Shadows Across America Page 9

  Because of the changed circumstances, his pursuit was more convoluted than usual, and he almost lost them before they got to the first curve, where they were out of sight of the village. Just as they were about to cross the limit he’d set himself, he quickened his pace and caught up with them. He took out his bar and brought it down quickly against the back of the head of the companion, who fell, just as expected. Before his prey could react, he covered her mouth and nose with a handkerchief and injected the tranquilizer into her neck. The girl kicked out, and he struggled to catch the cans of food before they hit the ground. Staying calm, he lifted her up and threw her over his shoulder, carrying the bag in the other hand so as not to run any more risks. The job took priority; he couldn’t do anything to compromise it. He got to the empty shack and crossed through it to the truck hidden in the undergrowth. The girl’s struggles grew weaker as the drug took effect, and he was able to shove her inside fairly easily. He put her in the back, and they wrestled for a few moments more before he tied her up and gagged her with the necessary care. Finally, once he’d made sure of the primary objective, he decided to go back for the other one. Then he’d make his getaway before the alarm could be raised. He slipped back through the undergrowth and, after making sure that the road was still clear, stepped out again. To his horror, he saw that the body had disappeared. He froze for a few moments before making a decision. She couldn’t possibly have regained consciousness so quickly. He checked his watch again; the whole thing hadn’t taken any longer than five minutes. He’d held back with the bar to make sure he didn’t kill her. He was skilled: he knew exactly how hard he’d needed to hit her. That girl shouldn’t have woken up until they were a long way away and he was ready for her. Maybe she’d stepped aside at the last moment, and the blow hadn’t hit her full on . . . no, he’d made sure, and he didn’t make mistakes. Suddenly his mind cleared, and he ran as fast as he could to the truck so he could get away from the accursed mountain. Someone had picked her up; that much was obvious. How had he not seen it coming? Some fucking scrawny, flea-bitten peasant had come down the mountain for a drink—that was what all these indios did. They must have found her lying there and taken her away. That was what had happened. Who knows what they’d thought was wrong with her. They must have taken her to a doctor or the local witch doctor or whatever these backward indios had. He tried to laugh at the idea, but there was nothing funny about it. He sat up in his seat, checked that the package was unconscious, and started the engine, desperate to get away from the stinking village before some local cop heard that two girls had been attacked and decided to play the hero.

  If they followed him, he’d have to kill them, he said to himself, like he should have killed that turd of an indio who’d stared at him from his window. Once he’d reached the safety of the road that ran downhill to the freeway, he started to shout.

  “Indio, indio! They’re all indios! I should have killed her!” He smacked the roof of the cabin, trying to wake up the hostage even though he knew she was knocked out. “You hear me, you whore?” If her friend said something about the disappearance, he needed to get back to the city where they’d never find him. “Fucking whore!” He took all his frustration out on the steering wheel. “Indios! Savage sons of bitches, filthy pigs!” he went on, insulting people who looked pretty much exactly like him. “You’re lucky you’re a special order; if not, you’d soon learn to fear me.” He was blinded by his hatred of the hillside where everything had gone wrong. “That other bitch doesn’t know how lucky she is. Whore!” He hoped she was dead or disabled; he hoped with all his might that he’d given her irreparable brain damage. “Whatever happens to her, the whore’s still lucky she’s not here.” He lost sight of the damp forest. Around him, smoke snaked up from chimneys, dirtying the air, making it as black and thick as his dark monologue.

  On the way back, Ethan felt beat. Andrés said goodbye, and on the short stretch back from the gate, Ethan found it hard to stay upright. Michelle met him happily, ready to see to his needs, but it felt as though she were speaking to him through a long funnel. After a brief conversation he could barely understand, he excused himself so he could go to bed. She suggested it might be better for him to get some air, and he reluctantly agreed. They stepped out into the neighborhood, where it was getting dark but still, he thought to himself sardonically, safe to walk in. As they went along, Michelle turned out to be right; the breeze revived him a little. Their conversation wound around like a creeper, covering all kinds of topics, which ran into and jumped from one to another as though they didn’t have enough time to cover everything that had brought them together. The walk energized him, and Michelle laughingly invited him to dinner, offering to take him in Beto’s car if he could stand it, on the condition that she paid. In fact, she’d already chosen the restaurant. Ethan was tempted, but although he was feeling better, he knew that his exhaustion would catch up with him by dessert. He asked if they could do it the next day. Then he excused himself for a second time, leaving her looking resigned and a little lonely. He went into the unfamiliar bedroom, feeling almost weightless, unreal, as though he hadn’t slept since the airport. He managed to get himself undressed in jerky movements and lay down on the mattress without switching off the light, trying to think clearly about the day. He lost consciousness before his head hit the pillow.

  Like the night before, Michelle found that she couldn’t get to sleep. She’d barely slept for two weeks since her little girl had disappeared, and she was grateful that it didn’t show in her appearance. But for the past two nights, it had been for a different reason. For the first time since this nightmare had begun, she felt better. It was because of Ethan. Michelle closed her eyes and felt his arms around her. She thought she could smell his chest, his bittersweet, manly scent, and felt something stir inside of her. She was sorry they couldn’t spend more time together, but she also feared the moment when questions would have to be asked and answered. It would come sooner or later. Ethan would want to know everything; he wouldn’t give her space to breathe. She stopped herself: that was the Ethan of the past. He had been a different man then, and times had been different. Then he had had enormous potential but hadn’t known how to tap it. His weaknesses had always won out. The man sleeping a few yards away from her was different. This Ethan had restored order to her life just by being there. She was slightly disoriented by the emotions rising up within her but excited by the idea of sitting down with him in the dark so they could express themselves freely. They’d listen to one another and give each other companionship. She’d rest her head on his firm chest and feel the noose loosening; her flesh would relax and bloom. Maybe she should go see him, pay him back a little of the time she owed. She would go, they could talk, and then she’d come back to her room to sleep having released the tension that so tormented her. Yes, Ethan would release the tension; he’d been doing that since he’d arrived.

  She closed her eyes and pictured him. In her memories he was like the day they met. Then her memory started slipping into the present—no man had ever treated her with such tenderness and understanding—but even knowing that, Michelle had rejected him. This Ethan was different. Now he was big and powerful. Her recollection got caught in the neurotic loop of the past: If he was the perfect man, why didn’t he turn her on? Well, he did, and they had sex, but why didn’t he drive her crazy? Why wouldn’t she have followed him to the ends of the earth the way she had Randall? With Ethan she’d never felt that she was being led by her man, someone who took charge of the situation. She knew that if she’d gone back to him, all the doñas, her mother first and foremost, would have been green with envy. They’d love to be claimed by a man like him: Yes, Mom, we’re going to get married, and I’m going to live with him. We’re going to give little Michi an education in English so she won’t have to grow up in this horrible city. But her words had drifted away on the wind, and when Randall had come along, she’d felt she’d found a knight who could truly tame her, who told her where she could an
d couldn’t go. Actually, he hadn’t had to say anything: she’d guessed. Randall went wherever he wanted, free as the wind, and she’d had to follow him, always seeking a moment of his time, making sure that he never forgot her. That was Randall, such an artist, so committed, and she’d had to be there to show him her love so he would deign to share his greatness with her. But he sometimes got lost; she knew that it wasn’t his fault. He was easily distracted. He’d been surrounded by whores who wanted to sleep with him, and sooner or later he’d given in. He couldn’t help it. She remembered being in bed with Ethan. No man had ever performed oral sex on her like he had, not many had at all and none with his touch, his ability to give her multiple orgasms. But it had never seemed a very masculine thing to do. In spite of the waves of pleasure running through her, she’d never felt comfortable. Her kneeling in front of her man—that was different.

  It was a question of vibrations. She’d always known that, but now she saw it clearly. She and Randall vibrated at complementary frequencies, like it had happened with the father of her son. It was a shame that all the men she’d known who were on her wavelength were no-good bums who never loved her and ditched her whenever it suited them. But she’d always had plenty of suitors, then and now. Michelle knew that her wavelength was a sensual purple. It was deeply feminine, and it excited men. Her mother had taught her that it wasn’t their fault; she had to forgive them. It wasn’t her stepfather’s fault that she’d given off those vibrations when she was practically a young woman. The good man couldn’t control himself: he himself vibrated red with passion, and that was why he’d gone to her when she’d first had her period. His kisses, his drool all over her, his hands everywhere. Fortunately, in the end he’d never done anything too bad. She should be grateful for his restraint. That was when Michelle had learned what attraction did to men and began to experience fear as she walked the streets. She was always on the receiving end of catcalls and innuendo from strangers or worse: aggressive groping. She couldn’t even come back from a party alone for fear of being assaulted, but her mother had taught her to take it all with good grace, telling her that they didn’t mean it badly. It was their nature; it was the woman’s fault for stimulating their virility. However, she also told her that it was a form of power she could use to manipulate them.

  Michelle’s thoughts turned back to Ethan and how she had studied his vibrations when they were together. Ethan’s wavelength had been orange, like a peach, soft and tender like coming home but lacking the authority she needed to control her. Ethan’s wavelength was a space where she could rest and recover, but her feminine purple needed a more energetic accompaniment, like the navy blue of the two lovers she’d chased but who had rejected her. So selfish but so masculine.

  But since he’d come back, Michelle had noticed a change in his wavelength. She knew that it changed as one matured, that the pink tones in her purple were fading along with her youth and that since she’d become a mother, she’d grown a more saturated violet. But with Ethan she could have sworn that his wavelength had changed completely, not just its shade but its very color. She’d have to check and read the stones, but she could have sworn it. Ethan gave off a different color. Could a man change that much? Could he become the companion she needed? If she’d never met him before, she’d have been sure that his wavelength was blue.

  The need to sit with him and inhale his aroma grew inside of her like a blooming bud; it was almost painful. She remembered what she used to tell herself: He’d be a good father. It’s not about my needs but Michi’s. What did these new circumstances mean—how would they change things? What would she say to him, or . . . ? She pushed these tangled thoughts aside and replaced them with images of him playing with the girl, the strange feelings that came when she saw them together. Why had they played so much? Why had she always been with him? She regretted having reminded him so often that he wasn’t her real father. She regretted her jealousy and tried to forget those painful truths. Something was keeping her awake, something more than her fear and nerves, something more than the fact that they were together again in completely different circumstances. The connection was going to be made that night, and she knew it. She trusted her intuition; she trusted in the vibrating cores of her stones and decided that she had to share them with him, let them resound with their energy as she watched it flow. She felt as though she was being pushed to go to him, and although she told herself that it wasn’t sexual, that that had nothing to do with it, she could feel the call of the energy. Positive energy flowed between them both, and it could easily become a column of white light rising up into infinity, bringing them together. But when she left her room, she realized that in her excitement she’d never considered that his lights were off and that he might be asleep. She hesitated over waking him up but reassured herself that her intuition was foolproof. Mother Pachamama was sending her the energy to go do what he was waiting for; surely he was lying awake, like her, without knowing why. They were going to experience the communion of their energy once more. They were two lights—hers was white, and his was blue—but there would be no sex; sex had nothing to do with it . . . and in that moment she realized that her intuition had been correct, as always, and that was why it had sent her to him. She wasn’t supposed to merge their energies. She was there because he needed her. Ethan was in some kind of danger.

  The door to his bedroom was open, and the ceiling lamp was on, swinging from side to side as though someone had hit it. The bed was empty, the sheets messed up; his suitcase was open, and a trail of blood led out onto the patio. Michelle was shocked by the blood, but her curiosity overrode her fear, and she followed the trail, which led to the outdoor bathroom by the back fence. Its light was also on, and the door was half-open. She could see a shape inside, the unmistakable profile of Ethan under the light bulb, standing still in front of the small mirror.

  Michelle went on, getting more and more frightened: something in the stance, in the way Ethan was moving, bringing his hands to his face and then back down again as though he were hypnotized, wasn’t like him. Ethan was standing right there in front of her, and yet something about him was unfamiliar. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end as she approached, but she didn’t stop. She forgot all about energy and belief and confronted him on her own in the orange glow of a light bulb swinging in the dark night. The face of her ex-boyfriend had three red streaks cut across it. The blood from the gashes dripped onto the ground. She stared in horror as Ethan looked straight into the mirror with blank eyes, as though he were trying to see something beyond it, something invisible on the other side of the wall. He raised his hand mechanically and continued to mutilate his face with a razor without flinching. Michelle didn’t dare scream; she was overwhelmed by anguish and fear. Fighting back her rising panic, she walked toward him and gently stopped his hand, which put up no resistance. Ethan stood there like a toy whose pull string had run out, his pupils inert and expression frozen. His only movement was the rise and fall of his chest. He didn’t blink for an unnatural period of time.

  Eventually she managed to choke out a barely audible whisper: “E-Ethan? Are you there? Are you OK?”

  Ethan answered with a grunt. The words from his dream emerged from his chest. “She’s alive.”

  Michelle held back her sobs, trying to stay quiet. She covered her mouth with both hands, and the tears ran down them and onto her neck. “Michi?”

  “Yes, she’s alive. But she’s suffering. The room is very strange. I don’t understand what it is. It’s like a classroom in an old school.” He closed his eyes and went quiet again, as though he were hesitating.

  Michelle cried for her daughter, for him, for her pain, and for the pain she was witnessing.

  “Yes, I think it’s a classroom in a school. The windows are narrow and very high. They’re wooden, but there’s no light. Michi is very scared; so is the other girl.”

  “She’s with another girl? Are they both OK?”

  “No, she hasn’t gotten there y
et. The other girl is very afraid, and her voice sometimes reaches her, but she’s still far away. The men are pleased—this is what they were hoping for.”

  “Who are the men, the kidnappers?”

  As he spoke, his voice grew deeper. It was very different from his normal voice, as though something from another world were speaking through him. Part of him was gone. The sensation that she was listening to someone else made her even more afraid.

  “I don’t know. They’re there. Their souls are black, sinister, but one is worse. I don’t think he’s from the real world. The others can’t see him. They don’t know he’s with them.”

  “Does Michi know?”

  Before Ethan could answer, something behind Michelle made her jump.

  “Michelle! What’s going on here?” Her mother had come out in a robe. She stared at Ethan in horror. “Blessed Virgin! What happened to the poor man? Christ Almighty, he’s bleeding! Why aren’t you helping him? Why can’t you do anything right? Wake up, m’hijo. Don’t worry—you were dreaming. It’s just a nightmare. You need to wake up, my dear.”

  She reached out to draw a cross on his face, like a child, but Ethan stared at her with the whites of his eyes.

  “No, it isn’t. She’s alive, right now, trapped in that prison.”

  Michelle’s mother jumped back in shock as though the angel of death himself were standing before her. Even so, as she crossed herself, she managed to ask a question, more to confirm that he was still in there than because she wanted to hear the answer.

  “How do you know, dear?”

  “I’m there right now. With them.”