Caged: Reclamation
Chapter 3
You fucker. You fucking bastard. I fucking hate you. And I fucking hate your cigarettes. Shoulda killed you ages ago.
The morning was a chilled one and Téa apologized to Rolon and the young man sitting in the chairs in front of her desk. Rolon held an unlit cigarette and kept putting it in his mouth and then out. Over and over. Nervousness maybe. She recognized the Camel brand, no filter, same as what Todd smoked. She stood at the thermostat, fussing with it. Her focus lost.
That fucking cigarette.
She thought she heard a click and then just hoped the heat would come. For all her effort at banishment, he was still inside of her, around her. Reminders constantly. Even the curses in her head were really him. His kind of talk. His favorite words.
Fuck.
She'd seen them waiting outside in the hallway. She'd been running late. The kids had been needy and it was hard to get away she found. Lucia looked at her with those hazel-colored eyes and long chestnut-colored locks in her face and Téa felt a surge of crippling guilt. Like she was personally responsible for the tragedies that had befallen her daughter. She'd gotten to her knees, fell to her knees, and just held her. "I'm sorry, preciosa," she said. In that instant, she wondered if an adult Lucia would forgive her for shooting her father and driving him into Cuba. She wondered if she would further forgive her father for his crimes.
She wondered if she, Téa Delgado, would forgive the same things. When the curses came, her hate for Todd, his ashes, his dying, she had her answer.
Not now. No forgiveness. Not for anyone.
She sat at her desk and moved the mouse until the screen popped on. She entered her passcode and then hunted for the intake docs. She shivered in her coat. Looked around a second, listening for the tell-tale whoosh of the heater. She shoved an old-fashioned ashtray towards Rolon, an Atlantic City thing from way back.
"Either light up or toss it," Téa snipped. "You're bugging me."
"Sorry, amorcita." He dropped the thing in the ashtray.
The kid spoke up. "Why don't you get a helper or somethin'? I saw a place out there for someone."
Now she studied her new client. He was talking about the empty desk in the small lobby of her rented suite. Observant thing. Able to deduce that desk as empty. As in no worker at all. The kid was over 18 she knew but he was on the smallish side. Baby face, dark brown hair, brown eyes. He was black and she assumed he was Cuban if he was MK. He dressed in new store-bought work clothes: black pants, non-slip black shoes, a white shirt under a wool coat. If it wasn't for his blasé attitude, Téa imagined he'd be one of Todd's workers in prison.
Vulnerable. Breakable.
She shook her head, gazing at the boy on whom the coat appeared too big. "Not today," she said. "Took a day off."
"Look like you need someone to me," he muttered. Rolon gave him a side eye, a warning glance.
His name was Arien Gomez and he'd gotten into the Mambo Kings gang because of a brother. "Cuz of the green," he said. Money. His only motivation. Supposedly. Rolon smoothed his beard, a trim one that softened his face, that made his bald head and neck tattoos less imposing. But he couldn't lessen his intimidation no matter how hard he tried. Too husky, too dark a look in his green eyes. He shot a glance at Téa, the two sharing a moment.
She stopped typing. Sat back and crossed her arms. "And dealing drugs to your friends is going to make you money?"
Arien got indignant. "Over time, yo!"
Rolon slapped the kid on the side of his head and the kid looked shocked, yelping, "Da fuck, Ro?!"
"Show La Señora Delgado respect. Respeto!"
Arien rubbed his head and he remained quiet through the rest of the meeting. He'd be pleading not-guilty, Téa going after the search, a poor reading of his Miranda rights, other technical errors. She would meet the prosecutors to get a feel on a plea— chances were though they'd throw the book at the kid unless he gave higher-up names. That was where her ethics trapped her. She should pull out all the stops at defending him.
Except maybe names would be good. Throw MK people into prison. Let poor Arien be manipulated by the prosecution.
Afterwards, Rolon saw to a cab to get the kid home and then he ran back to Téa's office. She had a stony expression on her face as he collapsed on the chair.
"Are you kidding?" she snapped. "Heroin? I thought MK backed off selling drugs to kiddies. Thought you all left that to scavenger gangs like Los Serranos or the Riders."
"Yeah well… Serranos don't exist no more so… market opened back up. I also… think maybe Pedro got a bit slack since… you know."
Rolon took in Téa's freshly delicate features. She'd lost weight and it cut into his heart because it had been an agonizing two months of grieving that brought this fragile look to her. She wasn't that way and yet…
He tried to be everything to her, a comfort but also a willing punching bag. He checked on her almost every day, visited once a week. Listened to her rants. She hated MK and how could he argue? They killed her husband, father to her young kids. Jesus. It wasn't just her life that Blanco had blown up. For him too. MK was wrecked, done. He was adrift. Learning about Pedro's involvements with Manuel Caro had poisoned MK for him and Pedro knew that. He remained King, and in that, released Rolon from all obligations to them.
"You will always be an MK son, but you're free now."
"You are sure of this? I won't find a knife in my back?"
"You have paid your dues. Go be a new man to our young Cuban children."
"A new man. Who's that Pedro?"
"Up to you now."
Easier said than done.
Téa stood and walked to Rolon, his eyes shining with endless sympathy. Pity. For the first time she understood Todd's rejection of that. She imagined what he'd say. Now.
Do I see pity? Fuck you. Why don't you fix the world that made me instead of just feeling sorry for me?
She straddled Rolon and wrapped her arms around him and the chair creaked with the joined weight. She buried her head in his neck. "You're warm," she whispered. He held her, gently, and when she said, "Tighter," he did exactly that. They stayed in the hug a long time. It wasn't the first time she reached out to him this way. It wasn't sexual. But he'd do whatever because she never asked for any of this. Blanco had done her wrong. By getting caught up in MK, by lying to her for years about all the shit he was doing, but mostly by dying.
After a bit, she sighed and returned to her desk like nothing. Her gaze was heavy.
"What, mamita?"
"Arien needs a better opportunity than heroin."
"I offered work in my shop. He refused because MK showed him a better future: money, cred, a family. Can't argue."
Family.
"Is he smart? Good at school?"
"I don't know — he likes…" He chuckled, a bit perplexed. "He… uh… how do you say… he's uh…a game player? Plays games. Video games. His family can't afford the games and he likes money for that."
"So he's smart."
"Could be. He's a stupid kid to me. Stupid to deal, stupid to get caught. Why?"
She studied Rolon and he let her. "Family, you said. Did Todd see MK that way? Like... family?"
Rolon rubbed his head, her tone cold, the question hitting him low, catching him off guard. He shrugged. "Long time ago, I would have said he did. Pero… I don't know shit anymore about him. I used to believe he grew to love his brothers like any other MK soldier. Stupid I think, now. He had no choice back in Statesville. We forced him in. Otherwise he'd have been killed. He was too reckless. Too unpredictable. So we put him on a leash to keep using him." He looked at Téa, guiltily. Ashamed.
"Use the right word, Rolon. You, MK, Pedro… abused him."
Rolon sniffed loudly. His lips twitched, a blink of his eyes.
"Say it. You abused him."
Rolon grunted, huffed. "I loved him like a brother, Téa. More than anyone in MK. I left MK for him, for you, to be something different. Téa, mamita…" He groaned and held his head in his hands. A horrible truth he hated then flowed out like vomit.
"Yes, we abused him. We used his epilepsy against him. I told our leader about his fits because they thought he was raping those kids he protected and they wanted him dead for that… but then… we knew what we had with that information. See he was good for us. Kept us on top with the shit he knew, all the dirt he had on everyone. With the epilepsy as the whip, we could manage him, control him. Any time he tried to stand up, to change things in Statesville for himself… we threatened him with those kids' lives, and his epilepsy. He had enemies that would have liked to know how vulnerable he was. How killable. Pedro paid off the prison doctor to keep it out of his record, to never say epilepsy around other inmates. Blanco didn't even know that. But we went farther. We reminded him that he was behind bars and he was only one person… but you, his Lucia, Jedediah, Starr… you all were outside ...and so were we." Rolon was watery-eyed, his own horror at how they'd treated Todd all over him. "Jesucristo, Téa… I am so sorry." He got up and was then on his knees next to her… hands reaching to her. "Téa… por favor… perdóname, perdóname…"
"Us. And his seizures…," she murmured.
He was afraid of this, you know...the one thing in that motherfuckin' hell that really scared him. Lying here, like this, with someone who wanted him dead.
Téa remembered Rolon telling her about Todd's fear, there in that underground tunnel. Téa never did get the context of it. Never did know the full story of just how Rolon got to understand that fear. Todd always presented MK as something he needed to make sure he'd survive Statesville. To prevent him from catching a death penalty case for Horenda's killing. He always made it sound like they were an unfortunate necessity. He'd come home because of them! Babe! Honey! Love of my life!
He never explained the threats to him or to her and the kids. Never said the enemy he feared most was MK standing over him. He lied about that. Of course he did. He wouldn't dare besmirch the grand reputation of his savior, his father, Pedro.
Peter.
You fucking bastard. You coward. What… afraid that I would see how evil these assholes were? Or worse, afraid that I would see the boy in you, your fear, your vulnerability? That you were in fact just like Diego, Smithy, Brandy. Rico. Not just words but a very real truth.
God damn it, baby, I could have helped you. I could have—
Rolon cried openly. Unabashedly. Téa closed her eyes and turned and then his head was in her lap and his hard hands were on her waist and he squeezed her to him. She couldn't touch him now. Hard to believe minutes ago she wanted those arms around her. He disgusted her. His… confession… brought her bottomless hate to her throat. Bloody tears threatened to take over, to fucking drown her, but she cut them off.
No pity. No tears. If you start crying you'll never stop. You'll fucking die in the ocean of tears you'll create.
She felt Todd behind her, his cigarette smoke encircling her. Ghostly fingers dug into her shoulders. More voiceless words spilled into her ear.
Whatcha gonna do, Delgado? Where's that hate gonna go? What house are YOU gonna blow to kingdom come?
"Stop, stop…," she said softly, sighing raggedly.
Rolon fell back on his ass. Wiped his face. Rubbed it hard like he could rub the guilt off. He shouted wordlessly into his hands, a short clipped yell of anger.
"Too late now to have the re-gret, Lopez," she said. "That was some unconscionable bullshit you did to him. You. What did you call him? Your brother. What a sick joke. Don't ever call him that again."
He begged her to give him dispensation, forgiveness. "I tried to make it up to him. Tried to do everything I could to help him. I swear on my mother's life!"
"Does that include—"
"Don't say it. I shot him up with heroin. I know, I know. You should hate me. I failed him. And I failed you."
"Well that ends everything, doesn't it? I shot him too. Twice. With bullets. So... who am I to judge?"
Where's that hate… gonna go?
After some minutes of miserable unresolvable quiet, she reached in a lower desk drawer and pulled out a leather bound ledger. A Serrano client had given it to her. She'd planned on bringing Pedro down with it but things moved in a different direction since then. Holding the thing to her chest, she said, "This is a road map to MK. It goes back a few years. It's in Pedro's handwriting I think. It implicates Todd, suggests his participation in realigning drug and gambling operations. So I can't turn it over to police. Doesn't feel right. Even though that implication means nothing since my husband is deceased."
Rolon was silent. What could he say? He remembered Téa mentioning this book. He remembered the book going missing. Was still kind of floored that a Serrano got it. Might explain how they knew about the underground St. Francis club where Leticia was killed and Gannon's club.
"Why did the kid give it to you? And how did he get it?"
"Well, on your first question, he was afraid. He was just a kid. He used the information to protect himself from his brothers. Leverage. They didn't know where he got the information from. He thought it would be safer in my hands."
He grunted in understanding. "And my other question?"
"A bitter daughter."
Rolon eyed Téa a moment or two. "Leya?"
"Yes, she was playing with fire, got herself a Serrano boyfriend. Thought she was being… edgy… hard… and stole it from her daddy's office. Gave it to her boyfriend."
"Jesus CHRIST."
She glared at Rolon, getting him to focus on her once again.
"I'm trying to decide how to end Pedro Moreno. Because really he's the ultimate cause of Todd's death. The causa supersedeas, the supervening cause. So… should it be from the inside of MK… or from the outside?"
"What are you saying?" He spoke in Spanish. Stressed now. Confused.
"You heard me. I want to end Pedro Moreno. And I'm asking, should it be done from the outside of MK? Or from the inside?"
It took a few moments for her words to sink in.
Is Arien smart? Good in school?
"What do you mean… end?" She had used the word, acabar, which tended towards "eradication" or "termination" in English depending on how it was used. He looked at her, at fragility draping iron. He was still and breathless, caught mid-flight in the icy storm of her eyes.
"I mean," she said, "... I want to take things away from him. I want him wishing he was dead because he has lost everything. I want to tear his heart out with my bare hands and eat it. And I believe his heart… is MK."
More beats of a deadly silence. A clock ticked from the lobby outside her office. The city noise poured in through cheap commercial windows. Then Rolon said, "If you want to destroy MK, do it from the inside, Téa. Do it… from the inside."
Ian Correa talked like a speeding train, half in Spanish, and Bo could hardly get a word in edgewise even to ask for clarity. He was a young reporter for an underground Havana newspaper, handsome guy with curls and dreamy eyes that Nora had commented on fairly immediately. They were at the Buchanan home because the moment Bo heard underground that previous day in his glass-walled office, he had stopped the man from saying another word and directed him to meet outside the police station.
Meet me tomorrow at my home at 1:00. We'll talk then. We'll have lunch.
Nora placed a tray of sandwiches on the coffee table in their living room and Ian smiled and bobbed his head and drank his Coke. He delicately picked up a tuna sandwich and smiled in thanks. Nora sat queenly on a fancy high-expense silken chair brought in from New York City, apart from Bo who was on the country-style love seat with galloping-horses fabric and Ian who was on the larger couch with the same galloping-horses. She munched on the sandwich, interested in the commotion. She was there as a lawyerly ear. An objective observer. Sort of.
What could possibly be wrong with the investigation? In Cuba? Something wrong? End sarcasm.
Bo cleared his throat as he sipped on the ginger ale. Good for his stomach and all that. He looked at the neatly cut tea sandwich. Cucumber. He glanced at Nora and eyed the sandwich sadly. Ate it anyway. She was on an English tea kick again. Inspired by a royal wedding or something.
"Ian… slow down, son. Explain how you got to me. My name isn't in any paper that I know of. Pennsylvania is pretty far off the investigations going on in Havana."
Ian smiled, finished chewing. "Of course, yes, hush hush. Uh… yes… how I connected you and the bombing—"
Nora spoke up, "The Commissioner isn't involved in the bombing."
Ian laughed, "No, no, of course not. I start at the beginning. Yes?"
Bo and Nora both said, "Yes," relief in their voices. "Slowly," they both added.
"On the day of the bombing, I saw suspicious activity by my government. A strange van, an airport… bla, bla, bla… pues I started following every newspaper article on the bombing in America because our press is government-owned, best to look at American press—"
"Why American? Canada was brought in, so was Mexico, and I think a European country…"
"Belgium," Nora volunteered.
"Ah…Belgium." Bo turned back to Ian. Questioning again.
Ian continued. "The lead man in this case in all the articles was American. Benicio Juarez. Your FBI. Any real useful news would be in American papers even if Belgium is focus. When I tried to find Juarez to talk, I learned he worked out of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. I thought that was strange, why not Washington D.C.? I did a … curiosity search… eh… cross-referencing Havana and Pennsylvania and found a tiny article in a local paper of a man who died in Havana who was a resident of Llanview, Pennsylvania. It was a strange coincidence since his date of death was the same date as the bombing. How unusual. An American drops dead in Havana, across town, on the very same day as the biggest bombing to hit Cuba in decades? I do not think any American has died in Cuba in… decades."
He had his hands out, as if saying come on!
When Bo and Nora did not seem to clue in, he recomposed himself. "Sir, I come to you because I am certain you are in charge of investigating the death of that Llanview man, Todd Manning, who died in Havana on the same day as the bombing."
Bo nodded and scratched his head. "I am."
"Wonderful news! I think he is alive."
Bo and Nora choked on their drinks. This was news Nora wasn't thrilled to hear. "We have ashes, a death certificate—"
"Oh excellent news. I would like to see the death certificate. My government… they cover up things. Why pretend Mr. Manning is dead if he is not?"
Bo cleared his throat, Nora looking aghast and muttering, "Oh he's dead. Better be dead. Better stay dead."
The muttering continued and Bo knew he lost his objective observer. He cleared his throat again, "Why would the government pretend he's dead. Is he a prisoner?"
"Yes, it could be. He might have government secrets, he might be a suspected spy, many possibilities. I don't know for sure he's alive. I do know there was a survivor of the bombing. This I know. I saw a van leave the bombing site, stop a while. Then leave to the airport. Not the Havana airport, but one almost an hour out of Havana. Small airport. Used by government. I saw a patient removed from the van to the airplane headed to… Guantanamo Bay. That's your government."
"Jesus Christ," Bo hissed. "I'm still a detective, son. One question. Did you ever lose sight of the van, in between the bombing site and the airport?"
Ian blinked in thought, the barest of dejection on his face. "Yes. I lost them for maybe fifteen minutes. Maybe ten. They parked."
Bo crinkled his face, shaking his head, "Weak at best that the patient is from the bombing. The van—"
"The van, an undercover government van, backed up into the back access to the site. The doors to the van were opened and then shut. They put… eh… something in the back. I could not see."
"Instructions, equipment, who knows, in preparation to pick up a third party. Do you have anything other than what you saw? Fifteen minutes is a long time to not see where that van was. They were parked?"
"Yes, parked. Yes, they made a stop before going to the airport. True. I did not have my eyes on them."
"So they could have picked someone up."
Ian agreed. Possibly. "The thirteen who died include a… John Doe, as you say in your American terminology. No identification. It is strange that 12 (12!) are identified and not the one. Why? It makes no sense. They were all very bad criminals. They all had been caught and released… a pattern clearly… y este uno… John Doe? Burned to nothing? Not even teeth? Some had the teeth…eh… the fingerprints y DNA. No way to say? Nah… no! My government is up to something but maybe so is yours."
Bo sat quietly for some minutes. No doubt the whole thing stank. He knew much he wasn't sharing. But that a total outsider with a little observation could guess that Manning was alive? That… could not be ignored.
Bo was dressed casually, jeans, cowboy boots. A button-down shirt with a turquoise bolo tie. It was the tie he rubbed in between his forefinger and thumb. The gold chain was on his mind. He had assumed the Cuban government was correct that the thirteenth body was Todd Manning and that they called it John Doe for all the reasons they did. Political garbage. He was okay that Manning's presence at the bombing was kept secret.
Didn't care?
That wasn't true. The lie was awful. The truth was awful. When he looked at the faces of Manning's children, and he did when he visited Viki who cared for them quite often, the death of Todd Manning lost its justice. He was their father and Bo knew he was a loving father, even a good one, especially to the little ones. But even Starr and Jed who developed more rocky relationships with their dad… well they lost their dad too. Starr felt it the worst. She had fought with Manning over his going to Cuba, disowned him, she said. Then had her heart broken, knowing it was a luxury to be mad at her dad.
It broke Bo's heart. He knew loss all too well. And especially knew loss of people with whom one had a difficult relationship.
He watched as Nora questioned Ian in what he knew, how he knew it, and what he was going after next. Bo promised to send him the death certificate. There was a lot of work to do. And he'd help where he could.
He did have a word in his head as he walked Ian to the taxi.
Ashes.
They could test Todd Manning's ashes. They could. But the thought of telling Téa that her husband might be alive… the chances were absurdly small… the possibility of such a thing. He reached for Nora's hand. Squeezed it.
"No more cucumber sandwiches."
She chuckled and kissed him on the nose.
Sister Maria lovingly held her patient's hand in hers as she read her favorite psalms. She sat on a wooden chair next to his bed. The day was beautiful and the canary sang towards the window while the cat swung her tail in the windowsill. La Gata would soon make her way to the patient and curl up either at his side or in between his legs or on his belly. She seemed to like him. Maybe because he never shooed her away. Angel Victor did not chase the cat or press the sister's hand or respond in any way to the sister's musical voice. He didn't open his eyes, he didn't twitch, and he definitely didn't make a sound.
He was freshly washed, his body soaped and scrubbed and massaged and then gently soothed with lotion. His left wrist, arm, ribs, hip, and his leg too, seemed to have recovered from their broken states. His insides too. No bleeding, good vitals. He'd been to x-ray, and the bones seemed stitched. Tests had been run. A brain scan was done. He had a feeding tube implanted in his stomach this last visit to hospital. Better than the kind going down his throat. Less irritation. He'd do better.
They'd cut his hair and beard. He had a little scruff on his face now. Facial hair grew fast on him. His hair had been long, long strands of silver throughout. Now he was shorn. Like a summer sheep. She ran her hand over his head, fingertips massaging him. Scars were visible on his freshly buzzed scalp. He had countless more all over his body. It was disconcerting. She thought he looked like an inked warrior from long ago. That was a much preferable image than any truth behind these scars.
She closed the psalm book and put it into her bag at her feet. A sheet covered his naked body. It was easier to care for him that way. They were careful with him even though he was in the perpetual sleep, especially because of it, assuring as much modesty as they could give him, being respectful since he could not reject or defend or choose not to be touched or looked at. Mother Superior Beatrice insisted. Of course. It was the right thing. Dignity is sometimes all a man has left.
He suffered seizures two or three times a week at first. They finally figured out the right medication. He'd been seizure-free for seven days and that was good. Maria continued to study his face. He was handsome despite the deep scar on his cheek. His knees were up, pillows beneath. He'd be turned soon. To avoid the bed sores. The sisters were very careful with the sheets. No creases or folds to irritate him. They would all lift him and turn him.
He was their responsibility and they took it as seriously as they took all their duties.
There was much work here at Las Hermanas de la Misericordia. They cared for the convent itself, cleaning and so forth. Cared for their garden, the wine they made and sold from their small vineyard, tended the chickens and the cows, and did the shopping to feed and maintain all the sisters here. But they also ran a clinic for the Baracoa community, for the local residents. The clinic operated in the more public part of the convent.
Angel was in the lesser-known upper floor of the tower. Three stories up. To get here to this room and to the chapel next door, one had to know how to get here. A secret passageway.
Maria turned to Mother Superior Beatrice who opened the heavy wooden door to the room. The two women nodded to each other. They'd known each other since they were novices nearly thirty years ago, Maria young and in her teens at the time, Beatrice near 30 having just finished medical school. Both knew they had a calling for the underdogs of the world and for rebellion. They both were troublemakers and they both were sent here to serve the most rebellious of convents.
Maria stood up, then jumped, clapping her hands and running to their guest.
"Raquel! I am so pleased to see you!"
La Doctora from Havana hugged Maria back. Tightly.
"You look beautiful, Maria, radiant!"
"It's the love of Christ!"
The women laughed at their usual greeting and they all looked at their other guest who made whimpering noises and was tearing away from Raquel.
"Go, go, love, go to him."
Abram the black pit bull terrier ran to Angel on the bed. He sniffed and sniffed and licked and whimpered and then he knew his person was not responding and he barked at the women to do something.
Raquel sighed and looked helplessly at Beatrice and Maria. Beatrice understood but Maria did not. Beatrice explained, "Abram belongs to Angel. His job is to guard him, and protect him if he has a seizure. He thinks he has had one and isn't responding."
Raquel was with Abram on the bed, calming him. The dog curled up and put his heavy head on Angel's shoulder. He licked his face every so often. Not being able to help herself, Maria cried and used her habit to wipe at her eyes.
Raquel turned to Beatrice, "He is still in a coma then?"
"He has not awakened," she said. "The reports though say he should be waking up. There is consciousness, or something. He is not in a vegetative state. The doctors at hospital say that."
Raquel was Beatrice's blood sister. When the bombing happened, when she heard it was a gas explosion, she knew her contact had come through for Blanco. She had been in the room when Téa Delgado got confirmation that her husband had died in that bombing. She had held the quaking woman as she fell to pieces and then… as she shut down. As the tears dried, as the anger began to ferment.
Everyone had left Havana except Abram. He was bereft and confused and refused to leave Raquel's side. The night that Téa left Havana with her baby Esperanza, Raquel sat in her own room above her little cafe, next to her illegal clinic, with Abram in her arms and she had cried too. Cried for Rico, for Téa and the young man Jedediah, and then for Blanco himself.
She didn't think he deserved to die with those awful people. He was not one of them.
Beatrice then called.
Very short work for the two women to put two and two together based on their individual bits of information, to realize exactly who Beatrice had taken on as a patient at the request of Pedro Moreno by way of the Havana Police Chief.
Blanco, Todd Manning, was alive. Barely. Supposedly. Raquel wouldn't believe it until she saw him for herself. She told Beatrice at the time, "I'll leave tomorrow," but her sister refused. Prohibited.
"You come when I say. I must protect him."
So Raquel had to wait. Until now. A little over two months since the bombing. She looked at Blanco's face and she caressed his cheek. It was definitely him. But was this alive?
"Oh you miracle of a man. Your family will certainly want you home!" She turned to Beatrice. "Why is he here? Why are you not sending him home?! Sister… this is immoral!"
Beatrice sat at another chair. Stared firmly at Raquel. "From all we know, he did a righteous thing. He ended the lives of murderers, child traffickers. Predators. He might be executed for it however. You know that. And it would be wrong."
"Revenge is wrong but there might be a defense. He should be with his family! You do not know the hurt they are enduring! Beatrice, you are not being reasonable!"
"I will not send a man to be executed! He needs to make his own decision on that. He is conscious. He is aware. He was sent to me by God. I do not ignore a calling."
"He is in a coma."
"No."
Raquel groaned. "There you go with your ridiculous ideas. Science, woman, science!"
"Coma is a willed state of being. He needs silence, he needs rest. He is demanding it and I am giving it. When he is ready to make a decision, he will wake."
"You are just as crazy as ever."
Beatrice smiled and grabbed her sister's hand. "I have missed you. Do not worry. He is in God's hands, my hands. All of us here, even La Gata y la pajarita, we are all here to keep him safe and peaceful while he heals. He will face a hard decision and we will be here still for whatever path he chooses."
"What are you saying?"
"He will either choose home or he will choose a new identity here. He can remain with us for the rest of his life."
Raquel laughed. A burst of laughter. "You don't know your patient. When he wakes, if he ever wakes, you will have a crazy man on your hands. I know him. He is no priest."
Maria looked at the sleeping man in the bed, at the eyes of the dog staring back at her. "He is a warrior, Raquel. We know warriors and there is always room for them in our world."
Raquel groaned and slapped the air with her hands, "Another crazy nun. He is a killer. Do you understand? He is full of the darkest anger and hurt and… hate. He is called El Diablo Blanco. You call him Angel! He is the devil!"
"And yet," Beatrice said, "You are here, bringing him his dog and maintaining your silence. You do not agree he is the devil. You would have sounded the alarm two months ago."
"Maybe. He has a good heart but... it's deep and hidden and atrophied. Like this room. And if nobody can find that good heart, if nobody can unlock it, then what good is it? It's as if it's not there."
"God sent him here," Beatrice concluded, "God knows the choices. And so will Angel."
Raquel stayed in that room that night. And stayed the rest of the week. She had a little cot and helped care for him. She could not stop thinking of Téa. She felt guilty. Everyone then agreed to keep Abram at the convent. They could use a dog, and they knew he'd be good for Angel. And Angel would be good for Abram. Even with his person's silence, Abram slept better and ate better.
The sisters, las doctoras, argued all week on the coma question. Willed or not willed. Vegetative or not. Physical or spiritual. Or was it a form of catatonia which he had a history of? The depth of his sleep was profound, Raquel noted, likely permanent. That led to the bigger argument that he should be returned home.
"Look how he turns his arms inward and draws his knees up," Raquelargued, "how he tightens his fists, how he cannot swallow. He doesn't respond to pain or loud noises. Hold his nose and mouth and he does not fight for air. Even a person who is catatonic will allow themselves to be posed! Hold their arm up and they will leave it there. Not him. He has no reflex. Nothing. This is terrible. He should be at home, allowed to die while surrounded by those who love him. The tube should be removed. Sister, my precious sister, you are bordering on cruelty. His wife, his family, should be allowed to tend to his dying body." She looked pleadingly at Beatrice, on the verge of tears, a hand on her shoulder. "We touch him most intimately, to care for him. His wife should have the choice of that."
Beatrice was not unmoved by Raquel. But she had spent two months in prayer and two months in observation. With a look of affection, she repeated her position.
"His pupils are responsive to light. No delay. That very small reflex that does not abate, has not changed from the first time I saw him, tells me God knows more than you do."
They dragged out medical books, psychiatric books, mystical books, and all Angel's medical test results. The other sisters just avoided the whole thing and taste-tested the wines as they came to readiness. There was no agreement.
On her last night at the convent, Raquel was awake for the midnight song of the canary. She sat up in her cot and listened and thought how beautiful the song was and how very different it was from the morning songs and when she turned, as if to share her thoughts with Blanco, she gasped at the sight of his light eyes. He wasn't watching the bird but looking directly at Raquel.
"Blanco! Todd!"
She threw off the bed covers and ran to his side. He said nothing. Just looked at her. He blinked in a gentle way, an intentional way. She could tell he studied her eyes, slipped down her nose to her lips, moved to her cheeks and then on to her thick gray braids that she wore on top of her head like a crown. She could have sworn he swept her hips, searching for the blade she usually carried at her side. He followed her as she moved away then close again.
She called to him over and over and still he stayed quiet. Then with one last purposeful gaze into her eyes, he seemed to direct her to join him in watching the bird. He then watched the canary sing, her chest puffed towards the moon, dancing on her perch as close to the iron rods of the cage's walls as she could get, until she fell silent.
He closed his eyes at that and didn't respond again.
Raquel knew then that Beatrice was right. He had put himself into a state of restful sleep and he would not awaken until he was ready to face what he'd done, those who remained alive of his enemies, and above all, his family.
Beatrice… was right. Blanco, Todd,was alive and aware and he would know the choices he had...
… because God had most definitely sent him to the Sisters of Mercy.
To be continued….
