Chapter 13
Interrogation
Disclaimer: Sands and El and everyone else in this story are the property of Robert Rodriguez.
Author's Note: Random violence ahead, and lots of angst. Please be warned. Also, the POV in this chapter changes halfway through again.
This chapter is for Bainpeth, because I promised it to her ages and ages ago.
They arrived back at the apartment a little before noon. El's stomach gurgled noisily as he stepped out of the car. He hoped Fideo had lunch ready for them.
Archuleta slammed his door closed. "Welcome to your new home, Officer Sands. How long you stay here is entirely up to you."
Sands said nothing as he followed Lorenzo out of the car. He had stopped bleeding, but trails of crimson were drying on his face, all the way down to his throat. El was glad he hadn't spent too much on the sunglasses; they were probably ruined.
The apartment building was a single-story, with satellite dishes decorating the roof. It was just one more structure in an entire complex, cheap apartments built for the working-class citizens of Culiacán. Archuleta led the way toward the door, pulling the key from his front pocket. As he walked up the steps, the drapes in the front window twitched, and Fideo peeked outside, no doubt hoping the slamming of the car doors had signaled the return of his friends.
"I'm hungry," Lorenzo muttered.
And behind him, Sands exploded into action.
It all happened fast. El was on the other side of the car, helpless to do anything to stop it. He could only watch as Sands used both hands to club Lorenzo on the back of the head, knocking the young mariachi to the ground. Immediately Sands dropped with him, exploring Lorenzo's jacket until he found the gun Lorenzo was carrying. He yanked it free and thumbed the safety off.
Ramirez reacted swiftly, saving them all from what would have been quite messy. He pulled his gun, walked right up to Sands, and clocked him on the side of the head before he could even begin to turn in that direction. Without a sound, Sands slumped, falling on top of Lorenzo, who was scrambling to roll over and get to his feet.
El ran around the car, reaching the scene just as Archuleta did. "Crazy fucker," the American said. He shook his head.
"I told you!" Lorenzo exclaimed. He rubbed at the back of his head, grimacing with pain.
"You'll live," Ramirez said shortly.
The door to the apartment opened. Fideo stuck his head out. "What's going on out here?" he called.
They dragged Sands inside, into one of the back bedrooms, and laid him on a mattress on the floor. El unlocked the handcuffs and removed the manacle from Sands' left wrist. Then he raised Sands' right arm over his head and closed the empty cuff about the metal leg of the radiator. It was solidly attached to the wall; no amount of pulling and straining would allow Sands to get loose.
Fideo stared at all the blood. "What happened?" he asked.
"We did not do that," Ramirez said curtly. He glanced at Archuleta, but said nothing.
Lorenzo was still rubbing his head. "Fucker hit me."
"You've got a hard head. Quit complaining." Fideo seemed unconcerned. "Lunch is ready."
El exchanged glances with Lorenzo. "You go," he said. He was suddenly not very hungry. "Someone needs to keep an eye on him."
"I'll relieve you in about fifteen minutes," Archuleta said, in a tone of voice that made it clear he expected no argument. He headed for the kitchen. After a while, the others followed him.
El went with them, but only long enough to take a bowl from one of the cupboards. He filled it with warm water, then started to return to the bedroom.
"What are you doing?" Archuleta asked. He sat at the head of the table, ready to dive into the full plate in front of him.
"You know what I am doing," El said. He did not like being questioned by this man. For over a month he had put up with Archuleta, but that time was nearly at an end.
"Don't." Archuleta popped an olive into his mouth. "The blood on his face might freak him out. Give him a nasty reminder of what happened to him four years ago. And we need anything we can get to keep him unsettled. Keep him off balance."
Because that's what I do. I restore the balance to this country.
El shrugged, just lifting one shoulder. He tilted the bowl and let the water run out into the sink. Archuleta nodded approvingly.
They started after lunch. Archuleta was eager to get going, to get this thing done with. He was a good man and Ramirez liked him a lot, but he was never going to replace Danny. Despite being brothers, there were fundamental differences between the two men. Ramirez had known Eddie nearly as long as he had known Danny, and yet even now his friend could surprise him. That bit of business with the bandanna, for instance. His old friend would never have just ripped it off like that, yet Eddie Archuleta had never hesitated.
Things like that made Ramirez wonder. If he was doing the right thing. If he hadn't made a gigantic mistake in bringing Archuleta to Culiacán. But even if he had, it was too late now. He was in it, whether he liked it or not.
El Mariachi brought Sands out of the bedroom and into the tiny room that most people would have used as a den. There was a computer in here, but it was in the corner, and right now it was turned off. A flat table sat in the center of the room, with four metal chairs placed around it. Archuleta was already sitting in one of those chairs, waiting.
Ramirez stood to one side, ready to do his part. He watched as El propelled Sands forward. Sands was walking under his own power, but rather stiffly. Ramirez figured he had one hell of a headache right about now. That was good. Archuleta was right. Sands was too clever for them by far. They needed every advantage they could get, if they were to gain his cooperation.
They sat him in a chair and cuffed his right wrist to the arm of the chair. Ramirez took his left wrist and knotted a loop of cord about it, then pulled forward until Sands' hand rested on the table. He tied the cord about the leg of the table and then stood back with his arms folded, and what he hoped was an impassive expression on his face.
Archuleta took a deep breath, mentally readying himself. "Welcome to your debriefing, Officer Sands."
Sands said nothing. He just sat there, his head bowed, blood all over his face.
"This is how it works," Archuleta said. "You will be returning with us to Langley, but what happens when we get there is all up to you. Cooperate now and things will go much easier for you. Refuse to cooperate, and everything will be much harder." Archuleta grinned, the cold grin of a man long used to getting his own way. "And believe me, I have no trouble doing things the hard way. So what's it gonna be?"
Predictably, Sands said nothing. Ramirez sighed.
"Fair enough," Archuleta said. Quite calmly, he picked up Sands' left hand and snapped the little finger.
Sands jolted in his chair and cried out. Then he lowered his head and clenched his jaw, and Ramirez saw that this would be the last sound he made. Part of him could not help but admire the man's stubborn defiance, but mostly it just made him feel tired. He really had no desire to watch this all day. He had never enjoyed interrogations. Danny had always done most of the work, allowing Ramirez to play the "good cop." The only problem was, there wasn't going to be a "good cop" today.
"Now." Archuleta punctuated the word with a sharp wiggle of Sands' broken finger. "We know you've been working for the Mexican government. Tell us what you know about them. A quid pro quo. You see, you have to give something in order to get something. Give us enough to make us happy, and I can promise you your sentence will be lighter."
Sands did not speak.
Ramirez winced as bone snapped again. Sands threw his head back, the cords on his neck standing out, but he managed to remain silent.
Enough of this. Ramirez left the room.
Footsteps followed him. "This will not work," El Mariachi said.
"I know," Ramirez sighed. He went straight to the liquor cabinet in the kitchen and grabbed the first bottle he saw. "Archuleta and I have another plan. In case this one does not work."
"What is that?" El sounded annoyed at not having been told this earlier. Ramirez could not blame him. He had wanted to tell the mariachi, but Archuleta had said it was better to keep it between themselves.
"I will walk in," Ramirez said. "Pretend the CIA has called me in as a witness. See if I can't get him to cooperate. Archuleta thinks if we bring up the coup, then act as if we are willing to forgive it, Sands might be more willing to bargain with us."
El made a curt gesture of disgust. He had removed his tie and suit jacket and undone the top buttons of his shirt, giving him a very uncivilized look. "This is pointless. He knows we are not the American CIA. He will never tell us anything."
A thin keening wail rose from the den. Ramirez quickly poured the contents of the bottle into a glass. "Archuleta can be very persuasive." His old partner had been the same way; the only difference was, Danny had never enjoyed it.
Fideo hurried into the kitchen. He was very pale. "Gimme some of that," he said.
El Mariachi shook his head. "You shouldn't be drinking."
"The hell with that." Fideo held out his hand.
Behind them, Sands began to scream.
Without a word, Ramirez held out the bottle.
Two hours later, Archuleta stalked into the kitchen. He looked very pissed off. He drained a bottle of beer in almost one swallow. El watched him, noticing a smear of blood on the back of his hand he had neglected to wash off.
"I think we should just tell him what's going on," Fideo said. Of them all, he had been the most rattled by the screaming coming from the den. Which was probably why he was well on his way toward being drunk. "Level with him, you know?"
"It's a little late for that, don't you think?" Lorenzo said. He had stayed until the bitter end, but he looked like he rather regretted it.
"I can do it," Archuleta groused. "I just need some more time."
"No," El said. He had no stomach for torture, and besides, they would never get what they wanted this way. "Let me try."
One of Archuleta's eyebrows shot up. "You think you can do better?"
El shrugged, trying to look casual. His dislike of this man was growing by the second. He wished now he had never met Ramirez in the cantina, or agreed to talk with him. "Perhaps."
He started for the den. Ramirez followed him. The former FBI agent grabbed his arm. "What are you going to do?" he whispered.
"Nothing," El said. Ramirez continued to stare at him, dark eyes delving into his, demanding an answer. "I am not going to hurt him," he added. He had no love for Sands, but even Sands did not deserve this.
Ramirez sighed in relief, and let go of him. "I have a bad feeling about this."
That made four of them, if you counted Fideo's squeamishness. "Your friend does not understand Sands," he said. "I do."
Or at least, he thought he did. The week they had spent together had to be worth something, he told himself. It had to be, considering the price that had been paid for it.
Ramirez nodded. "Then what are you going to do?"
"I don't know yet," El said.
Outside the den, he paused. He frowned in thought for a long moment, then turned around and went into the master bedroom, where he had left a few of his things. He had visited this apartment often during the past few weeks, but he had never stayed the night. He had spent last night in a motel, sharing a room with Lorenzo, who had snored endlessly. This morning they had driven over here together, and El had dropped his bag here, planning to retrieve it before he left this place for good.
Unfortunately, now it looked like he would be spending more time here than he had planned on.
Moving quickly now that he had made up his mind, he changed out of his sober suit and put on his old clothes. At once he sighed with relief. The chains on his pants and jacket jingled in the silence, and he shook his arms just to hear them ring out louder. He felt more himself when he could hear them, their merry jingle a sharp harmony to his thoughts.
He walked into the den, deliberately kicking his feet out a little with every step so the chains on his pants would ring out clearly. He wanted there to be no doubt in Sands' mind as to the identity of his latest visitor.
Sands, however, did not even seem to realize he had a visitor. He was slumped forward rather awkwardly, his right wrist still cuffed to the chair arm, his left hand still tied to the table. Archuleta had removed his sunglasses, but his hair fell forward, thankfully obscuring his face.
There was blood on the table.
El scowled. This had gone far enough. Sands would never tell them anything. Not this way. Sands was a man too accustomed to violence and cruelty. Turning those concepts on him would never work.
No, what would work, El suddenly realized, was the exact opposite. The very thing Sands would never expect, never see coming.
Kindness.
He unlocked the handcuffs and removed the manacle from about Sands' right wrist. He debated taking the cuffs with him, then decided against it. If Sands tried to pull any more stunts like he had outside the building, El would not hesitate to bind him once more. But for now he would leave the cuffs in here.
He untied the rope from its loop about the table leg. As the pressure eased on Sands' left wrist, he groaned and stirred.
"Stay still," El told him. He made no attempt to disguise his voice.
Sands went rigid. He did not move, but the fine tremors that seized him betrayed his fear.
El eased the rope free, noticing with anger how deep it had cut into Sands' wrist. He had done it to himself, of course, in his futile struggles to get free. But Archuleta was ultimately to blame, and El glared in the direction of the kitchen.
He dropped the bloodied rope onto the floor. Carefully he examined Sands' hand; the last two fingers were badly swollen and discolored. Only two. He was glad to see that. From the sounds coming from in here, he would not have been surprised to find all ten had been broken.
"Can you walk?" he asked. He looked around, wondering where the sunglasses had gone.
Sands did not reply. Not that El had expected him to. So he just looped his right arm around Sands' shoulders and heaved him bodily out of the chair.
Sands cried out breathlessly at the sudden movement, but he managed to get his feet under him. He swayed in El's grip, leaning heavily on El's chest. El bore this as patiently as he could, although he did turn his face away so the smell of blood and dirt would not be so strong.
At last he realized that they could stand here forever, and he shook himself. "Come on." He kicked the chair out of the way and steered Sands toward the doorway.
Sands walked docilely beside him. El was not fooled. He moved slowly, every sense burning with alertness. If Sands tried anything, he would be ready. He was never again going to be taken by surprise, never again be tricked into believing a lie.
But as they walked slowly toward the back bedroom with the mattress on the floor, El began to realize that Sands was not going to try anything. That in fact there were no tricks. This was not a game. What he was seeing now was terribly real.
He helped Sands lie down on the mattress. "Don't move," he said. "I am coming right back."
He walked away, intending to fetch the first-aid kit Ramirez had bought a few days ago, and Sands' sunglasses, if he could find them. This time he would not let Archuleta stop him, he vowed. He was through taking orders from the American.
"El."
He froze, standing in the doorway, unsure he had heard right.
"El?"
He turned around. Sands was trying to sit up. His face was a mask of blood and pain. "El?"
"What?" He came back to the mattress. "What do you want?"
"El." It seemed to be the only thing Sands could say.
El waited, practicing further patience, although it came very hard to him. But Sands did not speak again.
He returned fifteen minutes later. His arms were full; he balanced the bowl of warm water on top of several washcloths and the first-aid kit. A blanket was draped over his shoulder. A roll of white tape was hooked over one index finger, and a strip of red cloth dangled from the other. He had been unable to find Sands' sunglasses.
No one had said anything to him as he had gathered these things. Archuleta had snorted in derision, but had not dared to say anything more. El was almost sorry he hadn't. Right now he wouldn't mind a little violence. Especially a little violence aimed at Archuleta.
Sands was lying on his side. When El entered the room, he stiffened and held his breath, listening hard.
"I am alone," El said.
Apparently this did nothing to allay Sands' fear. He lay very still, his left hand cradled to his chest. When El knelt down beside the mattress, he flinched.
"I won't hurt you," El said. "Unless you try to escape, or make any sudden moves." He still did not entirely trust this passive Sands. He accepted that a year in prison could change a man, but this seemed extreme, even for Sands.
A harsh sound escaped Sands. It was probably meant to be a laugh. "Don't worry," he rasped. "I'm not going anywhere."
"So you will talk to me," El mused. He dipped one of the washcloths in the bowl, then wrung it out. Warm water ran over his wrist before dripping back into the bowl.
"I know you," Sands said.
"No, you don't," El said. He began washing the blood off Sands' face.
Sands hissed in a sharp breath. Reflexively he jerked his head back, then he stilled, and let El work.
The water in the bowl turned pink, then brighter red. El switched to a clean washcloth. A few of the larger cuts under his eyesockets began to bleed again, and El applied pressure, ignoring the obvious pain this caused Sands. "Who did this?" he asked.
Sands did not speak right away. Then he said, "Did I ever tell you my theory about creative sportsmanship?"
"No," El said. He carefully lifted the cloth, wanting to see if the bleeding had stopped.
"The theory is, in order to win, you have to rig the game." Sands paused. "Those guys…they were very creative."
"I can see that," El said.
Sands made that sound again, the one that was supposed to be a laugh. "Don't."
El shrugged. He checked under the washcloth again, pleased to see that the cuts were no longer bleeding. "What did they do to you in there?" He began to clean the blood from Sands' left wrist.
"Wouldn't you like to know," Sands sighed. He shifted uneasily as the cloth came too close to his broken fingers.
"That is why I asked," El said. In fact, he wasn't sure why he had asked. Certainly he had no interest in hearing gruesome stories about prison life. It had just seemed important that he should ask.
"What do you want to know?" Sands said. His voice was gaining strength. "Do you want to know if they raped me? The answer is no. I never gave anyone a chance. Do you want to know if they beat me? The answer is yes. A lot. Did I get along with my cellmate? The answer is no. I killed him. Anything else you want to know?"
El draped the bloodstained washcloth over the edge of the bowl. "Not really."
"Good." Sands took a deep breath and let it out in a shuddery exhale.
The roll of white tape belonged to Fideo. The mariachi used it to tape up his fingers on nights when he wasn't playing. El unrolled a long strip and tore it off with his teeth. With it still dangling against his chin, he reached down and picked up Sands' hand again. "Hold still."
"Don't," Sands said weakly. He tried to pull his hand back.
El just tightened his grip. "It has to be done." With the tape in his mouth, it came out muffled and unintelligible.
Sands understood anyway. He gritted his teeth, surrendering to the inevitable. "Then just do it."
El worked swiftly, setting the broken bones and taping the fingers together. Sands did his best to remain silent, and he did pretty well, but by the time El finished, he was almost sobbing with the pain.
It was hard not to be moved by it all. El sat back on his heels and deliberately conjured up Chiclet's face. Thinking of the boy banished most of his pity. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"
Sands shook his head, fighting to get his breathing under control. "You missed your calling, El. You should have been a nurse."
Oddly enough, the insult made El feel better. He draped the blanket over Sands' legs. "Just don't expect me to tuck you in."
This earned him the briefest of smiles. "Okay."
"I couldn't find your sunglasses," he said. "But those cuts aren't bleeding anymore, so this should be safe." He let the end of the red piece of fabric touch Sands' cheek.
Sands jerked his head away. "What is that?"
"It was mine," El said. "I don't need it anymore." The red cummerbund had completed his outfit nicely, but outside of a cantina, it was just a useless scrap of cloth. He was rather pleased to put it to work now.
Sands allowed him to tie the cloth about his face. He knotted it gently, tugging once to make sure it wasn't too tight. "Okay?"
"Okay," Sands said.
"Good." He stood up. "I will go get some ice for your hand. I will be right back." He began to walk away.
He hadn't taken three steps when Sands scrambled to sit up. "Wait! Where are you going?" Panic lightened his voice, making it higher-pitched than normal.
El stared at him. "To get ice. That is what I told you just now."
Sands appeared to consider this. He nodded. "All right." He stretched back out on the mattress. "All right," he whispered, to himself.
Unsure what to do now, El just looked at him for a long moment. He felt profoundly uneasy again, the way he had felt in the prison when he had first seen Sands again. For a time he had been able to forget that feeling, but now he was forced to remember it.
Remember, and accept it. Because whether he wanted to admit it or not, the truth was staring him right in the face.
There was something very wrong with Sands.