Sanctuary

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

Rating: PG-13 for language

Summary: Wounds are healed, El tries to figure some things out, and a new hunt begins.

Author's Note: As always, a big hug to Melody. And also to Adrejon for the e-mail that not only made my day, it made my entire year.

****

El was not afraid to return to Lorenzo's house. It was not the cartel's style to set ambushes for him. After every encounter with them, they let him drop below the radar for a time and simply waited for him to surface again, as they knew he eventually must. So he felt safe enough going to Lorenzo's.

Sands followed him in, still holding the gun. His step was more unsteady than ever, and El wondered how much of that was due to his condition, and how much due to the fact that he was now in an unfamiliar setting, where he was truly lost in the dark.

"What now, kemosabe?" Sands asked.

It was a good question. They could not stay here. The police would arrive at the yellow stone house and find the bodies. And depending on how quickly they moved, sometime in mid-afternoon they would be here, looking for anyone who might be able to ID Lorenzo and Fideo.

They would be buried alone, El thought. He would not be there for them, this one last time. After everything they had done for him, he was going to abandon them.

Suddenly he was furious. They had gone to the house because he had gone to the house. And the reason he had gone to the house?

That reason was standing right beside him.

In one smooth motion he drew his gun and seized Sands, yanking him close and jamming the gun against Sands' head. "You killed my friends," he snarled.

Not to be outdone, Sands shoved the muzzle of his pistol against El's stomach. "Yeah, but not on purpose."

"You shot Fideo," El said fiercely. He kept his voice low. He was afraid if he started shouting he would never stop. "How is that not on purpose?"

"For your information, El, I don't just randomly kill people anymore," Sands shot back. El could feel the fever coming off him in waves of sick heat, and it made him recoil. "I made an honest mistake when I shot your friend. I didn't know who he was."

El lost the last shred of his temper. He slammed the gun into Sands' face, sending Sands reeling. But he did not let go of the slighter man's arm, and he brought the gun in again, pressing the barrel to Sands' temple hard enough wring a grunt of pain from the man. His finger trembled over the trigger. "Cartel doesn't come in pairs!" he shouted. "And you ought to know that!"

"Fuck you," Sands said wearily. Blood welled up from a fresh cut on his lip. He had not lost his grip on the gun, and he still aimed it at El. "You don't know what I've been doing for the last three years. I've seen 'em in all sizes and shapes." He gave El a cold smile. "I used to throw shapes, you know. Now I just kill them." That smile disappeared. "And when I said I don't randomly kill people anymore, that doesn't include you."

The threat meant nothing to El. Even his furious grief was beginning to fade. Cold numbness was dropping over him, the detachment he had been forced to cultivate throughout the years in order to survive the tragedies that had befallen him. In a way he welcomed it. Numbness was preferable to pain.

The smell of blood was strong in the air. He lowered his gun, his mouth twisting in disgust. "You stink," he said. He gave Sands a violent push, suddenly unable to stand being so close to the man anymore.

Sands staggered backward. He bumped into the sagging armchair that had been Fideo's favorite, and fell heavily to the floor. He groaned, but did not let go of the gun.

El stared impassively down at him. Sands tried to get back up, but could not do it. He had finally reached the end of his strength. El was not surprised. He was in fact amazed that Sands had lasted this long.

With a sigh, Sands let his head drop back to the carpet. "You gonna shoot me now?"

"I should," El said.

Sands nodded. He rested the gun on his chest, one finger still curled about the trigger. After a time, when it became clear that El was not going to do it, he said, "Why not?"

"I don't know," El said. He shoved the gun back into his belt. He leaned down and took hold of Sands' left hand. "Get up." He straightened back up, dragging Sands off the floor.

"Hey!" Sands scrambled to get to his feet before El pulled his arm out of his socket.

"You can't pass out now," El said coldly. He had no problem with dragging Sands behind him by the hair. "We are not staying here."

Sands did not ask where they were going. Possibly he didn't care, but El thought it was more likely that he knew he would not receive an answer to the question. He swayed on his feet, and his head drooped, but he did not fall. "All right."

Reluctantly impressed in spite of himself, El let go of him. "I'm here for my guitar."

"I should have known," Sands sighed.

****

The doctor was not surprised to see them.

****

They stayed a week with the doctor. He had not wanted to let them in, but money could work wonders, and he was a good man at heart, so in the end he agreed to take care of them.

El spent most of his time sitting outside in the sun, smoking. His right arm was in a sling and he could not play guitar. He felt bereft without his music, the one thing that had always been there for him, even through the darkest times of his life. In the evenings the doctor came outside and smoked with him.

On the first day they had dumped the car that had belonged to the girl at the pharmacy. The police had found it, the doctor reported, but they had no leads. El had received this news with a silent nod.

As they sat outside on the second night the doctor asked, "Are you still planning to kill him when he is healthy?"

He did not have an answer to that question.

His life had ended the day Marquez had killed Carolina and his daughter. He had died right there beside them. Afterward he had tried to pick up the pieces of his life, only to find that they no longer fit together to make a whole. There were gaps now, pieces missing that could never be recovered.

So he had turned to the only thing he had left: his music. When the numbing storm of his grief had faded, he had left his guitar case with Fideo and Lorenzo. He had found the town where the people devoted themselves to making guitars, and he had become one of them.

But Sands had ended all that. Sands had reminded him that things like vengeance could be postponed, but not halted. Sands had forced him to return to the world, with all its petty cruelties and loose loyalties. So he had come back, and he had lived in Sands' world -- what most people would call the real world -- and he had hated every moment of it. That world was not for him. He was a mariachi, not a killer.

He had killed Marquez and he had saved El Presidente, and then he had walked away from everything once again. He had chosen solitude, and a life on the run. He did not want to live in a world where good men could be killed on the whims of a madman, and where good women were gunned down for choosing love over fear.

Too late, he had realized that there was no going back for him, not after the things he had seen and done. He walked in both worlds now. He had seen too much. He was deeply disenchanted with his life, but he did not know how to change things. He did not even know if change was possible anymore for someone like him.

He had been given a choice, and he had chosen simplicity. Rather than think about anything, he merely acted. He had cut the flimsy ties that had begun connecting him to the world again, saying farewell to Fideo and Lorenzo, and going underground.

His friends would have been surprised, but the last person he had seen in Culiacan had been the former FBI agent, Ramirez. He had met the man purely by accident, in the church. He had returned for one last visit, needing the dim coolness of religion in order to forgive himself for what he had just done. He had been praying for the strength to endure his self-imposed exile. Ramirez had been leaving the confessional booth. They had seen each other and for a moment their eyes had met. Ramirez had nodded, and then continued on down the aisle.

A few minutes later, El had left the church. The next day had found him running again. Because he had nothing else.

So he had fled from the cartels, and he had tried to find peace in music and solitude, and he had been successful at neither. Because the cartels had found him, and he had not found peace at all.

Curiously enough, the last two weeks had been utterly devoid of peace, and yet El Mariachi had not been this satisfied in many long years. When he was around Sands, his entire body thrummed with energy. His every sense was attuned to his surroundings. He felt ready for anything. He knew all this was merely a reaction to being around such a dangerous enemy, but that did not change the simple fact that Sands made him feel alive again.

Even the quiet pace of the hours spent in the doctor's house could not make El relax. He slept deeply, but from the moment he woke, he was taut with tension. He reminded himself to stay alert, and always, always, keep his guard up.

He kept watch over his enemy, although at first there was not much need. Sands was very sick. He was badly hurt. The doctor was able to remove the bullet that had caused all the trouble, but the wound was slow to heal. He had broken his collarbone in the plunge through the fence, but he had not said a word to El – it was the doctor who told the mariachi about this. But in spite of all this, he suffered in silence. He did not ask the doctor for more drugs, or even make any demands at all. At first he simply lay in bed, sometimes shaking when the chills came over him, but mostly not moving at all.

By the end of the week, however, he was up and moving around again. El had to admire his persistence. He watched as Sands explored the doctor's house, learning to navigate the unfamiliar halls and doorways. He was fascinated by how Sands would run his hand over an object so he could feel its contours and its position. Sands checked everything for sharp corners or protruding limbs, and once he had identified where something was supposed to be, it was not allowed to be out of place.

And his hearing was incredible. At all times he knew where everyone was in the house. He could tell what time of day it was by the sounds of nature coming through the window. When he spoke to someone, he looked right at them, finding their face in the dark through the sound of their voice alone.

During that week, El's respect for Sands, unwilling though it was, increased tenfold. Which was fortunate for Sands, because that respect was the only thing keeping him alive.

El did not attend the funerals for Lorenzo and Fideo. He dared not show himself. He did not think the cartel would look for him there, but he could not take the chance. And he hated funerals anyway. The cloying scent of flowers, the pasted-on smiles of the people who had come to gawk at the living, the finality of that dark hole in the ground. He hated having his grief made public for all to see. No, he would mourn for his friends in private, the way he always had done.

The grief for them kept sneaking up on him, surprising him when he least expected it. After all the loved ones he had lost, he should have been well-versed by now in how to handle pain. But time and again he had been proven wrong, and this instance was no exception. He genuinely mourned for Fideo and Lorenzo, and he missed them terribly.

The only thing that made his grief bearable was the thought that one day he would make Sands pay.

****

On the eighth day, El woke before dawn. He thought he had heard something.

He sat up, bare-chested, his arm free of the sling for the first time. The room was dark and the house was still. On a distant street, a car started up.

El swung his feet over the edge of the bed and stood up. He reached for the pistol he kept under his pillow and carefully made his way over to the bedroom door. He listened hard, but the sound that had woken him did not repeat itself.

It did not matter. He knew what it was.

He let himself out the front door, not bothering to shut it behind him. On bare feet, he ran the length of the porch and leaped over the railing, landing in the grass of the side yard.

Sands was just coming around the side of the house. He reared back in shock at the jingling sound of El's landing, and pulled his pistol. "You're up awfully early, aren't you?" In his other hand he carried a small duffel bag by the handles. His clothing was clean and repaired, thanks to the doctor. The bruising on his face had faded, and except for the fact that he was still too pale beneath his tan, he looked almost healthy. "What are you doing out here?"

"You know what I'm doing," El said.

"Yes, well, I'm afraid this is where we part ways, El. It's been nice knowing you, and all that jazz."

El shook his head. He hated this man, but he had to admit Sands sure had a pair. "Where are you going?"

"El." Sands gave him a tight smile. "I'm sure you're a very nice mariachi, behind that gruff exterior. But it's time I was going. So." He waggled the gun a little. "If you wouldn't mind just stepping aside, I'll be on my way."

"No." El thumbed the safety off his pistol. "Unless you want a brand-new bullet hole in you."

Sands' smile disappeared. "Get out of my way, El."

"Where are you going?" El asked again.

"Far away from here," Sands said.

"Last chance," he warned. He thought about putting a bullet in the ground at Sands' feet, then decided against it. This was a quiet neighborhood. If anybody heard a gunshot they would call the police.

Sands' jaw clenched. He seemed to be thinking the same thing, about the noise of a gunshot. At last he said, "Chihuahua. Your good friend the doctor told me he's heard rumors of cartel trying to establish a presence there. I thought I would go check it out."

El frowned in surprise. He hadn't known Sands and the doctor to talk about the cartel or anything at all, in fact, except the obligatory medical talk.

"Now, is that good enough for you, or do you need an address?" Sands asked. He spoke lightly enough, but El was starting to learn that the more casual Sands sounded, the more dangerous he was. That light-hearted tone did not fool him one bit.

"You can't even see where you're going," he said. "But you never stop. Do you really think you can single-handedly destroy the cartels of Mexico?"

"Maybe." Sands shrugged. "But I do know I can single-handedly fuck them up. So that's what I do. I don't throw shapes anymore. I throw bullets."

"You kill shapes," El said, repeating what Sands had said to him in Lorenzo's house.

"Exactly. Now move."

El lowered the gun. "I will find you again," he vowed.

"Gosh, El, the way you say that it sounds positively romantic." The gun in Sands' hand did not waver one inch.

"I mean it," El said.

"I know you do." Sands tucked the gun into the waistband of his black jeans. "See you around." Bold as brass, he walked across the lawn. When his feet hit the sidewalk he hesitated, turned left, and began walking.

El watched him go, marveling again at the strength of will that could keep a man moving so confidently through the dark. When Sands was out of sight, he went back into the house.

The doctor was standing in the living room, wearing a bathrobe. "Has he gone?"

"Sí." El glared at him.

"Do not look at me that way," the doctor protested. "I did not let him go. You did."

"But you knew he was leaving," El said. "You told him to go to Chihuahua."

"I had to tell him someplace," the doctor said. He dropped his gaze to stare at the floor.

A cold smile tugged at El's mouth. "There is no cartel in Chihuahua?"

"There may be," the doctor said. "But if there is, I am not aware of it."

El supposed it didn't matter. Sands would find somewhere to go, someplace where he could shoot first and ask questions later. Someplace where the legend would rise anew, the legend of the blind gunfighter always dressed in black.

"You should let him be," the doctor said.

El gazed at him. The old man looked frightened of his own audacity, but that did not stop him. "I am only saying, he is not a threat to you."

"No?" El asked. He lifted the hair on the right side of his head, so the doctor could see the almost-healed mark left by Sands' bullet.

"He is lonely and scared," the doctor said. "No good can come of this. Let him be."

"We will see," El promised.

He would give Sands one day. Then starting tomorrow, he was going on the hunt. Why not? Carolina and his daughter were long dead. Every friend he had ever had was dead, starting with Quino and Campa and ending with Fideo and Lorenzo. There was no one else. His life was empty now. Empty of love, of friendship. Empty of meaning.

So he would give himself a meaning. He would give himself a reason to go on living. Beginning tomorrow, he was going to follow Sands' trail. Wherever Sands went, he would be there. Until one day he found his quarry again.

And on that day? Well, only God knew what would happen then.

****

As it turned out, over a year passed before he saw Sands again.

******