Caged: Retribution
Chapter 10
Téa jerked awake to the noise of a truck's horn and shot up… finding herself beneath the linens, still naked, hair wild. Seeing an empty room.
No, no, no!
She'd fallen asleep against every effort to stay alert, to make sure Todd didn't leave because she needed TIME to get him to see reason in the light of day, she needed isolation with him, and now... God damn it! Huffing in a kind of panic, she scanned the room again and again. The one balcony door yawned open, sunlight pouring through. Ivory marred walls and old furniture still hinted at secrets. And ancient dark rugs echoing Persia littered the beaten hardwood floor, unmoved. Same as before, just the same.
But the green robe had been picked up and slung over a chair. The leftover food, cold coffee, and tray were gone. No clothes anywhere. The door was… no, no, no … unlatched. She collapsed back on the bed, cursing hard in Spanish under her breath, on the edge of frustrated tears. She had him, she had him right where he needed to be… he had come to her... and ran anyway. Headed back to MK hell again, headed, hands down, no question, to deadly retribution.
"God damn you!" she cried aloud.
Well, he left her no choice now. He wanted to play it this way? Fine! She'll spill his plan to Benicio Juarez who'd waste no time in arresting and deporting him. No way was she going to sit around. Hell no. Todd would hate her... again. But at least he'd be alive for a while longer. Maybe a prison cell was what he needed.
"What the hell is wrong with you?! God DAMN-"
"Who you cussin' out?"
She flew up at his voice, holding the sheet to her chest, seeing him poke his head out of the bathroom door before making his way to her and the relief was like cold water after a run in hundred-degree weather, squared. Half-laughing, half-not, she said, "Oh amor, I thought you left. You didn't... you didn't."
"So you cussed me out."
"That I did," she said.
She almost laughed fully at the disastrous yet glorious hung-over sight of him, then didn't at all. Messed silver-tinged hair that so needed a cut, dark shadows beneath his light eyes, that thick beard, a hanging cock rooted in a messy nest of brown curls, and all that ink-decorated musculature, walking his walk. She noted every flaw, every imperfection. Such maddening beauty in the ugly. His expression was, as always, a blend, no single emotion discernible. Moody eyes on hers, cautious, curious, wanting what he wasn't permitted to have. Once again, she was looking at the mangy feral cat from Sixteenth Street. She saw him the night before, picking at the food. And cats… are skittish.
He slipped into the covers next to her, but avoided touching her. He lay on his side, head resting on a hand, elbow on the bed. So much in that heavy stare. Téa matched his pose, rolling onto her side, head on her hand.
"Morning," he said.
"Hey," she said back.
The cat, the cat. How fast they run when spooked. The fact that he was still here was a gift. A fucking gift, as he'd say.
"You okay?" she asked.
"I don't know," he murmured.
All night she tried to figure an approach to keep him safe. To keep him, period. She thought of tying him up, forcing reason on him. She'd done that once to stop him from using heroin. She had thought of arrest. Let Juarez deal. She considered every possible way to stop him once she realized he was here to say goodbye before blowing himself up along with a ton of pedophiles. But now at the sight of the Sixteenth Street cat sticking around for another bite of kibble, she had to reassess. She breathed, thought eggshells, baby, dancing on eggshells.
She chewed on her lip, eying him. She almost cried. I'm immortal, she heard him say a hundred times, but he wasn't, was he? That was the thing with the shooting - not once did she believe Todd would die. It was never… real. This felt different. Truth was, she had absolutely NO idea how to save him without locking him up.
Please, please, please… open the fuckin' door.
"I was dreaming we were home," he said, not lying, yet not explaining how deep into another reality he had gone in sleep.
It had been paradise.
He had been in bed with Téa at their Llanview house with the wrap-around porch and the forest in the backyard and he knew Lucia was going to come barrelling into the room, jealous because Reese was already in bed with them. And Reese, oh his baby boy, was so warm, tucked tightly in between them. He smelled good in those lavender-scented sheets and so did Téa with her sleep-sweat he found intoxicating. He had been holding her hand and was mad that the damn street noise was going to wake them up. When he tried, he found he couldn't stretch his legs because Abram was on the bed, too. And he knew he was smiling at the delicious peaceful chaos that was going to come.
But mostly, he was relieved that the hell had been nothing but a nightmare...
When he opened his eyes, he was so confused because everything was wrong, no Reese, no Lucia… no familiar windows or bedding or nighttables… and then reality crashed in on him. The nightmare was REAL, the dream wasn't. The shooting, Caro, MK, had all happened… he wasn't home and most likely was never going to be there again. Oh my god, oh my fucking god, he was in la Habana and he found himself sobbing so hard he couldn't breathe so he stumbled out of bed, carefully stumbled so he wouldn't wake his Téa, and huddled in the quietly-locked bathroom until he could stop the crying jag. The shock of reality had been just like Statesville only Cuba was the fuckin' prison now, and he had a solution… she had no idea, sleeping like an angel, like a child… he dug into his jeans drying on the counter and in the pocket was a tiny package of dope that hadn't been lost to the rain, that he got off an MK man at the club, a small package that got shoved into his hand in thanks for all the GREAT things he'd done here in Cuba. How had they known he had a weakness for that shit? Oh who cares. The fuck does it matter. He tore open the package and sniffed just enough to take the edge off being alive, of not being home, just enough to drift in the dusky morning and he hated that he had done that because it would only make him sick. But that's what he did in prison, yeah, to ease his reality. Cuba was just another fucking prison, yeah? He saw this now, clear as fucking day. Rico completed the picture.
He carefully returned the heroin bag to his jeans pocket.
God is crying, Delgado, can you feel it?
His eyes were on hers and they swam and Téa sighed heavily, reaching for him, touching his beard, the purpled shadows beneath his eyes, as he murmured a half-truth, "I was disappointed when… the kids weren't here."
"I'm sorry," she said.
He didn't talk a moment or two. Eyes solid on her. He touched her shoulder, running fingertips down her arm, the barest of touches, as if… he was afraid to break her. "You're fucking me up, Delgado."
"Was I part of your dream?"
He nodded, then whispered a pained, "Yes. The star of the show."
She shivered and he adjusted the covers, pulling them up around her shoulder. A tender, thoughtful thing… the way he'd be on a Saturday morning when they woke before the children and talked of meaningless things and it was cold in the room, and he'd do just that. Téa ached at it. A nothing-move but a jab to her heart. Her husband. The sun was out yet offered no real warmth.
She inched closer to him. "I shouldn't have… we shouldn't have… this was too much, too soon. Too many things are undecided… you're…" Grief was all over him, a childlike hurt that still surprised her, a fragility that played against his entire physical being. Thick intimidating armor, don't-fuck-with-me all on the outside but inside he was so... delicate. China tea cups in a windstorm. She didn't finish her sentence. She inched closer still, the two sharing a pillow now. He held onto her with light eyes… so open now, so truthful, yet she had no idea what caused his deep sorrow.
"I'm adrift, yeah? I have this plan and… I gotta see it through. It's the only way. You say let the law work, but it won't. It can't. It's gotta be done, Téa. You can't fix this with a courtroom, or prison..." He glanced over her, out the doors, into the light, a dark energy suddenly reverberating throughout him. His voice rumbled and his shoulders tensed up along with his fist and there was the slightest tremble of the silver-brown locks…and there, on his face, was a mad mix of terror and hate and a determination that seemed unstoppable.
"They need to be... eradicated."
Téa breathed out sharply. How fast he disappeared into the hell. She knew he saw ghosts at the edges of the room, hands reaching for him. He'd described it like that when she'd surprised him in Sylvia's house… when his mind fragmented and Rico and Raquel were desperately trying to calm him… They're on the floor, they're coming for me, they're going to kill me… I SEE THEM! Caro, the world he created, the killings… and of course… Peter Manning and everything he had done to an innocent child. Such evil. She pressed his cheek, her other hand up, too, smoothing his beard, saying, 'It's okay… I know… they're not here, mí amor, it's just me."
He drew his gaze back to her and his features eased, leaving only that same haunted look she'd seen on Rico. He nodded to her… holding onto her again without touching her. Had they been at sea and had she been in the one boat and he in the water… he'd have stayed with her, just with that look. She felt it as strong as an actual touch. She smiled a little and he nodded again, closing his eyes for a few seconds and relaxing back on the bed.
She ventured a little push. "Why adrift? You seem sure of what needs to happen. You are...immovable. Right?"
He pulled his hair out of his face with both hands and let his arms fall to the side like they were too heavy to hold up. "Because I slept all night and didn't dream the bad shit, didn't see… them." He roamed the room, eyes all over, remembering where they'd been. Home. He'd been safe, they had all been so safe. "You're the only one who can do that." He watched out the windows for a moment or two, murmuring, "Sometimes."
Téa pressed her forehead to his shoulder, knowing the "sometimes" was everything. She wasn't enough, never had been, never would be. The "sometimes" was the one unlocked door to the monsters, the one open window, the final ten meters in a chase out in the open to safety. It wasn't bad… it just was. She could not be EVERYTHING. So he had to go the rest of the way alone and when it came to the hell, his fight with the ghosts was rough. Violent. Deadly. He had deeply settled on how to resolve the hurts. The law couldn't even come close to what he needed to do for his closure.
"Todd…"
He pushed his mouth against hers, not gently, a hand on her neck, bringing her to him. A full, desperate embrace. Not letting her talk. He reached around her and pressed her hard against his body, making Téa gasp. Jesus, she was nothing in his arms, in his hold of her… the kiss was deep and heated, instantly pulling Téa into the sexual arena. She slammed a hand on the mattress to give herself strength against his force, no time to speak, no time to reason with him. It WAS too much, it WAS too soon… there was so much… to… talk about…
Frenzied, he shoved the sheets away and slipped down in between her legs and spread her wide and suddenly... he slowed the movements… pressing his cheek to the soft opening to the core of her. He turned his face and nuzzled her, seeming to breathe her in as he closed his eyes and lived in that space for some seconds before her turned back and kissed her, suckled at her, pulling Téa far far away from Havana, from their issues, from the future or the past… and she let him do that to her.
Kibble… she thought.
She swayed her hips against his mouth as she reached down to touch his hair, feeling tangled strands, complex like their lives, and wrapped a leg around his back. He held her by her ass, fingers tight against her skin, his tongue teasing her and sliding inside of her and he slowed and sped up and slowed again. His heavy hand ghosted up her belly and landed on her breast and played with her nipple and it lit her up more. Mostly… he watched her. Hazel eyes glimmered just above the bubble of Esperanza inside of her, holding her like earlier, a gaze so thick she could touch the threads of it.
"What you do to me," she moaned, holding the hand that loved her breast, knowing her eyes suddenly filled, and then no words came as he inserted one finger, two, adding to the manipulation by his tongue… and Téa let herself sink into the blackness surrounding her as she disappeared into the sensations he was giving her, and she tightened her leg on him, suddenly and keenly aware of the feel of his beard on the tender skin of her inner thigh, warm and masculine and making her want to get closer to him. She kneaded his shoulders and moved her other leg onto him, too, hooking him in, heels digging into his back. She heard the noise she made and her brain said this was the last thing they should be doing, not with so much on the line, but he was too far into his desire to pleasure her she couldn't stop, couldn't break the track they were on.
"Oh god… oh god…oh god," escaped from her parted lips, and she looked at those eyes again and could see the barest narrowing into what she knew was a satisfied smile and his movements got more focused on exactly the parts he knew, exactly the rhythm he knew, and he didn't stop, no, no, he kept going until Téa was squeezing him and pulling at his hair, breathing out Spanish and English… and calling his name, Todd… Todd, her head back on the mattress because she'd thrown the pillow away. She pressed her core against his mouth, hungrily now, urging his fingers to go deeper... finally holding him still as the waves shot through her, throttling her… and then, held him more, as the madness finally began to subside…
When the frenzy cleared she pulled him up and held him tight to her and tried hard to not cry at his giving her that… taking nothing… just wanting to-
"I love you, Delgado… permanently, forever… please know that."
"Don't… don't talk… just fuck me."
She kissed him ferociously at that, biting, demanding kisses, angry, hateful, resentful kisses, feeling his body all over, touching every line, every bit of ink and scar and they rolled over and over in the bed, sheets wrapping and unwrapping and soon she was on her side and he entered her from behind, stretching her, opening her, holding her hip as he fucked her like she said, getting her to moan louder than was appropriate… fuck her like she wanted, both knowing this wouldn't do anything to derail his plans, because this was not the thing that set him adrift, but neither cared…. they just needed to be here because this was part of the dream. And Téa was reminded of his post-prison days… he was focused and needy and watching her… and when he came, he was quiet and not breathing through it, wet heat filling her as he stayed flush on her, his mouth on her neck, his whole weight on her back, along the length of her body. God, such heat. She reached behind her and caressed his head as he sucked the tender skin on her neck, sucked it until she knew she'd be marked.
"God, I love you," she said through the pain.
He remained inside her and she could feel there was no lessening of his flesh… so then, like those days when he first came home, one fuck wasn't enough, one after the other, he turned her over and fucked her just as hard because he needed to come again, only this time he was in her arms, on top of her, face buried in her neck, holding her almost too tightly, noisy to the point where she could hear the cracks in his voice, cracking with mad need to be HERE with her, and then he was wracked by the spasms of the second time, clawing at her, like he couldn't get close enough to her, that seeming desire to disappear into her, and she found herself saying, "Okay, okay, it's okay…"
And it was in that mad lingering need that Téa looked into his eyes and saw what she hadn't noticed before, cheeks between her hands. She smiled sadly as he finally cooled and finally caught his breath, and she said…
"You're high…"
And he lay heavily on her, a hand caressing her swollen belly. "The dream… killed me, Téa. I'm sorry... fucking sorry. It wasn't much, just enough to let me stay here. Threw the rest out."
He lied about tossing the dope and they both knew it.
"God damnit," she sighed.
They lay in each other's arms for a long time, their whole selves intertwined and Téa thought they could die this way. No food, no water. How badly they did not want to move. They both knew the morning was ticking away, the day calling to them, and yet they ignored the clamoring reality. They didn't dare separate, sweating even, the humidity of La Habana filling the room. Téa held him tight, tighter, because she was out of talk, knowing no other way to even begin to try to keep him with her.
Talk seemed so… useless.
Ken McNair looked up at Sylvia's two-story house, the place pretty and European and inviting and painted white, neatly kept shrubbery along both sides of the house. Planters overflowed with tropical flowers. He stood at the back door, the door Jedediah had told him was Todd's usual come-and-go spot. Ken glanced up and down the back alley. Comfortable place. Convenient. Todd had broken all sorts of Cuban laws by paying Sylvia for the place to stay empty of all other guests, renting the entire place by the week. Casas de particular could not be rented that way, but he did it anyway and Sylvia took the money anyway.
Jed was back at the hotel, stewing and tormented and pissed off as usual.
"I'm fucking leaving!"
Kid had probably said that every day since they arrived, but then the bags stayed unpacked and he remained Cuba's guest. He could never quite let go of his father, he could never quite give up. They talked about next steps. They'd learned about Rico's parentage, his true nationality: American. Time had come to share that information and Ken took it on. He also decided the law should go to Rico rather than force him to tell his horrors outside a place where he'd gotten comfortable. He imagined the hotel room with all those computers and camera eyes would be discouraging, scary even. Plus, waiting for Todd Manning wasn't working. Things had to move forward. Benicio Juarez made sure they all knew that. Cop had stormed into Ken's room demanding a plan on how to end this operation and in doing so, he expressed a little frustration at the Mad King of the Mambo Kings…
"Who does that faggot think he is to fuck around with me?! With my FUCKING operation!"
Poor choice of words.
Jed flew off the bed where he'd been working out his hate in a journal and slammed hard hands into the cop, the guy flying back into all the computer shit on the desk after which the kid landed one hell of a Manning punch on Juarez's face and Juarez… he was no pendejo. He felt that punch and immediately realized Todd's flesh and blood had been in the room and calling that boy's father a faggot had been a profoundly insensitive move, but he was talking faggot as in ineffective… and had been talking like the fifty-year-old well-worn non-politically correct cop he was. The man then turned the tables on Jed and got him in a solid chokehold, growling indisputable truths:
"I'm sorry, kid, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way… I'm so sorry. But if you hit me again, I will fucking throw you out of this fucking window and I assure you, the pavement in Cuba is the same as the pavement in fucking America. M'entiendes?"
So yeah… forward movement had to be made, Manning or no Manning, so Ken decided he would pay Rico Macias a visit. He'd meet this kid one-on-one and get him to be a witness to some of the most gruesome child killings Ken had ever seen in his life. Killings for snuff films that Rico had miraculously survived.
Jesus… CHRIST.
He knocked on the door and Raquel answered. Ah, la doctora. She had an unfriendly look on her face, khaki pants, a knife sheathed at her waist. A man's button down shirt was tucked neatly into her trousers. She piled white-black braids atop her head. She had to be 60 or so but it was hard to tell, the soft lines of her face seeming so natural, as if she'd had them forever. Ken smiled and said, "I'm a friend of Todd Manning's? Blanco? I helped with the little girl, Alicia?"
She remembered him, obviously, nodding, saying, "Sí, sí, Alicia." But then an even deeper coldness came over her. Snapped, "El Diablo Blanco, te refieres. Él no está aquí."
Ken sighed, not missing her intent… emphasis on diablo, the devil. Emphasis that the bastard wasn't at Sylvia's. "Yeah," he said. "Um… I wish to speak with Rico. Is he here? Rico Macias? He sort of knows me… sort of."
In heavily accented English, Raquel answered with a question, suspicion and defense broken out all over her face. "For why?"
In his own poor Spanish, he sputtered, "Oh! I am with the American police. I want to help Rico. My name is Ken McNair."
"Es okay, mamá, I have seen him before. He is truthful. Es okay."
Abram nosed his way to the door and stood firm on his feet and Ken instantly reached for him, the black pitbull terrier pushing through further and then sniffing and licking his hand. And then... Ken looked up at the owner of the silky voice coming out of a shadowed hallway, up behind his obvious protectors… got a really good look now...
… and Ken had to remember to breathe.
Holy HELL, he thought. Rico Macias was no "kid," no, he was a beautiful fucking man. He had no shirt on, gorgeous mocha creamy skin absent of tattoos or scars, cut narrow muscles, jeans hanging low, oh so low, and that face… high cheekbones, strong unyielding jaw with the lightest presence of scruff, an aquiline nose, and lips… full luscious lips… longish black hair… holy God's perfection. And all this with a bruise to the eye, and dark purple-yellowing ponds on his ribcage caused by what had to be a hell of a beating. Ken had seen him for seconds at the beach house once, then at Raquel's place for such a brief time when he picked up the little girl… he had no idea how he looked when not obscured by the space-consuming nature of Todd Manning. All eyes always went to Manning.
But now… unhidden, revealed… my god.
Ken had spent the past weeks seeing this man as a child… and he was still as magnetic as he'd been in those cursed evil pictures. Jed had remarked once that Rico was a handsome guy… and when he caught a picture or two of him as a child, Jed had looked away and said, "I knew he'd have been a pretty kid. That sick fuck, Caro. No wonder he never had him killed. He must have been a money-machine."
But watching clips, Ken knew it wasn't just Rico's beauty, it was his ability to be a skilled sexual being at a very young age. He seemed to know his power even at 8, 9, 10…, moving like the classic angel with a devil's horns. It was enough to make a person vomit. The images, the clips… had been beyond sickening. Ken could never look for very long. More than once he'd shut the pictures off and just cried.
Ken turned away and breathed out and then turned back and smiled. "Rico… it's good to meet you, one on one. I'm here to help, to talk to you. I want to say…"
Rico though was not free of his past. When Ken looked into those eyes, Raquel still in front of him, Ken saw a darkness falling over his face, such sadness, fear... hauntedness. Ken was moved and bit his lip to keep his own shit out of this space. Rico needed a strong person to hear his story, not judgment or pity. Ken sniffed and knocked his head back. "I want to put away some very bad people, Rico, and your story will help make that happen. You will be completely and totally protected. You will be anonymous, but the reality is the criminals might figure out who you are. So… I'm here to offer as much safety as the United States can offer. You'll testify but nobody will be able to get to you because you'll be getting a new name, a new life… far away from here."
"Leave Cuba?"
"Yes. Wherever you want to go."
Rico narrowed his eyes like he had been expecting this big scam being perpetrated on him. "The United States."
"If that's where you want to go, yeah."
He snorted a disbelief but Raquel turned immediately to him, her hand out to him. She spoke too many words, too fast, in Spanish for Ken to understand, Rico's eyes on her. Hand held by hers now. It was hard to tell what Raquel's argument was. Ken watched Rico for clues. None there - he had a poker face like the best of them. He was taller than she was, quite a bit taller, and Ken realized he was almost as tall as Todd and suddenly pictures formed in his head and he found himself working to not see the two men in flagrante delicto. God… they'd be… breathtaking… shit, shit, shit. He cleared his throat and focused on work. Nothing but work, yeah? Pencils, pens… no, no, nothing phallic! Paper… flat paper… computers… desks… dirty cross-trainers… a road… a bus on a road… bouncing on Havana roads… bounce, bounce, bounce…
Fuck.
Rico's features were still and patient. He barely nodded. The doctor turned back to Ken and said, "Pasa."
Ken followed Rico and Abram, Raquel closing the door behind them. They all walked through a short darkened hallway leading to the kitchen. The place was warm, a soup or something on the stove, morning light coming through the windows with the flowery planters outside. Abram had padded along with them and Ken noticed the dog did not leave Rico's side. He seemed to know he had a job with Rico - similar to Todd - PTSD maybe. Raquel moved to the stove and put on a kettle of water and then leaned against the counter to watch Ken. Rico sat at a large wooden table and it had looked as if he'd been eating. He pushed the plate in front of him away, handing Abram a leftover something. The dog gulped it and lay down at his charge's feet.
Rico crossed his arms, his biceps plumping at that, and he looked at Ken. Said, "What do you want to know?"
The words were hard to come by. Ken glanced at Raquel a second, then asked Rico, "Does she know about you? Do you want privacy?"
Rico turned to her for a second then turned back. "I have been coming to la doctora since I was twelve or so. She knows most things. I don't need more than what's here right now."
He had a strong accent but like Jed had mentioned, he used language that seemed instinctual. He learned English at an early age and it showed in funny ways. "Twelve or so." His occasional use of contractions… don't and what's. Ken nodded and lifted the bike bag he was carrying up onto his lap. He pulled out a yellow notepad and a pen, dropping the bag on the floor. He had also set out a tiny tape recorder. He smoothed the paper and then huffed as if getting ready for a race. He looked across the table at Rico, pressed the record button, then asked, "How far back can you remember?"
Some moments passed, Rico staring absently at the recorder. Then he said, "I remember a woman, with long black hair and light brown eyes… but I have never seen her in my life, anywhere. But I know in my heart she is real. I think I was four... when I knew her."
Ken glanced up at him, stilling the pen. He pressed the record-button off. He held Rico's curious gaze for some moments. Now was as good a time as any. He cleared his throat and reached down to the bag again. He pulled out a small picture from his bag. He looked at it and then slid it across the table.
"You were three, Rico, the last time you saw her. You remember your mother."
The poker face was gone.
Téa was deep in Todd's grip, both wet from more heated lovemaking, from more neediness, wet from the rainy Havana air. His wanting of her was endless. Yes, yes, it was exactly like his time after prison. When they lay quietly again in the afterglow, Téa was glad she was already pregnant. If they made a child now, he or she would be terribly, impossibly needy, even more so than Reese. A person can't grow up with such despair. The two were now talking… words finally coming to them. Nothing earth-shattering, just words… efforts at trying to reason through the unreasonable. Todd tried to explain… and he explained with such fury for Téa to UNDERSTAND that it was hard not to just go with his vision. Yes, yes, kill them all, put their heads on spikes. They had gone round and round… and once again landed in the very same place.
Peter Manning.
"He DIED, Téa… fucking GOD took him and left me with no way to confront him, to deal with him, to give him the punishment he deserved! Fucking natural causes!" Téa shook in his arms as he had said that, a shake not from her, but from him. His body shook with the intensity of his belief. "But NOW, NOW I have the perpetrators right HERE in the palm of my hands! I can give them that punishment. I can make it all RIGHT. Please tell me you get that!"
"I do, God, of course I do… but THINK, baby, THINK. What about the children they hurt? You are taking the opportunity from them. They'll now grow up with a need for retribution… they'll be YOU. It's a never-ending cycle. Tell ME you understand THAT."
"Don't say it - forgiveness is not possible. That's what you're saying, what others have tried to say... voices… I CAN'T FORGIVE."
"No! No, no, no, you don't have to forgive… you leave them behind. You be the one to break a cycle of revenge by walking away."
He moved away from her, the first time he separated from her all morning. He sat up in the bed, knees up under the sheets, arms loose around his legs, fingers intertwined. He stared at nothing, trembling from emotion. Téa sat up, too, her body suddenly cold again with the loss of his heat, and put an arm around his shoulders. She offered a compromise. Said in a low voice, "Take care of Caro yourself. The rest… leave to the courts. The men didn't do anything directly to YOU. Leave them to God and law and show a different path to the children alive today."
He sniffed and rubbed his nose. He sat in that space, silent, brooding.
Téa's voice softened, "You said you were adrift. Choose to turn away, then. Let the retribution lie… leave it at Caro."
He turned and simply took her in. Her silky brown hair fell to her shoulders, messed, loved, grabbed hair… her eyes rounded with concern and empathy she always seemed to muster, even during strained times. They were so warm and so full of love for him. She licked her lips, soft and red and maybe chapped already from all the kissing they'd done. All his consumption of her. He reached out and touched her mouth delicately with his thumb. He felt the love from her. He had grown up never feeling it other than the brief moments with Michelle Chant, Jed's mom, when they were so very young. He tore the rest of the way through his young life never feeling love. And now, in his old age, he seemed to feel it more. It seemed more real now. It did.
He believed his Delgado loved him.
"Maybe," he said.
Téa's breath hitched.
They'd been round and round about the plan, about the call from God to do this thing, about this eradication being a goddamn mandate… and finally, FINALLY, something seemed to have clicked inside of him. His being adrift… was leading him somewhere other than death. She memorized the sound of his voice, a moment of giving in to something other than his determined mass retribution.
"Maybe," he said again, more firmly. Slightly so.
For the first time in so long, hope fluttered, and she said, "I'll take a maybe, but I want a promise."
"What?" He teetered on impatience. He gave her a maybe and that was his concession.
"That you'll come home. You said you were disappointed the kids weren't here. Makes me think you want to come home more than you're willing to admit, that maybe… you need to make that happen. To see the kids."
His eyes lit up with sorrow-the light of the room, coming in through the open window, bounced off sudden tears. He swallowed hard. Whispered as if he couldn't actually voice the truth.
"I do wanna go home with you."
Téa had to restrain herself from rocketing into him. God, GOD, please let this be true. Please let him be choosing life over death.
"Then DO," she croaked, choking on desperation. "Take care of Caro and come home. See the children." He turned away and sighed as if the world demanded he stay. As if a million voices called to him and she supposed they did. "Promise me," she repeated.
The cat… the cat… he was on this edge… he could run away or run to her.
He held her hand a short while, remembering her hand in his dream, Reese between them, Lucia running into the room and all her talking and viewing of the world around her.
And Starr…
She didn't feature much because it cut too deep. He'd failed her completely. He'd gotten a letter passed to him from his lawyer. She'd disowned him. She shook herself like a dog, she said, shaking him off like water from fur. I am going to college and I will make something of myself without you. I don't need you, I don't want you. Go to hell. He wrote back. He had taken a slip of paper from Pedro's desk at the beach house and wrote in the middle of the sheet, not even a dear, wrote it like poetry, no punctuation, short lines...
I love you Starr
I am sorry
Be safe
Be well
Be fucking fierce
Make the world know who you are
He folded the thing up and mailed it back to his lawyer. He never heard back.
Like waterdrops off fur.
Could he do the same? Shake off Caro's people? Could he just… stop? He wondered who he'd be if he didn't hate anymore. He moved at some point in this bloom of thought. Knew he'd sunk into the chair across the room from Téa and huddled in it, gripping the robe like a shield. Funny, all this talk made him feel more naked than actually being naked. He stared at her, holding her in his gaze. Over and over he reviewed his plan. Imagined the explosion of that house. Nothing but sticks left, yeah, like a cartoon. Felt a calm come over him at the idea of it. No, not a calm. A high. So good it was like having snorted dope. How could he shake that kind of hunger off? How could he let go of something that had become a part of his blood, his breath, his brain? He believed sometimes his hate was so deep that his children carried it inside of them. Exhibits A and B: Starr and Jed.
Home.
He glanced at the black letters on his belly. Touched them. Los Reyes del Mambo. He touched the snake and the spider. Everyone called it a black snake or rattler or even a kingsnake, but it wasn't an American snake at all. It was an African mamba snake, the world's deadliest. Fast as hell, aggressive... especially when threatened. Yeah. Black Mamba snakes is what MK was, what he was. He couldn't forget what else he needed to do before he could even GO home. Talk to Pedro. Negotiate with him. He knew exactly how that was gonna go down.
Todd pulled the robe to him, wrapping himself up in it. The heroin had left him a crushing headache. The whiskey drunk he'd had wasn't helping. He knew Téa was talking to him and he found himself mute. Unresponsive. Paralyzed. His voice had disappeared into him. He looked at her lips, felt her hands on his face. He had no idea how long he'd sat that way, lost in his thoughts.
See… at the bottom of all this was another reality. He still had to be the King. No Pedro… meant Todd had to step into his place.
What home was there to go back to?
"Baby?"
He blinked and sniffed and shook his head to clear it. Looked directly at Téa as she sighed in a relief. "Where did you go, amor?"
"Shaking things off. Like water off fur." He smiled, a small one. Eyes bright. "I have things to do, Téa. I can't make any promises right now… but… I want to go home. I want to love you, I want our children with… with us… I want our life back…"
"Todd…"
"But will you shoot me again?"
The Spanish words hit Téa hard as he knew they would. She sat back, her thoughts as loud as if she'd spoken them. In all this madness, considering the crazy things he'd done, the horrors that had been done to him, the danger he brought to his whole family, the awful things he'd perpetrated on Téa directly and indirectly… she sat stunned that he could carry such hurt over the shooting. It defied logic, yeah? He knew it did. The sheet was wrapped around her and Todd thought of how dead people get wrapped in white sheets like that. He shuddered. Dying felt incredibly close. He licked his lips.
"What say you, counselor? Will I go home, become King of the Mambo Kings… only to get killed by you?"
She breathed out through her nose, jaw set tight. She was sitting with legs crossed, arms crossed, and Todd heard Lucia singing in his head, criss-cross applesauce… and it hurt to hear her and pain fired up inside of him, bullets cutting into his chest. Hot searing pain. He huffed and rubbed his chest. He was shaking with a kind of cold and stress and pain… and he felt warm tears drop down his cheeks into his beard. He couldn't help it, shit hurt like hell. More than bullets… the one right in the core of him. Real fucking pain. He could not explain why this thing lingered between them. THIS he had forgiven, right? THIS he barely even believed needed forgiving. And yet those bullets still burned him and they were deeply connected to all that had happened to him. He was fucking crazy.
"You're not answering, Delgado," he huffed, a hand on his chest, those tears rolling… spilling… his whole body trembling in a way he couldn't stop.
She saw his agony and she looked away, her mouth open in a silent gasp. She shut it. Squeezed shut her eyes, too, to not see that same horrific look of hurt on his face, to press back her own tears. She placed a hand on his leg and felt him. Squeezed him to try to calm him. She turned and looked right at him.
"I will not shoot you," she rasped. "I will never hurt you like that again."
"What if I come home and get addicted again-"
"You mean stay addicted."
"Yeah… let's paint the worst picture possible. You find me with needles. You see me at war, MK at my back. What if you see me… doing..." He stopped a moment. Then just went on. "What if you catch me, doing the worst kinda shit? The most upsetting kinda shit. Will you kill me... to protect our children? Will you put me out of your misery?"
He'd shut her down. She could not answer. His words felt... incomplete.
"Yeah, I thought so," he said.
She snapped back. "Stop it. I haven't answered. You're being difficult on purpose. You're setting me up."
"I'm being honest."
"Will you do those things? Any of them?" She was the hurt one now. Like he'd intended.
"I can't fucking say, Téa! And what about YOU? You're no angel, you know. Will I come home and find YOU with Rolon?! Or GANNON? Will I?! You'll hit some wall, you'll feel I'm screwing up… and you'll run to some new… asshole..." He had sat up in the chair now, robe gripped in tight fists, eyes flashing, body tight as hell. But then just as suddenly, he sat back, fell back…he closed his eyes and breathed and then... the trembling stopped. Long seconds passed.
"Look," he finally said, "I have no idea what the fuck waits for me once I turn all this shit over to the Feds. I just don't know. But one thing for sure… Mambo fucking KINGS are going nowhere. They are part of my goddamn life and I have to wonder… can you deal? Will you think you need to kill me again? Even if I deserve it… even so… will you need to get your own retribution on me? You ask me to go home… but I feel those fucking bullets like you fucking just did it to me."
Téa closed her eyes a moment. Thinking on what lurked under all his threatened bad shit. Under her potential wrongs.
"What about YOUR bullets? I saw you, Todd. The expression on your face, the sound of your voice, the life in you when you didn't know I was watching. Rico and all he is and isn't… is a shot to my heart."
Fuck.
Todd said nothing for a bit. He walked into that one by mentioning her… indiscretions. He was not in any way prepared to talk about Rico. He had no language for it. Rico was something. Sure, he could pawn it off as a prison thing… Cuba being the prison… but he really didn't know. So he decided to play with her confusion… because it was all he could do at this point.
"Yeah," he decided to say, "he's a thing in all this. And he's not. Maybe he's just another whore. No difference. So add him to the bad shit. Another fuckin' reason to shoot me. You're here fighting but... are you really ready for me? For whatever it is I am, whoever I will be when I get home… after all this is over? Are you ready for me?"
He didn't push her. He let her get lost in her own thoughts. Huddled and small under that white sheet of death. She didn't look at him, she looked at nothing. She looked deeply inward. He knew her answer would be too soon, anytime in the next week or month would be too soon. Imagination is so… pretend. Hypotheticals are bullshit until they're not. He tilted his head, fingertips on his mouth, watching her think through his question. She'd come to Havana to save him… but was she really ready to SAVE HIM?
Whatever was left of him. Whoever he'd be. If anything at all.
He slumped under the weight of his own impossible inquiry. He wanted a swim in the ocean right now. He wanted to not be human. Death felt like relief. To be honest.
"Forget I asked," he said. "Maybe you shooting me… is what I want. Maybe you were right from the start. I am here to say goodbye to you. Dying… will be easy. I'm so fucking tired."
Familiar words. Téa got to her knees and moved to him, hands on his chest, eyes up to his. Offered all she could offer because she couldn't really answer him on what she was ready for.
"Todd Manning, I will never again hurt you the way I did that night. This I promise. I will never shoot you… I want you alive. I want you here. If your… life… is too much for me, I will just leave you. Like regular people do when they hit walls they cannot go through. I promise you… I will take our life, day by day. And… please know, I will never stop loving you." She leaned into him and whispered, "As far as being ready for YOU. I say, bring it, Manning, bring all your shit to me, and I'll let you know if I can handle it or not with words and law… and nothing more."
He chuffed, the barest of smiles on his face. Then he held her by the hair, shook her, one hard shake. "I fucking love you," he said in a low hard voice through gritted teeth. "I will try like fucking hell to get home. I want that, I really do, so yeah, I promise… that I'll try to come home. And once there, Téa, I will try every day not to bring SHIT home to you. And I don't mean by not telling you, I mean I will TRY to stay out of the shit."
Well… that was something for a skittish cat determined to die. It was as far as they could go here in La Habana. Téa nodded, a little wounded for wear. If Sixteenth Street had been hell, along with the past six months, they were now officially in purgatory. The two held each other for a long time, just with their gaze, just like that. A knock on the door disrupted the connection. All Téa could do was put her head on his lap.
Words… escaped her.
Todd let go, pulled the robe on, and walked to the door. He didn't bother asking or looking out the peephole. He knew it was Rolon. He paused with his hand on the doorknob. Head down. One last lingering unreadable glance at Téa. He then drew back and pulled open the door, a whole new attitude erupting all over him. He leaned on the door frame with his arms crossed, all grit and hate and don't-fuck-with-me and quite a bit of what-the-hell-are-you-doing-at-my-woman's-door.
His soldier just groaned, "Oh mamita… you have got to be fuckin' kidding me." Rolon eyed Téa, then dragged his gaze back to Todd. Furious now. He growled, "Leave one bed, jump to another?"
"What's the matter, bitch? Jelly? Don't like me wearing your robe?"
"Fuck you."
"No… fuck YOU. Now whatchu want?"
Rolon grunted, too concerned, too pissed to talk at seeing Téa sitting on the floor with her head down on her arm, leaning on that chair. In nothing but a sheet. He worked to contain himself. He rumbled, "What's going on here?" Glared at Todd. "She don't look okay. If you hurt her… I will kill you. A bug under my shoe."
"She… ain't any a'your goddamn business. Now talk."
"Téa!"
She turned to Rolon, her voice strong. "I'm fine. Talk to him."
When Rolon tried to get past Todd because he just didn't know what he was looking at, Todd slammed into Rolon… a very strong hand on Rolon's throat. He kept him in the doorway, eyes solid on the soldier's, only the edges of madness now. Todd dropped his gaze to Rolon's mouth then back up. Got close to Rolon's ear and heatedly purred, "You take one step inside this room... and I won't hold back on the trigger, brother. Comprendes?"
Rolon thought through his options… and he realized he wasn't looking at Todd… but rather, at El Diablo Blanco… and strangely, the world felt like it had fallen back into a rightness. A king and queen back in their thrones. Rolon just felt it. And just like the old days, the expression on Blanco's face told Rolon he had better act like the MK soldier he was or Blanco would kill him. Rolon had come for Téa, but he was carrying MK news and Rolon decided… MK first. He liked living. He backed up a step, hands up.
"Yeah," he said. "I'm out. In the goddamn hallway."
Respeto.
"Better," Blanco said. "Now talk."
"Word has got around," Rolon said quietly. "Something big is happening. Might be MK, might not. But it started with two ugly deaths of Cuban men… two named Macias. The men killed MK family. A righteous killing, yeah? Story is… those two brothers got a third… named Rico. That your boy? What'd you do, brother?"
Blanco… he smiled and smiled big, canines glinting in the hallway light. "They're dead? Like really… dead?"
Rolon's voice dropped even more. "Yeah, really fuckin' dead… cut up…" He got close to Todd, shoulder in his hand. "Dicks cut off, stuffed down their pinche throats. What did you do?"
Blanco ran a tongue across his lower lip… a giddiness bubbling up beyond his control. He smiled again, grinned like wolf… "I didn't do anything other than a little preparation for a trip I'm taking."
"What trip?"
"I'm going home, my brother… I'm going home." He smiled and showed those canines once more. "Call me KING."
Over his shoulder, swallowing hard, Téa caught Rolon's gaze. Clear-eyed, strong, cool, fully present in a truth as real as the love she and Todd shared, as real as their waiting unknown life at home. The one coming. The one she signed on to. The one he committed to. Life they'd TRY.
I have saved the devil AND the angel. They live and breathe in one very mortal man and one cannot live without the other.
God is crying. I feel it.
To be continued….