Chapter Thirty-One
Revenge
The dominant feature of Guitar Town was an immense edificio, long abandoned. The Spanish had built it as a fort: then, when this part of the interior no longer needed fortification, the edificio became a convent. The Church made it into a lovely structure, not that the Sisters valued frivolity, but in order to better glorify Christ. After the Order was disbanded, the building, still nominally under the control of the Church, stood empty. Had there been the interest and the resources, it could have been an orphanage or hospital, but the region around Guitar Town was out of the way and underpopulated, so the building stood unused.
The village's priest, Father Soto, was the accepted authority over the use of the old fort. El and Carolina had lived in it, with his permission, until they could build their own little house, and so had others at various times. El had spent many hours playing his guitar on its ramparts, and that is where he had been the day Marquez destroyed his world. That is where El took Sands.
He went first to the kitchen, and found it undamaged, only dusty.
"Table and four chairs, counters around the walls, two large stoves," he told Sands automatically. The agent had reacted hostilely to El's early attempts to lead him, preferring even the occasional blind stumble to feeling that dependant. He had seldom objected to being briefed on his surroundings, though, and even when in pain he showed an uncanny ability to adapt to what he could not see.
Sands found a chair and sank into it. They had been walking for many miles.
"Home sweet home?" he asked.
"For now," El said. El had a house in this town, but he wasn't taking Sands there.
El started a fire in the wood stove and put water on to boil. The Sisters had installed running water and plumbing, considering them essential to good health, but they had eschewed electricity, considering it self-indulgent.
El left Sands with his head down on the little table, and prowled the habitable parts of the fort. He knew many areas had been renovated into small apartments over the years, for various uses. He found the one he wanted - a single windowless room with an attached bath and water closet, with a bolt lock on the outside of the door. Why the Sisters had felt so many of their rooms needed to lock from the outside, El had never cared to consider too closely. He knew where to find bedding, and it was still good. The mattress on the rickety bed, however, was infested, making El suspicious of other mattresses. He decided to take the bed out and just arrange the bedding on the floor.
He and Carolina had used oil lamps for light at night, but light wouldn't be necessary in this room. El checked that the water worked in the bath and he tasted it to be sure it was drinkable.
He looked around the spare cell, summoning his hardest heart. He was the man who had killed his own brother. He could do this.
He put all his weapons in a hiding place and returned to the kitchen. Sands was slumped in the same position, but he had explored the kitchen, El could tell. He had removed the boiling water to let it cool. El had suspected that Sands learned a place as thoroughly as he could as soon as El was out of sight. Some remnant of pride made him not want El to see him grope like a blind man.
El poured the boiled water into a large jug. "How are you?" he asked, uneasily. It was the kind of question they both understood El was not to ask.
Sands raised his head, his face pinched and wan.
El expected a barbed answer, but Sands said, "I am so tired of this shit."
He knows, El thought, and his blood ran cold. I can do this.
"I have a room ready for you. This way."
El lifted the water jug and set out for the room. Sands followed. He could always find his way by merely listening to El's footsteps.
El had to pause to wait for the man, because the agent followed very slowly.
"I'll have to find a real bed," El chattered nervously, "the mattress was full of bugs."
El reached the room and opened the door, setting the water jug just inside it. He waited for Sands who approached at a snail's pace.
"Here," El said, to indicate that he stood at the door of the room.
Sands stopped in front of the room.
After a long pause, Sands asked, "Does it lock?"
El's heart pounded. "Only on the outside," he said.
Sands froze. Then he spread his hands and took a step back. "El, listen," he said in a level, reasonable tone. "We don't have to do this now. I'm all for it, you understand, but not today. I'm not in shape for it. We can do this anytime."
"No," said El. "The cocaine is all gone."
"What?!"
"I gave you enough to get you here. Now it's gone."
Sands stumbled back a few more steps, one hand going out to the wall. "Well, use the diamonds and get me some more. Fuck, El!"
"No," said El.
Sands bolted.
El chased and tackled him. He'd expected this. Sands fought him, desperately. He was stronger than before, El noticed, but El was healthier, and Sands wasted some opportunities groping at El's belt for weapons that weren't there. El finally dragged him, howling, to the door.
Bracing his lanky limbs against the two sides of the open door, Sands resisted being forced into the room. No amount of shoving or pulling would budge him. Sands shifted from howling incoherently to screaming curses at El, and after a while, El had had enough. He kicked the man in the kidneys, hard. Repeatedly. Until Sands finally broke his hold on the door and crumpled into the room.
El slammed the door and locked it.
Sands was pounding on the door in an instant. "El, you motherfucker! What do you care? Who gives a shit if I'm clean?"
El waited, catching his breath.
"Let me out of here, God damn it! Throw me out on the street! You can never see me again. What the fuck do you care if I get clean or not?"
The door trembled as the man must have thrown his entire weight against it.
"Consider it," El answered, loudly and clearly, "revenge for Maria."