SIXTY
I drove down State Road 40, south of the bridge near Astor, and looked for the high-tension power lines. I turned off the road and onto a dirt drive almost hidden by scrub oaks. I stopped the Jeep, shoved the Glock in my pants, got out, and walked a few yards down the dirt drive. There were fresh tire tracks. Wide tires. Probably from an SUV or something like a Mercedes.
There, in a clearing, was the concrete block building. It was about the size of a small home. The cinder blocks were painted white and baked to a dull yellow under the Florida sun. There was a detached awning that would shade a car. A fishing cast net hung from one of the four wooden posts that supported the awning.
I parked the Jeep under the cover of a cabbage palm strand and then approached the building, circling around the rear before going to the front. There was a low droning noise coming from inside. It sounded like a refrigerator or freezer motor.
A rustling sound came from behind me. I raised the Glock toward the noise. A long blacksnake scurried through the dried palmettos and slid through a hole beneath the cinder-block foundation in the building.
I holstered the gun in my belt, put on plastic gloves, and tried to turn the handle on the rear door. Locked. I walked to the front door and picked the lock in less than a minute. I held the Glock, took a deep breath, and jerked the door open.
The hinges squeaked and a two-inch cockroach ran from between the joints towards my shoes. I stepped over the roach and entered the room. The light switch was to my immediate left. Fluorescents flickered and than illuminated the room. It was solid concrete. A stainless tree table stood near the center of the room. There was a single light on a large gooseneck stand in the corner. On one wall was a double stainless steel sink. A pair of rubber gloves were folded and hanging on the faucet. The concrete floor was sloped to a large drain in the center. The air in the room smelled musty, like a biology lab with a mixture of bleach, formaldehyde, and gas.
I turned the handle on another door, and it opened to an office that seemed to be a storage shipping area. There were two folding chairs next to a long table. On the shelves were dozens of small Styrofoam coolers. A dry-ice machine sat in the back of the room, the motor barely audible.
I walked back out into the concrete processing room and approached a large stainless steel door in the rear. I pulled the handle and the door opened toward me, the blast of cold air hitting my face. The air was stale and had the odor of death. I turned on the light and stepped in the cooler. There was a clear, icy liquid in a large stainless steel vat, a frostlike effervesce on the outer rim.
A pool of blood, the color of dark plums, coagulated on the floor in a near frozen state. I didn’t want to breathe the air into my lungs. I stepped out of the cooler.
A gun barrel was shoved between my eyes.
“You’re next,” Juan Gomez said.
SIXTY-ONE
I could smell stale beer and decaying beef jerky between his teeth. Gomez pressed the barrel against my forehead and said, “Drop the gun!”
Silas Davis, fresh stitches across his forehead, stood behind him, a pistol in hand, his lips parting in a grin. I dropped the Glock.
“Step out of the cooler, asshole,” Gomez ordered. “You’ll be in there soon enough. Silo, bring a chair.”
Gomez backed up, and I stepped out of the cooler. Davis returned with one of the folding chairs from the other room. Gomez said, “Sit, asshole cop. Sit right there next to the drain. It’ll make cleanup a lot faster.” He pushed me toward the chair.
Both men had their guns pointed at my head as I sat. Gomez said, “Tie him up. There’s some rope next to the storage shelves.”
“Why waste time?” Davis asked.
“`Cause we got to call Santana. He has to make the arrangements. Everything has to be timed perfectly.”
Santana, I thought. Now I knew that the phone call Gomez made wasn’t to Santa Ana. It was Santana. Maybe Dave Collins was prophetic. Santana, as a serial killer, would be the ultimate hit man.
The Bagman had a name, and it was a name that I might carry to my grave. I looked at Gomez and Davis and said, “Why do you do it?”
“Shut up!” Davis said.
“You let Santana turn the clock back before the Civil War to enslave people? How can you play a part in slavery? Isn’t there someplace in your gut where you say stop the oppression, the same thing that enslaved your ancestors? Is Santana’s hold over you as strong as the chains that held your forefathers?”
“You!” shouted Davis. “Shut your fuckin’ mouth!”
I had to stall them. “Why do you take advantage of these people? The physical and sexual abuse is bad enough…but murder…why do Santana’s bidding?”
Gomez said, “Forget you ever heard the name Santana!”
“Why are you working for him? You’re businessmen. He’s a psychopath. What’s his hold, money? How many have you killed?”
“We don’t do the killin.’ We started doin’ the packaging and the disposal. Cops wouldn’t found the last girl if they hadn’t been stoppin’ traffic at the crossroads, lookin’ for DUI drivers. Had to dump the body in a place where animals and shit can get at it. Hate doin’ that. Disrespectful to the dead.”
“If you aren’t killing these people, who is? Santana? Does he call you to tell you where to find the bodies for organ removal after he’s had his fun? And you go from harvesting crops to humans?”
“Shut the fuck up!” Gomez yelled, s string of saliva hung from his lower lip. He snorted and said, “There are seven billion people on the planet. Lot’s of sick people waitin’ for hearts, kidneys, livers, whatever. Many of these people are scientists, doctors, people who make a difference. That’s why in any society we have the sacrificial lambs. You’re about to be a lamb we’ll sacrifice to the greater cause.”
“Santana’s got you, didn’t he?”
“Kiss my brown ass, O’Brien!” Gomez said. “You know nothin’ about Santana. The man’s much smarter than you and the rest of your cop friends. He’s a genius!”
“He’s smart enough to get you and Silas to do all the grunt-work while he calls the shots from the sidelines. What’s his hold on you, Gomez? Why partner with Santana?”
“Because he’s one of us! He’s powerful! El Diablo! The man knows and sees things. He knows who we’re seein,’ what we’re doin,’ what women are in our trucks. How many, and even what they look like.” Gomez pulled a pint of Jack Daniels from his pocket and took a long pull, passing the bottle to Davis.
I said, “That’s because he controls it. What if he has people to handpick the women from third world countries? What if he knows what’s happening in your migrant camp because he has spies there? Can you trust Silas?”
Davis sipped the whisky, pumped up his chest, and glared at me.
“Or can you trust Ortega, or any of the farm workers who might be on Santana’s payroll. If the Brennens are on his payroll, if he’s got a detective in his pocket, don’t you think he can buy Silas?”
“Shut up, fool!” barked Davis
“The Brennens’on his payroll?” Gomez asked, his eyes wide.
“Shut the hell up, cop!” Davis yelled. He turned to Gomez. “Don’t believe a fuckin’ word this dude’s says. I ain’t never even seen Santana. For all I know, there ain’t no Santana. Could be something you and Hector invented to cut me out later.”
“I might cut you out now!” Gomez said. “How about last month when you were gone to Miami for three days? Maybe you were meeting with Santana up in his penthouse. Santana is a Santeria master! He can control men’s souls.”
“Juan, listen to yourself!” Davis said. You sound like some damn voodoo nut!”