Beautiful Sacrifice

granted, he saw nothing out of place. Nothing to make his neck tingle.
    Maybe we left that behind in the U.S., he thought.
    But he wasn’t going to bet Lina’s life on it.
    “See the café two buildings down and across the street?” Hunter asked.
    “Yes. They have good pibil . At least they did the last time I was here.”
    “I wouldn’t have guessed it was your kind of place.”
    Lina tucked a stray bit of hair behind her ear. She had twisted the heavy mass on top of her head and held it with a worn silver clip from her purse. “I was feeling adventurous, but not enough to actually eat inside. I got my pibil to go.”
    “Get a table toward the center. That way I’ll be able to keep an eye on you.”
    “Where will you be?”
    “Wherever Rodrigo is, usually near the back exit.”
    Lina chewed on that while she crossed the street and went into the café. Small, sturdy tables and people to match. She took a scrap of a table toward the center.
    Ten steps after her, Hunter walked in. He saw Lina and Rodrigo in the same sweeping glance. As expected, Rodrigowas in a dark corner. Not that darkness was difficult to find—after the tropical sunlight outside, the café looked like a cave.
    A shrine overflowing with offerings of liquor and flowers filled one corner of the bar. The shrine looked a lot fresher than anything else in the café.
    The interior lights hadn’t been turned on, probably to help the patrons ignore the dirt and flies. A weak glimmer of light marked the video jukebox screen. The music was a mix of urban Mexican pop and songs glorifying narco traffickers.
    Rodrigo was slumped over a row of empty shot glasses and a small pile of lime rinds, squeezed and scavenged for every drop of juice. A stubby unlit candle waited on his table amid salt scattered from tequila glasses. An empty bottle of Herradura lay on its side next to the candle.
    Without a word, Hunter dragged a vacant chair over and sat next to Rodrigo at the scarred table, where the view of both exits was clear.
    “I told you not to come,” Rodrigo said in a soft, slurred voice.
    “And I told you I was coming anyway.”
    Hunter palmed two hundred-dollar bills and gave them to Rodrigo under the table.
    “If your info is useful, there’s more,” Hunter said.
    “That’s why I’m here, for now. I’m flying out tonight. Adios, Yucatan. I’ll come back when the crazies go away.”
    “What’s with the shrine in the back corner?” Hunter asked.
    Rodrigo stared at the dark blue tequila bottle lying on its side. “Ask the crazies.”
    “You’re the one I’m talking to.” And you’re the one I just laid two bills on.
    Rodrigo looked up from the bottle. Even in the gloom, his eyes were red. “All the old demons are coming out of thejungle. All those old stories people don’t believe until they see the blood and then they believe or die.”
    “Narcos?” Hunter asked.
    The other man slowly shook his head. Gloomy light slid like oil over his ragged beard, which looked more accidental than a deliberate statement of manhood.
    “You really going to Tulum like you said yesterday?” Rodrigo asked.
    “Why?”
    “Bad shit going down there. Worse than here.”
    “Who’s behind it?” Hunter asked.
    “Dead men don’t talk. I’m playing dead.”
    “For two bills, get a little life.”
    Hunter watched Lina from the corner of his eye. She was chatting with the waitress. Both women were animated, smiling. Lina lit up the room like a fire, but the people who had watched her when she walked in were back to shoving food in their mouths.
    Rodrigo stirred uneasily and stared back at the tequila bottle, a kind of pretense. If he didn’t meet Hunter’s eyes, he wasn’t really talking to him.
    “There are fires at night,” the Mexican said. “Big fires in the jungles. People going missing. Parts of people showing up later.”
    “Q Roo cartel? Narcos?”
    Sighing, Rodrigo shook his head like he was mourning the empty tequila bottle. “Those temple sites outside of Tulum that I told you about? The ones that were gonna make me and my compadres rich?”
    Hunter shrugged. Rodrigo and his buddies always had a get-rich plan. And he always ended up looking at the bottom of a tequila bottle in some dive.
    “Yeah. So?” Hunter asked.
    “They are all dead. Hearts cut out, blue palm prints on their bodies. They were cut up, man. Cut. Up.”
    For the first time, Hunter realized that Rodrigo’s numb stare came from more than tequila. He had