The Collection Page 9

  The priest crossed himself. "No," he said.

  "Yes." I stood up. I put my hands in my back pockets and began pacing. "Look," I said. "If there's something I should know, you'd better tell me. When I work for a client, I ex­pect that client to be straight with me, to lay all of his cards on the table. I don't care if you are a priest, I expect you to tell me everything. I'm on your side. And I can't look out for your interests if I don't have all the facts."

  Father Lopez seemed to have regained his composure. He nodded slowly. "All right," he said.

  "Good." I sat down again. "So what exactly is Bumble­bee?"

  "It's a town. An old ghost town in the Sonora desert past Tucson. I'm surprised you haven't heard of it. There was a big battle there in the late 1800s between United States troops and a small group of Mexican renegades. The rene­gades weren't affiliated with the Mexican government, but they were basically fighting the same fight. Only the men at Bumblebee didn't lose their battle, though Mexico eventu­ally lost the war. Seventeen untrained fighters successfully held off and killed over a hundred American troops. The Americans just kept coming, and they just kept getting killed. Finally they gave up, decided to avoid the town and fight elsewhere. I guess they wrote it off as a loss. When the fighting was over and the boundaries were redrawn, how­ever, Bumblebee became part of Arizona. Politics destroyed f what war couldn't."

  "That's a nice story," I said. "But what does it have to do with Trinidad?"

  "I don't know," the priest told me, meeting my gaze.

  He was lying. I knew he was lying, and he knew I knew he was lying. I sat unmoving. Father Lopez was neither a stupid nor a cowardly man, and he wouldn't have played albino and crossed himself if there hadn't been something heavy on his mind. Bumblebee and whatever that implied had scared the holy shit out of him, but I knew if I pressed him any further he was going to Pismo up on me, so I de­cided to drop back. I felt I had enough to work with.

  It was time to take a trip.

  Bookbinder Baker lived in the desert outside Tonopah amidst the bones and bodies of the cars he'd bought and scavenged over the past forty years. Traded Torinos, aban­doned Audis, and roadkilled Ramblers lay bleached and rusted, sinking into the sand surrounding his three-room shack. His property covered nearly twenty acres of the most godawful terrain known to man. Tonopah itself was a town in name only, an all-night gas station and burger stand halfway between Phoenix and the California border which catered almost exclusively to long-distance truckers, and Baker's place was some fifteen miles down a dirt road be-yond that, flat in the middle of the sagebrush-infested flat-lands. He liked it there, though. Always had.

  Baker didn't appear to be around when I arrived, didn't answer either my honks or my call, but I knew he'd be back eventually, and I went inside to make myself at home. As al­ways, his front door was open, screen unlocked, and I simply walked into his living room and sat down on the sagging couch. He'd put a few new hubcaps up on the wall since the last time I'd seen him, and I examined those while I waited. At one time in the dim and distant past, Baker'd been a teacher of some sort, a historian. He still knew more about the history of the Southwest, major and minute, than anyone I'd ever met. One whole wall of his bedroom was lined with books and magazines on various historical subjects. It was just that now his job and his hobby had been switched. In­stead of being a teacher who tinkered with cars on the week­end, he owned an auto yard and studied history on the side, although where he got customers for his auto salvaging service I never could figure out.

  I heard the sputtering cough of Baker's engine about five minutes later, and I walked outside to meet him. The tow truck pulled up, empty, in front of the shack. "Hey!" he said. "Long time no care!"

  I held up my middle finger, and he laughed. After the pleasantries, after he'd broken out the beer, we got down to business. I asked him if he'd ever heard of a town called Bumblebee. I repeated Father Lopez's story.

  He chuckled. "Hell yes, I remember Bumblebee. That's not its real name, though. That's the American name, given 'cause that's where we got stung. The Spanish name is longer. It means 'magic sands,' or something like that." He took a swig of his beer. "Yeah, I been down there many times, taking pictures, checking the place out. It's kind of like our Alamo, you know? Only it never got as much pub­licity because there weren't nobody famous died there, and because, well, I guess Texans are just better at talking them­selves up than we are."

  "But why do you think the priest was so scared?" "Well, Bumblebee was some type of, I don't know, not sacred land exactly, but something like that. I wish I had it documented so I could look it up, but it's not anything that's been written about. I just know that the area was supposed to have some sort of significance for the Mexicans, was sup­posed to have some sort of magic powers. In the treaty, you know, the original boundaries of our state were different. Mexico wanted to keep Bumblebee, give us Nogales. But we wanted a nice square border, and of course they were in no position to argue." He chuckled. "The legend is that it was the magic which let the Mexicans hold off the troops, that even though they got shot they didn't die."

  I looked at him, and I suddenly felt cold.

  They didn't die?

  "Like I said, I been there before," Baker said. "And I'm not saying I believe all that hocus pocus. But I sure as hell don't disbelieve it either."

  When I got back to Phoenix it was nearly dark, and I decided to go straight home.

  The police were waiting for me when I arrived.

  Lieutenant Armstrong was leaning against the hood of a patrol car, and he stood straight as I got out of the Jeep. He had a wad of chaw in his mouth, and he spit at the ground before me as I walked toward him.

  "How long've you been here?" I asked.

  "Not long. Five, ten minutes." He smiled at me with his mouth, but his piggy eyes remained hard.

  "What do you want me for?"

  "Want you to take a little ride." He nodded his head, and a uniformed officer opened the car door. He spit.

  I stepped over the brown spot on the sidewalk and got into the backseat.

  I stood at the edge of the county cemetery and looked where Armstrong pointed. Ten or fifteen graves scattered throughout the cemetery had been dug up, caskets and all, leaving only holes and piles of dirt. One of the graves, he had told me in the car, was that of Trinidad.

  They waste no time burying "indigents" in Arizona.

  "You know anything about this?" the lieutenant asked.

  I shook my head.

  "Come on, they're your people."

  "My people?"

  He spit. "You know. Chili eaters. Mesikens. Gonzalez and all them other boys. I know you know what's going on."

  "I don't," I said. "I really don't."

  Armstrong looked at me. I saw the hate in his eyes. "You want to play it that way?"

  "I'm not playing."

  He poked me in the chest with a strong fat finger. "You know what you are? You're a traitor. You're ..." He trailed off, glared at me, unable to think of the word. "What's white on the outside, brown on the inside? The opposite of a co­conut?"

  "I don't know," I told him. "But I know that you're round on the outside, brown on the inside."

  "What?"

  "You're an asshole."

  He hit me then, and I went down. The punch had not been that hard, but I was unprepared for it, and it went straight to the stomach. I tried to breathe, tried to gulp air, but my lungs seemed to have atrophied.

  Armstrong stared at me, watched me clutching my gut on the ground. His face was impassive, but inside I knew he was smiling. "You can walk home," he said, turning away.

  After I stood, after I caught my breath, after I called him a crooked sack of rancid racist pigshit, I did walk home.

  The lieutenant spit at me as, halfway down the block, his car drove past.

  I woke up the next morning sweating. The fan had! crapped out on me sometime during the night, depriving my bedroom of what little air circulation
I could afford, and the sheet I'd used to cover myself was sticking to my soaked skin. I was still tired, but not tired enough to remain in bed and brave the heat. I got up and walked to the bathroom to take a cool shower.

  Father Lopez's murder was the top story on the morn­ing's newscast.

  I stood in the kitchen, still dripping from the shower, the empty coffeepot in my hand, staring dumbly into the living room at the TV. The scene was live. A blond female reporter was standing in the midst of a group of people in front of the church, while in the background, clearly framed by the cameraman, Father Lopez's body lay facedown on the wide front stairs. Even on television, I could see dark blood trick­ling down the steps in tiny waterfalls.

  I heard the name Lopez, the words murdered and Sanc­tuary movement, but I was not listening to the reporter. I was already moving, throwing the metal coffeepot into the sink, grabbing my keys, and running out the door.

  White-uniformed flunkies from the coroner's office were loading the priest's bagged body into the back of an ambulance when I arrived. Armstrong and another officer were talking closely in hushed tones to a police photographer. The television news crew was packing up and readying to go.

  I hadn't known Father Lopez well enough to really feel sad, that deep emotion reserved for people whose loss will affect the rest of our lives, but I felt hurt, disgusted, and deeply angry. I strode up to Armstrong. "What happened?" I asked.

  He looked at me, said nothing, turned away, and contin­ued his conversation with the photographer.

  "Who did it?" I demanded.

  The lieutenant did not even glance in my direction. "Drive-by," he said.

  I started up the church steps. I knew the refugees were long gone, had probably fled at the first sound of gunfire, but I wanted to see for myself.

  "Get out of there!" Armstrong said. He was looking at me now. His voice was as loud and ugly as his expression. His pointing finger punctuated each word. "This is a crime scene, and you are not allowed on it. I want no evidence dis­turbed."

  I could have fought him on that, should have fought him-I was a licensed detective whose client had just been murdered-but I didn't feel up to it. Besides, I knew there was probably nothing I could find that the police hadn't al­ready noted. I scanned the crowd, looking for familiar faces. I saw Julio and walked up to him.

  The songbird looked sick to me, but when I got closer I saw that it was anger which had distorted his features. Anger mixed with a trace of fear. I stepped up to him. "What hap­pened?" I asked.

  He looked up at me, and for a second it was as though he didn't know who I was, then his vision focused. He saw me, recognized me. "It was the redneck," he said.

  I nodded. I'd guessed as much.

  Julio glanced around, to make sure others in the crowd weren't listening to our conversation. "We got him," he said.

  "What?"

  He stepped closer to me, until his mouth was next to my ear. I could smell his stale breath. "He's in a safe house."

  "What are you talking about? The redneck?"

  Julio nodded. "They caught him at a stoplight, called in; reinforcements, surrounded him."

  "And you didn't-?"

  "No cops," he said, answering my unfinished question.

  "You know I can't-"

  "We're taking him to Bumblebee."

  I stood there, staring at him, my next words, my next thought, stuck in my throat. Bumblebee. I didn't know why the songbird was telling me this. I didn't know how he knew about my knowledge of Bumblebee. I suddenly felt cold, chilled, though the morning sun was fiery.

  "I'll pick you up," he said. "Tonight."

  I wasn't sure I wanted to be picked up. I wasn't sure I was willing to keep this from the police. I wasn't sure about any­thing.

  But then I thought of Trinidad, thought of Father Lopez, thought of those illegals in the semi, thought of the refugees.

  "Okay," I agreed.

  Julio nodded, and was gone, losing himself in the crowd.

  I saw Armstrong staring at me, and I turned away.

  The songbird didn't show up at my apartment until after eight, almost dark. He pulled next to the curb, honked, and I stepped up to the open passenger window. Julio grinned. There was something about that grin which I didn't like. "Going stag," he said, motioning his head toward the back­seat. "Got some extra baggage."

  I peered through the back window.

  Father Lopez was lying across the rear cushion in his body bag.

  "Time's wasting," Julio said, chuckling. "You follow me."

  I don't know why I didn't argue, why I didn't say any­thing, why I didn't ask anything, but I didn't. I simply nod­ded dumbly, went down to the carport, got in the Jeep, and followed Julio's car down the street toward the freeway. I don't remember what I felt, what I was thinking.

  The trip was long. There were a lot of cars on the high­way at first, but the farther we drove from the valley, the less crowded the road became, until soon Julio's Chevy taillights were the only ones before me on the road.

  It was nearly midnight and we were well past Tucson when I saw Julio pull off the highway onto an unmarked dirt road. For the first time in a long while, I thought of Father Lopez's body lying across the backseat of the car. I thought of the redneck.

  We got him.

  The words seemed so much more sinister in the darkened moonlit desert. I realized I had no idea what was going on, what had been planned by Julio and his friends, whoever they were. I could have turned back then; I thought about it, but I did not. I had gone too far already. I had to see this through.

  The road twisted and turned, snaking down unseen ravines, crossing dry washes and gulches, until my sense of direction was thoroughly confused.

  And then we were there.

  Bumblebee was not as big as I'd thought it would be, and did not look nearly so much like a fort. I'd imagined some­thing like the Alamo, I suppose because of Baker's story, but the sight that greeted me was far different. Twin rows of parallel buildings ran along both sides of the dirt road, ending at what looked like a church at the far end. The buildings were old, abandoned, like those of any ghost town, but they I were primarily adobe. Although there were a few dilapidated wooden structures-a one-room barbershop with a painted pole faded in front of it, a saloon with a long porch''] and collapsed roof-most of the buildings were a pale, weathered extract of hardened mortared desert sand.

  It was then that I noticed that the town wasn't empty. In front of the church at the far end, I saw a large crowd of people, maybe sixty or seventy of them. Looking around, I saw the shadows of their vehicles blending with the surrounding saguaro and cottonwood.

  Julio got out of his car.

  Father Lopez emerged from the backseat.

  I can't say I was surprised. It was something I'd been half expecting ever since Julio had told me this morning that they were taking the redneck to Bumblebee. But I was frightened. Far more frightened than I would have expected. I had dealt with death before, had seen more than my share of bodies, and no amount of blood or gore had ever really bothered me. But the unnaturalness of this, seeing the priest's body lurch out of the back of the car, peeling off the open plastic body bag, scared me. It seemed wrong to me, evil.

  I got out of my own car. The town was dark, there were no lights, but the moon was bright enough to see by. Father Lopez walked slowly, awkwardly, like Frankenstein, but his steps grew quicker, stronger, more assured, as he followed Julio down the empty dirt street toward the church. The songbird seemed to have forgotten me, or else he had more important things on his mind than guest etiquette, so I invited myself to pursue the two of them, instinct overriding fear.

  We moved down the dirt street. The buildings to my left and right loomed in my peripheral vision like hulking crea­tures, but I concentrated on the creature before me, the re­animated corpse of Father Lopez. Magic powers.

  Baker had said that he'd felt something here, something supernatural. Maybe it was my imagination, but
I seemed to feel something, too. A kind of tingling in the air, a vibration which spread upward through the soles of my shoes as I walked and which grew stronger as I approached the crowd in front of the church. This close, I could see that most of the gathered people were women, Mexican women dressed in traditional funereal peasant garb, black dresses, and lacy mantillas.

  With them, held by two or three women at a time, were dead men, men who had obviously died violently. Dead men whose eyes were blinking, limbs were moving, mouths were working. I saw bloodless bullet holes, cleaned knife wounds in pasty flesh.

  They all turned to look at us as we approached. I saw similarities in the features of the dead and the living. They were related.

  Now Julio acknowledged my presence. As Father Lopez continued on and two older women moved forward to take the dead priest's arms, the songbird backed up and turned to me. "Don't say anything," he warned. "No matter what hap­pens, just watch."

  "But-"

  "It's up to the women," he said. "They have the faith. They make the rules."

  I may not be the smartest guy in the world, but I know when to shut my trap and go with the flow. And standing in a ghost town in the middle of the desert at midnight, surrounded by walking dead guys and their wives and mothers and daughters, I figured this was one of those times.

  Led by the women, the crowd moved into the doorless church.

  I followed.

  Inside, the building was lit by a double row of candles which lined indented shelves along both side walls. The trappings of Catholicism which I'd expected to see were absent. Indeed, aside from the candles, the church was devoid of any sort of adornment or religious decoration. The crumbling mud walls were bare. There were no pews. I looked to­ward the front of the elongated room. On the raised dais, where a pulpit would ordinarily be, the redneck stood naked, tied to a post.

  I wish I could say that I felt justice was being served, that in some mysteriously primitive way the natural order of things was being put to right, but, God help me, I felt sorry for the redneck. He was crying, tears of terror rolling down his blubbery face, urine drying on his legs. I knew he was crying only for himself, was sorry for his actions only be­cause of the circumstances surrounding his capture, but I suddenly wished that I had told everything to that fat bastard Armstrong and that the redneck was sitting safely in a cell in South Phoenix. He deserved to be punished, but he did not deserve this.