I'll Take the Low Road, You Take the High Road

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the lovely characters of OUATIM. They belong to the sheer genius of Robert Rodriguez and the extremely talented actors who brought them to life.

Rating: PG-13 for language

Summary: El hits rock bottom, and Sands begins clawing his way up

Author's Note: This chapter references events in El Mariachi and Desperado. Assume three years take place between those two films, and eight years between Desperado and OUATIM.

This chapter also breaks from my usual tradition of only writing from one POV. Both El and Sands speak in this chapter.

Lastly, many thanks to everyone who offered me kind words on my new house. Things went well, although I'm still settling in. Annoyingly enough I haven't got a phone yet, so I have to get online and post using someone else's computer, but hopefully soon I will have my own Internet connection. Until then however, updates may be infrequent, and I may not be able to respond to all my reviews and e-mails. Thanks for your patience, guys, especially you, Melody. You're the best.

****

El Mariachi had left Culiacan with no clear idea of his destination. He only knew that he had to get away. Far away.

He was shaking all over. Carolina, Carolina mi amor, what is happening to me? Help me.

If he had not been before, he was damned to the darkest depths of hell now. He had ordered another man to kill a child. For purely selfish reasons.

Twilight was falling. In the west, the sky was on fire, blazing with red and orange. The first, bravest stars were already glimmering overhead. El pulled the car over to the side of the road, stopped the engine, and got out.

He began to walk. The ground was uneven, and as the last light left the sky, it became harder to see where he was going. He stumbled on loose rocks and dust, falling to his knees, scraping his palms raw.

Carolina, Carolina!

A scream wrenched itself from his throat. He fell again and this time he did not get up.

Echoing through the years, he heard Sands saying, Well, frankly, because you have nothing to live for.

Nothing to live for. No reason to keep going. His life was empty, devoid of all meaning.

This afternoon, when Sands had refused to kill the boy, he had felt hope. Hope, like a single ray of light bursting through the clouds after a thunderstorm. Hope, that swell of emotion that had filled his chest, that emotion he had not been able to name.

Hope. If a man like Sands, who had no regard for anyone except himself, was willing to trade his life for that of a child, then maybe there was hope for him.

Hope. For himself. Because if Sands could do it, maybe he could too. Maybe he could feel again, and learn to value life and all its dark beauty.

He thought of the guitar case he had left in the trunk of the car. Anyone who drove past could stop and steal it. He did not care. Let them take it.

All his life he had wanted to be a musician. Some of his earliest memories were of toddling around his parents' hacienda, a guitar in one hand. He had worshipped his brother Cesar, but Cesar had never understood music the way he had. They had grown apart, and he had watched helplessly as his brother became more and more involved in the world of power and drugs.

The last time Cesar had visited home, he had been full of scorn for the simple house and the family who lived there. "You will never be anything," he had said. He had driven away in his wealthy car, surrounded by watchful men in sunglasses.

The words had stung. Shortly after that he had left home, determined to prove himself, to be someone. He would be a famous mariachi, like his father and his grandfather before him. His mother had wept to see him go, but his father had simply nodded in understanding.

Work had been scarce, and he had come close to despair a few times. He had nothing but the clothes on his back and his guitar. He was hungry and tired. But he had his music and he had hope. He did not give up.

Then Acuña. Moco. Azul. Domino. A guitar case full of guns and a shoot-out in the middle of the street. He had never shot anybody before. He knew how to handle a gun, but he had never used one before for anything except target practice.

When it was all over, the woman he loved was dead, he could not play the guitar, and he was on the run from a drug cartel that wanted to kill him.

Now here he was, fifteen years later, and nothing had changed. The woman he loved was long dead, music was dead to him, and his soul was dead.

All he had ever wanted was to play music. When he had met Carolina he had rediscovered the guitar, and the soaring joy it could bring him. When she sang his heart nearly broke. He had married her and she had given him a daughter, and he had been happy, truly happy for the first time in his life.

Then Marquez. The past could be forgotten but it could not be avoided. Sunlight glinting off metal. Blood in the dust. He had died that day, lying there in the street beside his wife and child.

Strange, then, that he was still up and walking around. Maybe that was why he could not feel anything. He was dead, and he just didn't know it.

He decided he would return to the place where they were buried. His Carolina and his beloved daughter. He would lie down beside them, and he would finally let himself die.

The storm had passed. He no longer felt like screaming. He got to his feet and walked back to the car.

****

The graves were located in a cemetery outside the town where they had died. Just their names. No dates. Two simple stone markers side by side. There was room on the left for another marker. His own, if ever he should find someone who would bring his body back here.

He dropped to his knees in the dirt. He ran his fingers over the carvings in the stone. He whispered their names.

He felt nothing. No grief. No anger. He was dead inside. Why was his heart still beating?

Softly he sang to them. The lullaby his daughter had loved. The cancíon that had always made Carolina smile. He sang until his throat was sore and he could not sing anymore. By then it was almost dawn, so he simply lay down on the ground, closed his eyes, and waited to die.

****

The sound of engines woke him. He rolled onto his back and squinted up into a painfully bright sky. An airplane was coming in to land. One of the local families had a private landing strip.

His head throbbed sickly. He ached, deep in his joints. He was still alive.

Groaning, he forced himself to his feet. He staggered, almost fell, and righted himself. He stood uncertainly under the hot sun. He could go into the town, this place that had seen the last of his happiness. People there would recognize him. They would be happy to see him. They would welcome him back, and he could fashion a semblance of a life again.

Or he could return to the guitar town, and try and find his old life there. The padre who had married them was probably still there, mourning the brother whom Cucuy had shot, but still making guitars.

Or he could strike out in a new direction. He had no desire to resume the hunt for Sands. That man had proven himself, as far as El was concerned. Sands was still plenty dangerous, but his guns were not aimed at the people of Mexico. He could be forgotten.

He decided he would return to Culiacan. He would make his apologies to the boy he had terrified. And then?

He would let his fate determine itself.

****

Morning dawned hot and sticky. After a quick shower, Sands shuffled into Ramirez's kitchen, fumbled for a chair, and sat down. "Coffee?"

"Just made it," Ramirez grunted. Clearly he was not a morning person, either. Another point in his favor.

A mug was set down in front of him. Sands wrapped his hands about it, testing the warmth of the ceramic. The coffee was hot, but not so hot as to be undrinkable. He took a long drink, reveling in the rush of caffeine through his system.

"Leaving?" Jorge said.

"Eventually," Sands said. He drank from the mug again. "What's for breakfast?"

"I don't eat breakfast," Jorge said.

Sands sighed, a martyr's long-suffering sigh. He stood up and left the kitchen, taking his coffee with him.

He went out onto the front porch and sat down. Sunshine streamed onto the chair, bathing his face in warm light he could only feel, never see.

He would send Jorge into town today to ask questions. He needed more information before going on the hunt. Everyone within a fifty-mile radius would know he was back in town soon, depending on whom the kid had blabbed to, and how quickly they spread the word. He needed to lay low for a while. He would quietly gather information and make his plans, then strike when the time was right. That was how he had operated in his former life, and the old methods still served him well even now.

He sipped at his coffee. He was hungry, but not hungry enough to go back inside and tell Ramirez make breakfast. Sitting here alone in the sun was quite nice, actually. It had been a long time since he had been free of the demands of others.

Inside the house, Ramirez turned the TV on. A news anchor chirped brightly about the previous day's murders and rapes and robberies, before turning things over to the weatherman, who announced in ponderous tones that today would be hot and sunny.

Sands finished his coffee. He fingered the guns he was wearing. He wondered if Jorge had a good cleaning kit. He needed to keep the guns in good condition. They were all he had now.

Commercials came on the TV. A puff of breeze made its way onto the porch, and he turned his face up, grateful for the cool air. He realized he had no idea what day it was, what month even. Always before there had been a certain freedom to not being beholden to time, but now he wanted to know. It seemed important that he know.

A bell dinged. He turned his head sharply, to hear better. The sound came again, and he sat up a little straighter. What the hell?

The kid rode his bike right up to the porch, then mounted the steps. "Señor!"

"Don't you have school?" Sands asked.

"It's summer," the kid said in Spanish. He walked up to Sands and stopped. "I thought you would be gone."

"Not yet," Sands said with a tight grin. He spoke in easy Spanish. "You can't get rid of me that easily."

"Good," Chiclet said. He sounded very satisfied.

Sands frowned. "Why is that good?" He reached into his pocket and began rolling a cigarette. He was low on tobacco, though. When he sent Jorge into town for information, he'd ask the FBI agent to get him some more smokes, too.

"I wanted to see you again," Chiclet said. Chair legs scraped the wooden porch boards as he dragged a chair over and sat down.

"Why?" Sands asked. He finished the cigarette and popped it in his mouth.

"Because," the kid said.

"Because?" he prompted. He fished his lighter out. But it was out of lighter fluid, and despite shaking it, it would not produce a flame. "Shit."

"Because I wanted to," the kid said stubbornly. "I like you."

Sands grinned. "Yeah?" He had never been one to turn down a compliment.

"I never knew anyone like you," Chiclet said. "You stood up to the cartel. No one else here ever did that before."

His amusement died. So that was it. The kid looked up to him. The kid remembered the Day of the Dead and thought he had been a hero. The kid didn't know about the utter terror he had felt in the back of that taxi when he had realized he was all alone. The kid didn't know what it felt like to have your eyes ripped from your skull while you were screaming and fighting with every ounce of your strength. The kid didn't know jackshit.

He was ready to say just that when the kid shocked him by putting a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry for what they did to you," Chiclet said.

He froze, his mouth still open so he could yell at the kid. No one had ever said that to him before. Always there had been an implicit understanding that he deserved what had happened to him. Having his eyes torn out was his punishment for being an arrogant American bastard who had tried to manipulate Mexico for his own gain.

The kid truly didn't know shit. The kid didn't know he was a bad man. The kid didn't know he had nearly failed his psych exam at Langley because he had been too busy laughing at them to pay attention to what he was doing. The kid didn't know about the knives in the dark or the silenced pistols. All the kid knew was that he had once spent ten dollars for bubble gum, a hell of a lot more than that so the kid would be his guide, and that he had killed three members of Barillo's cartel after being blinded.

He closed his mouth and sat back in the chair. "Yeah, me too," he said hoarsely.

"Are you going to stay?" Chiclet asked. And damn if he didn't sound like he hoped the answer would be yes.

"For a little while," Sands said. He waited to see what the kid would say next.

Chiclet did not disappoint. "I hope you stay for a long time."

He gave the kid a thin smile. "Well, that depends," he drawled. "Who did you talk to about what happened yesterday?"

"I didn't," the kid said. "I mean, I didn't tell anybody."

Sands frowned. He rolled his cigarette between his fingers. He found it hard to believe that the kid had kept his mouth shut over something as traumatic as having his life threatened by the great El Mariachi. "You didn't tell anyone?"

"Jorge told me not to," the kid said. "He said it wasn't a good idea for people to know you were back in town."

"Jorge's right," he said. "That would be a very bad thing."

"I hope you stay," Chiclet said. "And I hope you get them all. I hope you kill them."

He was talking of course about the cartel presence in the area. Sands smiled again, this time showing his teeth. "Oh, I will."

****

El drove north. He was still going to Culiacan, but first he had a stop to make. He had more graves to visit.

He entered the town from the eastern side, driving past the old yellow stone house where his friends had died. He slowed as he passed it, hoping the sight would spark some old hatred in his heart, but nothing happened.

Lorenzo's house was empty. The shades were drawn, the windows closed. El smashed in the kitchen window and slithered in through the opening. Inside, it was explosively hot. The house smelled of mildew.

He walked through the halls, touching the doorframes, but not going into any of the rooms. He wondered why no one had bought the house, and then he remembered that Lorenzo had left the house to Fideo. With Fideo's death, it had passed to him. He owned this place now, every rotting board and locked window.

He stopped in the doorway to Lorenzo's room. A TV stood in one corner. Lorenzo's guitar case was along the base of the wall. His burgundy jacket, the one he had worn because he said it turned the ladies on, hung on the doorknob of the closet.

El walked over to it. The shiny metal buttons were dusty. He brushed his fingers over the fabric. He could remember when Lorenzo had bought the jacket for a song and a wink at a market stall in a village outside Mexico City. Fideo had laughed and said he looked stupid, and Lorenzo had pointed at Fideo's striped jacket and asked who looked more stupid.

He ripped the jacket off the doorknob and buried his face in it. He breathed deep, smelling dust and heat and faintly, the scent of Lorenzo's cologne. Deliberately he conjured up memories of Lorenzo smiling, laughing as he played his guitar, dancing with a pretty señorita.

Nothing happened. He pressed Lorenzo's jacket to his cheek and groaned. Why can't I cry? Carolina, why can't I shed any more tears?

After a time he carefully folded the jacket. He laid it on the bed.

He left the house.

****

Jorge came back from town with cigarettes, groceries, and information. The cartel in this area was led by a man named Carlos Alvarado. He had been in Barillo's employ. He was ruthless, hated by most, and feared by all.

"That's really swell," Sands said over lunch. "But where is he? Hated and feared doesn't tell me where he lives, Jorge."

"If you want his address why don't you look in the phone book?" Ramirez asked.

"Fuck you," Sands muttered. "All right, fine. So you weren't that helpful today. Tomorrow you'll do better."

"What is this?" Ramirez asked. "You think you can come into my house and give me orders now?"

Sands restrained himself from responding with a great effort. Well, yeah.

"That is not how it works," Ramirez said. "You want information, you have to earn it."

He sighed. "How much are you asking? Just remember, though, you won't get paid until I get paid. And that won't happen until I find this Alvarado guy and smoke him."

"I don't want your money," Jorge said. He sounded pissed.

Not want money? What the hell? "Then what do you want?" he asked.

"I've got a backyard that needs weeding," Ramirez offered.

Sands sat back, incredulous. "You're joking, right?"

"Do I sound like I'm joking?" asked Ramirez. Metal clinked as he set his fork down.

"I'm fucking blind, remember?" Sands snarled. "How the hell am I supposed to weed your garden?"

"Simple enough," Jorge said. "The weeds have prickers."

"Cute," Sands smirked. "Real cute."

"If you get started now you should be finished by dinner," Jorge said. He stood up, taking his plate to the sink and rinsing it off.

Sands just sat there. He had never pulled a weed in all his life. Unless you counted the drugs he had taken in college.

"If you want some help--" Jorge started to say.

Sands stood up so fast he knocked over his glass, which fortunately was empty. "I don't need anybody's help," he snapped. Before Jorge could say anything else, he made his way around the table and left the kitchen.

When he went outside, he made sure to let the door slam shut behind him.

****

That night he sat on the edge of his bed, wrapped in a terry cloth bathrobe that was a size too big. His clothes were grass-stained and in the wash; Jorge had promised to make a trip into town tomorrow to buy him some new ones.

He ached all over, especially his back and shoulders. But it was a good ache, strangely enough. He had worked in the yard for hours, on his knees pulling weeds. He had stopped only when the kid - who had mysteriously arrived just in time to miss all the hard labor - had brought him a glass of lemonade. "Jorge says you can stop now."

"Oh, really?" He had sat back on his heels and drained the glass in one swallow. A light buzzing noise had filled his head, and he had wondered how close he was to having a heatstroke.

He had not been interested in dinner. Just a hot bath. His hands were blistered and cut to hell, but Jorge had given him a topical antibiotic that had taken away the worst of the sting. The FBI agent had started to walk away, then he had turned around. "Thank you."

He had a glass of tequila now, but the drink did not interest him either. He was more interested in the strange things he was thinking right now.

Things like, How long can I stay here? Things like, How long before Jorge kicks me out? Things like, How long before the kid figures out I'm a fake?

He didn't know why he was thinking those things.

He eased back onto the bed and bunched up the pillows so he could recline on them and be half-sitting, half-lying down. He crossed his feet at the ankle and tapped one foot restlessly against the other.

He was in danger of going soft here. He knew it, but somehow it didn't seem important. The cartel wasn't important. Carlos Alvarado wasn't important. The contract the Colombians had on him wasn't important.

What was important? The kid. Jorge. The fact that he felt safe for the first time in over four years.

I could stay here, he thought. I really could.

In his former life he had always been afraid of settling down, of letting himself stand still. Now the thought held enormous appeal. Sands tried to imagine himself here in a few weeks, or even a few months, and something painful twisted in his chest.

Nope, no question about it. He wanted to stay.

Which meant one thing. The cartel in this area had to go. His safety now was just an illusion. There would be no real safety until the last remnants of Armando Barillo's operation were obliterated.

Starting tomorrow, he was going to make it happen.

******