The Children of the Wolf



  The

  Children

  of

  the

  Wolf

  by

  Karl Tutt

  Copyright Karl Tutt 2015

  All rights reserved without limiting the copyright reserved above. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, brands, characters, places, media and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which might have been used without permission. The publication use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Thanks to Carolyn, my patient reader, and Sue, an editor who is generous with her time and attention.

  Chapter One

  Bartolomieu was a strange name for a Mexican guy --- his mother, long gone, God bless her --- her had been Portuguese. Anyway, Bart’s Bebida Mexicano was a good name for the bar he owned --- or at least what the thugs allowed him to own. He’d been lucky. On Tuesdays, the gang bangers came around. He paid them the going rate for protection, and mostly kept the junkies and the hookers out of his place. A few of the regulars even felt comfortable bringing their kids in to play Foosball or pool while the adults soaked up cold cerveza, or the shots of Cuervo Gold, watched soccer, and sometimes sang along with the Hispanic tunes that filled the jukebox.

  That didn’t mean that Pepe and Maria Elena were allowed near the place. He was simply afraid. In his mind, kids and booze just didn’t mix --- not anytime, anyplace. Both of them had barely survived a tough time after their mother’s death. She was darkly beautiful, intelligent, but the thing that defined her was her devotion and unqualified love for her children.

  Pepe had just turned ten. He was confused, but soccer, baseball, and a budding awareness of young girls on the edge of blossoming, dominated his young consciousness. Maria Elena was a different story.

  At twelve, she had just started her period. Her breasts were quietly exploding and the hips were taking a feminine shape that earned sly looks from the older boys at school.

  They’d all watched while Estrella, Bart’s very own star, his wife of fifteen years, had faded --- the TB ravaging her body and finally her mind. She shrank, and they all shrank with her. He heard the death rattle in her throat, watched the blood bubble from her lips while the doctors simply shook their heads, and the nurses made the sign of the cross over their breasts.

  He didn’t realize all that was happening at the time. He was consumed with grief, guilt, and a paralyzing fear that he tried to keep below the surface. He simply couldn’t face a life without Estrella. He cursed himself for his ignorance. The real victim was his girl, Maria Elena. A light in her life had become a shadow, lost in the black clouds that he hoped were not her future. The child, the one who needed her even more, had adored her mother. And now that love ---- that salvation and deliverance --- was gone . . . buried in a cold metal box beneath six feet of gray, moldy, sand.

  Maria Elena had disappeared before --- a day or two --- but he’d found her at the home of friends, seeking some sort of solace and comfort in families that were still whole. They’d been kind. One even volunteered to take her in until she had healed. But there was no balm in Gilead . . . . nothing that could close up the black hole in her being. It had now been four days. Bart had searched, but now he was frantic. He didn’t expect help in Tijuana, from the police or anyone else. The corruption was rampant, and it was simply that he often felt nobody cared. He decided to make the call.