Chapter 12
Reunion
Disclaimer: I don't own El or Sands or anybody. Robert Ramirez does.
Author's Note: Sorry this chapter is so long in coming. I was out of town for a while and then I got sick, and well… I hope this is worth the wait.
Many thanks to my beta reader, Melody, for getting this chapter back to me in record time, despite having a very full plate. I love you, girl.
It took three days and lots of alcohol for El to accept that he would never have his freedom as long as Sands was locked away. With great reluctance he called Lorenzo and Fideo and asked if they could once more come join him in Culiacan.
Being his friends, they said yes, of course. But when they heard what he wanted them to do, they balked.
"Are you crazy?" Lorenzo demanded. "Last year you needed our help capturing this guy. Now you want us to help you break him out of jail?"
"No." El shook his head. "There will be no prison break. Ramirez knows men from when he was FBI. He can get false papers drawn up. We will show them to the warden and he will believe we have come to take Sands into U.S. custody and take him back to the States." He looked firmly at his friends. "No guns."
Lorenzo scowled, obviously liking this idea less and less, the more he learned about it.
"How do you even know he's still there?" Fideo asked. "He probably got himself killed one night. Or someone found out he was there and they came for him." He paused dramatically. "In the middle of the night."
"He is there," El said. Archuleta had found that out, although El did not know how. He preferred not to. The American cop was scarily good at ferreting out information and finding sources of information. He should have been the spy, El had thought more than once. Sometimes late at night he wondered just what would have happened to his country if Archuleta had been running things four years ago, instead of Sands.
"This is insane," Lorenzo said. "You don't even know it will work."
El just shrugged. He had thought so at first, but now he was committed. He was tired of running and hiding, tired of living a half-life, waiting for the next person to find him. If Sands could put an end to that, then he would do whatever was necessary to make it happen.
"Come stay with us," Lorenzo suggested. "We could use you in our show."
"They will find me," El said wearily. As tempting as the offer was – and in truth, remembering the sleazy bars that Lorenzo and Fideo frequented, it was not very tempting at all – he could not accept. He would never endanger his friends like that. He was incredibly grateful to them for all their help, but when it was all over, he would say good-bye. It was easier this way. Better that he watch them drive off, than say his farewells over a fresh gravesite, like he had done with Quino and Campa. Better that these friends stay alive, annoyed at him and his stubbornness, then die for their love and loyalty.
"What the hell." Fideo slapped his hand on the table. "I'm in." When Lorenzo gave him an incredulous look he said, "What? I wasn't doing anything this weekend anyway."
"No," El said, "it is not happening so soon. It will take some time to draw up the papers without arousing suspicion. Ramirez's friend needs a few weeks. I will call you when we are ready."
Lorenzo sighed heavily, but he gave in, just as El had known he would. "This is loco," he swore. He pointed at El. "Call me when you know the time."
El just nodded.
Loco or not, the plan forged ahead. Archuleta had named himself their leader. He was the only American, and the warden of the prison would be expecting Americans. Then he pointed out the small detail of Sands knowing their voices. Sands had heard Fideo and Lorenzo on the day he had been arrested, and it was assumed that he would remember them. Therefore Archuleta would do all the talking. Lorenzo could produce a passable American accent, but it was agreed that he would only speak if necessary. Fideo, Ramirez, and El himself would all remain silent, hulking presences in the background.
The other thing they all agreed on was the fact that Sands could not be told what was happening. If he knew the truth, he would never cooperate. Sands' help could only be counted on if he thought he was also helping himself.
Archuleta had a way around that. "We tell him we're taking him back to Langley, but first we'll have a debriefing here in Mexico. If he is willing to cooperate and tell us what he knows about El Presidente's government, we are willing to forgive certain discretions. Once he tells us what we need, he'll be free to go his own way."
Ramirez frowned. "You can't let him go."
The former cop stared at him with exasperation. "Why not? From everything I've heard about this guy, we don't exactly want him hanging around any longer than we need him. You say I can't just shoot him in the back of the head when we're done with him, but we need to do something with him. So why not just let him go?"
"Because Sands is the one who must make the calls," Ramirez said. "If we were to contact these government men and try to blackmail them, we would be dismissed as fakes. But they will believe Sands. They know him and what he is capable of."
Archuleta thought about this for a long moment. "You're right," he finally said. "It's too dangerous to let him go. We need that information for ourselves. I don't believe for an instant that he'll level with us. He'll hold something back if we let him. Then he'll make his calls and find a way to tip them off about us, and we'll find ourselves with our heads in a noose anyway."
In spite of his dislike for the man, El was inclined to agree. Sands was too clever not to leave himself a way out. It was better for everyone involved if it all came out. Every lie, every secret. That way they could save themselves if the hunt began all over again a year from now, or even five years from now. And El had no intention of returning to that lifestyle. He was done hiding. He wanted to live in the open, where all secrets were exposed.
It took Ramirez's FBI friend over a month to get the fake papers they needed. By that time El was ready to walk into the prison with a rifle and demand that Sands be handed over. Now that he had made his decision, the waiting seemed unendurable. He wanted to begin the rest of his life as soon as possible.
It was, of course, November 2 when it all went down. The Day of the Dead. Four years to the day since Marquez and the coup. El thought there was a certain poetry in the shared date.
They left shortly after nine o'clock. Fideo stayed behind in the apartment, making sure everything was prepared on his end. Ramirez drove, with Archuleta in the front seat beside him. El sat in the back with Lorenzo. He was nervous, but not worried.
He was ready.
The prison was located south of the city, not far from the coast. It took almost an hour to get there. Ramirez parked right next to the front door, ignoring all the signs that said only official vehicles could park there. The four men got out of the car, all of them wearing somber dark suits. El tugged at his suit jacket, not liking the way it constricted his movements. He wanted his own clothing back. In the silence created by his missing bells, he could almost hear Sands laughing at him. He was only a mariachi. What was he doing here?
The receptionist goggled at them as they walked in. Archuleta led the way, flashing a badge that was as fake as the documents he held in his other hand. "We are here to see Warden Gúzman."
The woman nodded, still staring. "Just a moment."
It went surprisingly well, El had to admit. All he had to do was stand in the background of the warden's office and look dour. He could do that. Archuleta did all the talking, and he was very good at it. The warden did not suspect a thing. After expressing some surprise at the lack of advance notice he had been given, and expressing further surprise by the monetary "donation" his visitors had brought, he became eager to cooperate.
"I must admit we will be glad to be rid of him," Gúzman said. His English was heavily accented. "He has been a problem since the day he was brought here."
Archuleta only nodded. El wished he would ask what the warden meant, but Archuleta continued to look unconcerned. Apparently officers of the American government weren't supposed to be too interested in the men they had come to arrest.
They had to wait while Sands was brought out. Gúzman clasped his hands on top of his desk calendar and smiled nervously. It was cold in his office from the air conditioning. "Can I get you anything?"
"No," Archuleta said. He smiled, but only with his lips. "We have a plane to catch."
This did not make much sense, but the warden nodded. "Of course, of course."
El shifted his weight carefully from one foot to the other. He wanted this part to be over with. Once they were away from the prison, he could finally begin his new life. Until then, he was stuck here, playacting, forced into yet another role he had not wanted.
Knuckles rapped on the frosted glass window set in the warden's door. "Come in!" Gúzman called. Despite the air conditioning, he was sweating.
A heavyset guard walked in. One thick hand held Sands by the upper arm. "Hice el mejor que podría," he said in Spanish.
The warden stood up, nodding and licking his lips. He glanced at Archuleta, then El, then the others, no doubt suspecting they had all understood the guard. For a group of men supposedly from the U.S., only two of them looked American; El himself had no illusions about his appearance. But it did not matter. Let Gúzman think the CIA had sent men to Mexico who could understand the language. Let him think whatever he wanted. Just so long as he did what they wanted.
El looked at the guard, his eyes narrow. I did the best I could, the man had said. Just what exactly did that mean? Then he looked at Sands, and he supposed he knew just what the guard had meant, after all.
A year in prison had done Sands no favors. His hair was long and stringy and he was thinner than before. A dirty, dark blue bandanna was wrapped around his missing eyes. He was shackled at the wrists and ankles, a long chain connecting the two sets of manacles. He stood docilely in the guard's grasp, his head lowered.
El caught Lorenzo's eye. "Faker," his friend mouthed.
El did not respond, but privately he thought Lorenzo was right. He did not believe for an instant that Sands was as humbled as the image he projected. This was just another one of his charades, a way of throwing people off guard and luring them into thinking what he wanted them to think. Sands had no idea why he was being summoned to the warden's office, yet here he was, already playing his games.
"You!" Gúzman drew himself up. "You are being remanded into the custody of the United States Government. They will take you back home, where you will be prosecuted for the crimes you have committed."
Sands flinched, but did not speak.
The warden looked disgusted. "He's all yours."
Archuleta took control once again. He led Sands out the front door and into the bright morning, his stride brisk. With the cuffs about his ankles, Sands had a hard time keeping up, and twice he stumbled and nearly fell. Archuleta paid no attention. "Keep up now," was all he said.
Ramirez walked past them on his way to the driver's side. He was frowning mightily.
"Something about this sucks," Lorenzo said quietly.
El nodded. Now that they were outside in the fresh air, he could admit to his own feelings of unease. "Watch him closely," he said. "He is not what he pretends to be."
Lorenzo snorted. "You don't have to tell me that."
They got in the car. Sands sat in the middle of the backseat, between El and Lorenzo. He kept his head down and did not say anything. He was wearing his own clothes again, not the gray prison uniform El had half-expected, but he smelled bad. El wrinkled his nose and wondered when Sands had showered last.
Ramirez started the car and backed out of the parking space. No one spoke.
El sat stiffly upright. The backseat was not very roomy, and his left thigh and arm were pressed against Sands. He tried to shift a little to his right, but there was really nowhere for him to go. He could only hope Sands would not recognize him somehow just through that touch.
"Nice to see you, Officer Sands." Archuleta buckled his seat belt, then turned around so he could stare at the man he had only heard about for so long. "Aren't you going to say hi?"
Sands remained silent. His cuffed hands were in his lap. El could see raw patches on his wrists, as though he had been shackled for a long time.
"No questions?" Archuleta continued. "You're not curious about what's happening in the good ol' US of A? Don't you even want to know how we found you?"
Sands said nothing.
Archuleta made an impatient gesture. Interpreting this as a signal to act, Lorenzo whipped his arm up, smashing his elbow into Sands' face.
Sands threw his head back, gasping in surprise and pain, but he still did not speak.
El looked out the window. He had to bite his lip to keep from smiling. He would never like Sands, but he had to admit to himself that he admired the man's stubbornness.
Ramirez had been watching all this through the medium of the rearview mirror. Now he tapped his throat and shrugged in Archuleta's direction.
Archuleta scowled. He gestured at Lorenzo again. "Check him. See if he can still talk."
Lorenzo's eyes widened. He shook his head rapidly, miming a sharp biting gesture. El couldn't blame him for saying no, but for some reason his friend's alarm struck him as amusing. He bit down harder on his lip.
Archuleta rolled his eyes. "That's all right," he said. He glared at Lorenzo, promising that this disobedience would not be forgotten. "We've got plenty of time. And the plain truth is, Officer Sands, you will tell us everything we want to know. That's a fact."
Sands said nothing, but he gripped his hands together tightly.
Over his bowed head, El shared a look with Lorenzo. The younger mariachi was flustered. "What's going on?" Lorenzo mouthed.
El gave an elaborate shrug.
"Here." Archuleta held out a small silver key.
El reached out and took the key before Lorenzo could. He wanted to do it. He was curious to know what would happen. If Sands would somehow recognize him through smell or sense or just sheer precognition. He wondered idly what he would do if that happened, then decided he didn't want to know. He wanted to be surprised.
But nothing happened. He unlocked the cuffs from Sands' ankles, then removed the chain connecting them to his wrist cuffs. Sands did not even move. He might have been a statue sitting there, a statue needing a shower and wearing clothes that hung loosely on his thin frame.
Ramirez slowed down as they approached a toll plaza. Beyond the tollbooths was a rest area, and Archuleta pointed. "Stop there," he said.
Ramirez paid the toll and pulled into the rest area. At Archuleta's curt gesture, they got out of the car. El followed the others, striding carefully, still missing the counterpoint of the chains on his jacket.
They gathered in a tight circle a few parking spaces over, staring at the car and its lone occupant.
Sands remained in the backseat. If sitting alone in the car with all the windows rolled up bothered him, he did not show it. In fact, El was willing to bet a good sum of money that except for when Lorenzo had hit him, he had not moved at all since they had left the prison.
"I don't like this," Lorenzo said again. "Something's not right here."
"Is he hurt?" Ramirez asked. He looked at El, perhaps thinking the mariachi had a better view than he did up in the front seat.
"Not that I can tell," Lorenzo said, answering for El. He frowned. "Is he on drugs or something? That's how he's acting."
"He is playing a game," El said, more harshly than he had intended. Archuleta and Lorenzo could be forgiven for their ignorance, because they did not know Sands, but Ramirez should have known better. "He wants us to think one thing, while he does another." He pointed at the car. "Do not believe that."
"Oh, I don't," Archuleta said. His eyes narrowed. "Believe me, I met all kinds during my years on the force. There's nothing this guy can do that I haven't seen before."
El wondered about that, but he knew better than to say anything out loud. "Then let's go."
"No." Archuleta held up a hand. "Let him sit there a spell and sweat. Let him wonder what we're talking about."
Ramirez nodded thoughtfully, no doubt recalling his FBI training. "Most men, you leave them alone with nothing but their own fears, their imagination starts to work against them."
Archuleta was more succinct. "He'll crack faster this way." Calmly he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. "Anyone want a smoke?"
El shrugged and took one. Why not?
Lorenzo ambled across the parking lot, exhaling a plume of smoke into the morning sky. El walked with him.
"I don't like this," Lorenzo said, once they had drawn out of earshot.
"So you keep saying," El reminded him.
"I'm serious," Lorenz said. "Something's not right here. I don't trust him." He gestured to the car as he said it, but his eyes were on Archuleta.
El nodded. "Neither do I."
"I mean, what's he getting out of this? Are we supposed to believe he's doing all this just to help his friend?"
"He's probably wondering the same thing about you," El said mildly.
Lorenzo looked stung. "That's different!"
El just shrugged.
"Look, all I'm saying is, don't take your eyes off him. This guy, he can't be trusted."
"Now who are you talking about?"
"Both, I guess." Lorenzo dropped his cigarette to the asphalt and ground it beneath his foot.
They stood there for a while, saying nothing. El watched the cars driving past for a while, then glanced up at the cloudless sky. It was warm for November. He imagined it was boiling hot inside the car. He grimaced. He had never been one to take pleasure in petty torments.
Archuleta whistled, breaking the stillness. "Time to go."
They headed toward the car. Archuleta opened the back door.
El froze. For a guy who was supposed to be so smart, Archuleta had just made one hell of a mistake. It would take approximately one-tenth of a second for Sands to figure out where Archuleta's gun was, and another half-second for him to shoot the man. While El himself would not grieve over Archuleta's death, he knew Ramirez would. And he could not stand by and let Sands kill another man. Not while he could stop it.
"Wait!" He sprinted toward the car. He pulled his gun and aimed it at Sands, praying he wouldn't have to use it.
Archuleta never even looked up. "Let me see this," he said. He reached in and pulled the bandanna off Sands' head.
Sands jumped, and cried out loudly. Thin streams of blood began to run down his face. He raised his cuffed hands, his fingers fluttering near his cheek, but not quite touching.
Archuleta recoiled. He dropped the bandanna. "Jesus."
El stumbled to a halt. He lowered his gun. He absolutely did not want to know what they had done to Sands to make him bleed like that. Whoever had hurt him must have tied the bandanna about his face while the wounds were still fresh, and as the blood dried, the fabric had stuck to his skin. Until now, when Archuleta had ripped it free. He felt sick to his stomach, watching that slow trickle of blood down Sands' face.
"That's disgusting," Lorenzo muttered.
El shouldered Archuleta out of the way. From his suit coat pocket he pulled out a pair of cheap sunglasses. Without a word, he pushed them onto Sands' face.
Sands flinched back, but still he did not say a word.
"Come on," Archuleta said. He gave Sands a pointed look. "We don't want to be late for the debriefing."
El got in the car and resumed his former seat. He tried not to look at the blood seeping from beneath Sands' sunglasses. He did not want to see it. He did not want to think how close that image must resemble history, and what had happened on this day four years ago.
Ramirez started the car again, and blessedly cool air began to circulate through the car. He pulled out onto the road.
The miles passed in silence. El gazed out the window, watching the world pass by. Next to him, Sands sat very still, trembling, but not saying a word.