. I tailored their deaths to bring them the most agony before they died. The physical was important, yes, but their spiritual pain was most important of all, praise be to God."
Sarah was, of course, him--but only to him. He'd been busy twisting her life, creating betrayals, giving her a taste of the living nightmare he'd gone through, in the certainty that she'd become what he was when all was said and done. He remains convinced that that's exactly what happened. But I know better. Sarah isn't well, but she isn't Juan, either. Juan is evil. Sarah is good. I rarely get to think in such black-and-white terms in my job, but it's warranted here. Her soul is scarred, not gangrenous. The "Mr. You Know Who" mentioned in the Vargas video was no longer living. Juan had long ago seen to that. He'd escaped his captors when he was fifteen. Four years later he'd hunted them down, one by one, killing them all in various horrible ways. The video had been a red herring, designed to occupy and confuse us. Juan had paid Vargas to make it.
"He was so far gone," Juan had said, "that he didn't even wonder why I wanted it, or remember who I was. Can you believe that? Junkies are truly bereft of God's love."
Now we're here, and I'm wondering why. I don't want to be here. Juan is a lost cause, worthy of both my pity and my rage. He turns those overbright eyes on Bonnie. "Why did you ask to see me, little one?"
Bonnie has remained serene throughout. She appears untouched by Juan, by what he is, the presence of him. She opens the pad on the table in front of her and begins to write. I watch, captivated. She finishes and hands the pad to me. Indicates that she wants me to read what she's written.
"She wants to know if you're familiar with her story."
Juan nods, really interested now. "Of course I am. That was an inspired act of pain. Forcing you to watch as he raped and killed your mother. Tying you to her body. Masterful work by a true artist of suffering."
"You fuck," I say, trembling with rage.
Bonnie puts a hand on my arm. She takes back the notepad. I glare at Juan as she writes some more. He smiles back at me. She hands me the notepad again. I read what she's written, and my heart stutters.
"She . . ." I clear my throat. "She wants to know if you'd like her to tell you why she doesn't speak. The real reason. She thinks you'll appreciate it."
I turn to Bonnie. "I think we should go. I don't like this."
She pats my arm again. Serene, serene.
Trust me, her eyes say.
Juan licks his lips. A corner of his mouth twitches.
"I think . . . that I would like that very much," he says. Bonnie smiles back at him, takes back the notepad, and hunches over it, writing. She hands it to me, but before I can read from it, she catches my eye. I see concern there. I see a little bit of wisdom. Too much for a girl her age, I guess. I also see more of that unending serenity.
Brace yourself, but don't be afraid, she seems to be telling me. I read what she wrote and understand why. My eyes go wide. My breathing stops. A moment later, a tear runs down my cheek against my will. I feel like I am falling.
My pain is blood in the water for Juan. His nostrils flare.
"Tell me," he says.
I look at Bonnie, numb. Despair creeps through me. A gift to Juan? True enough. He was going to love this, that evil part of him. Why would she want to give him this terrible, terrible thing?
She reaches up and wipes the tear from my cheek.
Go on, her smile says. Trust me.
I take a breath.
"She says . . ." I stop. "She says that she decided if her mother couldn't speak, then neither would she."
Juan is as affected by this as I was, for very different reasons. His mouth opens and he sits back. He blinks rapidly. His breathing is shallow.
The Joy of Suffering.
I look at Bonnie. "Can we go now?" I ask. I feel hollow. I want to go home and climb under the covers and weep.
She holds up a finger.
One more thing, she's saying.
She turns to Juan and smiles that wonderful, beautiful, serene smile. It's everything Sarah's face in the kitchen wasn't, and it makes Juan frown. It makes him uncomfortable.
"But I've changed my mind," she says, her voice clear and distinct.
"I've decided it's time to speak again."
I stand up in my chair so fast it crashes backward.
"Bonnie!" It comes out as a scream.
She stands as well. She tucks her notepad under her arm and takes my hand. "Hi, Smoky."
Now I'm the one who's speechless.