Chapter Five
Cellmates
El lost all sense of time, living every moment as an eternity.
Finally, at some point, he was taken away through outside corridors lined with lush foliage, and shoved into a lightless, guarded room, where he fell to his knees and then collapsed forward on a cold floor. It was night. The same night or another, he didn't know.
More time passed, and the door opened and light footsteps entered. For a moment light from the corridor illumined the room, and El saw that it had a bed, some kind of small table and a sink. Then the door closed and someone knelt beside him in the dark. A hand touched him gingerly and a small voice called him by name.
"Maria?" he asked, incredulous.
"Yes, it's me," she said.
"What are you doing here?"
"They said I could come and help you. I'm studying to be a nurse, you know."
He didn't know. And it didn't make sense. "Why did they let you?"
"I don't know," she admitted. She stood and took some uncertain steps around the room. "They even gave me some bandages. Isn't there a light? I can't see you."
El thought he understood. A common tactic, to keep a prisoner off-balance by alternating cruelty and kindness.
A weak light flickered into being and Maria stood silhouetted beside the small table. "The bulb was loose," she said.
She returned and scrutinized him. "Let's get you on the bed."
El couldn't really use her help. She was too slight and weak to either lift him or support his weight. He half-crawled to the cot-sized bed, finding that some of his injuries hurt less now and others hurt even more. Once on the bed, he lay still as she exclaimed in horror over him. Her cautious ministrations hurt him more than once, but being touched to help instead of to hurt gave such healing to his psyche that he made no complaint, even when she wrapped his torso tightly. She had a bag of ice for his face.
Gingerly, she took his hand and studied his fingers. Every fingernail had been pulled out and his hands were a bloody mess. He couldn't help but flinch when she tried to bandage the ends of his fingers. "No, no," he said, pulling back his hand. He couldn't bear to have anything touch them.
"Wait," she said. She fumbled with something on the floor and came up with a tube, like a tube of toothpaste. "This is a topical anesthetic. Let me put it on. Then you can take the bandages."
They had given her an entire first-aid kit! El mentally shook his head in bemusement, but he allowed her to treat him.
She had finished one hand when she said his name again. "What do they want with us?" she asked, tremulously.
"I don't know," he said. "If they need the money, they can sell me, and probably Lorenzo, to another cartel." It was the only thing he'd been able to come up with, but it was very thin. And, in most cases, their corpses would be sufficient to garner the reward. "Where did they take you?"
"Lorenzo and I are together in another room. Unless I am to be here, now." She looked around.
"Did they hurt either of you?"
"No," she gulped. "Not yet."
He lifted the bandaged hand to her frightened face. "Has anyone touched you?" he asked, gently.
She blinked back tears. "Not yet."
"I am sorry, Maria."
The door opened, and in came the last man El wanted to see this night, or any night. Agent Sands paused just inside the doorway, and someone outside closed the door behind him. El heard the click of the lock. For a long moment no one said anything. Sands wore dark glasses, making his expression difficult to read.
"What the fuck is this?" Sands finally asked.
"What do you mean?" asked Maria, still crouched beside El on the bed.
"What are you doing in my room?" Sands turned and pounded on the door. "Hey pig-dick! Who's in my room?" he yelled.
"Easier to guard one room than two," came the muffled response. "Have a party, if you like."
"Ah, shit," said Sands as he kicked at the door. He turned to face them. "El?" he asked, an uneasy note in his voice.
What was the matter with the man? El couldn't quite put together Sands's actions and his words. Not that it mattered. What mattered was that they were together in a locked room, and as far as El could see, Sands had no weapon on him. He gathered his strength and launched himself off the bed at him.
He got in one solid punch with his bandaged hand. Maria gave a little shriek, and then Sands retaliated with more strength and fury than El expected, given the man's slight build. El went down without much further fight as he exhausted what strength he had recovered. He had instinctively caught himself with his unbandaged hand and the agony from that member brought tears to his eyes.
"No, no, stop!" cried Maria, hanging on Sands as he pressed his counter-attack.
Sands stepped back, shrugging her off, and Maria shrieked again.
El blinked and struggled up. What had Sands done to her?
Sands turned his head toward El and El saw what she had seen. The sunglasses had fallen off in the fight, and where the man's eyes should have been . . .
"Dios!"
Sands looked like a living skull. El almost crossed himself. He stared, his fury as exhausted as his strength.
Beyond Sands, Maria did cross herself, her eyes huge in her pale face.
Sands straightened, paused, then took a deep breath. "Are we done with this shit?" he asked. He moved, with uncanny accuracy, to where his glasses had fallen, and put them back on.
El still could find no words. Hearing the gringo's twangy voice come out of the death mask had only made the situation more creepy. He wondered for a moment if he were having a nightmare, but the pain from his hands and ribs dispelled that possibility.
"Get off my bed," Sands ordered.
Maria stood forth with admirable courage, El thought. "He's injured. He gets the bed," she said.
"It's my goddamn bed," Sands roared, and, gripping the rail at the foot of the bed, he lifted the end of it, with El on it, and, twisting, dumped El on the floor.
Even as a spear of pain went through his ribs, El marveled at the man's strength. Only great anger or fear should inspire this, and Sands had no cause for either, that El could see. Something was wrong about the whole situation.
Ignoring Maria, who joined him on the floor, her arms around him, El studied Sands. He could bear to look at the man now that the glasses were back on. Sands looked unnaturally pale, he thought, and sweat glistened on his face.
Sands threw the bed back into place, and then returned to the door. He knocked and called, in a less angry tone, "Gomez! Where's my nightcap?"
Laughter from beyond the door, and then it opened a crack, admitting the barrel of a gun. "Have you been a good boy?" the guard asked. "How's the party going?"
"Cut the crap," said Sands, and, just to add to El's confusion, he sounded, not insulting, but almost solicitous. "Have you got it?"
"Here. Nice doggy."
A sandwich bag with a tiny amount of white substance in it flew in the door as the gun retreated. The door closed and locked.
CIA Agent Sands slid down the wall beside the door, scooped up the bag, and proceeded to put the white stuff up his nose, as El and Maria watched.