Chapter 13
Return to Culiacan
Disclaimer: I do not own El and Sands. They belong to Robert Rodriguez, who would probably be horrified to see what I've done with his lovely characters.
Rating: R for language.
Summary: El and Sands return to the place where it all started.
Author's Note: Whenever I think of the boy in OUATIM, I always think of the same moment. My enduring image of him is when he cries, after Sands is shot and loses his sunglasses, and we finally see what they did to him. Because that's the way I think of the boy, that's the aspect of his character I decided to go with in this story.
Also, this chapter really grew when I was editing it. I kept thinking of more things to say. So it's rather long. Oops. :-)
****
They stopped in Mazatlan and took the ferry to La Paz, in Baja.
They could not step on the ferry as they were, however, so first El pulled over at a gas station and bought two large bottles of water and, for lack of anything else, several bandannas from a display by the register.
It was night now, and a thin crescent moon grinned down from the sky. El returned to the car and opened the back door. He slid in and sat beside Sands.
The agent stirred. He had been in and out of consciousness for most of the trip. "Are we there yet?" Sands slurred.
"Not yet," El said. "Hold still." He uncapped the water bottle, poured some of it onto one of the bandannas, and gently wiped at the dried blood on Sands' face.
Sands hissed in pain, and flinched away. "What are you doing?"
"You can't go on the ferry looking like this," El said.
Sands held out his hand. Dried blood encircled his wrist like a gory bracelet, from where the cuffs had cut him. "Let me do it."
El gave him the water and the rags, and left the car. He stood outside, propped against the driver's side door, smoking.
Some time later Sands opened the door, leaned outside, and vomited. An empty water bottle dropped to the asphalt and rolled under the car.
El ground his cigarette under his heel. He had been there before, in so much pain that his stomach revolted and he threw up. It was never pleasant. He felt sorry for his friend, but he had done all he could. Sands would only resent him if he tried to do more.
He gave the agent a long look. Sands had gotten the blood off his face and neck, but some still lingered on his wrists and the backs of his hands. El just shrugged. It was dark out. Nobody would see. "Ready?" he asked.
"Sure," Sands muttered, and retreated back inside the car.
Half an hour later they were on the ferry, heading west to Baja, and La Paz.
Using the money Lorenzo had given him after the coup, El booked a room in the fanciest hotel in the city. The hotel catered to the rich and famous; its staff were the epitome of discretion. El paid them extra to find a doctor who was just as discreet, and then paid the doctor handsomely, too.
The doctor left at dawn. El ordered breakfast sent to the room. It arrived in steaming silver dishes. He tipped the bellboy well and told him there would be more, if he would let them know if anyone in the city was asking about them.
They ate breakfast, drew the thick drapes over the windows, and slept.
****
When El woke it was dark outside. He had slept the entire day away. His entire body was sore, but he felt more relaxed than he had in a long time. It was not over with, not by a long stretch, but for a little while at least he could delude himself into thinking they were safe.
He rose from his bed and padded into the bathroom. He took a long shower, and stood under the hot water with his head bowed, drawing deep breaths, letting the steam fill his lungs.
When he emerged from the bathroom, Sands was still sleeping. El stood there, looking down at him for a long time, just to make sure.
He let himself out of the room and quietly closed the door behind him. He went downstairs to the hotel lobby and spoke to the staff.
No one had asked about a mariachi, they told him. Or a blind American.
El thanked them, and went back to his room
****
Sands slept for thirty-two hours.
El was softly plucking at his guitar when the agent finally woke. He stopped what he was doing, and waited.
Sands lay still. He knew El was there, of that El had no doubt. But he did not say anything.
El simply waited. He wanted Sands to speak first. He could not begin to guess how the events of the past few days would have affected the man. He felt that it would be very tactless for him to start talking about something. Not until he knew how Sands was feeling.
As he sat there, waiting, he was suddenly reminded of an old memory, something he had not thought of in many years.
When he was just a little boy, he and brother Cesar had caught a fox. They had named it Zorro, of course. They had built it a cage and fed it all kinds of treats. They had tried petting it, but the fox had snapped at them, even biting Cesar once when the boy was too slow in pulling his hand away.
They had tried so hard, El thought, but no matter what they had done, the fox had not known how to respond to human kindness. It had been wild for too many years.
Feeling sorry for it, he had let the animal go free one afternoon. Cesar had been furious. They had battled each other, rolling around in the dirt as only small boys can do, until their father had forcibly separated them. He had never forgotten the hatred in Cesar's eyes, though, and the boy's fury at seeing something he wanted taken away from him.
He sighed. So little changed, over the years. Boys grew into men, and the course of their lives was already set -- and most of them never even knew it.
The silence stretched out, testing El's patience. He sat very still, and did not move, the way he had once sat outside that fox's cage, trying to get the creature to accept him.
At last Sands sighed. "Quit fucking staring at me," he said.
El smiled. His shoulders slumped with relief. He should have known, he thought. Sands was just fine. "I was beginning to think you were not going to wake up."
"The idea has its appeal," Sands said.
"Will you be all right?" El asked. He held his breath, waiting for the inevitable explosion.
Sands did not explode. "Yes," he said.
El waited a little longer.
"I think," Sands said, "I found the only CIA agent crazier than me. Looks like I win again."
El thought of Belinda Harrison, and how awful it had felt to be in close contact with her, and said nothing.
"That guy. Boston. He…" Sands' voice trailed off. His jaw clenched. He said no more.
And that was it. El nodded to himself, knowing that was as close as Sands would ever come to talking about it. He would be haunted by the memories, but he would bear them alone, through his choice.
But because he almost been privy to one confession, he felt brave enough to say, "Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure," Sands said wearily. "What do you want to know?"
He had no idea how Sands was going to react to his question. But he wanted to know. And right now was probably the best chance he would ever have to find out. "When you dream, can you still see?"
Sands did not respond to this for a long time. At last he said, very quietly, "Sometimes."
****
They arrived in Culiacan two days later.
"Does it bother you to be back?" he asked. He felt rather unsettled, himself, restless and ready to bolt at a moment's notice. Being back here was not the best thing for him, he decided. He hoped they would not be staying long.
Sands shook his head. "No." He turned toward El and gave him a humorless smile. "Now, if I could see, that would be a different story."
This made no sense to El, but he just shrugged and accepted it.
They went into a cantina to get lunch. It was, in fact, the same cantina where Sands had made his offer to El, the first time they had met.
The waitress brought their menus and left. El slumped in his chair. More than ever he wished they had not come here. The past suddenly felt very close.
Too close.
Well, frankly, because you have nothing to live for.
Sands had known him for all of thirty seconds, and still the man had seen right through him.
And in a way, you're already dead, and Marquez is the one who pulled the trigger. So why not return the favor?
He remembered the way Sands had looked at him. An intense look, laced with amusement and cynicism. There had been a spark in his dark eyes -- insanity perhaps, but excitement, as well.
And suddenly El thought -- and was surprised by the weight of the sorrow attached to it -- Once, just once, I would like to be able to look into his eyes again.
He felt a sharp pang in his chest. So many things had happened since the attempted coup. Most of them things he was not proud of. He tried to remind himself of the good he had done, the lives he had saved, starting with El Presidente's and ending with Sands', but those things did not seem to mean much as they should have, sitting here in the place where it all had started.
The waitress came back. "What will you have?"
El placed his order, then pointed to Sands. He made an effort to pull himself away from his dark thoughts. "I know what he wants. He'll have the pibil, with a tequila and lime," he said, with a hint of a sarcastic smile. Sands couldn't see that smile, of course, but he would hear it in El's voice, and that was what mattered.
The waitress, having no idea what his smile meant, just nodded and went to write this down.
"I'll have the steak enchiladas, and a cerveza," Sands said to the waitress, holding out his menu. He smiled politely at her, ignoring El.
The waitress shrugged. She crossed out what she had written on her pad, took the menus, and left.
The moment she walked away, Sands turned back to El. With uncanny accuracy, his hand snaked out and grabbed a hank of El's hair. With his other hand he picked up his knife. It happened so fast, El barely had time to register what was happening. All he knew was that one moment he was sitting in his chair, and an instant later he was suddenly draped across the table by a strong hand anchored in his hair, a dirty kitchen knife hovering a mere inch from his eye.
"You think you know me?" Sands said, his voice low and cold. The knife moved a fraction closer, and El tensed. Sands had no idea how close that blade was to his eye.
Or maybe he had a very good idea.
"For your information, I don't eat pork anymore. I haven't, in a very long time. You savvy?"
El nodded, or tried to, with that hand in his hair holding his head still. "I savvy," he said.
"Good." Sands released him and laid the knife back on the table. "Now let's enjoy our lunch."
When his heart stopped pounding, El found that he felt much better.
****
After lunch they left the cantina. With an unspoken accord, they walked the streets of the village. El noted with satisfaction that the people here seemed happier than they had a year ago. The destruction of the cartel in this area had affected many lives for the better.
All roads in the little village seemed to lead to the city center. It was not long before they found themselves in front of the compound where El Presidente – and Sands -- had nearly died. El gazed up at it impassively. It had seemed so much bigger in his memory, but now that he was here again, he could see it was just another building, like all the rest.
"If you could have your Carolina back, but you had to give up your eyes to have her," Sands asked, "would you do it?"
El stared at the compound, finding the window Barillo had fallen through. He thought of his beautiful Carolina, and the happiness he had known with her, happiness he would never find again.
"Yes," he said.
"No, you wouldn't," Sands said.
****
El saw the kid first. He was playing marbles in the dust by himself. His bike, its basket full of chewing gum, was leaning against the wall of the building behind him. He looked up, saw El Mariachi and Sands, and his whole face lit up. He dropped the marbles and started running for them.
Sands heard those light footsteps. His head turned. He frowned.
El folded his arms and stood back a little, to give the kid a clear path.
"Señor!" The kid came up barreling up and threw his arms about Sands' waist, knocking the agent back a few steps.
El watched it happen, the progression of emotions on Sands' face. First the instinctive repugnance, his hands flying up so he wouldn't accidentally touch the kid. Then a gradual softening, the hands coming down a little. Finally a crooked smile, a ruffling of the kid's hair. "Yeah, yeah. Good to see you again too."
The kid lifted his head and peered up at Sands. His eyes were wide with wonder. "Señor?"
"Figure of speech, kid," Sands said.
The boy's face fell. "What happened to you?" he asked in Spanish. He reached up and touched Sands' face. The bruising was beginning to fade, but there was no mistaking the fact that someone had beaten him only a few days ago.
Sands flinched back. He grabbed the kid's wrist. "Don't."
"It hurts?" the boy asked, his eyes full of worry.
"Yeah, it hurts," Sands said.
"What happened?"
"It's a long story, kid. You wouldn't want to hear it, trust me."
"Where have you been?"
"Oh," Sands said vaguely. "Around." He took a cautious step back, trying to disentangle himself from the kid's embrace.
El gestured at him, and the boy let go of Sands. "I'm glad you're back," he said. "Are you going to stay here?"
"No se," Sands said. He shrugged.
The boy glanced at El. It was obvious that he knew who El was, and that he respected the mariachi -- but there was also a bit of fear in that respect, and that bothered El. He didn't want to be the kind of person who frightened children. Especially when that child had no qualms about hugging a man like Sands.
The boy's eyes suddenly widened. He gasped. "Señor! There were men here. They were asking questions about you!"
"Yeah? When was this?"
"Last summer," the boy said. "They had lots of questions."
"What kinds of questions?" Sands asked. He sounded supremely unconcerned.
"They wanted to know where you went, and who was with you." The boy glanced at El. "They were looking for you." He scrunched up his face. "Did they do that to you?" He pointed to Sands' face.
"Well, now, what do you think?" Sands asked. He sounded amused about the whole thing.
The boy did not look remotely amused. He looked frightened, and worried. "You shouldn't have come back here, Señor!"
"Look, kid. I survived this long. I'll be just fine." Sands was rapidly losing the indulgent tone that had marked his voice before.
The kid did not back down. "I don't want you to get hurt again."
El stared at the boy. He had never seen such courage in one so young. Or such a kind heart. This boy had never gotten anything from Sands to encourage him, yet he was stubbornly devoted to the agent. It made no sense, but then again, El remembered, logic did not apply to Sands. It never had, and it never would.
"Look," Sands said in exasperation. "We have places to be. I'm sure you do, too. Go peddle your chewing gum to ignorant American touristas." He waved a hand in the boy's general direction. "Go on, now."
The boy gave Sands a narrow look. "Where are you going?"
"Oh, for Christ's sake." Sands began walking down the street, leaving El and the kid behind.
He didn't walk very fast though, El saw. He hoped that was because Sands felt bad for yelling at the kid.
He gave the boy a small smile. El wanted to tell him how wonderful he was, how unique in this world where nobody gave a damn about anybody else. He wanted to take the boy by the shoulders and tell him to hold on to his pure heart, no matter what anybody said to him.
Instead he just walked away.
****
Ramirez did not look at all surprised to see them standing at his front door.
"How ya doing, Jorge?" Sands asked brightly.
Ramirez winced, and moved aside so they could come in.
El frowned. His mood plummeted again. Ramirez looked awful. In the short span of time that had passed since El had seen him last, the retired FBI agent had begun the process of dying in earnest.
The white-and-tan chihuahua tiptoed into the living room. Ramirez picked it up and absently petted the top of its head. "What the hell happened to you?" he asked Sands.
"Long story," Sands said shortly.
"I suppose you came back to tell me you won. You beat the bad guys."
"No," El said, before Sands could speak. He did not want to talk about Belinda Harrison, or the CIA. "We came to give you something. As a thank-you, for everything you have done to help us."
Ramirez's brows drew together. "You're thanking me?"
El pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. "Actually, the United States thanks you."
Ramirez unfolded the check. His eyes boggled. He looked up at El in astonishment. "What is this?"
"It's your reward money," Sands smirked. "Congratulations, Jorge. You deserve it."
****
They stayed with Ramirez for two weeks.
On a windy Sunday in early May, just after the Cinco de Mayo celebration, El found himself on his hands and knees in the backyard. He was trying to dig a hole and set a wooden post in the ground. Ramirez had a set of brass wind chimes he wanted to hang outside, and El had volunteered to do it.
Sands and Ramirez were sitting on the porch. Despite the afternoon heat, Ramirez had a blanket over his shoulders. Sands was smoking, one hand waving about as he talked away.
El sat back on his heels, laid the trowel on his knee, and watched. He was too far away to hear what was being said, but he could tell Ramirez had little interest in talking; this conversation was very one-sided.
After a while, Sands realized this too. He stubbed out his cigarette. The hand stopped waving.
His head cocked to one side.
El laid the trowel on the ground and stood up.
On the porch, Sands got up and walked over to Ramirez. He snapped his fingers in front of the retired agent. After a pause, he reached up and touched Ramirez's face, then slid his fingers down to the man's throat. He stood there for a long minute.
Finally he dropped his hand back to his side. He turned to face the backyard. He called for El, but El was already there.
****
Ramirez had made all the arrangements ahead of time; everything was taken care of with minimal fuss. The funeral was well-attended, and the church held a wake.
El and Sands did not stay for the wake. They returned to the house. Silence lay heavily in the rooms. Even the dog was gone -- El had given it to a man in the village whom Ramirez had befriended.
They walked out onto the back porch. El sat down in one of the cane chairs and sighed.
It was evening, the coolest part of the day in Mexico. Sands leaned against the porch railing and rolled a cigarette. "You know we can't stay here."
"I know," El said. It was the first time they had talked about it since leaving Durango. He had begun to wonder if they ever would, or if it would remain buried, just another part of their past they never spoke about, like Puerto Vallarta.
"She's still out there."
"I know."
"They won't stop looking."
"I know."
"I'm not giving in."
"Neither am I."
****
Two days later a man arrived at the front door. He wore a dark suit and carried a briefcase, and he was sweating heavily.
El opened the door slowly, already suspicious of this visitor.
The man held out hand. "I'm Vicente Garcia," he said. "I was Jorge Ramirez's lawyer."
Silently, El let him in.
Vicente Garcia had come from San Antonio, Texas. Despite his name, he was very American. He looked excruciatingly out of place in Mexico. He sat at the head of Ramirez's dining room table and cast nervous glances at the two killers seated on either side of him.
"What I have," he said, "is Mr. Ramirez's will."
El sat up a little straighter.
"Most everything is very straightforward," Garcia said. "Mr. Ramirez left the bulk of his estate to his ex-wife in Texas. However, there were two new provisions added shortly before his death."
El listened in growing shock as the lawyer announced that Ramirez had left him the house. He was free to do what he wanted with it, but if he was to sell it, he had to give the first choice to Agent Sheldon Sands of the CIA. If neither of them wanted it, they were to sell the house to whom they could and send the money to Ramirez's ex-wife, address to be provided by one Vicente Garcia in the event that it became necessary.
"And," Garcia went on, "he has also left the sum of ten thousand dollars to Agent Sands of the CIA."
Sands made a sound in the back of his throat, but it was hard to tell if he was pleased, or just shocked.
"And there is a letter," Garcia said. He took out the piece of paper, unfolded it and cleared his throat.
"You bastard," he began. Immediately he colored bright red. "That's how it starts," he apologized hastily, as though he expected to be gunned down for insulting them.
El said nothing. Sands just grinned.
Garcia cleared his throat again, a little louder this time. He held up the letter, the paper rattling slightly in his shaking hand. "You bastard," he read.
"Inter-agency cooperation, my ass. I was already dying the day we met for lunch. You didn't know that, of course. You wouldn't have cared even if you had known. I hated you for that.
"But in your own twisted way, you gave me a reason to live. A reason to care. The doctors had told me six months. That was four months before we had lunch.
"Killing Dr. Guevara was the best thing I ever did, the thing I am most proud of. I only wish someone had done it sooner, so my partner never had to suffer, nor you."
El glanced at Sands. The agent said nothing, but El could tell by the set of his jaw that the letter was affecting him.
"And you," read on the lawyer, giving El a glance. "You came walking into my house, asking me about honor. If you had come two days earlier, I would not have known what honor was. I am glad I was able to look you in the eye, as one man to another.
"I hope you find the peace that has eluded you all your life. Maybe in this place you will find what you have sought for so long."
Garcia laid the letter down. "That's all. He didn't sign it."
El dropped his head, and stared at the table. He had barely known Ramirez, but he had liked him. Seeing such a man struck down by disease was just one of the many injustices in the world. It made El want to lash out at someone and demand to know why such things were allowed to happen. It made him question his faith in God.
Vicente Garcia left soon after. He gave El his card and said he would call in a few days to find out what they had decided to do about the house.
El saw him out, then returned to the dining room. He sat down at the table again. "What do you think I should do?"
Sands did not miss a beat. "I think you should sell me the house. I'll buy it from you for one dollar."
El smiled. "You just received ten thousand dollars. You will only give me one?"
"Take it or leave it," Sands said.
"Then you will make this your home?" he asked.
Sands nodded. "No more running. I'm through. This is where I'm making my stand."
El nodded. He could understand that.
"What about you?" Sands asked.
El's smile faded. "I don't know," he said.
****
The next morning he woke up to the sound of a guitar.
He got out of bed and pulled on a pair of black pants that lacked the ornamental chains of his mariachi outfit. He followed the sound through the house, and found Sands on the back porch.
The agent was sitting on one of the cane chairs. The guitar El had given him was on his lap. He would play a few notes, then stop to tune the instrument, feeling where he was through touch. After a few false starts, he began playing a song.
El did not recognize the music. The song was vaguely Spanish in flavor, but not overly so. The notes were clear, and sorrowful. He thought the song was telling a story, but if so, it was one he could not understand. Almost, but not quite.
Sands stopped playing. He looked like he was trying to decide whether he should be pissed off that El had heard him using the guitar. Then he shrugged, opting to remain neutral. "They'll be here soon."
El nodded. He didn't ask how Sands had known he was there. "I know."
"Will you stay here?" Sands asked. He began playing the song again, as though he had just said nothing of consequence.
El breathed deep. He hadn't realized it, but he had been waiting for this ever since Ramirez's death.
Waiting to be asked.
He nodded. "I will," he said.
*****
Author's Note: I am posting two chapters tonight for a reason. What comes next is not really a genuine chapter in the story. It's more of an interlude. It has slashy overtones, although there is no sex in it, but I wanted to warn people in advance so they could skip it if they wanted. Choosing to skip it will not make you miss anything of the story itself, and you will be able to pick up with chapter 15 (so numbered to keep up with ff.net's system), without interruption.
If you want to read the Interlude, you can do so now. If you would rather not, I should be posting chapter 15 tomorrow, on my usual schedule of a chapter a day.