Savior (10 page)

Come with me.

I. . .

She shrugged and began to move away. Ricky followed, catching up to her side. They took the escalator to the second floor, and she held a door open for him that led through to the departure lounge and a restaurant called El Grano de Oro. There were two Asian men drinking martinis and watching the television screen above the bar, which showed models on a runway in long dresses and high heels. The Delta girl sat with him at a table and ordered without seeing the menu when the waiter appeared.

You like estek?

Yes. Fine.

Un lomito
, Carlos. Y trae tambien una ensalada mixta.
For drink?

A beer is fine.

Beer? You are too young.

No. It's fine.

Okay.
Una Imperial, Carlos. No, mejor
dos.

They ate mostly in silence. She was hungry and barely glanced up from the food. Ricky studied the movement of her hands, the set of her eyes, trying hard to decipher her motives for feeding him.
She seemed unfazed by his appearance, the smoky smell in his hair and the gash on his chin. It was as if she knew him, and this perplexed him instead of reassuring him.

Very good?

Yes, delicious.

She nodded. Then raising her glass to her lips, she smiled with her eyes in a way that seemed to melt an inner core of resolve. It was funny. He wanted to see more of that look.

Your father. Where he is? Really.

Really? I don't know.

You have nowhere to go.

No.

It's okay. She smiled again, drank the rest of the beer.

Do you want some more?

No.

She motioned for Carlos and took a credit card from the bag in her lap. She reminded him of his mother in the way she handled money officiously and without fear. She stood, buttoning her blue uniform jacket and wiping away the crumbs on her skirt. Ricky pushed back in the chair. He had no choice. He was going to follow her.

On the escalator, Ricky surveyed the airport lounge below. Some passengers milled around the door, but otherwise the floor was empty. She turned around.

You stay with me and, in the morning we, eh, find him, okay?

All right.

How was she going to find his father? It seemed like a long shot, but at least it was a promise of something, which was better than anything else he could think of. Then he spotted him, the man from the beach, Robert Newman. He was in a pod of men in suits walking swiftly across the floor towards the exit. It had to be him
, even though he looked different without his swimming suit and his hair was slicked in a comb-over across the top of his head; something about his bowlegged, large-bellied stride gave him away. Ricky was sure. He leapt down the escalator past the Delta woman.

Wait! She yelled after him, grabbing at his pack. She almost took it off him, but he whirled and managed to bat her arm away. She was surprisingly agile. Ricky jumped the last ten steps and landed in a crouch. He turned and saw her waving frantically. Guards appeared at the end of the hall and began to move towards the escalator. Ricky sprinted and caught up to the knot of men as they approached the exit. He stopped in front of Newman, blocking his way. Newman, red-faced at the sight of him, cleared his throat as if he were choking, barely managing to get the words out.

You. What do you think you're doing?

I need to talk to you, Mr. Newman. I'm in a whole lot of trouble and my Dad.
. .

Your Dad is in even bigger trouble.

The popping of bullet fire sounded. Newman ducked. Five of the men pulled revolvers and started firing back in different directions. At the same time, one of them grabbed Ricky and pulled him out the door. They made a run for a limo pulled up to the curb.

Get in, said Newman, shoving his head down
and in through the open door as if he was under arrest. The limo lurched forward with the screech of rubber. Ricky looked around through the back slit of window. Another long, black car was in back. As they rounded the corner, there was more gunfire and then they were out on the main road to Guatemala City, weaving through the traffic.

Newman was on the cell phone.
Get out to the highway as fast as you can. They're likely to block the toll road. I've got the boy.

He put the cell phone away.

Newman turned to him and breathed deeply to regain his calm.

That was a team coming in to investigate the death of one of our local agents, Noah Hipps. I'm thinking you might know what happened to him.

How do you know he's dead?

His body was found this morning dumped on the beach outside of San Jose.

Anybody else?

No.

Ricky let out an audible sigh.

Was your Dad with him?

Ricky nodded. And Evelio Duarte.

Newman checked an open laptop on the seat beside him, scanning through some files.

Nope. Nothing on Evelio Duarte. We know about your Dad, though. Both of you had transponders placed on you while you were at the hotel. So we know where your Dad is. He's a prisoner of the LSM in their Canadian base.

What?

Listen. I'm going to give you an injection of this Midazolam. It's a short term sedative. It's going to knock you out. You can use the sleep. Trust me.

Ricky objected and tried to resist, but
Newman produced a syringe from a briefcase he laid out on the seat on top of the laptop, and then he proceeded to hold Ricky's shoulder while sticking the syringe in his leg right through the pants. In the first few seconds Ricky experienced a pleasant sensation of his anxiety level dropping way down. Then he was out.

Nine
—Chagnon

I'm breathing slowly in and out. I'm stringing one breath after another in a prayer chain. I'm thinking hard, focusing my mind on an image of Ricky. My son is fine. He is strong. I know it. Because he is good. And good will always triumph over evil. This is my faith. It is strong. I am strong. But when I hear the train overhead, a chill runs through me.

Maybe he will come today. Not my son. I'm talking Samael Chagnon. It has been many days and I do not miss him. Even so, the toxins he brings strengthen me. The stink of his words gives me the slightest purchase on life, better than the sheer nothingness of solitary imprisonment. The foulness of his ideas sharpens my mind. It is enough to go on. And worth the pain he brings in his wake. I have a high tolerance for pain, especially when I feel myself sinking closer to death. It is a fine line. This is how I demarcate it, one breath after another. Walking that line. But without that shock of contact with the death force of Chagnon, I am unmoored, floating in this sea of blackness. This is an ultimate sort of pain beyond pain, the despair of a wasted breath, a meaningless life that is not worth pursuing down the rat hole of what my mind is in danger of becoming.

The train rolls by again, like a corner of the world coming unhinged. My head is bursting with pulsating waves of pain. I hear my name. He's here again. The guard unbolts the door. I try to open my eyes to the light, but the pain is too much. A short, stoutish figure in a hooded sweatshirt, like a medieval monk, silhouetted by the light, walks in. Next to him are the two guards with shaved heads, black shirts and loose fitting pants who accompany him always, unquestioning, muscular loyalty, the cream of the
Santos Muertos
, barrio warriors from Tegucigalpa to Las Lomas. With nonchalant inattention, as if I were a sack of inert matter, they strap me down, pinning my arms and legs to the rough mat with rubber ligaments.

Mr. Lyons. Good evening for you, sir.

His voice is melodious. He is in good spirits. I never know what sets his moods. It is like a cypher of the world, a reverse polarization. I may be reading too much into it.

I can see you are happy to see me.

Not at all. My voice is raspy.

Why are you such an angry man? Have you been hurt?

That's a silly question. You obviously don't care about my pain.

The executioner must still be concerned about the prisoner’s well being. After all, we are, how you say, humanitarian.

That's an insult. Humanity would spit you out in disgust. You have no conception of the word.

You should perhaps be more careful of your words.

I will not.

We will enjoy your silence in the right time. But that is not for you to know. It is like Jesus said. Not even He must know the final hour. But we know yours. Believe that. He laughs, a snarling sort of laugh.

I don't know why you keep me here. I obviously don't have the information you are after. Why don't you just kill me? That would clearly give you pleasure and spare me the pain of listening and seeing you. A win-win situation or are you not interested in winning, Chagnon?

Our victory is ripe and ready to harvest. We have already won. We are waiting for the worms to finish you off from within. You are the man sentenced to die and waiting for the execution to come. The fear hardens your flesh and freezes your heart.

You have no idea about my heart.

It is not your heart. The mother, our saint of death made it for us. That is your only purpose. You are food for us, Mr. Lyons.

Chagnon, seriously. If you have any mercy you will give me a window. Somewhere to see the light. I'm afraid I'm losing my mind. I have the worst sort of dreams. I don't know if I'm asleep or I'm awake. It's intolerable. For the love of God, please.

He approaches the board I am strapped down on. He stares hard at me, his eyes little pinpricks of hate in the dim light from the open door. The guards rustle outside, cursing in Spanish. Our conversation bores them. They are anxious for Chagnon to get on with the show. I want to keep Chagnon talking for as long as I can. His words are a source of strength in some perverted way. I spend days turning over the things he's said, thinking of retorts, looking for the flaws in his logic, the telltale signs of a crackpot, delusionary world view. His men think he is a demigod. I am convinced he is a very human charlatan in devil's garb. My good fortune is that he loves the sound of words, especially his own. It is almost as good as shooting up for him, and in me he literally has a captive audience. I can use the situation to my advantage if I play the ground game right.

He turns and stares out the door. Then he starts.

The love of God is just a concept. I will tell you a story. It is about a man. Let us call him Y. Y is born into a good family. He studies hard and does as his parents wish. He wins a scholarship and studies in the greatest universities and learns the secrets of the science of the day and is dedicated to his work. He marries his childhood sweetheart and they have a son. Then one day he returns to his country and is horrified by the condition
s in which common people live, the slaves of the world. Y retreats to a mountainside, a hermit's life, and discovers that he is called to a different path, the Via Negativa. It is path of resistance, of maladaptation, of leading a revolution for the poor. But truly a revolution that requires a new morality, a new man, like Nietzsche’s.

Okay. Yeah. I have no idea why you're telling me this.

Well, you see he is a good man. Y is a believer in the love, as you say, of God. But then he discovers through his, how you say, research that God was seeking a man with a new prayer, a prayer for justice, for revenge. But the world does not understand. It must be destroyed. Do you understand me, Mr. Lyons?

I can't understand that kind of hate.

What do you think Y must do?

Pray. For forgiveness, for understanding, and for mercy in the hereafter.

There is no here or after for him or for you, Mr. Lyons. There is no such god that listens to the prayers of the good man. There is only power and the authority of a bankrupt law that can no longer hold us back from our triumph.

Even strapped to the board I can move my head. I stare as hard as I can, and I think he's looked away, but it is only momentary. He is back in my face in the next second.

What do you call triumph? I ask.

You have nothing. No idea. I don't know why I waste my, how you say
, breath on you. You are correct. If I simply kill you it will be better.

He paces the room uneasily, something bothering him. It is like he needs my approval before he sets out to destroy me. My instinct is to tease it out, continue to resist. Now he has me interested
.

I bet it's s
ome kind of crackpot grand design you've got cooking. Isn't it?

He turns and marches back to the side of the bed.

It is a grand design. I will not lie to you. We are beside the portals of space and time. Once we have the code of the Chocomal, there will be nothing to stop us. No world government, no power to match the
Santos Muertos
. Not even death. We will roam the galaxies forever and take up our true destiny as the Lords of the Universe. Then we will have our enemies. They are destined for our slaves for the rest of eternity. If you are smart you will join us.

Join you? Is that an offer?

I have always told you, Mr. Lyons. Tell us the code and we will release you and make you one of our riders, one of the
Caballeros
of the
Santa Muerte
.

I can't help myself and begin to laugh. Loud, rolling belly laughs that I can't hold back. The guards
step from the wall outside where they have been crouching. I can see their dim shapes come nearer, waiting for Chagnon's word to crush me with the rubber flails they carry on their belts. They stop just short of breaking my bones, but leave me with deep bruises that keep me immobilized for days. My laughter stops. Chagnon lights a cigarette. I smell the smoke of his exhalation. I haven't smoked for about thirty years; I quit one day, worried about my health, and took up jogging to please Mary. The thought of her cleans my mind of superfluity. Someday I will die, but not just yet.

You have much to learn, little man. Much to learn.

Chagnon snaps his fingers and the guards stand and tighten the rubber straps, almost cutting off my circulation. I wish I could pass out. When they have left and closed the creaking metal door, the room is again plunged into total darkness.
              Chagnon. A window, please, I shout, before drowning out my thoughts with loud, involuntary, sheep-like cries of anguish. He has left, and once again I have nothing except the ghosts of my past dancing before my eyes. I can't even move, immobilized by the straps around my arms and legs. Outside, in the halls, I can hear the screams of other prisoners in similar cells. I wonder how many people here are at their mercy. It is some kind of prison camp, but there seems to be a logic of sadism that drives their use of torture. That kind of evil cannot be sustainable, I think; but in my heart I know they are just the words a man tells himself as a comfort in desperation.

Later, hours later, maybe the same day, maybe the next morning, there's no way to know, he is back with the guards. This time they march in methodically, rolling in the gurney
with the board and the tank for a session under the lamps. I know what is coming, but it is no use breathing to calm myself. I am hyperventilating with fear when they strap me down on the dunking board.

You are a bastard, Chagnon. You said this was done. There's nothing more to get from me.

Your son has the tablet.

Ricky? You better not touch him. I swear I'll haunt you from the grave if you do.

Immediately I am plunged into the water. My arms struggle against the straps, and I hold out as long as I can with my chest convulsing, my heart pounding. When they spin the board up I am not conscious of anything but the air filling my lungs and trying to gain an edge on the moment when they will spin me back down. It is war and I cannot win, but I cannot give up either. Two, three times I go down, and then on the fourth I black out and feel myself go under as I breathe a bolt of water into my chest. Then I am on the floor, shivering in the black, the train rushing over my head, my face covered in vomit. I turn over onto my knees and think hard, trying to remember where I am. I grope across the floor until I find my bucket and vomit again into it. Two new guards march in and carry me down the hall to the shower, where I wash out the bucket and wash myself under the steaming water. It is meant to revive, to keep me alive for more punishment. How long can this go on? I want to die and will figure out a way to cheat Chagnon of the pleasure if I can. That is my only hope now. It is a despairing one, but what can God expect from a man near drowned every day?

I don't know what I am thinking, but am grateful for the guards as they sit in the hall and smoke cigarettes, giving me all the time in the world under the water and the fluorescent lights. There is no mirror, but I see myself in the chrome surround of the shower stall. I look cadaverous, bloodshot eyes sunken into the sockets. But still, it's me and I'm alive. That's reassuring. I am not so easy to knock off.

The guards walk me back and do not tie my hands behind my back. They pause outside the hatch to the cave. I look one in the eye. He stares back unblinking, some kind of recognition.

Cigarette? I ask.

He smiles and taps one out of the pack.

Marlboro? I ask.

Yes, says the guard. Very good cigarette.

He lights it for me. The other guard laughs nervously. If Chagnon could see this he would not be happy. Consorting with the prisoner. He is either brave or foolish. Probably the latter.

Yes, it is. I say. Very good.

You must go inside.

Okay. Thank you.
Gracias, señores
. I wave the cigarette and take another long drag into my lungs. The pleasure of the nicotine combined with the shower making me clean is too intense for words. It is like an out-of-body experience. It is not me feeling this comfort. I don't want to go back into the cell.

Inside now, says the guard, the older one. He opens the hatch and they each grab an arm.

No, no, I say. I can do it alone. Hands off, please.

I get down on my knees and crawl back into the darkness of hell. They throw the bucket in after me. It hits my legs as I stand back up. The guards laugh and clamp the press, locking the hatch.

Cabron de la puta madre. . .

The last sliver of light disappears, and I try to remember the particular slant of it across the doorframe with my eyes wide open. But there is nothing, and soon the memory fades, and I am alone in the night with only my real memories. Ricky, my son, wherever you are, be careful. Chagnon knows you have the tablet.