Fields of Wrath (Luis Chavez Book 1) (27 page)

“I’ve got nothing. Help me roll him over.”

The two deputies rolled Jason onto his back, but it was clear he was gone. The bullet had entered his torso just under his left armpit and likely pierced the heart. Death was instantaneous.

“Padre?” The deputy gestured to him.

Luis knelt to deliver the last rites, but Glenn waved him away.

“We never bought into any of that malarkey. Save your breath.”

Luis waited for Glenn to change his mind, but the older man forcibly pushed him aside.

“I said something to you,” Glenn snarled. “Get away from him.”

The deputy gripped Luis’s shoulder and led him away. Glenn stared down at Jason’s lifeless body, unable to comprehend how it had come to this. Maybe his nephew was right. This was his doing. Everything that had happened, everything soon to come, a result of his hubris.

It wasn’t Jason who was right about me,
Glenn thought.
It was Henry.

The other deputy, the younger one, helped Odilia wipe the blood off her clothes.

“I’m sorry. We had to shoot him when we did.”

“He was right, you know,” Odilia remarked. “I did want him dead.”

No one knew what to say to this. Luis glanced over to Glenn, who ran his fingers through his nephew’s hair.

“He wasn’t a bad boy,” Glenn declared. “Can you tell your god that?”

“Yes,” Luis said, turning back to Odilia.

“Will you pray for him?”

“I will.”

“You’ll pray for me as well, Father?”

Glenn placed Jason’s pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

XXXII

No one criticized Deputies Quintanilla or Poole for failing to recover Jason Marshak’s weapon during the confrontation. After all, they’d only stepped aside to call for backup after shooting an admitted killer who’d been holding the soon-to-be suicide hostage. Who could have predicted the old man actually wanted to die?

“Jesus Christ,” Michael said when called in the motel room he’d taken in Camarillo. “Who shot who again?”

“A Los Angeles County sheriff’s deputy shot Jason. Glenn Marshak then picked up his nephew’s gun and shot himself.”

“What was the deputy’s name?”

“Ernesto Quintanilla.”

“Were there any other witnesses aside from law enforcement?”

“We’re getting conflicting reports. Some say they were acting on a tip. Others say there was someone else in the room, possibly someone who worked at the residence. They have a description.”

“Anybody see a priest?”

There was a pause.

“A priest was on scene, but we assumed he came when the ambulance did. Everyone in the press vans heard the gunshots. It was a zoo.”

“I’ll be right over.”

He hung up and sank back onto the bed. He’d known this motel was close by, as it was one he and Annie frequented. He didn’t know if they’d ever been in this room, but the layout and décor were about the same in each. He closed his eyes in hopes of catching one of those memories, finding quiet moments rather than racier ones. Annie propping her head up on one arm as they talked through the afternoon. Annie pacing around on her cell phone. Annie strolling to the bathroom naked to retrieve a towel.

Upon revisiting this last one, Michael felt physical agony at not being able to rise and wrap his arms around her waist.

It hit him all over again in a wave. He’d come to terms with the fact that he’d never see her again, much less make love to her. But it was the thought that he’d never share the same physical space with her that was so overwhelming. He wanted to feel her presence in the room, the subconscious recognition of scent, sound, or simply the feeling of the air pushed aside as she moved past. That her soul had been extinguished and all that remained of her was rotting in a cemetery never to return was too much for him. He’d never feel whole again.

He tried to picture her but realized he was remembering images from the deleted photographs, not ones pulled from his mind. She was gone.

A few miles away Henry Marshak was suffering through a night of restless thoughts as well, albeit for different reasons. The few times he drifted off to fitful sleep, with only a thin blanket to cover his old man’s body, upon waking it still took him a minute or two to realize where he was and how he got there.

There had been some debate the previous evening as to whether they could keep him in the cells or if a cot in the break room might be more appropriate for a man of his age. A judge was consulted, but out-of-the-ordinary accommodations were disallowed. The fear was that they could be seen as granting him special status due to his name, not his age, and this could affect the eventual trial. This was discussed with Henry. He told them he needed no such special provisions, as it couldn’t be so different from sleeping out in the cold desert, which he did on occasion.

He soon learned just how wrong he had been.

In the desert he was free. In the cell, every detail was arranged to remind prisoners that free was the last thing they were. Every surface was cold and hard. It was loud. Lights passed by the window repeatedly. Guards went up and down the hall all night. Rest, much less sleep, was impossible.

When morning light streamed in through the windows, Henry was bleary-eyed with exhaustion. He was hungry and needed to pee but knew it would take a good quarter hour of gentle movement and stretching before he’d be able to stand.

As he rotated his ankles and wrists, he heard sounds coming from elsewhere in the station.

The morning shift,
he surmised.

The officers he’d spoken to during the night when they came to check on him, a ritual he interpreted as a quasi deathwatch, were amiable enough, but some looked at him in a way he wasn’t used to. They took him at his word that he’d killed innocent people and, if not that, that he’d ordered killing. For no reason he could think of, Henry hadn’t prepared himself to be treated like a criminal. Maybe he was the old fool his brother so often accused him of being.

But the officer who came in that morning wasn’t chatty. He looked at Henry with pity, not enmity. He brought breakfast but didn’t say more than was necessary.

Around eight the detective from the previous day came for him, unlocking the cell and indicating for him to follow. Henry offered up his wrists to be cuffed, but the detective shook his head.

“Just come with me, please.”

Henry was brought to the break room, where he found a man in a rumpled suit waiting for him. Judging from the fellow’s eyes, he’d filled his tank with nothing but coffee that morning.

“Good morning, Mr. Marshak. I’m Deputy District Attorney Michael Story. There’s fresh coffee if you want some.”

“Thank you.”

Michael poured him a cup and placed it on the table. Henry let it cool and waited for the bad news.

“There was an incident last night at your brother’s house,” Michael began. “Your son arrived with a gun around midnight and threatened to kill his uncle, your brother. Los Angeles County sheriff’s deputies, in the area due to the case, arrived and, seeing that Glenn Marshak was in imminent danger, shot . . .”

He hesitated just long enough for Henry to fill in the words: “your son.”

“. . . shot Jason Marshak one time. The bullet pierced his heart and killed him.”

“Oh my Lord,” Henry said, ducking his head as his vision blurred. “He died?”

“Yes, sir.”

“My God. That’s—”

“That’s not all, sir,” Michael continued. “Your brother, despondent we believe, picked up Jason’s gun when the deputies called for an ambulance and took his own life.”

Henry couldn’t breathe. His heart grew so heavy he thought he might pass out.

“He’s gone?”

“Yes, sir. Of course, with any incident like this, an investigation into the officers’ accounting of events has already been opened.”

“I doubt that’s necessary,” Henry said, a million miles away. “What was your name again?”

“Michael Story. I’m a deputy district attorney in Los Angeles.”

Recognition flashed behind Henry’s eyes.

“Of course. Anne Whittaker mentioned you.”

It was Michael’s turn to look surprised.

“She was very complimentary,” Henry said, his voice barely a whisper. “Did the deputies hear anything Jason or my brother might’ve been speaking about?”

“That’s why I’m here,” Michael explained. “Before he died, Jason seems to have acknowledged his role in, if not outright confessed to, the same crimes as you have. But unlike with you, we’ve amassed a great deal of corroborating evidence and even a witness that claims the actual killer was Jesús ‘El Matachín’ Zarate, who worked as a field boss in one of your spur fields.”

“That’s what you’re calling the illegal ones?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is Zarate now?”

“He was killed in a gun battle two nights ago. We’ve discovered a great number of communications between Jason and this Matachín going back years. We’ve found no such records from your phone.”

Henry paused to blow on his coffee. He took a few long sips as he considered his response. When the cup was half-empty, he set it down.

“I should talk to my lawyer.”

“You should,” Michael said. “But for the time being we feel that there is not enough evidence with which to detain or charge you. We’ve been in touch with your niece . . .”

“Oh God. How is she holding up?”

“She’s strong,” Michael said. “We informed her about your impending release and asked her if she knew somebody who could pick you up. She’s waiting out front.”

Henry felt lost. He finished his coffee and sat still for a few minutes. When he looked up and saw Michael, he’d almost forgotten the deputy DA was still there.

“I can go?”

“You can. We’ll be in touch as the cases progress.”

Henry rose unsteadily, gripping the chair as he did. Michael rushed to help him, but Henry shook him off.

“I’m all right,” Henry said. “And thank you for your courtesy. I don’t envy you the cleanup job in this case.”

When Henry stepped out of the building and into a sea of news cameras a few minutes later, he felt as if his body were being consumed by fire. The guilt he felt over Santiago’s, Maria’s, and Annie’s murders burned stronger than ever. But it was compounded now with the realization that his actions had sent his own brother and son to their deaths as well. That justice, an abstract notion that in this case applied to hundreds of faceless people, had been done was cold comfort.

He gazed past the squawking newsmen and found Elizabeth’s cold, red-rimmed eyes staring back at him in judgment.
Why couldn’t you just . . . ?
they said.

He wished he could turn around and retreat back into his cell, realizing the one he’d created for himself in his own mind was far, far worse.

Miguel had never been inside a church, at least not one this grand. His mother hadn’t been a big believer in religion, but that didn’t mean his curiosity hadn’t led him through the doors of a couple of neighborhood churches here and there. He liked how quiet they were and was attracted to their air of mystery.

Not enough to attend services, of course. They were like museums—something to admire from afar. If he hadn’t been invited today, an invitation he’d been suspicious of enough almost to ignore, he might never have entered one again.

St. Augustine’s wasn’t like anything he’d seen before. Instead of a single building, this was an entire campus stretching halfway down a city block. He wondered how many people came in and out of the facility over a week. He then wondered how much money it cleared in the same amount of time.

Having arrived by bus, he joined the throng heading into the nave for Sunday services. Vendors had set up tables in the parking lot and along the sidewalk and were selling religious icons, bottles of water, clothes, and even fruit to people on the way in. One man had several ties hanging over his arm and multiple hats on his head. Miguel didn’t own a tie, much less a suit. He’d put on his best button-up shirt and slacks, but even then felt outdone by some congregants arriving in fancy pressed blue jeans, cowboy shirts, hats, and polished belt buckles.

No matter what the dress, everyone’s mood entering the church was sober and respectful. Miguel took a seat near the back and waited for the service to begin.

During the hymns he rose but made no effort to sing. During the prayers he bowed his head. During the sermon he half listened. During communion he rose and left. He was halfway down the front steps when someone called him by his uncle’s name.

“Mr. Higuera?”

A priest in a black full cassock and Roman collar came up the sidewalk. He was Hispanic and looked young, way too young for the office he represented.

“Are you Luis Chavez?” Miguel asked.

“Yes,” the priest said, extending a hand. “I’m terribly sorry for your recent losses.”

Miguel shook the stranger’s hand warily.

“Walk with me a moment,” Luis said.

He led Miguel around the side of the church. They said nothing as they went, the sound of the organ echoing out to them as the congregants moved to the altar a row at a time. When they reached a courtyard with a concrete bench and a statue of Saint Francis, Luis indicated for Miguel to sit.

“This is where your mother and I sat when she came to see me. I didn’t know her for long, but she was a very brave, very wonderful woman.”

Miguel scoffed. “When my uncle got himself killed, she should have run in the other direction,” he said. “Instead, she did the same thing expecting a different result, which a bumper sticker’ll tell you is the definition of insanity. Now she’s dead. Is that brave? Or stupid?”

“Have you been reading any of the stories about the Marshak workers? She did that. She saved those people.”

Miguel looked away, shaking his head. “I know I’m supposed to be in awe of this ‘sacrifice,’ but forgive me, Father, for wishing it had been somebody other than my whole family who had to pay so that the cops were forced to do what they should’ve been doing this whole time.”