Fields of Wrath (Luis Chavez Book 1) (6 page)

“You’re serious about this?” Michael asked with genuine surprise.

“I am.”

Michael looked the priest over again, eyeing his wounds while trying to comprehend Luis’s angle.

“This isn’t some atoning thing, is it? You’re going it alone, putting yourself in mortal danger because this Odilia woman got stolen from under you.”

Luis wanted to punch him for saying that. Not because of the accusation itself but for fear Michael might be right. Still, that was the old Luis. The calm returned.

“If you could see things from this side of the collar, you’d understand,” Luis said. “And you’re wrong. I’m never on my own. That’s the point. You should understand that, lapsed or not.”

Michael held Luis’s gaze for a moment longer, then lowered his voice.

“All right,” he said, now in little more than a whisper. “You go up there, you find out why somebody would want these three people dead—and I don’t mean hearsay, I mean a clear, actionable motive—and I’ll come at them with everything I got. Cool?”

“Cool,” Luis answered.

“All right,” Michael said. “But be careful. Hard to think that anyone who’d murder one person in their own driveway and string up another in a way that incriminates the cartels would have any qualms about killing a priest.”

Luis didn’t need the warning but nodded anyway.

When Luis returned to St. Augustine’s, he found Pastor Whillans in the courtyard waiting for him. The older man had a weary look on his face.

“That bad?” Luis asked.

Whillans took a seat on a concrete bench and indicated for Luis to join him.

“The archdiocese is concerned about you,” Whillans said. “They think your reaction to the break-in last night was rash and may necessitate some
reflection
on your part.”

“I was just trying to protect her,” Luis protested.

“Yes, but the archdiocese isn’t accustomed to priests getting pistol-whipped in their own rectory. They want me to relieve you of your duties and confine you to the parish grounds.”

“And here I was coming to tell you that I needed some time away,” Luis explained. “I may have a line in to where they took Odilia.”

Whillans went very still, his breath slowly whistling out through his lips. He placed his fingers together, as if seeking divine aid.

“I wish you’d said you needed time to recover from your injury or were gun-shy after the beating,” Whillans replied softly. “I might be able to convince myself that was true. But as it is, you’re asking me to lie for you.”

“Father—” Luis said quietly.

“Don’t ‘Father’ me,” Whillans snapped back. “Listen to what you’re asking. There’s no room in the church for a prideful priest. Is your loyalty to yourself or God?”

“To God of course.”

“Then don’t lie to me, his servant,” the pastor demanded. “What sins are you planning to commit while you’re away?”

“None, Father.”

“No violence? No retribution?”

“No, Father.”

“Then what?” he asked.

Luis told the pastor what he’d learned from Michael Story. The more he spoke, the more Whillans turned inward, mulling over what he heard.

“You think you have a responsibility in this?”

“God brought Odilia here. Was that for no reason? I spoke her language. She took me into her confidence. It was a sign of my arrogance and pride that I thought I was in control of the situation. I should’ve handed her over to law enforcement right away.”

“And it’s not prideful and arrogant now to think you can get in the way of God’s will?” Whillans said. “It sounds like you mean to do so as a man, not as a man of God.”

“Absolutely not,” Luis countered. “I am only the latter. God is tasking me. The easy thing would be to walk away. The same hand that guides me in all things is telling me this.”

“Demanding it be done?”

“No. The world is demanding that, crying out as loud as my mind can take. The voice telling me not to walk away is a whisper.”

Whillans stared into the middle for a moment before reaching into his pocket. He handed Luis a folded piece of pink paper.

“I was the first one in her room. Everything was knocked over. Maybe they were looking for something. They even broke a chair. But they didn’t find this.”

Luis looked it over.

“What is it?”

“Something she didn’t want anyone to find. It was tucked behind the paneling.” Whillans said nothing for a moment, then got to his feet and headed back inside. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

IX

Whiiiiiiiiine
. . .
whiiiiiiine
. . .
whiiiiine
. . .

Oscar keyed the ignition a second time. The owner of the minivan, Ramona Gomez, stared blankly ahead, as if her hope of a quick fix was draining away.

“I wish it was better news,” Oscar said, climbing out from behind the wheel. “We’ve been patching your transmission for months, telling you all along it would eventually crap out. Eventually is today,
niña
. Whole thing has to be replaced, unless you want to use your van as a planter. It won’t make it another mile.”

Oscar knew the woman ran a daycare out of her home. She barely made enough to keep food on the table for herself and the three—yes,
three
—lazy-ass drunks she’d been cursed with for sons. She used the van to take the kids to local parks, pools, and even the zoo on occasion. For working parents who didn’t want their kids plopped in front of a television set all day, she was a godsend. She was also known for giving freebies to mothers who needed a few hours to go to job interviews. The loss of her vehicle would put a serious dent in her business.

Oscar waited for this to sink in before raising a finger.

“But,”
he added, knifing through the tension, “you kept coming back to my garage. Loyalty means something to me. I know what you do for our community. You
care
. So do I.”

“Ah,” she said. “What do you want from me?”

It was the response of a woman shrewd enough to avoid being too deep in another’s debt.

“Nothing much. I just want to be the mechanic you recommend.”

“What?” she croaked in surprise.

“People in the neighborhood come to you for everything. A woman in here the other day was telling somebody on the phone who needed a plumber to ‘Call Ramona. She’ll have somebody.’ I’m sure you’ve got a roof guy, an appliance guy, a guy with a truck . . . I want to be the car guy.”

Ramona cocked her head. She liked being flattered.

“Okay.”

“Great. I’ll have the transmission in by the end of the day. One of my guys can drive you home now, and we’ll bring it up to you when it’s ready. Satisfactory?”

It was. Ramona thanked him and was taken home in one of the shop’s tow trucks. Oscar moved on to the next vehicle, only to find Luis Chavez in the garage doorway, having watched the exchange.

“What happened to your face? You miss the life after all?”

“Did you really find a complete transmission in some junker car?” the priest asked, deflecting Oscar’s question. When his old friend didn’t respond either, Luis arched an eyebrow. “You didn’t fuck with her car just so you could cash this in, did you?”

“No!” Oscar laughed. “And since when do priests say ‘fuck’?”

“So, someone out there woke up to an empty driveway one morning.”

“Somewhere in the middle,” Oscar admitted. “Straight insurance scam. Transmission came from a fleet car at a funeral home. The owner wanted to upgrade, needed the insurance to do it, so I made sure it happened.”

“By switching out their perfectly good transmission with a busted one,” Luis surmised.

Oscar shrugged. Luis chuckled.

“That’s . . . enterprising.”

“Shouldn’t you counsel me to turn my life around?”

“Given what I’m here to ask you, that’d be the height of hypocrisy.”

Luis had three favors to ask of Oscar. All required discretion. The first was to locate an address in Ventura County. The second was a ride to that address. The third was for a new identity.

“A new
identity
?” Oscar asked. “How the hell am I supposed to manage that?”

“Come on,” Luis chided. “Even I know what kind of side business Remberto’s got going on in that phone room.”

“I’m not all that accustomed to doing favors without getting something in return,” Oscar countered. “What can you offer me?
Absolution?
”

Luis lowered his gaze. He hadn’t wanted to go there.

“You want to talk about the sheer number of times I pulled your stupid ass out of the fire back in the day?” Luis asked. “That you wouldn’t be able to offer free transmissions to the neighborhood
abuela
, much less have made it to adulthood without me?”

“You think I owe you a
debt
, motherfucker?” Oscar growled.

“I think you think that,” Luis shot back. “I think that’s why you wanted to check on me the second you heard I was back in town. I’m here to tell you that if you do this for me, there’s nothing between us and never will be again, real or imagined. I won’t be so much as a lingering thought taking up real estate in the back of your head. Cool?”

Luis quietly prayed his gambit would pay off. The Oscar in his late twenties might in no way be susceptible to the old notions of personal honor and debt instilled in them both when they were kids.

“There’s no debt. I don’t owe you, you don’t owe me. Good?” Oscar said finally.

When Luis returned to St. Augustine’s, he went to the same donation box Erna had taken Odilia’s replacement clothes from and pulled out a pair of old jeans, an ill-fitting T-shirt, a work shirt to go over that, and boots. He loaded a backpack with a few supplies and removed the bandage from his battered face. When he checked himself out in the mirror, he looked every bit the part of a laborer seeking a new start.

Oscar was set to pick him up after dark. Luis spent the rest of the day doing chores around the parish and keeping out of sight. He didn’t want parishioners asking questions about his injuries. When it came time to go, he looked for Pastor Whillans to say good-bye, but he was doing a home visit. He’d have to see him when he came back.

“I hope you know what you’re in for,” Oscar said as Luis climbed into his truck.

“I don’t,” Luis admitted.

“Aside from picking strawberries being the worst job under the sun, what happens if one of these guys recognizes you from the parish?” Oscar asked. “The only reason to string a guy up below the border like that is if you want it to look like the work of the cartels. That takes balls. Doubt they’d have a problem killing you, too.”

“Since when have you ever picked a strawberry?” Luis shot back.

Oscar laughed. “You think God’s going to protect you?”

“I think God wants me to protect myself,” Luis stated.

Oscar eyed him for a moment. Luis could tell his childhood friend wasn’t sure if he was bullshitting him or possibly crazy.

“But what happens if they kill you?” Oscar countered. “God’ll congratulate you in the afterlife for doing your best, but you’ll know he’s actually disappointed.”

“What do you think he’ll do for you?”

“When I get there, I hope I’ve lived my life to the fullest, done every last damn thing I wanted to do on this earth so I don’t give a fuck what God thinks.”

Luis laughed at this and shook his head.

“Now’s the part where you tell me to come to church, right?” Oscar asked.

“Starting to sound like you want me to.”

Oscar scoffed. Luis chuckled. It really was like old times. Maybe when Oscar had welcomed him back not as just an old friend but a brother, he hadn’t been exaggerating. Maybe he’d really missed Luis.

“Ten years, bro,” Oscar said quietly, as if having read Luis’s mind. “You been gone ten years.”

It was more like fourteen, Luis thought. Fourteen years since the night Luis and Oscar had been brought to the dry riverbed under the Fourth Street Bridge and surrounded by the rank and file as well as the OGs of the Alacrán gang.

The pair had hit a convenience store the week before. Oscar had been the triggerman, Luis the lookout. They hadn’t been out of the store ten seconds before a police cruiser pulled up behind them. They were both fast runners. Two cops pursued on foot, but only one had the lungs for it. The teens had made the turn from Reservoir onto Waterloo when a second cop car appeared at the top of the street.

“Split!”
Oscar had hissed.

Like birds guided by primordial instinct, they raced off in different directions. The squad car followed Oscar. The one cop, still running, pursued Luis.

Luis could’ve run all night. He was scared but exhilarated. He didn’t think it’d be long before the cop was gassed. Not when weighted down by twenty pounds of equipment, ten more years of living, and a healthy sense of self-preservation in one of the worst neighborhoods in the city. What Luis couldn’t have known was that his pursuer, Domingo Dominguez, had been a basketball standout at Morningside High and took immense pride deflating the image of the doughnut-huffing, fat-assed cop.

It only took him half a block more to catch up to Luis, grab his arm, and wheel him onto the lawn of the nearest house.

“You got anything in your pockets I’m going to hurt myself on?” the officer asked as he cuffed Luis.

Fighting to catch his breath after landing on his stomach, Luis couldn’t remember for the life of him what was in his pockets.

“No, sir,” he said as the officer tossed his phone and keys into the grass.

“Those keys to your mama’s place?” Domingo asked. “If she’s anything like mine, she’s going to be
pissed
,
mijo
.”

Luis’s heart skipped a beat. The officer didn’t know how right he was. Sandra Chavez was so furious, she didn’t even come down to the station for two days. She finally arrived with a change of clothes and some toiletries to find her son exhausted and terrified. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had his share of run-ins with the authorities, but those had been school related. When it got so serious that he would have to be expelled, a representative from the disciplinary board had warned Luis there was an 80 percent chance he’d be behind bars within six months.

An overachiever for the first time in his life, Luis had accomplished this in four.

Luis was kept in the juvenile wing with several other prisoners who’d been in and out of state custodial care for most of their young lives. They treated Luis as if the beating of his life could come at any second. He lived in constant fear. The only relief came once a day when robbery-homicide detectives Ari Lin and Vincent Coai arrived to interview him. They asked about the robbery, his thus-far-unidentified cohort, and put out feelers about his connection to the Alacrán street gang.

“Feel free to lie to us and prove to no one that cares what a stand-up guy you are,” Detective Coai said grimly. “Or give us a couple of yeses or nos and we’ll get you home by supper time.”

Luis did neither. He said nothing for three days, no matter what was offered or threatened. The jailer came for him at the seventy-second hour, and he was released into the custody of his mother.

“You’ll wish they kept you,” was all she said on the drive home.

Though confined to his room, Luis was finally able to relax. He slept. He read and reread his comics. He waited. His mother didn’t talk to him even when she brought meals.

Then there was Nicolas.

About a year earlier the bishop from the local church—one regularly attended by Luis’s mother and her eldest son, but not at all by Luis—had come by the house. He told Sandra that Nicolas had approached him about receiving private instruction, as Nicolas believed he had a calling to become a priest. His bishop, a pre-retirement Osorio, had asked Nicolas to pray about this for two weeks and come back to him. When he did and asked again to receive instruction, with the goal of one day entering the priesthood, Osorio agreed, pending Sandra’s approval.

She was thrilled.

For the next twelve months Nicolas went to school, got even better grades than before, got a job working as a busboy to help pay for divinity school, and spent every other waking moment at church. He’d been a constant presence in his brother’s life up until then. That changed overnight.

So when a knock came to Luis’s door two days after he’d been home, he was surprised to see who it was.

“You okay?” Nicolas asked.

“’Course,” Luis said, shrugging with as much disaffection as he could muster.

Nicolas looked around Luis’s room, as if he might find the answer there. He finally pushed a few of Luis’s comics aside and sat on the bed next to him.