Van Horn - Chapters 1-3

 Chapter 1

Jack woke face down with the sting of gravel in his cheek and waves of heat rising from the scorching pavement. His head pounded as if it had been hammered by the back end of a heavy shovel. With a concerted effort, he blinked and stared sideways at the road, trying to determine his whereabouts. Before he could lift his head, the muffled silence was broken by a loud roaring sound, as if a freight train were bearing down on him. Suddenly, a hard jerk to his belt lifted his body and slammed him back on the ground a few feet away, just as a large tractor-trailer truck whizzed by, clipping the edge of his boot heel.

He twisted around and stared upward to see the silhouette of a young woman wearing a broad-brimmed cowboy hat that barely blocked the blinding sunlight.

“I didn’t mean to wake y’all, but takin’ a nap on the highway this time of day can be a little dangerous in these parts.” She reached out her hand to lift him to his feet. “You, okay?”

He brushed the gravel from the side of his scraped face before turning to get a better look at his rescuer: a young girl, no more than twenty, with a strikingly beautiful face and hazel-colored eyes. Her brown hair, braided to one side, reflected hints of a reddish tone in the morning sunlight. Her Texan hat, complete with a teal-beaded concho band, leather cowboy boots, and fitted jeans, made it obvious that this girl was homegrown. “Thanks for showing up in the nick of time.”

“I didn’t have much choice. That eighteen-wheel rig was heading right for ya. The nerve of that guy driving on the road,” she quipped with a smile. “What the heck were y’all doing sleeping in the road, anyway?”

“Good question,” he replied, gingerly touching the back of his head. “I pulled over to help someone with car trouble. Next thing I know, I have a nice melon-sized lump on my skull and a few years less to worry about at the end of my life. My name’s Jack Russo, by the way.” He shook her hand.

“Siena. Siena Connors. I’m guessin’ yer gonna need a ride?” she queried, pointing to her white pickup truck.

With his truck nowhere in sight and no wallet in his back pocket, Jack nodded with a half-grin, opened the passenger side, and slid into the bench seat of the old truck. She reached over to grab the handle and pull his shut. “It’s a little temperamental at times. Which way are we heading?”

“El Paso,” grimaced Jack, touching the bump on his head.

“You’re in luck,” exclaimed Siena as she slid on her sunglasses, flipped on the radio, and James Otto’s “I Just Got Started Lovin’ You” blared at them. She glanced over, checking him out and then sped down the road, which cut through the rough Chihuahuan Desert dotted with scrub and creosote bushes, with the bronze-red mountains in the distance.

In between lines of the song, she couldn’t resist singing along as she glanced over to check out her still dizzy passenger while he stared out the dust-covered passenger window of the truck rumbling down the highway. Jack was forty-two years old and kept his six-foot frame in good physical condition. His dark brown hair showed a hint of red and gray mixed in, as did his several-day-old beard growth.

“So, what brings ya to El Paso? You’re obviously not from around here.”

“Just sightseeing, and what makes you so sure I’m not from around here?” replied Jack, wondering how much he should reveal about his second trip to the southern border of Texas in the past twenty years.

Siena swerved across the double line on the highway as she crowed with laughter. “Y’all look like a city-boy, more Boston than Austin if I had to guess.”

“Well, this city-boy would like to get to El Paso in one piece, if you don’t mind,” quipped Jack.

Siena smiled broadly at his words and quipped, “By the looks of ya, I’m sorry to say your wish ain’t gonna happen today. We’re gonna need to take care of those cuts and bruises—and you’re gonna hafta open up a bit if ya want me to be your taxi driver. You said Jack Russo, right?”

Jack nodded.

“Is that Italian or Latino? Cause you don’t look like either to me!” she ventured, handing him a thread-bare blue-andwhite kerchief from her back pocket to wipe the blood from his cheek.

Jack chuckled. “We’ve barely talked, and you already think you know where I am from and my parents’ heritage? How about if we start with you? How old are you?”

“Twenty – well, close enough.”

“Hmm.”

“And what is that supposed to mean, Mr. ‘Not From Here’ Jack?”

“It explains your unearned confidence and naivete. What’s your real name?”

Siena suddenly jerked the truck to the side of the road and quickly pressed an eight-inch blade up against Jack’s neck. “Don’t underestimate me, Russo. I’ve been taking care of myself my entire life, so don’t tell me about ‘unearned confidence’!”

Jack slowly moved the tip of the hunting knife away from his neck. “Okay, okay. So, don’t answer me.”

After a good stretch of the road through the rugged desert, Siena broke the silence. “Rose.”

“What?”

“Rose. Rose is my real name. I didn’t like it, so back when I was little, I started calling myself Siena. How did you know?”

“I didn’t, but Siena sounded more like a funky hippie California name than a Texas girl to me.”

“Well, I like it fine, and so do y’all unless you want to walk the next thirty miles to El Paso,” countered Siena, slowing down the truck.

“No, no, no. I’m actually starting to love the name Siena. I’m even thinking seriously of changing my own to Siena,” quipped Jack.

Siena raised her eyebrows and sped back up until they reached the outskirts of El Paso.

Jack peered out at the old, mostly one-story, sun-drenched stucco homes and buildings that lined the roads and ran in a criss-cross pattern. Little seemed to have changed in twenty years. This was nothing close to the winding streets of Boston with its historic brick town-houses mixed in with high-rise hotels and office buildings along the harbor waterfront.

“Hey, Russo. El Paso is a big place. Where exactly am I dropping ya off?” Siena asked, slowing for a red light.

“Ahh—” Jack struggled to find a quick answer.

She slowed down again for a crowd of people heading toward loud festive music.

“Why don’t you let me off here, and I should be all set.”

Siena tilted her head and squinted with curiosity. “You didn’t come all this way from wherever you come from, get beat up and almost killed, just to attend some hokie festival, did ya?”

Jack jumped out of the truck and reached through the open passenger side window to shake Siena’s hand. “It was good meeting you, and thanks for the ride—oh, and for saving my life, too.” As Jack gazed directly into Siena’s eyes, he noticed a sadness that spooked him. It felt like he had known her for more than the past hour.

Chapter 2

 Jack waved until Siena’s truck turned the corner, then he moved with the crowd toward the festival. Most of the people walking beside him seemed to be of Mexican and native Indian descent, many wearing colorful costumes. The music grew louder as he approached the festival area, where dancing and vendors filled the courtyard in front of an old adobe-style church building. Jack glanced up at the banner that read, Ysleta Mission Festival.

He stopped to watch a native Indian dance by a group in authentic dress. It brought back memories of a culture he found himself missing—the culture of his late wife's family, a history he hadn’t shared with more than a few people over the past twenty years, which was how long it had been since his wife had been killed and his infant daughter kidnapped.

That was also how long he’d been trying to track down the killers who had mercilessly taken his family and life away. During that sudden act of heart-wrenching violence, he’d quickly learned not to be too open to more than a few people with whom he had entrusted his very life.

Suddenly, he jumped as he felt something press into this back. “So, you really did come all this way to go to a hokie festive?”

Jack turned and snapped, “Didn’t we just say adios?”

“Jumpy, huh? Didn’t your mamma teach y’all any manners?”

“I’m sorry. I just wasn’t expecting you.” Siena snickered.

“Hey, the least ya can do is buy me a burrito. I haven’t eaten all day.”

Jack nodded, eyeing the “Mexican Delight” stand near them. He ordered two enormous burritos with cold drinks and carried them to a grassy spot in the shade of the only tree near the church.

Siena took a large bite and muttered, “So, why are you in El Paso? You can trust me with your secret.”

He smiled as he took a napkin and wiped the sauce off the corner of her mouth. Her brave smile reminded him of his wife. “I’m searching for an old friend, that’s all. Interestingly enough, I was told he might be at the Mount Carmel School next to this church. I wasn’t expecting to find a festival here. What’s this for?”

“I guess they think 327 years as the oldest parish in Texas is a big thing or something. Actually, it’s kind of a cool tradition. The Pueblo Indians were pushed south after a revolt against the Spanish, and the Tigua tribe built this mission a few years later. They’ve remained pretty dedicated to it.”

Jack glanced up at the adobe church building with the cross on the top of its rounded steeple. “Hmm. I assume the school is closed today?”

Siena laughed. “Did y’all hafta go to summer school back East?” Embarrassment warmed his cheeks.

Jack nodded and smiled. “Oh, yeah. Well, I really can’t wait around for September.”

Siena took another hungry bite and finished off her burrito. “Not to worry. Father Miguel runs the church and the school. He’ll be around here somewhere, probably in the church showing people how beautiful it is.”

“So, you’re a church girl, huh?”

“Not so much these days. I went to school at Our Lady of Mount Carmel, and I sit in the church sometimes when I want to think about things. I’ve been doing more of that lately. Why don’t we see if we can find him?” Sienna stood and peered around the festival. She approached a chubby boy playing tag. “Have y’all seen Father Miguel?”

The boy responded by pointing to the church.

Siena waved Jack toward the two old wooden doors, and they entered the small church. Wooden pews lined each side of the center aisle, with centuries-old beams above and a colorful altar with a large hand-carved crucifix of Jesus directly behind it. As they made their way down the aisle, Jack spotted a statue of St. Anthony of Padua on the left and a priest showing some kids a strikingly colorful painting of a woman.

The priest smiled at Siena. “Ahh, it’s good to see you, Rose.” Siena nodded sheepishly. “I know, Father. ‘Come to Mass sometime.’ I want y’all to meet someone who’s looking for— well, he can tell you. This is Jack Russo.”

Jack shook his hand while still staring at the painting.

“I’m Father Miguel. I see you’re interested in Our Lady of Guadalupe. ¿Ella es muy hermosa, no? I’m sorry. She is beautiful, is she not? I must tell you about her sometime, but you have a question of your own.”

Jack hesitated as he eyed Siena, debating how much he wanted to say in front of her.

She rolled her eyes. “I can take a hint. If you needed to go to confession, you should have just said so.” Siena walked to the front to talk to some of the kids looking around the historic mission church. Jack turned back to the priest. “Father Miguel, you have a beautiful church.

A priest I know from Boston, Father Tom Fitzpatrick, was here several months ago, and he saw a picture of a girl in the school that he thought I might know.”

Father Miguel pondered Jack’s question. “I remember meeting Father Tom. I liked him. Tell me, is this a girl going to our school now?”

Jack shook his head. “No. She would have gone to school here around fourteen or fifteen years ago when she was five or six.”

“Wow. No, sé. That’s a long time ago. We did have pictures of children from several years on the walls of the school this past year. That was just for a short time, but we lost them— and almost all of our records – in a fire last month. I’ve only been here for five years, but Father Jose Suarez was here for twenty years preceding me. If anyone would know, he would.”

By this time, Siena had edged her way back to where Jack and Father Miguel were talking. “Who would know what?”

Jack shook his head. “Father, where would Father Jose be now?”

“Are you talking about Father Suarez?” asked Siena. “He’s in Juarez at the Cathedral, isn’t he, Father Miguel?”

“I’ll have to go there, then. I need to talk to him,” explained Jack.

Father Miguel glanced toward Siena.“¿Me está tomando el pelo o está más loco que una cabra?”

Jack turned and squinted in confusion at Siena. “What?”

Siena grabbed Jack’s arm and pulled him out of the church as she waved to Father Miguel. “He said that you should take care of the scrape on your cheek.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Right, even I know that ‘loco’ isn’t a medical term. I need to find this Father Jose.”

Siena pulled him from the church grounds and down the street to a small stucco building with a worn-out sign over the front door that read Alvita Plumbing and Air Conditioning. She led him around the side and in through an old back door, which scraped the ground as she pulled it open.

“What’s this?”

When they got inside, Jack could quickly tell that this was where Siena lived. She had furnished it with discarded pieces she possibly collected and refurbished over time.

She pulled out a basket of medical supplies and damped a cloth with warm water before gently patting his wounds, despite Jack’s objections. “So, what’s so important that you need to talk to Father Suarez?”

Jack handed her the blue-and-white kerchief he had been using. “First, what did Father Miguel say to me?”

“He asked if you were pulling his leg or if you were crazy,” replied Siena as she applied antibiotic and then a bandage to his wound.

“What’s crazy about asking a priest a question? Is there something wrong with this Father Suarez?” Jack grimaced as he gently touched the bandage.

Siena took two cold drinks out of the refrigerator. “Not at all. He’s really a good man, but he lives in a very dangerous place. Don’t y’all pay attention to the news? Father Suarez is at the Cathedral of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Juarez, Mexico.”

“Our Lady of Guadalupe does get around, doesn’t she?” joked Jack. “Juarez is just over the border from here. I’ve gone there many times.”

Siena tapped her bottle against his, pausing cautiously. “Yeah, but that was a long time ago, and things have changed—a lot.”

Chapter 3

 After a phone call, Siena returned to the kitchen where Jack was sitting. “I have a friend from school who I want you to meet.”

“What school? Why do I need to meet your friends from school?”

“Asking a lot of questions is good, but try asking the right ones once in a while,” teased Siena. “His name is Juan Sanchez, and he’s coming over. We go to the University of Texas-El Paso together, and he lives in Juarez, so he can let us know, firsthand, how dangerous it’s gotten there.”

Jack stood up and shook his head. “I don’t really care how dangerous it is. I’ve got to go!”

She stared at him with piercing eyes. “What’s so precious that you would risk your life for? Who are y’all looking for, Russo?”

Dizziness swept over him again, so he sat down in a rickety old wicker chair and closed his eyes. He ignored her question and pretended to doze off, which worked. She went off to the next room.

An hour later, there was a rap on the back door, followed by the hinges creaking. Jack glanced up to see a young man with dark olive skin wearing a baseball-type tee shirt with “UTEP” embroidered in blue and gold colors across the front.

Siena came rushing out from the other room. “Juan, meet my mysterious hitchhiker who was almost roadkill this morning. Russo, meet the smartest, kindest guy I know.”

Blushing, Jack pulled himself to a stand and extended his hand. “Good to meet you.” Jack pointed to Juan’s shirt. “You play ball?”

Juan nodded. “A little. You?”

Jack smiled. “Some in high school, but basketball was always my first love. Siena tells me you live in Juarez.”

“I do. I grew up with my family in Guadalupe, just south of Juarez, but it’s too far to travel every day to school. Baseball helps to pay the tuition bill, and I work at Jeddie’s restaurant in Juarez for room and board.” He helped himself to a Coke from Siena’s fridge.

Jack glanced back and forth between Siena and Juan to see if there was something more than a friendship between them, but he couldn’t get a read. “Did you two meet at—” “School?” Siena and Juan said in unison.

Siena bumped Juan with her hip. “I picked up this poor ballplayer trying to hitch his way to school from here. I soon found out that he was—”

Unexpected riled, Jack interrupted. “You know, a young lady should be careful about picking up strange hitchhikers.”

“Like today?” laughed Siena. “Juan, Russo wants to go to Juarez, and I was trying to tell him that it might not be a great idea these days. Hey, I even don’t like it when you head across that border.”

Juan took a swig of his soda. “Where’re you trying to go?”

“Ahh—wherever the Cathedral is in Juarez. Father Miguel said it was the Guadalupe one,” replied Jack.

Juan smiled. “Catedral de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe? I think Siena’s right. I wouldn’t take a chance right now. Too dangerous.”

“How bad can it be? You live there,” said Jack with frustration.

“Bad. The whole Juarez Valley is turning into a war zone.”

Jack paced several steps away. “When I was here last, Juarez was a great place to visit—nightclubs, restaurants, music, jobs. I never heard of any murders. What happened?”

“I guess that was when the Juarez cartel was run by a federal police commander and a businessman. Back then, they were running mostly weed, human trafficking, and other contraband. When the US cut off Colombia’s distribution through Florida by water, the heavy cocaine and other drugs needed another route, and Juarez into El Paso was the most coveted one. This guy, Fuentes, took over the cartel and started running a more sophisticated and bigger money operation, charging other cartels fees to use the Juarez smuggling routes,” Juan explained.

“Hmm. Unintended consequences, huh?” remarked Jack. “Yeah, it’s a long story, but greed and refusal to pay fees led to internal fighting and assassinations after Fuentes’ brother was killed by ‘El Chapo’ Guzman’s Sinaloa cartel operatives when they moved in on the Juarez territory. It got very personal when the Juarez cartel responded by killing Guzman’s brother in prison. The Mexican president sent in the military to try to crack down on the cartels, but that only intensified the fight for a bigger piece of a smaller pie, and in January, Guzman declared an all-out war on the Juarez cartel.”

Jack pondered what he was hearing. “It seems like all the killing is between the cartels?”

Siena blurted, “Juan tells me the violence is out of control. There are two hundred murders a month. Just in May, the Police Chief was murdered the same day El Chapo’s son was killed. Russo, it’s insane to go there now!”

Juan agreed. “She’s right. Rival gangs, like the Aztecas, have multiplied, and most of the city is completely lawless with kidnappings, extortion, and murders every night just to make a statement. It’s no time to go into that area of the city.”

Jack pleaded, “But, there must be a way. I have to go.”

Siena pulled Jack aside and into the kitchen. “Juan just gave you a short history lesson, but this is all much more personal to him. I’m not afraid of too much of anything, but it’s just too dangerous to go.”

“I have to go.”

Jack and Siena stood face to face staring at each other, realizing neither one was going to flinch. Finally, Siena gave in. “Fine. If you really need to go to Juarez, I’ll take you.”

Juan now stood behind them. “No hay manera de que te dos locos se vayan solos.”

Jack tilted his head, and Siena explained, “He said, ‘There’s no way we crazies are going alone.’ Well, since I’m the only one with a truck, I think we should be fixin’ to go before it’s too late, so we can get there and back before the sun sets.”

In a matter of minutes, they slid into the front seat of Siena’s truck, headed north to the Stanton Street bridge and then to the port of entry to Juarez. Only a few cars were heading into Juarez as Siena slowed down for the border check. In comparison, a long line of cars on the other side were trying to enter El Paso. The guard on their side stretched to look inside their truck, asking only for Juan’s passport, while another guard peered into the empty flatbed. He quickly waved them on as Jack turned around to see the number of US Border guards with dogs checking out opened trunks, inside panels, and the undercarriages for the cars trying to enter from Juarez.

Jack scratched his beard. “Wonder why they only asked for your passport?”

Juan smirked. “Unless we’re smuggling a truckload of assault rifles and grenades, they’re not too worried about rich gringos coming to spend their money in Mexico. Nobody’s trying to bust into Juarez with coke, human traffic, or pirated DVDs of PeeWee’s Playhouse.”

Siena drove down side streets lined with cinderblock buildings and shops, some open and others boarded up. One looked like it had been torn open by a bomb blast and had two crosses spray-painted on the wall under the broken window with bars that no longer served any purpose. Up ahead were flashing lights of police cars where people gathered, looking up at the bridge overhead. As their truck crawled closer, Jack could see Siena closing her eyes at the sight. From the bridge, hung by the neck, was a bloodied man’s body with a sign pinned to his chest. When they got closer, it was clear that the Jim Sano 14 man’s hands had been cut off. The sign on his chest read, Para aquellos que no creen.

Jack asked, “What does it say?”

Juan mumbled, “It says, ‘For those who don’t believe.’ It’s a message, a warning from one of the cartels.”

Still grimacing, Siena asked, “Why cut off his hands?” Juan responded, “It’s most likely he was a thief who stole from the cartel. They must be getting bolder to do this in broad daylight.”

Jack continued to stare back at the scene as one of the officers waved Siena’s truck through. “Someone must have seen them?”

Juan shook his head. “No one will talk in fear for their life and their family. Sadly, the police will most likely not even investigate.”

“W..what? How can they not investigate a murder like this?” Disbelief spun in Jack’s mind.

Juan gave a sarcastic laugh. “Ninety percent of the murders aren’t investigated, and most of the police are paid to look the other way. The Juarez cartel is particularly brutal in how they mutilate their victims and publically discard their bodies. They use street gangs like La Linea to perform executions or Barrio Azteca to attack its enemies. As to your question about the police, most of the La Linea gang members are retired or even active corrupt police officers.”

Jack shook his head. “I never heard any of this when I was here before—”

“Before we were born?” Siena turned down a side street and pulled over beside a pharmacy and a discount shoe store. The cathedral loomed across the street.

It was breathtaking with its twin towers, stonework, and fluted columns. It stood next to the original mission church built by the Franciscans that looked much like Ysleta Mission in El Paso.

A family exiting the front entrance held the wooden doors Van Horn 15 for them to enter. Inside, the church was smaller than Jack expected. A few people gazed up at the colorful stained-glass windows while others knelt in prayer in various pews. To the side was a confessional box, where a young man, not exactly dressed for a church visit, was exiting.

They stopped at a pew where a woman sat. Juan asked, “Is Father Jose hearing confessions?” The woman nodded but didn’t look up. Juan whispered into Jack’s ear, “You can probably catch Father Suarez in the confessional.”

Jack shrugged and waited, tapping his leg impatiently before he finally entered and knelt.

The wooden screen slid open. “Father Jose, can we speak in English?”

“If you can, I can. How can I help you today, my friend?”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been over a year since my last confession. I, umm—I guess I wasn’t prepared for this,” muttered Jack.

“Understood. Is there anything you can think of that you regret?” asked the priest.

“Oh, sure. Do you have all day?” replied Jack.

“I’m in no rush. God is merciful, even willing to give his life to forgive us.”

“Well, I haven’t exactly loved my enemies. I certainly can’t bring myself to forgive them and haven’t had good thoughts about what I wished would happen to them,” whispered Jack.

“I take it you’ve been hurt deeply, and you struggle with revenge over forgiveness. Do I have that right?” asked Father Jose.

Jack nodded silently.

“I understand. I hear from many people these days who share your pain and this same struggle. Too many. Many of the people you see praying in the church were not here several years back, but now they suffer and pray for their families and their own souls. I have struggled, myself, with this conflict. Do you repent for your thoughts? Are you asking for Jim Sano 16 forgiveness, or are you not yet there?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never thought of forgiving them. I don’t think they could ever deserve it.” Jack tilted his head back in discomfort. “I thought God was fair.”

“None of us deserve it, and trust me, you don’t want God to be fair. We need him to be loving and merciful. He challenges us to follow his example, even when it pains us to do so, even when it feels as if we are dishonoring the people who have suffered in these horrible injustices. My son, is there anything I can do to help you today? Anything to ease your pain?”

A tear rolled down Jack’s cheek as he sighed and took a deep breath. “I hope so. My wife was killed, and my baby daughter was kidnapped twenty years ago. I’ve been trying to find my daughter ever since,” replied Jack.

“I am very sorry for your loss. How can I help?”

“A friend, Father Tom Fitzpatrick, was in El Paso several months ago, and he visited the Mission Church in El Paso, Ysleta. He also visited the school and saw a picture of a young girl on the wall. She was probably five or six years old and would have gone to the school in the early 1990s. Her name was Rosalina. I spoke to Father Miguel, and he said you were at the school during that time. I only have a photograph of her when she was a baby, but Father Tom saw something in the eyes of that girl that made him believe it could’ve been her.” Jack slid the small worn photo of his daughter through a slot under the confessional screen.

“Rosalina? I’m sorry. It’s hard to tell from a baby photograph, and my memory is not so good these days. I don’t remember the name Rosalina, but we have had many girls and boys over the years. She is very beautiful, and there is something in her eyes, but I can’t remember. Did Father Miguel allow you to look at the records, to look through the photos?”

Jack sighed. “There was a fire, and the records were lost, so, no. If you could think of anything, it would mean everything to me.”

“Lo siento. I’m truly sorry.”

“I think I’m the one who’s supposed to say that during a confession,” Jack remarked sarcastically.

“Only when you are sorry—when you’re ready. Bless you, in the Name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.”

Disappointed, Jack stepped out of the small quarters as Siena and Juan met him in the side aisle. “What did Father Suarez say?”

Before Jack could respond, Father Jose stepped out of the confessional and raised his hand. “Señor.”

Jack turned back and reached him in three quick strides. “There was a young girl many years ago who was adopted. The mother was a woman who was a native of Juarez, but I believe the man was an American. I don’t recall their names, but it struck me that they would often go to a ranch in a small town south of here. She’d always returned with a smile on Mondays because she got to ride her horse. The town is Prâxedis. Prâxedis G. Guerrero, after a leader of the Mexican Revolution.” He reached out and took both of Jack’s hands in his and said, “I don’t know if this is connected to your precious daughter, but I will pray for you both.”

Jack pressed the priest’s hands in gratitude. “Gracias. It’s greatly appreciated.” Jack took a few steps, then pivoted back. “Father, you said you struggled with a loss, with revenge versus forgiveness. I’m deeply sorry for your loss and will pray for you, too.”

“Gracias, Señor. It was a close friend and priest who I’d known for a long time. Father Gerado loved this parish and this city. It broke his heart, as it has mine, to watch things get so terrible: kidnappings, ransoms, and killings to fund this cartel war. Scores of women have been abducted, raped, and their lifeless bodies discarded by these gangs. Then there’s bribery and intimidation of the police, officials, and citizens who dare not to say anything. He spoke out at Mass many times against this violence and disregard for the dignity of human life—this assault on the children of God and God himself. They came into this very sanctuary and shot him in the head six times as he held up the Body of our Lord—in retaliation for speaking the truth. One woman ran to his aid, and they shot her in cold blood as well. I can’t get the bloody images of that day out of my mind, and I can’t forgive myself for not being as brave to witness the truth as Father Gerado.” Tears ran down Father Jose’s cheeks. “I’m so sorry. Why don’t the police find these thugs and serve justice?”

Father Jose glanced around to see who was watching before whispering to Jack, “You speak of the Guarantors. Many of the local police are part of the problem. The Juarez cartel and local gangs bribe or force the police to act as their protection, their guarantors to be able to operate their business. A good police officer who tries to do his job will be brutally murdered as a warning to others. Plata o plomo.”

“I don’t understand.” Jack furrowed his brow.

“Silver or lead. They give the police and government officials a simple choice—take the bribe or the bullet. They threaten their families, as well, so I can understand the pressure. I’m hearing that the Sinaloa cartel depends on different guarantors, the federal police and the military. There’s so much money involved and a complete lack of moral conscience in these men, so there is nothing they won’t do to maintain power.”

Amazed at the priest’s bravery in staying to serve so faithfully, Jack shook Father Jose’s hand.

In turn, the priest made the Sign of the Cross on Jack’s forehead, wishing him a fruitful and healing journey.

Outside the cathedral, the sunset behind the twin steeples painted the sky golden yellow, orange, and red.

Siena gazed into Jack’s eyes with a look of concern. “Was he able to help?”

Jack pursed his lips. “I don’t know. He said we might have Van Horn 19 a clue in a small town called Prâxedis something.”

“Prâxedis G. Guerrero,” said Juan. “It is southeast of here. I know the town.”

“I don’t know who or what we’re looking for, but I need to go there. I don’t feel as if I can ask you to—”

“Don’t even bother, Russo,” chided Siena as she rolled her eyes and headed towards the truck.