Chapters (110)
- Cover
- ALSO BY J. TODD SCOTT
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- PROLOGUE
- I
- II
- PART ONE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- PART TWO
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- PART THREE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- PART FOUR
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- SIXTY-EIGHT
- SIXTY-NINE
- SEVENTY
- SEVENTY-ONE
- SEVENTY-TWO
- SEVENTY-THREE
- SEVENTY-FOUR
- SEVENTY-FIVE
- SEVENTY-SIX
- SEVENTY-SEVEN
- SEVENTY-EIGHT
- SEVENTY-NINE
- EIGHTY
- EIGHTY-ONE
- EIGHTY-TWO
- EIGHTY-THREE
- EIGHTY-FOUR
- EPILOGUE
- I
- II
- III
- IV
- V
- VI
- VII
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- Excerpt from LOST RIVER
- LITTLE PARIS
- DILLON
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- What’s next onyour reading list?
No one knew . . . except maybe for this man, this bus driver tied to the chair. There had been two buses and two drivers and somehow this one had walked away unhurt, smart enough to abandon his bus moments before the shooting began.
There had been cell phone calls back and forth. This man had been warned.
Although Juan Abrego had long ago learned there was a limit to what any one man could truly promise and deliver to him, there was no limit to what he could learn with enough money, terror, and time, and a willingness to use all three.
It was important also that not only children but students had been the targets, for Juan Abrego had once dreamed of being a teacher. He and Nemesio had been normalistas like those in Ojinaga, and he did not believe this attack was a coincidence, because he did not believe in such things. It had been a lesson for him alone.
A declaration of war.
He bent down in front of the bus driver, feeling not only age in his knees but something worse: he’d been sick for months now and had said nothing to anyone, although Gualterio suspected. His legs trembled and his arms were weak and there was a dull pain all the way to his groin, but he wanted, needed, to look this man in the eye.
He coughed, spit, and Gualterio, in respect, looked away.
“I’m going to ask you questions, my friend. Many, many questions. And you are going to answer them all. Not because you want to, or because you believe you will live when I’m done, because you will not, and it is important that you know that. I will not give you that false hope. If you answer truthfully, quickly, you will die honorably. Your wife and your two daughters will never lack for anything again. I will see to that. They will be able to say your name proudly. But if you lie or deny, if you try to protect those who did this thing, then you will die painfully. I will have these men here rape and kill your wife, the mother of your children. Then your oldest daughter will be whored out on the streets in Culiacán, and your youngest will be sold to another man I know in Camargo, to do as he wishes. He is a pervertido. He makes movies, I think. Horrible, horrible movies that decent men cannot stomach. These are not threats or promises, but simple truths. The only truth. Do you believe me?”
The bus driver started crying, whining like an old dog, but nodded. His whole body shook as if electric current ran through it, and he pissed himself again. It was a high, ripe scent. Agrio. Juan Abrego had seen this all before. Terror now held the man close in her skeletal arms, whispering in his ears, saying things Juan Abrego did not have to.