Off the Rails Page 18

  Or it would have, if he hadn’t also been shot.

  This detail had apparently gone unnoticed by his henchmen. The entry point was just under his collarbone, which wasn’t a bad place to take a bullet. These drug cartel members must have made a deal with the devil as far as gunshot wounds. The problem was the bullet hadn’t gone through. While not a life-threatening injury in most cases, a foreign object caused complications. His immune system had already been compromised. He was suffering from smoke inhalation and dozens of serious burns. The last thing he needed was a lodged bullet.

  She had to dig it out, of course.

  She felt like she was in the Wild West, performing ragtag surgeries on dusty outlaws. After about an hour of careful exploration, she found the bullet and placed it on a metal tray.

  Ting.

  Her patient hadn’t stirred since she’d started working on him. He’d been heavily drugged the first day and night. It had taken her almost twenty-four hours to treat his wounds and remove the bullet. For the next twenty-four, she’d just monitored him.

  Although she’d given him enough morphine to dull the pain, she was concerned about his unresponsive state. He’d been given fluids, antibiotics, and vitamin injections. He was breathing on his own, but he had low blood pressure and his pulse was slow. She didn’t think he was going to make it, and she’d done everything she could do. Until he recovered consciousness and started fighting, her hands were tied.

  Her captors checked in every few hours, annoying her with bossy gestures and broken English. The last time Scarface had tried to order her around, she’d taken off her gloves with an irritated snap. Then she’d given him a fresh pair and told him to have at it. He could play doctor, if he knew so much about emergency medicine. He could get up to his elbows in blood and burnt flesh.

  That had been early this morning. Instead of assisting her, he’d left. The boy had delivered clean clothes and a basin of warm water after lunch. She’d washed her body and shampooed her tangled hair. It helped to be clean, but she’d have rather been free.

  Now it was late afternoon, and her patient’s condition hadn’t improved in the least. She slowed the drip on his fluids, troubled. Then she went to lie down on her cot in the corner. Tears of frustration filled her eyes. She was scared, and tired, and sick of this place. She wanted him to recover, and not just so she could go home. Not just because she’d been working hard. It was part professional pride, part natural instinct. She’d always felt obligated to do right by her patients. It didn’t matter if the animal had a fractious disposition. It didn’t matter if it was a junkyard stray or a mangy barn cat, half-feral. Once the patient was on her table, she gave one hundred percent.

  This man was like a bad dog, she supposed. Not the kind that had been abused and fought back, but one of those born-bad dogs. Some animals bit their owners and attacked others even though they hadn’t been mistreated in any way.

  She had no illusions about the man she was taking care of. She wasn’t so softhearted that she believed every criminal was a victim of circumstance. There were born-bad dogs and born-bad people, not suited for polite society.

  She curled up on the cot, sniffling. This was all Armando’s fault. Another bad dog, if she’d ever seen one.

  Although she was exhausted, she couldn’t sleep. Her mind wouldn’t shut off. She finally got up and approached her patient’s bedside. There was one thing she hadn’t tried. Caring touch was an important part of growth and recovery. It wouldn’t cure a bad dog or bad man, but it couldn’t hurt. Feeling awkward, she sat down and took his hand in hers. The bandages, along with his blistered skin, made the contact tentative. He didn’t respond. The only sound was his pulse monitor and the steady of drip of saline.

  It dawned on her that she hadn’t spoken to him. A soothing tone was another tool used by veterinarians. She couldn’t imagine chatting about the weather with an unconscious criminal, so she cleared her throat and started singing “Durme, Durme,” one of her grandmother’s lullabies. After a few cycles she trailed off, remembering that durme meant sleep. She yawned, too drowsy to continue. This was hopeless.

  “Sasha,” her patient mumbled. “Sasha, don’t leave me.”

  She bolted upright. His eyes were closed. She gave his hand a light squeeze.

  “Sasha?”

  “I’m here.”

  “That song…was it Czech?”

  He wasn’t just awake. He was lucid, and sharp enough to evaluate a foreign language. Czech was a pretty good guess. He spoke English with a crisp accent that sounded nothing like Armando’s. “It wasn’t Czech.”

  He moistened his lips. “Was it Latin?”

  “It was Yiddish.”

  This answer seemed to disturb him greatly. He wrenched his eyes open and focused on her face. He had fine brown eyes, bloodshot and intelligent. A crease formed between his brows and his gaze darkened with pain. “You’re not Sasha,” he said in a hoarse voice.

  “No.”

  He let go of her hand, sort of flinging it aside. The extra effort to reject her was insulting after she’d done so much to revive him. But never mind that. He was awake, and she wanted him to stay that way. She brought him a glass of water and helped him raise his head to drink. He took a few sips from the straw, wincing.

  “Where does it hurt?”

  “Everywhere,” he said, touching the bandage on his collarbone. Then he moved his fingertips to the center of his chest.

  “You were shot, and badly burned.”

  “I remember,” he said dully.

  “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  “Not really.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “I was trying to die.”

  This confession shocked her. “Did you set yourself on fire?”

  His lips twisted with a dark sort of humor. “No.”

  “Who shot you?”

  “My associate,” he said, after a pause. “He killed two women with stray bullets but couldn’t aim well enough to finish me off at close range. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  “Was it Armando?”

  He frowned at the question. “No, it wasn’t. What do you know of him?”

  “He brought me here at gunpoint.”

  “Ah. Where is he now?”

  “He escaped.”

  He studied their surroundings blearily. Then he closed his eyes, as if it hurt to use them.

  “Let me give you something for the pain.”

  “No.”

  “You’d rather suffer?”

  He didn’t answer. “Will I live?”

  “I think so.”

  “I stayed in the house as long as I could. I felt the flames lighting through my hair and melting my skin.” He opened his eyes again, trying to focus. “But it was the smoke that really bothered me. I couldn’t stand not being able to breathe. My body refused to lie down, as my brain commanded. Survival instinct, I suppose. I was half-delirious when I crawled out.”

  She found herself hanging on his every word. She hadn’t realized how alone she’d felt, or how much she’d missed interacting with people. He was an interesting conversationalist. It wasn’t every day she met a sardonic, suicidal drug cartel member. “Who’s Sasha?”

  “My girlfriend. She died last week.”

  “Of what?”

  “Drug overdose.”

  Well, that was fitting. Caitlyn couldn’t bring herself to express any condolences; he’d probably given her the drugs. He didn’t look like a drug dealer, though. Even covered in bandages, he had a sophisticated air about him. “What’s your name?”

  “Carlos.”

  “I’m Caitlyn.”

  “Mucho gusto.”

  She shook his bandaged hand. “I’d like to go home now.”

  “So soon? We only just met.”

  “I’ve been here a week.”

  “Have you been treated well?”

  “No.”

  He didn’t appear surprised. “Perhaps I can reimburse you for your trouble.�
�

  “And for my silence?”

  “I am very rich,” he allowed.

  “Not rich enough to hire a real doctor.”

  “You are not a real doctor?”

  “I’m a veterinarian.”

  “I see,” he said, giving her a closer study. Then he shut his eyes with a low grown.

  She wondered if his corneas were damaged. “I have morphine.”

  “Anything but that.”

  “It’s all I’ve got, and you’ll be in agony without it.”

  “Will you sing instead? Duerme, duerme?”

  “It’s Durme, Durme.”

  “Yes. That.”

  She began to sing, off-key and tentative. It was a poor substitute for opiates, but he didn’t complain. After about a dozen repeats, he drifted off. She stood and added a small amount of morphine to his IV drip. It would help him rest. His recovery would be unbearable if he refused drugs. He’d wake up every few minutes, writhing in pain. Either that, or he’d slip into a coma and die. She didn’t know which outcome to hope for.

  Would they really release her if he got better? Or would she get buried with his dead body?

  She went to the cot in the corner and lay down, too exhausted to consider the macabre possibilities.

  When she finally slept, she dreamed of barking dogs.

  —

  Armando traveled all night.

  It was slow going from Tijuana to Mexicali. He had to avoid the tolls, which meant driving on back roads, far off the beaten path. Before he headed south, he ditched the red car for an old gray truck. Unfortunately, his new ride was also slower and less reliable. It gave up the ghost on a long stretch of highway between Mexicali and Puerto Peñasco.

  He walked until dawn. When the sun rose, he collapsed behind some mesquite bushes that smelled like roadkill but offered shade. He slept facedown in the gravel for several hours, too exhausted to find a better shelter.

  “Despiértate,” Alma whispered. “Sarai needs you.”

  He jolted awake, shoving at the pillow of rocks. It took him about a minute to remember where he was and what he was doing. He could hardly remember who he was anymore. Armando Castillo was gone. There was nothing left, just this husk. The rotten-carcass stench got stronger as he rolled over and wiped the debris from his eyes.

  No wonder. He was lying on top of a dead rabbit. It was flat and desiccated, like a piece of cardboard with bits of fur attached. Crawling away from the bushes, he rose to his feet and looked around. He was on the side of a desert highway. Cars whizzed by at regular intervals. The sun blazed down on his dusty head.

  Life went on, relentless.

  Alma’s soft voice faded away, and he was struck by the overwhelming urge to give up. This was a rare feeling, probably because death offered no solace. He’d come to terms with the fact that he’d never see his wife again. There would be no heavenly reunion. Although he hadn’t abandoned his faith, he knew that a man who’d committed murder couldn’t ascend to the kingdom of God. There was no reason to wish for a swift end.

  He put one foot in front of the other, his side aching with every step. When he couldn’t walk anymore, he stuck out his thumb. A man in a station wagon pulled over and rolled down his window. He had religious figurines glued to his dashboard and boxes of pamphlets in the back seat.

  “Do you accept the Lord Jesus as your savior?” he asked.

  He studied the deserted highway, his mood dark. God had a sick sense of humor. “Yes.”

  “Get in.”

  Armando listened to the man proselytize for two hours. It was cruel of the Lord to punish him like this on Earth when he was going to burn in hell anyway. As soon as they reached the city limits, he hopped out. He couldn’t bear to ride with Jesus another moment.

  He found an Internet café on the outskirts of town. Before he moved too far south, he wanted to check in on Sarai again. She needed him.

  There was a message from her in his in-box. Spirits lifting, he clicked on the icon to read it.

  Papá! I’m so glad you’re okay. I got off the train in a place called El Limbo. It is near Tepic. Everything is quiet here but I’m scared. Please come quick! I love you.

  He read it three times in rapid succession. His throat tightened with emotion and his eyes filled with tears. Once again, the flood of moisture surprised him. He’d thought it would be difficult to cry after so long, like squeezing blood from a stone.

  She hadn’t said she loved him in five years. It meant the world to him to read those words now. He was pleased that she’d gotten off the train without an argument, as well. He’d grown so accustomed to her silent treatments and teenage defiance. He’d anticipated more resistance. Clearly she’d matured into an intelligent young woman. She’d become the dutiful daughter he’d always hoped for. She’d finally forgiven him.

  Wait.

  He wiped his eyes and studied the message again. “Hijo de puta,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

  This wasn’t Sarai.

  It was too easy, and nothing had ever been easy for him. Another man might have fallen for the ruse. Armando had almost fallen for it, out of desperation to reconnect with Sarai. But he’d learned to expect hardship at every turn. He’d been born in the fields of Chiapas, to a mother who’d worked until she went into labor. She’d been back two days later, with him in a sling. He’d grown up in poverty and struggle. He’d had good years with Alma, but she hadn’t been easy either. She’d been like Sarai, headstrong and defiant.

  He sat there for ten minutes, drumming his fingertips against the table. Someone had hacked into Sarai’s accounts. But who? His enemies were piling up. He had to worry about the Los Rojos cartel, the Moreno cartel, the American cops, and the Mexican cops.

  Fuck.

  They might be able to track his location if he responded. On the other hand, they might already know he’d read it, so not responding would look suspicious. He finally replied:

  I’m on my way. I love you.

  It was vague enough to keep them guessing. Then he changed his status to “on vacation.” That was Sarai’s code for “in trouble.” Although they hadn’t discussed him using it, she might notice. He added some little icons, a devil and an angel. They were ridiculous cartoon images. OMGs, or something. He would never post them under normal circumstances. He only wanted to convey that things were not what they seemed.

  After he logged out of Facebook, he did a quick search for El Limbo. It was a tiny little town in a secluded valley. If he went there, he’d be walking into a trap. If he stayed here, they’d come to get him. He had to keep moving, but where?

  As he considered his options, a terrible thought occurred to him. His enemies might be able to access his page and send a fake message to Sarai from him. Pulse racing, he returned to the site to delete his account. It took him several minutes to figure out how to proceed. Apparently one had to jump through hoops to cut ties with Facebook. He followed the step-by-step instructions and got an error notice. He tried twice more before the account locked.

  Fuck!

  He wanted to smash the keyboard into bits. Instead he closed out his session and left. The café owner gave him a dirty look on the way out, probably because he smelled like a dead animal.

  He lifted a tourist’s wallet at the restaurant next door and helped himself to a jacket hanging on the back of a chair. Neither owner would notice them missing until he was long gone. He walked several blocks until he found a store that sold cheap cellphones. He purchased one and left. When he dialed Sarai’s number, he got through to her voicemail.

  Leaving a message was another calculated risk. He had to warn her of the danger without tipping off his enemies. He also had to tell her how he felt, one last time. “M’ija. It’s your papá. I just wanted to say that I got your last message. I love you too.” He cleared his throat, faltering. “But we should talk in person, not on Facebook. Call me back at this number.”

  He hung up, cursing under his breath. Maybe her pho
ne hadn’t been hacked. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so cryptic. Maybe she was already in custody.

  Maybe she was dead.

  The thought crushed his black heart into dust. He’d sell his soul to save her—if he had one. The problem was he’d lost it long ago, and he suspected that God was cruel enough to take her life in exchange for the lives he’d taken.

  Side aching, he fled to the nearest church. He fell down on his knees and prayed for his daughter. He begged and pleaded for her safety. He paid the tithe with a pocketful of stolen cash. He touched holy water with his killer’s hands.

  Then he left the church to sin again.

  Chapter 20

  Maria wondered if this was it. The final goodbye.

  She wanted Ian to book a hotel and rest, but she was too tired to argue with him about it. He’d been ordering her around all day. Do this, do that. Stay here, go there. One minute he was saying something romantic, the next he was being a total ass. He kept glancing around the bus station as if he thought the police might have followed them all the way here from El Limbo. Maybe the fever had cooked his brain like an egg.

  The bus to Hermosillo didn’t leave for two more hours. Although he hadn’t bought a ticket yet, she assumed he would follow through on his plan to pursue Sarai, especially now that Armando had been seen alive.

  Maria knew she couldn’t convince Ian to go easy on Armando. There was too much bad blood between them. Armando had broken too many laws. She understood that he was acting in Sarai’s best interests, not his own, but those motives didn’t matter to Ian. He was determined to take Armando down. If the two men met up in Benjamín Hill, there would be a battle, and she wasn’t sure Ian would win. The more desperate man always had the advantage.

  Armando would do anything for his daughter. He’d strike first, and shoot to kill.

  While they waited, she took the opportunity to call the pharmacy in Mezcala. The store owner sent his son across the street to fetch her mother. A moment later, Virginia Santos was on the line. The sound of her happy voice brought fresh tears to Maria’s eyes.

  “M’ija! I’m so glad you called!”