Chapter 20
Following
Disclaimer: I don't own El and Sands.
Rating: R for language and violence
Summary: The chase begins.
Author's Note: Another overdue thank you to everyone who has reviewed or written to me. You guys are the reason I keep writing. I love you all.
In this chapter I'm breaking from my usual custom, and I'm showing more than one POV. Although most of the story belongs to El right now, I just couldn't go so long without showing Sands' POV. I figured you guys would kill me if I didn't say what was happening with him, and also I was dying to know myself.
****
Regrets assailed him as he drove back into the village. What if I had told him? If only I had known. I should have stopped him. I should have known what he was going to do.
He should have known. Their coupling last night had been fierce and violent, accompanied by curses and bruises. But it had rarely been better, and now El knew why. Last night had been Sands' way of saying good-bye.
No, he thought furiously. I refuse to accept that.
He made Chiclet tell him the story again, this time in greater detail. He demanded answers to his questions, growing increasingly relentless, so that by the time they reached the boy's house, Chiclet was in tears. El was moved by those tears, but he did not stop. He could not afford softness right now. That would lead to worry and worry would lead to indecision, and indecision would get both him and Sands killed. "We have to know everything about them," he said harshly. "Especially Diego Sanchez. Where he is. What kind of man he is."
But he was afraid he already knew. Sanchez wanted him more than anything. El Mariachi, the man who had foiled the cartels for so long, mocking them, laughing at them. Sands was a catch, but not the main prize. They would use Sands as bait to draw him out. They would expect him to come after them. They would be waiting.
He looked at Chiclet. The boy's youngest sister was sitting in the dust of the front yard, staring solemnly at them. "We do know one thing about Sanchez," El said. He tried hard to gentle his voice. "He is not the kind of man who kills innocent children."
Chiclet looked up at him. "Why do you say that?"
"Because he could have killed you," El said. "And he did not." He drew one of his guns and held it out. "Do you know how to use this?" As far as he knew, the only time Chiclet had ever handled a gun was on the day of Fideo's betrayal, when the boy had nearly shot El as he had walked into the kitchen.
Chiclet nodded. "Sí." This was clearly a lie, but El let it slide. Now was not the time for splitting hairs.
A small little smile crept across Chiclet's face as he took the gun. "The first time I ever held one of these, Señor Sands gave it to me. He asked if I had ever used one and I said no, and he said, 'Don't ever, because they're very bad.'" The smile faded from his face. "He wanted me to kill the man following him."
El stared at him. In all the time he had known Chiclet, he had never heard the boy tell this story. He had always thought Sands had killed Barillo's men without any help. "What did you do?"
"I couldn't do it," Chiclet said. His hand tightened over the gun. "But I would, if I could go back and do it all over again. I would kill them for hurting him." He looked up at El, his young face set in determined lines. "And I will kill them now. Whatever is needed."
El did not doubt his sincerity, but he knew it was one thing to vow to take life, and an entirely different thing to actually do it. And he meant to see that Chiclet did not learn that distinction. Not now, and hopefully not ever.
"Come on," he said. "We must tell your mother."
"Señor, wait," Chiclet said.
El gave him a fond, slightly exasperated smile. "When are you going to stop calling me that?"
Chiclet flushed. "I couldn't," he said. "My mama says--"
"Yes, you can," El said. "I told you to. Besides," he gestured to the gun, "if you are to wear that, you must behave as a man. That means you call me by my name."
The boy nodded, but the color in his cheeks only deepened. "What is it?" El asked, growing impatient again.
Chiclet gazed up at him. "I don't know your name," he said.
El was shocked speechless. Surely he had told the boy his real name at some point. Surely he had. Or Sands, maybe. But he saw the truth in Chiclet's open gaze, and he swore under his breath.
He told Chiclet his name. The boy nodded, accepting this secret with the proper weight. "But you can just call me El," he said. "If you prefer."
Chiclet nodded again, his chin jerking up and down. "I think I do."
"All right then." El opened his car door. "Let's go speak to your mother."
****
Sands could not stop thinking about the dream. About El. And a dark-haired woman who could only have been Carolina.
It intrigued him that he would dream about a woman he had never met, never seen. He wondered if she looked anything like the woman in his dream. Not that he would ever know for sure. He didn't think he believed in God and heaven, but if heaven existed, he sure as hell wasn't going there when he died.
More disturbing, however, was the rest of the dream. The jeering laughter of the cartel men. The blood on El's face. The holes where El's eyes had been. How hot El's blood had felt as it washed over his hand.
El had said, Thank you. He was sure of it.
Oh shit. Oh shit shit shit.
Don't panic. Don't freak out. Don't don't don't. If you do, you'll lose control. Can't do that. Can't.
A trembly groan escaped him. Every bone in his body hurt. He tried to find a comfortable position to lie in, but there was no comfort to be had. The floor was hard stone beneath him, and his hands were still cuffed behind him. He hurt all over from the beating, and pain stabbed at him with every breath.
Still the dream would not let go; he could not stop thinking about it.
Oh Christ. He was in serious, serious trouble here.
All right all right. Calm down. The dream was just a dream. It would never happen. El would never allow himself to be captured by Diego Sanchez's cartel. The mariachi had evaded capture this long; he would not succumb now.
And if the unthinkable happened, and El fell into the cartel's hands? No. El would never. He would never.
It was true, El would never.
But would El surrender willingly?
He thought that El just might.
Hell, he knew El would.
He groaned again. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
"You stupid fucking idiot," he sighed. Of course El was going to come for him. He should have known that from the start. His brave, noble plan? Utter horseshit. He had not only given himself to the cartel, but he had handed them El Mariachi on a silver platter.
He felt sick. El was going to die. And it was all his fault. If it hadn't been for him, El would have spent the rest of his life in hiding. Admittedly not the easiest way to live, but it was still living.
Inside his head, someone laughed.
"No," he snarled. "No!" No, you can't! Not now! He lifted his head, intending to dash his brains out on the stone floor, and suddenly froze. There were footsteps outside, beyond whatever room he was imprisoned in.
The laughter stopped. The voice went silent again.
He scoffed. Of course it had. The men were back, come to hurt him some more. Probably to make good on Sanchez's promise to make him scream. The voice, the great wise protector that saved him from pain and fear, had deliberately left this time. This was his punishment for daring to assert control and make it go away. It meant to make him suffer the coming torture all his own.
He didn't care. He would endure anything if it meant being alone in his head.
As the door to his cell opened, he smiled.
****
Over and over the people of the village said one word: Caimanero. Within an hour El was convinced that Diego Sanchez made his home in the ugly pink house that had once belonged to Ajedrez, Barillo's daughter.
He wondered if Sands knew, and what he made of this irony.
Chiclet's parents were distressed to see him go, but they did not stand in his way. They knew of their son's deep attachment to the blind American, and they also knew his stubbornness. Nothing would prevent Chiclet from joining El right now, and they were smart enough to know it.
By late afternoon, they were on the road, the village receding in the rearview mirror. This was the first time Chiclet had ever left his home, and he was nervous and excited. "What happens now?"
"We go to Sinaloa de Leyva," said El. The town was not far from Caimanero. It was too risky to enter Caimanero itself. In fact, he thought they were taking a big chance just by going near the place, although they would have to go there eventually.
But not just yet. He had plenty of ammunition. In Sinaloa de Leyva he could buy whatever else he required. Right now he was thinking a few grenades would do him, but he supposed he would have a better idea once he saw the pink house again and knew how well fortified it was.
He had to admit he was surprised. He would have expected Diego Sanchez to choose a more palatial estate for his home, something like the hacienda where Ramon Escalante had lived. Like Sanchez's failure to kill Chiclet, his choice of home said something about him. El just wasn't sure what that something was.
"How do we do this?" Chiclet asked.
Had he been with Sands, El would have shrugged. Instead he said, "I do not know yet. I will know more when I see the house."
****
That night he took Chiclet out shooting.
He wanted to see how well the kid could do. There had never been a chance to teach him how to use a gun, but some people were natural shots. El was hoping Chiclet was one of these prodigies. He would need someone to back him up when he went into the house to get Sands. He had visions of Chiclet lying on his belly atop the stone wall encircling the house, shooting at anyone who might interfere with the plan.
The sun was setting, but there was still plenty of daylight left. El set up three beer bottles, standing two on rocks and one on the ground. He walked back over to Chiclet. "Now," he said. "Let's see you hit those."
Chiclet gave him a shaky smile, and El realized he was scared to death. His carefully crafted image of the kid coolly shooting the enemy began to fragment.
Chiclet drew the gun and cocked it. He held it in both hands. He raised it high, squinted one eye closed, and took aim at the bottle on the left.
"Just squeeze the trigger," El said. "Don't pull. It's not a jerky motion. It is smooth, deliberate. Take aim first. Find your target."
Flinching with each pull of the trigger, Chiclet fired at the bottles.
El watched, and bid farewell to his plan. If life was a TV show, this would be the point where Chiclet revealed himself to be a natural-born sniper, and together they would ride off into the sunset to rescue their friend. Unfortunately, reality rarely worked out that way. Chiclet was a terrible shooter. He did not come close to hitting any of the bottles.
"That's all right," El said, hoping he didn't sound as discouraged as he felt. "I wouldn't want you to shoot anybody anyway."
Chiclet held out the gun. He kept his eyes on the ground and did not look up at El. "Maybe you should take this back."
"Keep it," El said. "I'll need you to cover me when I go in. All you need to do is fire a few shots in their general direction, like you did with the bottles." Chiclet winced, and El wished he could take the words back. "Just as long as you keep them off me, that's all that matters."
"I can't shoot anybody," Chiclet said. He was very pale; the bruising around his eye stood out in sharp contrast.
El frowned. "If you wish to be a policeman, you are going to have to learn to shoot someone."
Chiclet lost even more color in his face. "I don't want to," he whispered.
El pursed his lips. "Well," he said. "You are still young. You have plenty of time to decide what you wish to be when you grow up."
"How old were you when you knew you wanted to be a mariachi?" asked the boy.
He didn't know what to say to this. There had never been a time in his life when he hadn't wanted to be a mariachi, to follow in the footsteps of his father and his father's father. Cesar had sneered, but Papa had called him guitarista, imbuing the word with such pride and love that he had grown up believing there could be no life for him that did not involve music.
How did I get here? he wondered in amazement. He was sexually involved with a blind, insane American ex-CIA agent. He loved that man. And here he was, standing in the middle of nowhere with a twelve-year old boy, preparing to take down an entire drug cartel in order to save that man's life.
"Come on," El said. "Let's go back to the hotel. We have to get up early tomorrow."
****
In the morning he went out and bought the supplies he thought he might need. He ordered Chiclet to stay in the hotel room, and drove out to the drug house.
He took position on a hilltop overlooking the house. The hill sloped down, steep in some places, a more gentle incline in others. It reached level ground again at a point right outside the house's backyard. El hunkered down about halfway down the hill, using a scrub bush to hide himself. He brought out a pair of binoculars, and gazed at his target.
Over two years had passed since he had been here, but very little had changed. The house was still the same, pinkish-gray stone and lots of glass. A stone wall still bordered the property, and on the inside of the wall were the same low bushes. Their flowers were in bloom, and El felt a pang in his heart as he remembered the way Sands had looked that night, with one of those red flowers in his hair.
Some things, however, had changed. Security cameras had been installed under the roof eaves of the house, and men stood silent watch at the corners of the house. A garage had been built, with three vintage cars inside, all black, all carefully washed and waxed. A satellite dish poked unobtrusively from the back corner of the house, proof that its new occupant wanted all the movie channels.
After counting how many men stood guard, El shifted his gaze toward the house. The kidney-shaped swimming pool was still there, as well as the ugly patio furniture. But today, there were people using that furniture.
Two people. Diego Sanchez, and Sands. They were having lunch.
Shocked, he lowered the binoculars and stared at the ground. Having lunch? Had Sands somehow convinced Diego Sanchez to let him join the cartel? Or was this the condemned man's last meal?
He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. This was the kind of thing Carolina had always warned him about. He was so impulsive, prone to making spontaneous decisions, and that very spontaneity blinded him to the reality of situations. He needed to be sure of what he was seeing, before he did anything.
He raised the binoculars to his eyes again, determined to see clearly this time.
What he saw made his heart rate speed up again. His hands tightened on the casing of the binoculars.
Diego Sanchez was eating a plate of rice and beans; in his other hand he held a cell phone, and he was talking animatedly to the person on the other end. The sun shone off his bald head, and although the day was warm and Sanchez was dressed entirely in black, he was not sweating.
Sands sat in the chair to Diego Sanchez's right. His plate was empty. A dirty blindfold covered his eyes. At first glance his right hand was merely lying in his lap, but then El saw that it was cuffed to the seat of the chair. His left hand was resting on the table, and El saw right away why that hand was free – they had broken his fingers. Badly, too, by the looks of things.
Sands, it seemed, was never going to play guitar again.
He was swaying slightly in the chair, clearly not entirely alert. He had been beaten, and fresh blood and bruises covered his face. Although Sanchez looked at him several times, and in fact seemed to be talking about him to the other person on the phone, Sands showed no interest in either Sanchez or his surroundings. To El it looked like he was simply trying hard not to pass out.
As he watched, Diego Sanchez finished his conversation. He flipped his cell phone shut and slid it into the pocket of his suit coat. He said something to Sands, but although El saw his lips move, he had absolutely no idea what the words were.
Sands did not respond, or even acknowledge that Sanchez had spoken. Even when Sanchez reached out to squeeze the broken fingers of his left hand, Sands said nothing. He merely threw his head back and bit down on his lip hard. The cords on his neck stood out, but he did not scream.
Apparently this displeased Sanchez. He backhanded Sands with all his might. Sands tumbled off the chair, ending up facedown on the ground, his right arm lifted, still held by the cuff about his wrist connecting him to the chair.
Sanchez said something, and laughed.
Sands did not move.
El had seen enough. He lowered the binoculars again. As he always did before he prepared to kill men, he crossed himself.
Santo Dios, please forgive me what I am about to do.
******