The phone call woke Don Ramon Calderon from a deep sleep. He reached to the nightstand and grabbed the handset, and forgetting that the phone was an old-fashioned wired phone, almost pulled it onto the silken sheets of his large bed. "What?" He shouted into the handset.
"This is Gibson," The now familiar Australian spoke, "and I'm sorry to disturb you at such an hour, but some intelligence has come to my attention that you will find of interest. Are you with someone right now?"
"No, no, I'm not. My wife is in New York on a shopping excursion, and my mistress is in Monterrey visiting her mother."
"Which mistress is that?"
"Lola. The other one, what is her name, is in Jalisco. Anyway, what is this information you have? And it better interest me!"
"Very well. Your Santa Muerte has Douglas Campbell at his estate."
Don Calderon bolted upright in his bed, his eyes wide open. "What the... well, why didn't you tell me this earlier?"
"That hitwoman, Cressida, I believe her name is, collected Douglas from Portland, Oregon a few days ago. He's been at the Santa Muerte's compound for a couple days now."
"And Morimoto? How did he fail?"
"By getting himself killed. Apparently Doug's brother is resourceful."
"So, Douglas Campbell has been at the Santa Muerte's estate for some time, and the Santa Muerte did not tell me of this. That son of a bitch! How dare he defy me!"
"You know, I am more than willing to rectify the situation for you."
"No. We will go together to speak to the Santa Muerte, and to claim my right of vengeance."
"Good. I am more than happy to help."
"Meet me at my operations base in Chihuahua. We will go from there, and confront that deceitful bastard!"
"Gladly."
Calderon slammed the handset not once, but several times, then picked the phone up and threw it across the room.
*
Jack advised that the road that led off the 45 toward the residence of the Santa Muerte was a well-worn dirt path, marked only by a single old fence post with an ominously-placed antelope skull on top. Now, Scott doubted that such a monument would last all these years, but apparently he was wrong. Jeremiah picked up on the foreboding marker about a half-hour south of Samalayuca. They turned off the paved road onto a dirt road that led deep into the Chihuahuan desert. They drove for miles and miles past sand dunes and open desert. Sometimes there was vegetation – a sparse grove of Joshua trees, a few agave plants, and various cacti, from the great saguaros to the smaller prickly pears. Of course, it being night, the girls could not enjoy the sparse beauty of the Mexican desert. The dirt road led them along dry creek beds and around forbidding rocky heights. It seemed like hours in part because they could not drive very fast in the near absolute dark (even vampiric visual abilities have their limits). Scott ended up driving for most of the way on the desert road, all the while thinking that it would have been better if they'd taken a four-wheel drive vehicle instead of Ministry's Mystery Machine.
Driving, driving, driving, through sand, sand, and more sand, for hours. Scott stopped only to allow the ladies to refresh themselves (and he was a perfect gentleman, walking them to a secluded location away from the van and making sure there were no snakes or scorpions about, before turning his back) and of course to put on a new shirt, tossing his shotgun-ruined old shirt into the desert. After driving past a particular craggy hill, Jack shouted at Scott to get his attention. Finally, they were drawing near to the lair of the Santa Muerte.
Jack directed Scott to take another path off the main dirt path. This path, of course, was only a 'path' in the strictest sense. The dirt road they'd just been on seemed like a luxurious asphalt superhighway in comparison. Whatever remained of the ancient Dodge van's shocks were surely gone by the time they reached the top of a rocky plateau, overlooking a large, flat valley. Jeremiah and Scott then got out of the van and looked down into this valley. Some miles away, they could see lights coming from a large structure. Scott stretched his vampire eyes to their limits, and made out a large Spanish-style mansion.
"So, that's it," said Scott, "The secret lair of the Santa Muerte. Dang. That is a nice place. And here I was, thinking it'd be some old decrepit mission or something like that."
"Oh," Jeremiah said, "Jack told me that there is an old decrepit mission some miles from here that belongs to the Santa Muerte, but he lives here."
"Don't blame him at all. I wonder if there's a pool?"
"How do you wish to approach this place?"
Scott hadn't thought that far ahead. So, he went with the first thought that came to mind. "Well, we just walk right up there."
"Just walk up?"
"Uh, yeah," Scott never said it was a good thought, just the first one. "Why? Do you have any ideas?"
"Stealth and surprise. We sneak up on this place in the dark of night, meaning right now."
Scott agreed, then woke the ladies. They grabbed stakes and swords and shuffled out, ready for the long hike down into the valley. He then pulled Jack out of the cage, keeping a hand firmly clenched on his arm. Jack complained Scott was hurting him; Scott told him he'd get over it.
As they traversed the flat landscape leading up to the Santa Muerte's estate, Scott kept wondering how the hell they were going to approach the place unnoticed. So far it seemed they were doing fine on that front. Dawn and Grace were moving double quick, occasionally ducking behind a tumbleweed or stray lechuguilla; Scott thought that was cute, but ultimately pointless. There was no effective cover or concealment out here, and yet they were still approaching the hideout of a notorious killer. It was kind of stupid, but he didn't have any better plan.
Scott did notice Jack starting to drag his feet as they came closer to the massive Villa. He asked him why he was so hesitant now.
"Well, uh, okay. Last I saw the Santa Muerte, let's just say we didn't part on the friendliest terms."
"Seriously? You're telling me this now?"
"I had to get out of the living death, Scott. Honestly, I thought I'd have figured out a way to escape by now. That didn't pan out. God, I'm gonna regret not planning that better."
"Okay, what did you do, Jack?"
"I killed his girlfriend."
"What? You killed his girlfriend?"
"Oh, he was in love with this mortal chica. Real hot thing, she was."
"So you killed her?"
"Hey! I didn't know he had a thing for blood bags! Shit! But you gotta understand, it was the seventies. I did a few lines and my mind was just about blown. She was there, she looked good, her blood looked good, and, yeah. You can probably fill in the details on your own."
"Shit."
"And then I ate the rest of her family."
"You didn't!"
"True story. So, needless to say I'm not really looking forward to this. Then again, ol' Santa is a real stand up vampire, you dig? Maybe he'll challenge me to a duel. First blood and all that. Or, maybe he'll let bygones be bygones!"
"Knowing my luck, that ain't gonna happen."
"Oh, hell you're right, that ain't gonna happen."
"I should have left you back in the van, or better yet, back in the crypt."
"Back in the van sounds nice. You know, we could still make that happen!"
"Too late. Come along, Jack Ass."
Scott kept his hand firmly attached to Jack's arm as they came closer to the palatial estate. The adobe wall surrounding the house gave him some hope, false though it was, that they could somehow sneak in, perhaps over the wall or through another entry. But the main entry, a large, long double iron gate, was wide open. There were few lights on at this time of night, and the place looked dead – an unfortunate choice of words, perhaps, but appropriate.
"Wow, look at this green grass," Dawn whispered. "And a fancy fountain with bubbling water, in the middle of a desert. Wow."
"Yeah," Grace replied, "It's amazing what you can buy with drug money."
"Shh!" Jeremiah said, "Quiet! We do not know what awaits us!"
They moved as quietly as church mice from behind the fountain with the statue of the original Santa Muerte to the brick esplanade then to the portico.
"Well?" Scott asked, "What do we do now?"
"I can pick the lock," Grace said.
"Maybe we should find like a service entrance, or something less conspicuous," Dawn said.
"Maybe we should go home," Jack said.
Jeremiah said nothing as he reached to the door handle and tugged on it. The double doors came open with a nasty groan.
"Oh, okay," Scott said, "That works!"
They all stepped inside the darkened entryway. They all looked in different directions, scoping out the place, looking for potential threats. They moved silently, carefully, every step measured. The place was dead quiet, so when the double wooden doors slammed themselves shut they all jumped out of their skins. Scott would have had a heart attack, if he weren't undead.
"Really?" Scott asked, "Did that really have to happen?"
"Welcome, Mr. Campbell," Came a gentle Mexican-accented male voice over an intercom. "I've been expecting you. Please, make yourselves comfortable. Ladies, please remove your jackets, and please leave your weapons on the credenza. My butler will be with you presently."
The lights came on, and with them, a large presence made itself known to Scott's vampiric senses. Large, plodding footsteps became louder as the creature approached the entryway. Scott wasn't quite jaded enough not to be shocked by the appearance of the troll butler, even though he knew such things existed (trolls, that is). Let's face it, when most folks are faced with a long armed, toothy, large Neanderthal, they'd be taken a bit off guard as well. But the novelty soon passed when the tuxedo-wearing giant spoke in an unexpected English accent.
"Good evening," The troll said. Both Grace and Dawn's mouths were gaping. "Why, is that Jeremiah? Good to see you, old chap! How's it been?"
Scott flashed a wide-eyed glare at Jeremiah. "You know this... this..."
"Troll," The troll said.
"Yeah. Troll?"
"As a matter of fact," Jeremiah said, "I do know him. It is good to see you, Canute!"
"Right," The troll said, "seems Ministry sent Jeremiah here to London during the Blitz. Churchill wanted to clear out a length of subway for use as a shelter, and they knew myself and some of my mates were living down there. Jeremiah negotiated a temporary solution for us. Some of us weren't so happy with the arrangements, but we knew that wartime wasn't the best time to express our displeasure."
"The old brewery was a fine solution, I thought!"
"It was. That was some good ale, and all the free mutton we wanted. But sadly, no children."
"Aww," Dawn said, "You like kids! He likes kids. How bad can he be?"
"Right, I love children. They're delicious."
"Eww!"
"Anyway, enough chit chat. Please, join me in the dining room. You're a tad early, but it is almost time for breakfast. Ladies, I'll deposit your jackets in the coat closet."
They followed Canute through the large house to a very spacious dining room. The long rectangular wood table was covered with fine white linen. A large silver candelabra sat in the middle of the table, and two smaller silver candle holders were placed near the ends. They took their seats in high-backed carved wooden chairs on both sides of the table, as Canute directed them not to use a single armed wooden chair at the end. He then excused himself to the kitchen, advising that their host would be with them soon.
"You didn't tell me about the troll, Jack," Scott said.
"He didn't work here then," Jack replied, "His old butler was a gnome. Real asshole, that one. He was from Sweden and couldn't speak a word of Spanish, and his English wasn't that great either. Mean little sucker. I guess he's working as a gardener somewhere in California now."
"Whatever."
Dawn and Grace were discussing what all this could mean and what kind of fate awaited them. They were all tense as they sat around that table. Scott wanted to say something humorous to lighten the mood, but he wasn't in the mood himself. Jack just looked scared. Scott hadn't seen that hangdog look on his face before. He took some comfort in that.
Scott soon heard hard-soled footsteps on the tile floors approaching the dining room. They grew louder with every step. He hushed the ladies, telling them someone was approaching. It wasn't long before they picked up on the footsteps as well.
A young-looking Hispanic man with striking facial features and short black hair, wearing an obviously tailored white linen suit with black open collar shirt, stepped into the room. He stopped before proceeding inside. A large and disarming smile flashed onto his face.
"Good morning," He said, "A bit early, perhaps, although the sun is just now breaking in the east. Oh, we should all adjourn to the eastern face of this estate to see it, as a desert sunrise is a thing of great beauty. But perhaps now is not an appropriate time."
The man headed to that central arm chair. He drew it and sat down. "I wish to welcome you all to my home. I am the Santa Muerte, and you are all my guests."