A hot wind came howling across the arid sands of the Chihuahuan desert as the sun began to set over the ruins of the old mission, casting long shadows upon the desert. The ancient stone structure, surrounded by decaying adobe, no longer served its original purpose; now it served as a home to lizards, snakes, and bats. No other life could be found there, except the creosote, cactus, and lechuguilla that stood as silent sentinels, guarding nothing of value. No human ever came out to this desolate corner of northern Mexico; no human would want to. There was nothing here but sand and heat and death.
The puzzling approach of a long black limousine, kicking up dust as it drove down a long-abandoned wagon road, caused a coyote to stop in its tracks and stare at the odd newcomer as if to ask why it had come to this barren wasteland. Its curiosity unsatisfied, the coyote scampered away from the unusual scene. A buzzard that had been picking at the meager remains of an antelope remained, only now he glared at the newcomers: ah, there's more meat to be had on you. Soon, soon...
The limousine came to a stop just beyond the low adobe wall that surrounded the ruins of the old mission. Two large men stepped out of the driver's compartment of the black vehicle, both wearing sunglasses and dark suit jackets, garb chosen less for its comfort in the heat of the desert and more for its ability to conceal the various firearms the two large men carried on themselves. One of the large men opened the rear door, and a smaller, balding man, wearing a light seersucker jacket and white dress shirt, stepped out, dabbing the sweat from his broad forehead with a handkerchief before placing it back in his jacket pocket. The smaller man looked the decaying structure over, as if looking for something that could not be seen with human eyes.
"Let us go with you, Senor Ochoa," One of the large men said to the smaller man.
"No," Ochoa commanded. "I am to do this alone. It is what the bruja told me; I must present myself, and only myself, before the Santa Muerte. To do otherwise would be a blasphemy. You men are to remain here. Is this understood?"
The first large man nodded, signaling his understanding. Ochoa nodded back to his guard. I would take you with me if I could. Believe me, I would. He then began walking into the enclosure, each step a laborious process, his wingtips sinking into the desert sands as he proceeded.
He came to the portico of the mission chapel, the entry way still secured by a well-worn double wooden door banded with iron. With much trepidation, Ochoa knocked on the door. He did not think he struck the wood door that forcefully, as his knocks reverberated into the ancient structure as deep hollow thuds.
He stood there for a few seconds. There was no answer. With great relief, Ochoa began to turn from the door, but as he did so, the doors began to open with a loud, grinding groan, signaling to Ochoa that perhaps he should not be so hasty. He turned, his eyes wide, his heart racing. He stood peering into the black void beyond the door.
"Um, hello?" He asked. There was no answer. "Excuse me?" He said again, a bit louder but no less fearful. Again, there was no answer, so he waited. He did not want to drop his guard so soon, as he did the last time. He stood there for five harrowing, silent minutes. It was a silence that was soon enough – too soon, in his estimation – broken.
"Senor Ochoa!" came a voice from within. The masculine voice sounded light, almost cheerful, even welcoming. "Please! Come within!"
Ochoa said nothing as he stepped over the threshold into the dark, cavernous ruins. He looked up at the ceiling, at the obvious gaps in the roof where time and weather had taken their toll, causing the roof to decay and several roof beams to collapse. Ochoa thought that the gaps in the ceiling would allow some of the remaining sunlight to enter the darkness of the mission, and yet, oddly, the light did not seem to penetrate beyond those open spaces. As he walked further into the gloom, Ochoa also noticed that it grew increasingly cold, as though the ruins were air-conditioned, which of course Ochoa knew could not be. He stepped further and further into the sepulcher.
The sudden lighting of a candle from inside the nave of the mission chapel drew Ochoa's attention. "Yes, please," the same welcoming male voice said, "Right this way. We will be with you presently."
Ochoa entered the small nave, the light of the candles being the only illumination in those ruins. He looked at the damaged remnants of religious artworks, broken crosses, faded paintings of saints. He wondered if it was time and exposure that caused the damage, or if it were perhaps something more sinister. He soon found himself standing before the altar.
"Ah, welcome, Senor Ochoa," said that same male voice, obviously from within the chapel, "I've been expecting you. I'd invite you to sit, but the pews are in a state of disrepair. We certainly wouldn't want any accidents, now would we?"
Ochoa slowly turned around to see a handsome young man with striking features walking the length of the nave behind him. The young man was well dressed, clean, and carried himself with boldness and even a bit of a swagger.
"Are... are you--?" Ochoa gulped.
"Please, Senor Ochoa. Calm down. Now, why don't you tell us why you requested this audience with the Santa Muerte."
Ochoa dabbed the sweat off his forehead as he addressed the striking younger-looking man. "I should hope that would be obvious, Senor?"
The young man shook his head. "It doesn't work like that. You don't need to know my name for now. Please, tell us why you have sought an audience with the Santa Muerte."
"Very well. Quite simply, I don't wish to die."
"No one does. Why is this such a special concern for you?"
"Don Calderon is under the impression that I betrayed him."
"And did you?"
"Me? No! No, not at all!"
"And you have no ambitions against the Calderon cartel?"
"N... no! I... I have no such ambitions!"
"You are a liar. We do not appreciate liars. The truth, now, if you will."
Again, Ochoa gulped. This man was perceptive. "Very well. I may have been placed in a position where I could profit."
"Profit? How? Please. Continue."
"Where... where I could profit off the back of the cartel."
The young, handsome man stepped in closely to Ochoa, the once pleasant grin having faded from his face. "Where you could profit off the back of the cartel. Allow me to get this straight: You took advantage of Don Calderon's mercy and patience and stole from him. Is this correct?"
Ochoa's eyes widened. "It was all a misunderstanding!"
"A misunderstanding? One hundred million American dollars? You call that a misunderstanding? I have a very different dictionary, I suppose. I don't call that a misunderstanding. I call it theft."
"Please, Senor!"
"You come into this holy place, and you lie to me, then you downplay the gravity of your crimes. You, Senor Ochoa, are a man without honor. If there is one thing the Santa Muerte cannot abide, it is the absence of honor. Do you not have honor, Senor Ochoa?"
"It was the American! It was his idea! He put me up to it! He convinced me to skim the profits! He had a plan! He deceived me! It was he who went to the American DEA! You should place the blame on him, not on me!"
"The American?"
"Yes, yes it was the American! He deceived me! He deceived Don Calderon! He deceived us all!"
The young man nodded his head. "Indeed, he did, and he will be dealt with. Although, it would be helpful if we could have some more information on his whereabouts. You worked with him fairly closely if I'm not mistaken. Surely you can tell me more about him."
"His name was Kermit Mowatt. He was born in the state of Georgia. Prior to coming to Mexico, he worked in New York, on Wall Street. He was under investigation by the Securities and Exchange Commission following the market crash of 2008. He came to me to find employment. After, well, after the misunderstanding--"
"The theft."
"Very well. The theft. After the theft, he disappeared, and no one has seen him since. We assume he went back to the United States."
"Where, though? Did he not speak of a certain location, a city or town?"
Ochoa wracked his brain trying to remember something, anything. "Ah!" He said, as he snapped his fingers, "He did say that he had family in the city of Portland, Oregon. He had never seen them, but he knew of them. He wished to see them."
"Hmmm. Portland, you say."
"Yes, Portland. He mentioned a couple other places, but only in passing. He had a strong desire to visit Portland."
"Portland. Very well then. This Kermit Mowatt, as you call him, shall be taken care of. Oh, by the way, 'Kermit Mowatt' is an assumed name. I don't know if you knew that."
"Really? What was his real name?"
"That is not relevant. What is relevant is that he will pay for his sins, as you will pay for yours."
Ochoa's eyes grew wide once more as the sweat poured down his wide forehead. "M... me? Please, Senor, surely we can come to an agreement! An understanding!"
"Oh? What kind of understanding can we come to?"
"Look. I have money. The money that Calderon is looking for? I have it, and it can be yours, all of it. If you convince the Santa Muerte to have mercy on me, and instead of killing me, killing Don Calderon."
The young man chuckled. "You think you can bribe me to ignore your crimes, and then to turn on my employer? Are you serious?"
"It's one hundred million! You can have it all! You, and the Santa Muerte!"
Again, the young man nodded. "Very well. Allow me to educate you on some matters. First, the money you are offering me? It will be mine, whether or not you give it freely. Second, the Santa Muerte is no mercenary. He is bound by honor to the house of Calderon. He could no more turn against Don Calderon than the sun could cease to shine by day and the moon by night. Third, you mistake me for a servant of the Santa Muerte. Most assuredly, I am not his servant." The young man's face began to contort, his eyes blackening as fangs jutted from his jaws. "No," he growled. "I am the Santa Muerte!"
Ignacio Ochoa had little time to react as the Santa Muerte was soon upon him, fangs tearing at his throat. His screams were soon enough silenced.