Trouble Down Mexico Way

by Nancy Nau Sullivan

  “Gruff!” It was as if she understood. A soft acknowledgment, girl to girl. She stretched her neck for an extra pat. Blanche regained her sense of urgency. She stooped down next to Bella.

  “Remember when I was here before?”

  Bella cocked her head, nuzzled her snout under Blanche’s hand.

  “Tell me, Bella. Come on, let’s take a walk.”

  At the word “walk,” Bella did a little paw dance, and the wagging became more frantic. She took the lead, and Blanche followed her through the dining room, out to the portico, and into the kitchen. Oddly, the place was empty. Again. For a party of a hundred? Odd, indeed. Blanche ran her finger over the marble counter. Still dusty. The kitchen was a good distance from the fiesta, yet why would it be off limits?

  “Let’s go, girl.”

  Bella padded toward the back door of the kitchen. It was open. A shed stood off to the side, some forty feet away, in a small clearing of mesquite and cactus. It looked like an old maintenance shed, in fair condition. Painted wood slats, no windows, a large lock on the door. Blanche took a tentative step outside. Bella zipped past her, straight to the shed. She stood at attention, and whined.

  Blanche’s heart was beating so fast and hard she thought she’d faint. She knew what she’d find even before she found it.

  She lifted the lock on the shed door. No way she’d get in here. She hoped for a window. She crept around the shed, Bella still on guard at the door making soft doggie sounds. The walls were sealed up tight, except for the rear wall. Weathering had opened cracks between the planks. The paint peeled, the wood splintered. Blanche pulled at one of the old boards and it broke away, opening a small window into the interior. She peered inside. A thin streak of sunlight beamed in. It was dark, but it appeared to be empty of equipment. No mowers, tools, mechanics of any kind. Blanche craned her neck. Only a stool and a shelf. In the corner was a cot, and on the cot a shape. A mound, a dirty blanket, some movement.

  Bella had been at Blanche’s side. Now she ran around to the front of the shed and started to bark. A major personality change in the dog. She went from sweet to sassy to downright, well, angry. Then Blanche heard it. Someone was working the lock on the door. “¡Callate!” A male voice snarled. “¡Carajo!” Bella growled. Blanche crouched down below the broken plank and waited.

  The door creaked open. Blanche peered between the cracks. A wide man stood against the sunlight, a black shadow. Blanche could feel the blast of meanness from where she hid. He went over to the cot, put a boot up against the side, and shoved it against the wall. “Coño.”

  The shape on the cot moved, in slow waves, the face, streaked with dirt and reddened with misery, raised above the blanket. Emilio! Blanche gasped, then caught herself. She flattened on the ground. Bella was still barking. Thank God for that. No one had heard Blanche, choking on fury and curled at the base of the wall.

  “Acá. Toma.” The wide man threw a plate on the ground next to the cot. Beans and tortillas. He set a jar of liquid (water?) on the stool.

  Blanche heard the man lock the door and go tramping off outside the kitchen. Bella kept up the barking. At one point, she squealed. Blanche clutched in anger at the prospect the man had kicked the dog, and she was so furious that Emilio was locked in the shed. She couldn’t see straight. But I have to see straight. I have to do the right thing here.

  She peeked around the side of the shed. The man lingered there at the back door of the kitchen, drinking from a flask. He looked like the one who’d surprised them in the lab, but she couldn’t be sure. She needed to steer clear. And she had to figure a way to get Emilio out of the shed. At the moment, she was caught in the dilemma; an escape seemed impossible.

  She waited, crouched on the ground. She had to get away. And find Haasi. And tell Cardenal. And get back here. She was sweating. The party food and beer churned away, and she thought she’d vomit.

  Bella was still yapping. Boots pounded into the brush. She was still terrified he’d find her. Instead, he seemed to be walking away. Blanche could hear the zipper, the man relieving himself. He was a distance from the shed. Bella backed off and stopped barking. Blanche whistled gently, and the dog immediately turned and ran to Blanche’s side. She lay down. Blanche ran her fingers over the fur on Bella’s neck and down her flank. Bella whined softly. Blanche’s anger spiked at the sign of obvious bruising on the dog’s back, but Bella snuggled up with a sigh of comfort. She didn’t stay. The man was moving again. Bella shot off after him. Barking.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  WAKE-UP CALL

  Haasi was inflicting her Spanish on an elderly lady with high-teased hair and a ton of jangling bracelets. Blanche had rarely seen her cousin so animated. The woman was laughing. “¡Claro, claro!” She held a goblet of foamy liquid that sloshed every time she threw her head back. Fortunately, they stood on the edge of the crowd. The host and hostess were nowhere to be seen.

  Blanche sidled up to the edge of the group, smiled at the laughing woman, and pulled on Haasi’s shirt. The woman threw out one more titter and drifted away.

  “Criminy. What happened to you? Where have you been?” Haasi still smiled, trying to mask her alarm.

  Blanche was red and sweaty, her dress flecked with burrs and dirt. “That’s a lot of questions. I’ll tell you later. We have to get out of here. NOW.”

  “What the hell, Blanche?”

  “No goodbyes, we gotta talk. Plan something!”

  Haasi kept the smile plastered on her face and drew Blanche further off to the side. She knew, like she always did, when to stop and look both ways. “Blanche. Wait. I’m guessing you found something. Major. Now how’s that going to look if we disappear? We have to do this right.” She was nearly hissing under her breath. “Go to the ladies and pull yourself together and meet me near the double doors.”

  “Seriously, Haas, we need to go.”

  “Yeah, but we can’t draw suspicion. You have news written all over your face, and it can hold for ten minutes.”

  Blanche headed to the powder room. The young attendant jumped when Blanche burst in the door, but she resumed her calm and handed Blanche a linen towel. “¿Señorita, está bien?”

  “Oh, sí, sí.” Blanche looked in the mirror, the wig askew, and the glasses coated with dust. “Oh, I’m real bien.”

  Haasi was standing next to Oleantha. “Please, our gracias to the Señor, and to you. A lovely party.”

  Blanche appeared at her side. “Oh, yes, lovely. Thank you so much.” She could barely contain herself, and, fortunately, Oleantha was likewise distracted. And half in the bag. She held a small crystal glass, nearly full, with a wedge of lime perched on the rim, and her eyes were a glazed deep blue, darkened with the fervor of too much liquor and fiesta. Blanche was fairly giddy they could make their goodbyes quickly.

  Haasi looped arms with Blanche, and spoke softly. “Smile.”

  They made it out the front door, past the valet, and headed at a walk-run straight down the path of laurel trees. The car was parked off to the side of the road in a secluded spot.

  “Tell,” said Haasi.”

  “Emilio,” she said. Out of breath. They were almost to the car. She reached for the door handle. “I found Emilio.”

  “You what?” Haasi’s hands were on the wheel, but her eyes were huge with shock.

  “Yes. What.” Blanche’s head bounced off the head rest. “What the hell are we going to do? We have to get him out of there.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In a maintenance shed of some sort. Behind the kitchen.”

  “You couldn’t let him out?”

  “He wasn’t exactly dressed for a fiesta. Locked up, lying on a cot in the dark, filthy. He appeared to be nearly out of his mind. Oh my God!” Blanche buried her face in her hands. “The dog started barking. One of those goons showed up with a plate of beans and then hung around. I was lucky he didn’t see me.”

  “One of our kidnapper amigos?”

  “Couldn’t tell
. Except he was very wide and very ugly and not in a good mood.”

  They sat in the car, in a patch of mesquite and scrub, and stared out the windshield.

  “We have to get to Cardenal. Now. Do you have his number?”

  “No, and my phone’s out,” said Haasi.

  Blanche was near tears, and Blanche was not the crying type; she was a rager when she got upset. Haasi squeezed her arm. In unison, they both took a deep breath.

  “What have they done to him? But the bigger question is, why haven’t they killed him? That’s good, and not so good,” said Blanche.

  “You’re right. They haven’t killed him. That’s very good, B.”

  “We’re right back to what and why?”

  “You have any ideas?”

  “You bet I do.”

  “I mean, that don’t involve guns, knives, poison, and explosives.”

  Blanche looked over at Haasi. “Got any?”

  “Not on me.”

  “Come on, Haas. We have to go back. The bad guy should be gone by now, and I can handle the doggy.” Now Blanche’s teeth were grinding with anger. And revenge. “We just can’t leave him there.”

  u

  “Psssst. Emilio!” Blanche’s face was framed in the opening of broken boards at the rear of the shed. She made a concerted effort to be calm and comforting and keep from losing her mind. She could hear the faint strains of the mariachi band in the distance. At least she had the cover of fiesta on her side. For now. “Emilio!”

  The blanket on the cot moved, an arm appeared. Then nothing.

  She tried again, now desperate to get his attention. Haasi crouched fifteen feet away behind a barrel, keeping watch. She signaled to Blanche, thumbs up. So far, so good.

  “Emilio, can you hear me? Please.”

  Now his face appeared above the blanket, his eyes were shot red with fright and surprise. “Blanche!”

  “Oh, Emilio. What have they done to you?”

  He sat up, with great effort, and scratched his head. He had several day’s growth on his face, and along with the streaks of dirt, he was almost unrecognizable. But then he smiled. “Blanche? A blonde Blanche?”

  Blanche melted at the smile, that he was alive. She was so relieved she thought she’d fall down. “A little disguise. I’ve been snooping around, looking for you. Come on, you have to get up and get out of there!”

  “Blanche, no. They gave me drugs. They’ll be back. You have to leave. Now. They cannot find you here. And I know Haasi’s out there. In the weeds, in the bushes. Please, leave now, when you can.” He rolled off the cot and tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t hold him. He wore boxer shorts and a ripped T-shirt and nothing on his feet. It was all Blanche could do to keep from pouring herself through the hole in the wall to hold him. Wash his face, dress him. He sank down next to the cot, his arm resting on the edge. He looked like he’d lost twenty pounds. In only a few days?

  “Emilio. Get up! Come on.”

  “No, Blanche. I can’t stand up.”

  She ripped and pulled at the boards, her arms straining. Her palms were full of splinters. “I’ll help you!”

  “Listen, Blanche. Stop. I have to find out what they want. I can’t believe I’m awake and I’m not dead.”

  She stopped grunting and yanking at the boards. “What?”

  “They haven’t… killed me. Maybe they won’t. They want something. I need to find out what it is.” He managed a smile. “Blanche, it is good to see you. I don’t know. I like the hair…un poquito.”

  “Emilio, listen to me. What do you think they want?” She was leaning half into the shed, yearning to reach him.

  “I don’t know. Yet. Por Dios, Blanche, you have to get out of here. I mean it. Where’s Haas?”

  “She’s keeping watch. They’re having some art fiesta at the main house. They’ll probably leave you alone for now.”

  “Art fiesta? With all the art that is missing…” He drifted off, his head hit the cot. He lifted it again and smiled. “I have to find out. Now, go. And be safe.”

  “I can’t leave you here.”

  “I’ll be all right. For now. They didn’t kill me. I need to find out…”

  “We’re going to call Cardenal.”

  But he didn’t move. He’d passed out, half on the cot, half on the floor.

  Blanche slumped, pulled back, and ripped a large hole in the dress. It wasn’t fair. She looked like she’d been partying hard, but she’d not had any fun at all. She wanted to strangle the host.

  Blanche and Haasi scooted around the edge of property, Blanche thanking God and all the angels that the house wasn’t fenced in with barbed wire and Rottweilers. The only barrier was a four-foot stucco wall that ran across most of the front. They ran off to the edge of the property and skirted it easily. By the time they arrived back at the car, they were covered in grass, dirt, and tiny seedpods. Blanche’s legs were scratched and bleeding from holly bushes and cactus.

  They sat in the front seat, panting and out of breath. “You know we’re just gonna have to go back there again. Probably tomorrow,” said Haasi.

  “Yes, but I’m not going to wear my party dress. At least not this one.” She tugged at a sweaty, ripped sleeve. “And I’m gonna bring reinforcement.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  THE PROPOSITION

  Emilio had no idea what time it was. Only that it was pitch black, and he couldn’t hear a sound, except for the occasional slithering wild life and cicadas and the low howl of a four-legged creature. He sat bolt upright on the cot. He was surprisingly clear-headed after days of what? Knockout drugs? Bug-infested beans? A cot with so many lumps he would have been better off sleeping on the ground?

  His mind was going in circles. He was sure he’d seen Blanche. But a blonde Blanche? Why hadn’t she opened the door? All he remembered were the green eyes and she was angry and she said she’d be back. He could hardly remember anything. His brain was so foggy. I hope she brings the key, or a crowbar. And a bottle of water. But, no, he didn’t want her here. It was too dangerous. He had to figure a way to get out of here, especially before she came back and got herself into this mess.

  His eyes adjusted to the light. At the rear wall, a rectangle shined blue-black against the night. He swung his legs off the cot and started across the dirt floor, only to lose his balance and wobble to the ground. He stumbled to his feet and threw himself against the wall. An opening. He felt along the boards. They were thin and weak. Old and weathered. He pulled at the edge of the opening and a board came loose.

  Then it struck him. He couldn’t have been dreaming. Blanche had been here. He’d seen her face framed in the wall. He smiled at the thought. He couldn’t imagine her without the riot of black curls. But there she was. A blonde Blanche.

  They had talked. I have to find out what they want.

  He looked around frantically at the cot and the dirt floor, and he panicked. He had to get out of there. He didn’t want to wait around to find out what they wanted, but he had to do that. Isn’t that what he and Blanche talked about? He was conflicted, and confused, and half out of his mind. If they find me on the road like this, in my boxers, looking like an escaped loco, it’s going to be hard to talk my way back home.

  He wanted her safe, and he wanted out of there before they came back and shot him up again with more of those drugs. Made him paralytic, wiped out his mind again. He needed his mind, and he wanted to get back to medicine and helping people, but he was wondering about even doing that with all the crazies running around out there. He raked his hair, rubbed the filthy growth on his face.

  He groped at the bedding, on the ground, looking for his boots and pants and shirt. He found them rolled in a ball under the cot. He quickly got dressed. Now he felt strength seeping into his bones, a will to survive. He stood up and stretched. He took deep breaths, bent over, and exhaled. He went back to the door. Locked. Then back to the boards at the back wall. He pulled. Snap! A board came away and almost knocked him ov
er. He pulled at another, rocking it back and forth until it popped loose. He could just about climb through the hole.

  He heard a dull sound behind him. A metallic sound of chain and lock and key. Someone had lifted the lock and was fumbling with it. A visitor.

  “Going somewhere?”

  Emilio held the jagged board. It had old rusty nails in it. He was just about to greet his visitor with it when he saw the gun. The door hung open and it was dark in the interior of the shed, but not so much that he didn’t see the flash of grey metal. He dropped the board. Anger spiked in his chest, in his brain, and he struggled to contain it. He wanted to live. He needed to get out of there. Intact. “Enough,” he said, taking one step toward the visitor. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Dios mío. We are impatient. Sit down. Calla.” The visitor yanked on a cord and the light bulb flashed on. The old craggy face, the glittery dark eyes were familiar, but he couldn’t attach a name to his captor. His aspect was truly something out of a horror movie, and Emilio wanted to end it. The visitor waved the gun toward the cot and leaned against a stool next to the door. Emilio fell back on the cot.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Great. How would you feel?” Emilio clasped his hands between his knees and stared at his host. “Who are you?”

  “I am Rodrigo Ortiz de Avila, and you are Emilio Sierra Del Real. Sometimes I am called El Patrón.”

  The introduction was chilling, as if the preliminaries had made the horror of the experience official.

  El Patrón laughed. “I’m sorry we had to resort to these…arrangements. But you need to know we mean business.”