Extraordinary Retribution (21 page)

He had found the money. He had hacked his way into the Dubai banking computers and created a well-filled coffer of an account. He had found the black market arms dealers, passport distributors, and medical practitioners. He had paid them all well for their services, always promising a large cash reward as a bonus for a job well done.

Murder
. Now he remembered. The surgeon had a propensity for killing certain patients after torturing them on the operating table. The cutter was on death row when given a new lease on life from a riot and prison break. He rarely indulged in such behavior now, however, knowing that the death of some of the criminal elements he saw might bring a hellish retribution from organizations who were as depraved as he was.

In the present, high in the Tennessee mountains, the splotched-skinned man continued to apply a white cream to his body, rubbing it in circular patterns over every square inch of skin. It burned like an acid. Trapped in the visions from the past, his mind flinched at the operating room light, the knife blade that descended, the fire of the blade ripping into his face.

The old monster rarely indulged. But sometimes, it was too hard to restrain his impulses. Sometimes, when the patient seemed less connected to an organized outfit, there was the hope of escaping retribution.
Sometimes
, he would only torture and not kill. Perform the job yet extract his pleasure from the pain of another. All it took was an operation on an immobilized patient without anesthetic. He could then disappear for a time, hide from immediate revenge, and then resurface in another location. It would not be the first time.

In the present, the man in front of the mirror suddenly screamed. The birds outside were silent in confusion. After his cry, he grasped the sink, his arms shaking, his breath in wheezes.

I must control my emotions.
He was angry with himself. Such losses of control would doom his efforts. He brought his heart rate down and slowed his breathing. He reached back in his mind and confronted the horror.

There was the surgeon, helpless on the floor. Bullet wounds in his legs and shoulder. His death near. The surgeon had made two mistakes. The first was believing that the boy’s isolation reduced any threat. The second, that he had not killed the boy on the table. The price was his life.

That death had been a detour, the killing of this doctor, but his quest was nothing less than to erase monsters such as this. He finished applying the last of the cream, the enormous surface area of skin covering him like a raw wound. He would take all the pain. More monsters awaited his judgment. There would be no failure.

35

T
hey were exhausted from the last few days of travel. It had taken them nearly three times any reasonable travel time by car. But they had not traveled reasonably.

Houston had discovered that their hotel room was bugged, and as if this were not shocking enough for Lopez, she had immediately concluded that the CIA was not involved.

“If not the CIA, then who?” he had asked. “It has to be the CIA! What are you talking about, Sara?”

“Francisco, we’re targeted fugitives at the CIA. The Agency has me especially marked for extreme containment. If they knew we were here, if they had bugged our room, they would be on us already. Whoever did this has been following us for days, perhaps weeks. We have moved constantly. We have been careful. They would have known our whereabouts and behaviors so well—which only comes from extended observation—that they could get in under our noses and wire this place up.”

“This is crazy!” But he couldn’t find any holes in her logic.

“Francisco, we know there are other forces out there in this thing. I don’t know if it’s the group of killers or if it’s something else, but it’s
not
the CIA. But whoever they are, they may just as easily turn us over to the law or try to kill us themselves.”

“The gray Civic?”

“If it’s the same group.” She shook her head, and Lopez thought he’d never seen her so tired looking. “The farther we go on in this, the deeper the swamp seems to get.”

So, they had run. Houston had insisted on a headache-inducing, convoluted path out of the area and toward the South. Although he knew she was skeptical about his plan to meet the bishop, she agreed to give it a try. What other recourse did they have at this point? The long trip, constant driving, doubling back, sleeping in the car —it all had left them spent. Finally, they had traversed the distance from Virginia to Alabama, their fractaled route a mockery of efficient driving, their journey hidden from the eyes of pursuers.

Lopez rested his head against the steering wheel in front of Maria Lopez’s house in Madison, Alabama. It was crazy to come here. He knew that, and Houston had argued against it. While the manhunt was concentrated in the Northeast, their pursuers would begin to stake out any place they might head to. Family, even his dead brother’s wife, could be a watched site. On the other hand, he had to tell Maria
something
, and since they were in Madison to see the bishop, he felt he had to do it in person. It was a risk, but one he had to take.

My brother’s house.
He raised his head from the steering wheel. Houston was splayed out against the passenger-side door, breathing deeply. She had fallen asleep only thirty minutes ago after sleeping less than five hours a day for nearly a week. Lopez was struck by how peaceful she looked.
Beautiful
. Her waterfall of blonde hair in disarray, yet shrouding her head like an aura. Looking at her was stirring and at the same time calming. He needed that calm to quench the acid burning inside.

He closed his eyes. Now he had to face his brother’s wife again after so long, after disappearing for months on a quest to find the truth. What would she say? Would she believe what he had to say? He steeled himself and opened the door, closing it softly so as not to wake Houston. He walked toward the front door of the house.

“How
dare
you come back here?”

Lopez stood shocked and unmoving on the porch in the early-morning light, his tired legs nearly buckling from fatigue. Not understanding, he stared at the horrified face of Maria Lopez.

“After everything I’ve been through!” she choked, reaching her hand up to her mouth, a sob suppressed. “I
trusted
you, Francisco. I trusted you with my
family
. To be there, to help us and put Miguel to rest!” She screamed out the last words like a sword thrust. Lopez was deeply pieced by her anger yet remained uncomprehending.
Maria, have I failed you so badly?

Instinctively, he reached toward her. “Maria, please, I’ve been looking for the answers. You have to hear what we’ve found.”

“We?” she stared at the car. “My God, Francisco, you brought that
whore
with you?” Her words slapped him in the face. Too many thoughts and questions flooded his mind for him to know how to respond. “Have you no
shame
?”

“I don’t understand.”

“
You
don’t understand? You
monster
! All those young boys, Francisco. How could you?
How could you
?”

To his amazement, she began hysterically flailing at him, pummeling his chest and face with her fists, screaming and crying out words Lopez could not understand. He pushed her back reflexively and stumbled toward the steps.

“Maria, what is this about? Please, stop! Let me come in and explain.”

“Explain? How could you possibly explain this?” Maria Lopez reached to the side and grabbed something, wound her arm behind her, and threw it at him. A thick wad of newsprint struck him in the face. As he looked down at the day’s paper, he felt a warm run of liquid from inside his nostrils spill down, red droplets sprinkling the front page.

“It’s all over the news today. TV! Papers!” She shook her head with unfocused eyes. “First this, this abuse! Then, you and this....
woman
. This
traitor
! Soldiers dead because of missions compromised! How could you?
Miguel
was a soldier!” Her arms were flailing outward, her body nearly spasming, bent at the waist as she yelled. “Betraying your own brother! And the sleaze! Photographs. I never, ever imagined. The
phone calls
I’ve gotten! Do you know what it’s been like?” She started at him with a wildness in her eyes. “Get out of here, Francisco! Go! Never come back!” She screamed the last words with an intensity he flinched more from than the impact of the paper.

The door slammed shut with a terrible finality. Lopez raised his sleeve to his nose and tried to stem the flow of blood. He reached down and scooped up the paper, his eye drawn to the headline.
That’s my name.

His peripheral vision caught a movement, and he glanced up to see a child’s face in the window. His youngest niece, Miranda. She was five. She waved simply at Father Francisco, seeming to reckon nothing of the mad events around. Lopez waved dumbly back, blood staining his hands and shirt, a newspaper tucked under his arm. Suddenly, an adult arm appeared and jerked the child away from the window, and the shutters slammed shut.

Lopez heard a car door open as he stumbled into the yard, one arm stemming the flow of blood, the other holding up the paper. He read in astonishment. Unbelieving. In horror.

Houston approached him anxiously. “Francisco, what happened? Are you OK?”

He simply handed her the paper and walked as a dazed man into the street, staring into empty space. Houston looked between him and the paper, and then began to read out loud, her tone incredulous.

“Local dragnet begun to locate priest accused of raping parish boys,” she trailed off, her eyes darting over toward Lopez. “Oh, my God.”

36

U
nholy Orders: Rapist Priest and CIA Traitor Subject of National Dragnet

By Lewis Oppenheimer, Nashville Gazette

She was a CIA operative, with access to the nation’s top secrets in the war on terror. And she allegedly had access to the bedrooms of top agents and terrorist leaders alike.

Sara Houston stands accused of the most treasonous crimes: functioning as a double agent on the pay of international terror groups, stealing and selling CIA missions reports, troop movements, and security weakness of America’s most vulnerable locations.

“First they were bed, then they were dead,” said Phil Johnson, spokesman for the CIA domestic press relations. “She knew how to play the men who worked around her, sleeping her way to national secrets, and delivering them to the most bloodthirsty killers in the world. Now there is a growing list of dead agents and missing files.”

He was a seemingly ideal Hispanic citizen, a child of immigrant parents, priest of the local Catholic Church, teacher at a parochial school, but Father Francisco Lopez hid a dark secret. The local diocese released pages of material this week documenting a decade of abuse that had been covered up. “It was a mistake,” said the local bishop, “we thought that we could rehabilitate him. Now it’s blown up in our faces.”

It did as no one could have predicted. Following the murder of the priest’s brother, Miguel Lopez, whose body was first discovered under mysterious circumstances by Father Lopez, Houston and Lopez have been spotted together in numerous locations. After demanding additional secret files from the CIA last week, they went on a rampage, breaking into CIA buildings and stealing classified documents.

“She refused to take no for an answer,” said CTC director Jesse Darst. “But nothing shocked me so much as seeing her face in the security videos. Those two destroyed millions of dollars of government property, and worse, stole information that will severely compromise our efforts in the war on terror. Because of them, the lives of American soldiers will almost certainly be at risk.”

What could have brought these two together? What is their ultimate goal? And how long can they evade a national dragnet involving every known law enforcement agency from state to federal?

“They should be considered armed and extremely dangerous,” said FBI assistant director Gordon Howard. “They are now top of the Most Wanted list. I urge anyone with any information about these two fugitives to report it immediately.”

37

“F
rankly, Father Lopez, I did not expect to ever see you again.”

The bishop looked distinctly unhappy. He had always been a large man, even in his youth, but now in middle age he had become profoundly stout. Lopez had only interacted with his bishop on few occasions, one of those being the blessing for his ordination. The power structure of his church was very hierarchical and linear, and the bishop surrounded himself with a set of loyal assistants who blocked most efforts toward direct contact. Today had been different. When Lopez and Houston had walked into the office of the regional archdiocese, conversation had come to a standstill. Heads had turned and locked. It seemed that the Red Sea had parted in the room, opening up a pathway for the two fugitives. Lopez did not have the time or the concern for protocol today. He had marched straight into the bishop’s office.

“Why not?” asked Lopez, frustrated. “I have been in contact. I asked for additional time that you granted personally. You knew my schedule and activities.”

The bishop’s eyes widened. “I daresay I have
not
known of your activities.” He glanced disapprovingly at Houston. “I reluctantly granted you extra time to pursue matters that, frankly, this office considered to be unwise and a sign of emotional instability.”

“What?” Lopez asked incredulously.

“After which you not only find yourself in criminal matters threatening national security but risk your vows in a carnal relationship with this rogue governmental agent.”

“Risk my vows? What are you talking about?”

“As if your past transgressions were not enough!” The bishop threw a newspaper toward him. He instinctively flinched, remembering the morning’s events. On the front page were photos of him and Houston in an embrace, kissing beside a vehicle. The likenesses were perfect. Whoever had doctored the images was a professional. The headline read, “Bond or Lopez? Priest and CIA fugitive spotted in Tennessee.”