Castoffs

Chapter 3

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He'd been walking for what seemed like hours before he heard the clanking bells of the goats again. They'd left him sprawled in the dirt, and that had pissed him off, even though he knew he shouldn't take it personally. They were goats. But he hadn't felt so alone when he was following their swishing tails. He'd talked to them about his dreams and the memories he was trying to make sense of. An occasional bleat was all the encouragement he needed to continue his soliloquy. Talking about the woman in his dream solidified his belief that the name he remembered belonged to her. Kensi. The woman with dark hair and soft lips was someone close to him. A woman he had loved and loved him in return. He'd hoped that talking about her would bring her into sharper focus, not the fragmented pieces now floating around inside his head. Without the goats to talk to, he was embarrassed to speak out loud, worrying that his ramblings would confirm that his concussion had left him permanently crazy.

The switchback he was on led down into a valley, and he pushed himself to keep moving. The sun was high in the sky now, and the air was hot as hell. He needed to find water. Soon. He paused to listen, noticing that there seemed to be more than three bells clanging. It made him cautious. He moved slowly around each bend of the trail, trying his best not to kick up any dirt, afraid it would give him away if there were people around. As the bells and bleats grew louder, he pulled the knife he'd taken from Hobson's body. He couldn't assume the goat herder would be friendly, but what he saw was unexpected.

A tiny boy stood in the midst of eight or nine goats that were trying their best to get to the bag of tortilla chips the kid was holding over his head. He was laughing and scolding them in Spanish until Yoda jumped up on him and knocked him to the ground. The bag of chips burst open, and the goats began fighting for position in their efforts to reach the chips that lay scattered all around the boy. Afraid they would hurt him, he waded into the middle of the milling animals and pulled the kid up into his arms. The boy yelled and struggled to get away, so he let him go.

"No pasa nada, chico," he said softly. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you."

The boy looked frightened and began backing away before he turned and ran.

"Mami! Mami!"

The kid ran past a wire fence that surrounded a small garden, headed for a weather-beaten house. Charging out of its screen door was a strong, determined looking woman wearing jeans and a man's chambray shirt, and she was armed. She raised the rifle and fired. The bullet ricocheted off the boulder to his right, creasing his right arm as he was raising it above his head. He stumbled back and fell, the added pain more than he could handle.

"Sonofabitch! Don't shoot. I'm unarmed," he shouted as he grabbed his arm. "¡No disparen! No tengo un arma."

The added pain took his breath away and he curled in on himself, gripping the bleeding wound, his energy gone. The knife lay just out of reach, but if she was going to shoot him again, the knife wasn't going to help him. She walked up and stood over him, blotting out the sun.

"I give up, senora," he whispered. "I was just trying to help the boy. Yoda knocked him over."

"¿Qué? ¿Quién es Yoda?"

"That big gray goat," he replied slowly. "He led me here."

"Estás loco!" She said, shaking her head. "You are American? Si?"

"Is that why you shot me?"

"I wanted to scare you," she said as she stared at him.

"You did."

She didn't look sorry for hitting him either. She looked to be in her late forties or early fifties, her skin weathered by the sun. Her hair was a dull black, shoulder length and uncontrollably curly. She had an angular face, with sharp cheek bones and thin lips that made her look severe. She squinted at him through no-nonsense eyes full of distrust.

"Te ves terrible," she stated, sounding slightly less intense.

"No argument there. I feel terrible too," he replied as he struggled to sit up. "If you're done scaring me, I could really use a glass of water."

"Por supuesto," she replied. "I have water in the house. Soap and medical supplies. Can you walk?"

"I made it this far," sucking in a breath as he pushed himself up off the ground.

"Where did you come from?" She asked as she ushered him past the goats, still pointing the rifle in his direction.

"Not sure how to answer that," he replied. "A helicopter I was on crashed on the beach on the other side of the island. I'm the only survivor."

"¿Turista?"

"No."

She stopped and took a step away from him. "You are one of Mata's men."

She spit in the dirt and leveled the gun at his chest.

"You know him?" He asked, eyeing the rifle as a flood of dark and confusing memories rushed through his mind.

"Si. He is a monster," she said. "Do you work for him?"

"No. I don't…at least I don't think I do."

"Think? How do you not know this?"

"Estoy loco en la cabeza," he said with a quick grin, twirling his finger next to his head. "Concussion."

"¿Cómo te llamas?"

"My name is Martin. I think I'm a cop," he said. "What about you? What's your name?"

She stared at him for some time, never answering. He nervously waited to see if she would shoot him or believe him, hoping she didn't hate cops. Finally, she motioned for him to go in the house, and he followed orders, thankful he was still alive. He knew she didn't fully trust him, and he couldn't blame her for that, but he needed water and somewhere to sit down.

The house was dark and stuffy, only slightly cooler than outside. The furnishings were minimal. Unwashed laundry was piled at one end of a faded brown sofa he longed to sink into it, but she motioned for him to sit in the plastic folding chair beside it. It felt so good to be off his feet that he unwittingly groaned. Other than the unwashed laundry, the room was clean and tidy, with a few small knick-knacks and photos placed on a couple of tables. There was a scattering of toy trucks on the bare linoleum floor, but otherwise the room was rather spare and dimly lit. Light did spill into the small kitchen from a window over the sink, and the smells of whatever was simmering on the wood stove made his mouth water.

"What's for dinner?" He asked with a quick grin.

She glared at him without a smile. "Don't move. ¿Entiendes?"

"Got it. Not moving," he said wearily, simply grateful to be off his feet.

He watched her as she walked over to the kitchen counter and laid the gun down. She moved with purpose, never taking her eyes off him as she poured him a glass of water from a stoneware pitcher decorated with hand painted flowers. She picked up the rifle before coming back to hand him the water. It was colder than he expected and tasted like heaven. As he guzzled it down, he heard the little boy giggle.

"¿Quién es, mami?"

"Vamos, mijo."

Her voice was harsh and loud, and the boy quickly vanished. A look of regret crossed her face, but she quickly turned and went back to the kitchen. The gun remained ever present.

"How old is your son?" He asked.

"He's not my son," she snapped as she plunged a dish towel into a plastic basin of soapy dishwater.

She wrung it out and pulled a dry towel from a drawer. As she approached him, she became skittish, holding out the washcloth and quickly stepping away, moving to pick up a backpack from the corner of the room.

"Take off your shirt and clean yourself," she ordered. "I will bandage your wounds. Then you must go. ¿Comprende?"

He nodded and gingerly stripped off the filthy Hawaiian shirt and dropped it at his feet. The soap smelled fresh, and it felt good to be able to clean the dirt and blood from his face. The cut along the side of his head was crusted with blood and was still tender to the touch. He gently scrubbed at the wound until it was somewhat clean, hissing occasionally when the pain became too much. The bullet wound in his arm was another story. He wiped away the blood around it, but his hand shook as he tried to clean the wound itself. It hurt like hell, and he looked up at the woman, hoping for a little help. She was staring at the bloody tee shirt wrapped around his ribs.

"Eso se ve mal," she said and knelt in front of him.

"Yeah. It's a pretty deep gash. Got a couple of cracked ribs to go with it," he said as she pulled a pair of scissors from the backpack.

"Tuviste suerte…lucky," she said.

"If you call being in a helicopter crash lucky."

She frowned before carefully cutting the bloody remnant of the tee shirt away. Some of the fabric stuck to the congealed blood in and around the gash, and he flinched as she pulled it free. She was as gentle as she could be, but he was panting before she was done, proud that he hadn't screamed. He did moan a little, but he thought she might forgive him for that. She got up and tossed the dirty clothes off the couch and motioned for him to lie down.

"I have nothing for the pain," she said. "Lo siento."

"Please don't apologize," he said as he stretched out of the couch. "I appreciate your help. I don't think I could have made it much further."

She went back to the kitchen and filled a blue plastic basin with water, setting it on the floor beside him. "I really did not mean to shoot you."

"Good to know," wincing as she began to gently clean his wounds.

Her touch was light, and he finally relaxed, enjoying the respite, knowing that what came next would hurt.

"I don't like needles," he said as she threaded a deadly looking one. "I remember that much."

She laughed softly then made a fist. "Be strong…macho."

He passed out before the last word was out of her mouth. He woke when she slapped him lightly on the cheek.

"Sit up, por favor," she said. "I need to wrap your ribs."

"Are you done?"

"Si…you slept while I worked," she said. "Now…sit up so I can bandage you."

"Thanks for this," he said when she finished. "I won't hurt you. Or the boy."

"But Mata's men will, if you don't leave," she said in a low voice full of anger.

"Why?"

"Because I work for Mata."

"Sonofabitch," he whispered, leaning back and staring at her. "You called him a monster. Why? Why work for a man like that?"

She laughed. "Estúpido idiota. I have no choice. I work for him, or I die like my husband…and like Julio's mother. I took Julio…I took him before they could kill him too."

Tears streaked her face by the time she was finished. Her anguish was plain, and he wanted to comfort her, but knew that she likely wouldn't accept it.

"¿Cómo te llamas, senora?" He asked softly.

"Sofia." She said and wiped at her tears with the back of her hand.

"Why did they kill Julio's mother?"

"Because she tried to run away."

"From who? Mata?"

"From his operation in the old factory," she said.

"What kind of…?"

"No más!"

Her words snapped with anger, and as much as he wanted answers, he had to respect her boundaries. At least for now.

The sudden sound of an approaching dirt bike cut through the silence in the room, and Sofia's eyes flashed warily. He was pretty sure his did too. It wasn't hard to figure out where the man riding it was headed.

"Mierda!" She swore and reached down and scooped up his discarded shirt, cramming it into the backpack which she shoved behind the couch.

"Ven rápido!" She hissed. "You must hide. Quickly."

She grabbed his arm and pulled him toward a back room. "Stay with Julio. Keep him quiet. Por favor."

"Give me the rifle," he said.

"No! No! I will send him away."

"Sofia…"

"This is my house, Martin. How do you say…mis reglas…My rules."

"You sound like my mother."

The thought came unexpectantly, and the memory shook him. Before he could stop her, Sofia rushed out the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind her. He moved to the tiny window, watching the man through the curtains as he skidded to a stop by the garden fence. He looked formidable, his hair long on top but shaved close on the sides. His beard was scruffy with a touch of gray. The sleeves of his t-shirt had been roughly cut off, probably to show the multiple tattoos that covered his arms. They were grisly. Lots of skulls, some with knives sticking out of them, red blood dripping from the blades. They were complex and ugly. His face was scarred, his nose looking as if it had been broken multiple times. A scary dude. But Sofia waved at him and smiled as she approached.

"Donde mami?" Julio asked, climbing up on the chair to look out the window.

When the little boy saw the man outside, he started to cry without a sound. Tears streaked down his face as he fought to catch his breath, his fear causing him to shiver. He pulled the boy to him and whispered that it would be okay even though he wasn't sure it would be. He was shocked when the man shouted at Sofia in English. He had a Texas drawl that came out low and harsh. Between his looks and his voice, this guy was a serious badass.

"Where the hell you been?" He yelled as he swung off the bike. "I ain't no babysitter, and I sure as hell don't cook. Those whores are hungry and you not showing up today really pisses me off."

"Rojas gave me the day off," she explained, clinching her hands tightly by her sides as she stood rigidly in place. "Didn't he tell you?"

"Nobody tells me nothin'," he snarled as he walked toward her. "Rojas and the others are out looking for some dude Mata thinks might be out here. You seen anybody?"

Sophia hesitated and the man took two steps and slapped her hard. She stumbled back and Julio bolted from the room screaming for her.

"Shit!" Martin spit out, shaking his head at how quickly things had turned ugly.

He had no choice but to follow. The little boy slammed out of the screen door and ran to Sofia, who was holding her cheek as she backed away from the man.

"I'll be damn!" The man said. "We wondered what happened to that little brat. Takin' him's gonna cost you big time, Sofia."

He shoved her to the ground and grabbed Julio by the arm, jerking him off his feet. The boy screamed and Sofia scrambled to her feet and charged him. He backhanded her and she fell. He started to kick her but froze when Martin walked out with the rifle.

"Let him go," he said, aiming the rifle at the Texan's head.

"What the fuck?" The man said, pulling the boy in front of him. "Well, I'll be damned. I'm guessin' you're Max Gentry, the dude the boss is looking for."

"No, no. His name is Martin," Sofia said. "He is just a lost turista."

The man laughed as he picked the boy up and wrapped his hand around the boy's throat.

"Put that rifle down, whatever the fuck your name is, or I'll break this brat's neck."

"Please, Gilberto…please," Sofia pleaded. "He is just a little boy."

"But you ain't no tourist, are ya, asshole?" Gilberto asked, ignoring Sofia's plea.

"If I'm not, then letting the kid go would be the smart thing to do, don't you think, Gilberto?" Martin said. "But then you're not a very smart guy, are you, douchbag?"

He saw the man's eyes narrow at the insult. He could feel the tension coming off Sofia as she whispered prayers in Spanish. She cried out when Julio began to choke. Gilberto began tightening his grip on the boy's throat, so he fired, hitting the man just above the right eye. Sofia screamed as Julio fell to the ground and began crying. She scooped the boy up and started yelling in Spanish at the man lying dead in her front yard. She was speaking too rapidly for him to understand it all but was very relieved she wasn't yelling at him. Suddenly she became silent, and he worried her shock at what he had done would turn her against him. When she turned her eyes on him, they were wet with tears.

"Gracias, Martin. He killed Julio's mother and I have prayed for him to die for a very long time," she said, pulling the child close before turning back toward the house. "We will eat, and I will tell you what I do for Alejandro Mata. We will drink tequila and toast Julio's mother. And then we will bury the animal that killed her."

She got no argument from him. He was very hungry and tired and needed to sit down. He'd been surprised by her reaction to Gilberto's death. Maybe violence wasn't so new to her. Deep down he knew it had been a part of his own life and had been for a very long time. He'd felt nothing but raw anger watching the bastard mistreat the little boy, but it had turned to pure rage when he began to strangle him. The flicker of dark memories made him nauseous, and he quickly walked away from the dead man lying so still in his own blood.

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