Chapter Thirty-Two
Penance
His line delivered, El backed away from the door, shaking. He hit the wall opposite the room and his knees gave out. He sank to the floor.
El didn't even hear the rants and curses issuing from the room. He was too busy trying to figure out what was wrong with him. His heart was racing and his stomach felt like throbbing rubber. He gasped his breaths and wiped sweaty palms against his trousers.
It had been so long since something had truly frightened him that he had forgotten what the reaction afterward felt like.
He had planned this from the moment he realized Sands would escape the estate with him, even to his line about revenge for Maria, but he hadn't known if he could pull it off. And he hadn't expected to feel this wretched about the betrayal. Sentencing Sands to detox had seemed a just vengeance for Maria's murder when El had first conceived of it. More compassionate than killing him, since El did understand the cold necessity of Sands's deed.
But now . . .
El got to his feet and fled the building.
He needed to see the Padre about using the old fort anyway, right?
Father Soto was at home, to El's relief. He could usually be found in the village center, helping sand the guitars, but El had not wanted to be seen by the villagers just yet.
The priest poured him a glass of iced tea, reached over the rail of his small porch to pluck a few leaves of mint from his garden, plopped them in the tea and handed El the glass.
El's hand shook as he accepted it. Here he was, enjoying tea with mint, while Sands . . .
"Padre, what if he dies? A week ago, I thought about shooting him myself, but this . . . "
The priest had acted as El's infrequent confessor at times, so he took this sinful admission in stride. His open, genial face reassured El that he, at least, saw nothing to be concerned about.
"You are right to worry about your friend," said the priest. El had to bite his cheek to keep from insisting Sands was not his friend. "But you needn't worry that he will die. I have known men to die from taking cocaine. I have never known one to die from not taking it."
El swallowed some tea, forcing himself to believe the man. Though El was wanted by every drug cartel in Mexico, he had little experience with drug use. Father Soto had seen a good deal of it.
"What concerns me more is why you did this. Revenge, you say. How many times have I reminded you that vengeance is the Lord's?"
"Once or twice," El allowed, studying the glass of tea.
"Once or twice," Soto repeated dryly, studying El.
El wondered for a moment how he appeared. His dark hair was over-long, he knew, and stubble shadowed his face. At least he didn't bristle with weapons. Not at the moment.
"Padre," El began. He still hadn't gotten to the heart of his distress. "I feel like I have thrown him into Hell and locked the door behind him."
"And so you have," said Soto quietly. "But if revenge was really what you wanted, you would feel good about that, wouldn't you?"
So, what was he saying? That he didn't want revenge? Why else had he done it?
"I promised Lorenzo I would avenge her. I don't even like the gringo."
Soto smiled and drank the last of his tea. "I think there is hope for you yet, my son." He stood and looked across his garden at the former convent. The afternoon sun washed out the yellow adobe, so the building looked white. "Here is your penance."
El put both palms around the coolness of the glass. "This wasn't a confession," he protested.
Soto ignored him. "You must stay with him. Go to your home, get some clothes and food and blankets. Take a guitar. You'll need lamps . . ."
"I don't want to be anywhere near him!"
"You don't have to be in the room always. Not if he tries to hurt you."
"Which he will!!"
Soto nodded and poured himself another glass of tea. "Just stay nearby and hear him when he screams."
El gasped. "You go if you care so much for him. I've told you what he's like!"
A change came over the grandfatherly man. El had seen it before. He turned from genial guitar maker to Prophet of Doom. "You are worried sick for this gringo you hate. If you stay away you won't eat or sleep and you won't be able to shoot straight."
That startled El.
"You have thrown him into the dark, alone, with no hope. I don't care what he's done or what he's like. You are responsible for him, now. If you stay away, you are damned."
El hated it when Father Soto talked like that. He hated it.
"Come with me, Father?" El begged.
The grandfather returned. "I will visit. I will bring my little radio." He sipped his tea.
"A radio?"
"He can't watch TV, right? Give him something to distract him. The one with batteries."
That made El feel even worse. He covered his face with his hands. He saw in his mind the bare room Sands was suffering in. He thought of the myriad little repetitive things he'd seen Sands using to distract himself during the last hours before his scheduled fix. The damn priest was right. He had to go back. He had to be there.
It was after dark by the time El returned. Having made up his mind, he'd been able to eat a hasty dinner, bathe and change clothes in his own home. The comfort of the familiar after two weeks of misery had lessened some of his anxiety. For once, returning to his empty house had not assaulted him with painful memories of his missing family.
The corridor was dark, of course, so El approached Sands's door with an oil lamp in one hand. He held a bedroll in the other. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that being with Sands had no meaning for the agent if he didn't know El was there.
"Sands," he called. The man's hearing was excellent; El shouldn't have to do any more.
"El! Christ!" The American's voice was full of hope. "You came back!"
As if El could feel any more guilty.
"Let me out of here, man. Come on!"
"No," El croaked.
"Jesus, El, it's a fucking cell." Sands managed to sound perfectly rational. "I've been in nothing but cells for months. Open it up. We can talk about this."
"No," El said.
"Why not? I mean it. Why not? You don't want me around. I'll just leave and get out of your hair. You can keep the diamonds."
"No."
"Shit, do you know how to say anything besides no? You sound like a two-year-old." Sands's control was cracking. "Talk to me, fuckmook. Talk in Spanish if you have to; I can take it."
El swallowed. "You're staying here until it's over. Maybe five days." El prayed the priest was right about that. If he promised five days and it took longer . . .
Sands said nothing.
Then, when he did speak, El could hear the old tone of desperate need.
"Listen, El, about Maria,"
"It's not about Maria."
"What?"
"It's not about Maria," El said, more confidently. "I shouldn't have told you that."
"Well, God damn it, you fucking mariachi, if it's not about Maria, then what?"
"You're going to get clean, Agent Sands. That's what it's about."
"You motherfucking cocksucker! I have a bazillion arguments ready about Maria! Now you're going all God damned Dear Abby on me?"
"I am a white hat."
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Sands yelled. "At the end of it . . . at the end . . . I had this great finale . . . where I tell you how Maria wouldn't want you to do this. It was a masterpiece!"
El actually smiled.
"You wasted your time. I'm not letting you out. You talk to me. Tell me how to help you. Talk in English, I can take it."
A low keening sound came from behind the door.
El waited.
"El?" Sands sounded frightened.
"Sí."
"Get me some smokes, man. For the love of Christ . . . get me some cigs. Lots."
El found himself nodding in the darkness.
"And don't leave me."
"I can't do both, Sands."
"Christ on a crutch! Get me the cigs and then don't leave me, fuckmook! This isn't funny!"
Fuckmook?
"I will do it," El promised.
He left, feeling much better. Thank God he'd gone back.
A/N: I've been falling behind in thanking you, you lovely reviewers! It's so gratifying to know my story has an audience. Thank you!
Hey, back in Chapter 10 I posted some recommendations, but something in 's formatting messed with the links. So I've gone back and made them story ids. I think you can find the stories from that.