Fields of Wrath (Luis Chavez Book 1) (18 page)

The Blocks looked deserted. Every door was locked from the outside with a slide bolt as well as a thick metal jamb near the base that was bolted onto the door and then to the ground to prevent it being kicked open from the inside. Every blacked-out window was covered with burglar bars. The fire safety releases were welded shut on the outside. Blackout curtains hung on the inside. Not a single sound emanated from within the apartments.

“Everybody’s out the door by six, no exceptions,” the overseer said as he let the men into the one-bedroom apartment. “I’d suggest you get up a good half hour before. Shower, get dressed, eat breakfast—you’ll find food in the cupboards—but be lined up at the door when we come for you or there’ll be trouble. Cool?”

He hadn’t said this with any real malice, but the sounds of the door bolting shut, locking, and the jamb dropping onto its strike plate punctuated the remarks.

The men fanned out to inspect their quarters. There were ten of them, five to sleep in the bedroom, five to the living room. There was a single bathroom off the hall, with a sink, toilet, and shower stall. The kitchen had a sink and several cabinets that turned out to be filled with dry cereal, soup, dried fruit, and other snacks, but there was no refrigerator or stove.

“Guess they don’t want you burning down the place,” one of the men joked.

Luis found a spot in the corner of the living room to lay down his pack. He took off his hat and boots and got ready to go to sleep.

“Who are you?”

He looked up and saw the faces of nine men staring down at him.

“My name is Luis Dedios,” he said. “I’m here to work.”

“You weren’t in Mexico with us, you weren’t on the boat with us. So who are you?”

The speaker was a heavyset, gray-bearded man, his voice grave and full of suspicion.

“I heard there was work. So I snuck out here and waited for the next truck.”

The old man gestured toward Luis. Three of the others shot forward, two grabbing Luis’s arms and pinning him down, while the third tossed his backpack.

“What’re you doing?” Luis cried, struggling to free himself.

No one spoke as the contents of his backpack were spread across the floor. No one paid any attention to the clothes, but when a Bible was uncovered, it was passed to the old man.

“This is in English,” the old man said, flipping it open. “‘Father Chavez?’ You stole a Bible off a priest?”

“No,” Luis admitted. “I am a priest.”

“You?”
the old man asked, incredulous.

“Yes. I’m sorry for the deception, but I am here to work,” Luis said.

“Ah, I see,” the old man scoffed. “A few men doing honest labor, but the church still wants its tithing, no? We have no money here. Look around you.”

“I don’t want your money,” Luis retorted. “And I
am
here to work. If in the course of that I can lessen anyone’s burden by providing the sacraments of the church, so be it.”

A couple of the men seemed moved by this, but the old man remained nonplussed. He threw the Bible back to Luis.

“In my experience a priest means trouble. If you’re here to work, work. But stay out of our affairs, Father.”

The men released Luis, and everyone went back to finding a place to sleep. Luis sank onto the wood floor and stared up at the ceiling. He feared the prison-like atmosphere would make it hard to fall asleep, but exhaustion pulled him under a second later.

XXII

There was an accident on the freeway. Maria checked the map app on her phone. Traffic through the hills was stopped in both directions for miles. She was already exhausted and could feel herself nodding off. After the fourth or fifth time jerking awake, she gave in and passed the stopped traffic on the shoulder, took the next exit, and turned around.

She didn’t particularly want to spend another night at her brother’s farm, but there weren’t many alternatives. She could stay on the road for the next three hours and possibly kill herself behind the wheel. Or she could collapse into a bed waiting nearby and hit the road the next morning.

It also meant that she’d be close by in case Luis needed help. He didn’t have a phone and had no reason to believe she’d be at Santiago’s farm, but he’d certainly proven himself resourceful. If he somehow sent a carrier pigeon to her doorstep with a message, she wouldn’t have been surprised.

The drive to the farm took fifteen minutes. The fields were empty when she arrived, though she thought she could make out the glow of cooking fires emanating from the tarp city. She made her way into Santiago’s old house, texted Miguel about her detour, and headed to bed.

Though she’d been tired on the road, thoughts poured into her mind. The most rational one told her that she should drive home the next morning, pack Miguel into the car, and drive as far away as possible, maybe to Mexico, maybe all the way to Florida. This competed with, among others, an irrational desire to purchase a weapon, drive to the offices of the Marshak company, and . . . what? Seek out anyone with that last name and punish them for killing her brother? For turning him into some kind of criminal? She couldn’t even prove they were involved, so what would be the point?

Out of all these, the one thought that kept returning to the fore was the most simple: she wished her brother were still alive. This was the exact kind of situation he was perfect for. He’d not only know what to do, he’d also make her feel safe.

Luis seemed like a good enough guy, but he’d never be Santiago.

When she heard knocking, she thought it was a dream. It was a tentative, distant sound, like a cat at a stranger’s door. When it came again, this time stronger, she woke up enough to check her phone. She’d been asleep for four hours.

The knocking continued louder now. Maria sighed. They weren’t going away.

She swung her legs out of bed and reached for her shoes. It suddenly occurred to her that it could be danger. She needed a weapon.

Wait. How do they even know I’m here?

Her car. It was parked right out front.

She made her way to the kitchen but couldn’t find a knife. She remembered seeing a broom with a screw-on head and retrieved it from the pantry. She spun the bristle head off with her toe and weighed the improvised club in her hand. It wasn’t much, but she could clock a guy pretty good with it.

“I’m coming,” she said, hiding her apprehension.

“I’m sorry, Maria,” came the voice of Alberto. “One of the irrigation pipes burst. It’s flooding the eastern side of the field. We’re already losing rows.”

What in God’s name can I do to help that?
Maria wondered, though she was relieved it wasn’t something worse.

“How’d it happen?” she asked, throwing open the door. “Can we call somebody?”

She froze. Alberto stood on the doorstep, right eye swollen shut, face caked in dried blood. His other eye was dark and hollow, as if it had burrowed back into his skull after witnessing something unspeakable. He could barely stand.

“I’m sor—” he whispered.

The world burst to light. It was only then, in the split second glow of the muzzle flash, that Maria saw the man standing behind Alberto. Having caught the full force of a shotgun blast to the back, Alberto flew heavenward before his body flopped forward. Maria felt splintered bone and hot shotgun pellets slash into her skin.

She inhaled sharply. A wiry man with a skull-face bandanna covering the lower half of his face ejected the empty casing. He chambered another round, wheeled the barrel around to her, and squeezed the trigger.

Maria had already launched herself backwards, half jumping, half falling through the doorway. She felt the hot wind of the blast pass over her, chewing up the door frame and cabinets, as she landed on her ass. The killer chambered another round and followed her in, only to trip on Alberto’s outstretched leg.

“Shit,” he muttered.

In those few precious seconds, Maria skittered farther into the dark house. When she reached the hall, she rolled onto her hands and knees and crawled to the bedroom. The shotgun roared again, and the wall above her exploded as if it had been hit by a bomb. She heard another shell snapped into the chamber and wished she’d had the presence of mind to grab the broom handle.

God help me.

It was panic and prayer. She didn’t think God would intervene, but what else is there to hope for when you thought yourself seconds from death?

Then something happened. Her body rose to its feet. She picked up the nightstand alongside Santiago’s bed and charged to the doorway. As if it were choreographed, she swung the nightstand just as the gunman stepped into the room. It hit with such force that three of the stand’s legs cracked off and went flying.

The damage was done.

The assassin’s face was caved in. He’d tripped back at an awkward angle. Splinters of wood were embedded in his flesh. He hit the wall and slid to the floor.

Maria didn’t wait to find out if he was dead or alive. She grabbed her car keys, picked up the shotgun, and ran toward the front door. As she exited, she aimed the shotgun into the dark and pulled the trigger. She figured anyone expecting the assassin to emerge triumphant would hit the deck.

She unlocked the car and was behind the wheel a second later. The engine turned on immediately and she threw the car in drive. She hit the gas, expecting the car to lurch forward, but heard only the rev of the engine as her flattened tires spun uselessly in the muddy soil.

No!

As she scrambled to find the door handle, a thick cord flew around her neck from the backseat. She managed to get a finger under it before it was pulled taut, but there was no way to stop the makeshift noose from constricting her airway. As it tightened, she flailed wildly, instinctually trying to fight off her unseen attacker.

She kicked the windshield so hard it cracked the safety glass.

Miguel!
she thought.

Then nothing.

No one woke up Luis. He finally heard the flurry of activity in the room and from the unit directly above and sat up straight. The men had dressed, finished their breakfasts, and lined up by the door. Though they had to have noticed him waking, none met his gaze.

They seemed amused.

Luis could already hear the trucks outside and the doors unlocking down the rows. He tossed his blanket aside, threw on his shoes, and reached for his hat. He had to pee, but that’s when the front door opened.

“Everybody out.”

Luis laced up his shoes as best he could as the first men hurried outside. The overseer already had his hand on the door to close it.

“Come on, guys,” he urged.

A dozen flatbed trucks with extended beds and modified rails waited to take them to the fields. Luis followed the other men onto the truck and took a seat.

“Hold on to something,” the man next to him whispered.

Luis curled his arm under the rail as the truck lurched forward, pulling away from the Blocks.

Ernesto was losing his patience. How was it that the young officer in the driver’s seat of the cruiser had convinced him to come out to Silver Lake an hour before shift to surveil a location? He glanced over at him.

Young officer?
More like a kid only a couple of years removed from his first communion.

“I’m sorry, Deputy”—Ernesto stole a glance to the rookie’s name tag—“Poole, but I’ve got to get to roll call.”

The cruiser was parked in a spot that overlooked Sunset Boulevard through a gap between houses. It was sufficiently overgrown to provide a bit of camouflage and was a popular vantage point for cops.

“Give me one more minute,” Poole pleaded. “It’s too weird. I wasn’t even sure there was anything to report, but I don’t think I’m the right person to make that decision.”

Ernesto nodded and sank back in the passenger seat. He’d give him two minutes. Poole would have to understand that what he was asking was . . .

“There!” Poole said.

Poole pointed to a motel down on Sunset as the door to one of its units swung open. As Ernesto watched, local hood Oscar de Icaza stepped out. His hair was wet, as if he’d just showered. He wore clean clothes and didn’t carry a bag. He paused to pop a cigarette into his mouth and light it.

“Okay, you’ve got Oscar de Icaza,” Ernesto said. “You see him do something he shouldn’t?”

The drapes nearest the door rustled. Someone else was in the room.

“Somebody with him?”

“Watch.”

The door opened. Oscar took the cigarette out of his mouth, leaned over, and kissed someone. Ernesto caught a glimpse of a blond Caucasian woman. Oscar smiled and said something else before putting the cigarette back between his lips and moving to his car.

“You want to pick him up for pandering?” Ernesto asked, incredulous. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but that’ll be a hard case to make.”

“She’s not a prostitute,” Poole scowled. “Wait for her to come out.”

Ernesto was intrigued enough to wait for the woman to emerge. He was pretty sure de Icaza, while making a show of being a prosperous small businessman, was actually a car thief up to his eyeballs in illegality. If Poole had stumbled across something they could charge him with, it’d be worth it for the search warrant on his business alone.

When she came out, Ernesto was surprised. She was too pretty, too pulled together to be a prostitute, even a high-end one. If there was anything he’d learned in the Sheriff’s Department, it was if you thought you were looking at a prostitute, whether a junkie-looking streetwalker or a fashionably dressed escort pumping gas into her VW Bug at eight in the morning, you were probably right.

This wasn’t that. The woman climbing into her eighty-thousand-dollar SUV looked more like an upper-class suburban mom, with big blond hair, jeans, and a fashionable blouse.

“They were here all night?”

“No. According to the guy at the desk, they got a room here on Sunday night and didn’t leave until the next morning. Then Oscar called around five thirty this morning and said he needed a room again, pronto. That’s when she came back, just before dawn.”

“You’re already working some desk clerk as an informer?” Ernesto asked.

“Well, yeah,” Poole affirmed. “The owner’s trying to clean out the drugs so he can sell the place. So the clerk calls me when he sees anything suspicious.”

Good on you,
Ernesto thought, meaning it.

“This qualified?”

“Do you recognize her?” Poole asked.

Ernesto shook his head.

“I figured it was pandering, so I ran her plates.”

Poole swiveled the in-car computer screen around to Ernesto.

Fuck. Me.

“Helen Story?”

“Yeah. I found a couple of pictures online to make sure it wasn’t just somebody using her car. That was her. I heard the other day you were asking around about some case her husband’s involved with, so I thought I should tell you.”

A deputy DA’s wife sleeping with a crime figure who just happens to be a former cohort of Luis Chavez?
Yeah, that’s the kind of thing I need to know about.

“Who else knows?” Ernesto asked.

“Just you,” Poole said. “I thought you might know him or something.”

“I don’t. But I need you to keep this under your hat until I do.”

Ernesto eyed Poole. The rookie nodded, looking giddy that his instinct to call in the big guns had been right.

Ernesto exited Poole’s cruiser and headed to his own. The day hadn’t even begun and he already had a bad feeling about where it was headed.