Emilio

by Sophie Masson

  Afternoon crept along, and evening. Castro called. He had some news, not about Esposito or Flor or their fellow gang members still at large but about a conversation overheard at the jail where their leader was being held. Medina had told an associate that ‘the parcel’ had been delivered and that ‘our friends’ would now ‘have to deliver as promised’. It sounded as though the hotel shares that they’d demanded from the Americans were intended as payment for a favour yet to be fulfilled by the cartel. Security had been tightened at the prison in case the favour involved some kind of attack or breakout there, but what the conversation had suggested was that Medina was in touch with his gang on the outside, and had almost certainly authorised the kidnapping.

  ‘Not much use to us,’ said Tío Vicente, after Castro had rung off. Emilio thought the same. They had battled every step of the way, trying to outguess their enemies, trying to get clues, trying to win a bit of ground and claw back a bit of hope. But now there was only the final confrontation when they would have to face the unknown in the candle-lit city of the dead.

  Chapter 22

  It was a quarter to midnight, at San Gregorio cemetery. The family had got there by eleven o’clock, just in case, and brought every mobile phone they had with them, including the ‘burner’ Evita had delivered. But there had been no word from the kidnappers, and they’d been walking among the decorated, candle-lit graves, carrying the bunches of big orange marigolds traditional for this day and trying to look as though they had somewhere to go. But nearly all their relatives had come from outside Mexico City and were buried elsewhere. Tío Vicente had one cousin buried here, ‘but my side of the family never really got on with his,’ he explained, ‘and I don’t think he’d welcome me here at all.’

  The graveyard on this night was a weird mixture of noise and silence, golden lights alternating with pools of deep shadow, the scent of incense and perfume mingling with an underlying faint earthy mustiness, the warmth of thousands of candles meeting the cold of autumnal midnight. Emilio knew this was the time of night when the dead were supposed to break free of the bonds of the afterlife and mingle with the living, and their families were waiting for them. Beautiful temporary altars had been created at each attended grave, decorated with all kinds of things: colourful garlands of flowers, photos and paintings of the dead, holy pictures, candy skulls, dolls in elaborate costumes, painted shells, bright bits of lace, and candles, many candles. At some graves, mariachi bands performed cheerful tunes to welcome the spirits or rowdy family parties raised glasses and talked and laughed; at others, relatives sat quietly, blankets around their shoulders, keeping vigil for their loved ones. But none of their faces could be seen until you were close up, and then they might look at you briefly, or nod and say something in greeting, or else simply ignore your presence. Some graves were unattended, though even most of these were decorated with flowered altars and candles that flickered over the headstones, throwing odd shadows. There were a few obvious foreign tourists, too, wandering with wide eyes, cameras at the ready.

  At one stage, Luz’s hand crept into Emilio’s, and he was glad of its warmth, for so much about him felt cold even though he was wearing his fleecy hooded jacket. They didn’t speak, though the adults talked in an undertone to each other. Alda was with them. ‘I’m supposed to be a cousin!’ she told them sharply when Tía Isabel had said she shouldn’t come. Thanks to Señora Valdez, the kidnappers had bought the cover story of the ‘Nicaraguan cousin’. Coming to the graveyard with the family would strengthen that.

  Ten minutes to midnight. Five. Castro was somewhere in the cemetery with one of his men, but keeping well away from the family. He’d given orders that none of his men was to approach the kidnappers’ messenger or make any arrests till Gloria was released, but to maintain surveillance. As to the kidnappers, They are probably here already, Emilio thought. All those watchers, and we can see no one.

  Or Gloria will die. That stark phrase from the kidnappers’ last message kept going around in his head. And in this place between death and life, he kept seeing himself in the future, walking down just such a row, not aimlessly waiting, but with a clear destination – his mother’s grave. He hated the thought, tried to push it away from him, but it kept coming back, like a persistent pop-up ad on a computer screen.

  He jumped, and dropped Luz’s hand. His cellphone was vibrating. ‘It’s them!’

  ‘What?’

  He pulled out the phone. All he could see was ‘Private number’.

  The message said, Hinojosa, Maria.

  And that was it. It was exactly midnight.

  He raced to the others and showed them, without a word. Alda said, ‘That’s the place.’ His uncle said, ‘But how are we supposed to know where, there’s no map.’ Juanita said, ‘We’ll have to go back to the entrance and ask a caretaker.’ But his aunt said nothing. She just kept walking, straight ahead, and stopped at a grave where an old couple, he large and silent under a bobble hat, she small and neat in a scarf, the pair of them muffled up almost to the eyebrows against the cold, and well wrapped in stripy woollen ponchos, were patiently keeping vigil. Emilio was the first to follow her, the others hurrying after.

  The old woman proved helpful. ‘Oh yes, I know where Maria Hinojosa is planted,’ she said, ‘she’s not far from our own son’s grave here.’ The old man stayed morosely quiet and didn’t even look at them. They thanked her profusely, Tía Isabel slipping her some coins – ‘for candles,’ she said – and hastened in the direction the old lady had indicated.

  It was tucked away in a corner, near some bushes. There was only a small headstone and it was old, dating from the 1920s, with the writing almost faded away. They could only just make out the name and the date. It was not flowered or candled, and indeed looked rather neglected. That must have been why the kidnappers had chosen it.

  Just then came another cellphone ping. Not his, but his aunt’s, this time. Leave the bag and go home, said the private number.

  They looked around. There was no one nearby, apart from the old couple, and they’d returned to their own concerns. And there seemed to be no one lurking in the bushes, though they could hardly check. Then Tía Isabel’s phone pinged again. Do it. Now.

  ‘They’re here, close by. They can see us,’ whispered Alda. ‘Do just what they say.’

  Juanita, who’d been carrying the bag, placed it carefully behind the headstone.

  ‘What if someone else finds it first?’ Tía Isabel said anxiously. ‘Everyone’s hard-won savings gone, and for nothing.’

  ‘They won’t,’ said Alda.

  Emilio said, ‘Please, we have to go. We have to go now.’

  ‘But we can’t just—’ began Juanita.

  ‘We can and we must. Emilio’s right,’ said Alda. ‘Their messenger will only pick up the money when we’ve gone. The sooner we do this, the sooner Gloria will be released. Trust me. I’ve seen this before.’

  There was no more argument. The family walked back the way they’d come, without looking back. As he followed, Emilio could feel a prickle on the back of his neck, like a cold wind nudging at his skin. They’re here, he thought. Somewhere. Maybe they’re hiding in the bushes, or maybe they’re heading to the grave now. Knots of people passed them as they walked along, and he kept thinking, It could be one of them. A mariachi band came towards them, and he wondered if it wasn’t just another disguise for the kidnappers. And then suddenly, as they were nearly back at the entrance gate, something came into his mind, something he’d half seen and not made sense of till then, and he couldn’t help giving a small gasp.

  ‘What is it?’ said Luz, beside him.

  ‘Nothing. Just a stitch.’

  But it wasn’t nothing, and it wasn’t a stitch either. What he’d half seen was an image of the headstone near where the old couple sat. The first time, when they’d stopped to ask directions, he hadn’t seen it, because the old man’s body had obscured it. And on the way back he’d glimpsed it only fleetingly. The last date on tha
t headstone – it was 1930-something, he was sure of it. So how could it possibly be where the old couple’s son was buried? Even if they were a hundred years old, the dates didn’t work.

  But they weren’t a hundred years old, he thought. They weren’t real old people, any more than they’d been real nuns. They were part of the kidnap gang.

  His heart pounded. His skin felt clammy. He couldn’t say anything to anyone. He mustn’t. Not till his mother was safely back. The hair on the back of his neck prickled more than ever. He wanted those people caught. He wanted them punished. But just for this night, he had to let them get away. If they didn’t, his mother would die.

  It was a silent drive back to the flat. No one felt like talking. Alda was texting, presumably to Castro. Emilio couldn’t see what she was writing. But she hadn’t seen what he had. Nobody had. He was sure of that. Or was he? Anxiety flooded through him. What if right now police were storming through the cemetery, racing to get their hands on the ‘old couple’? But no, he was sure they weren’t. Anxiety was followed by wild hope. They’d done what the kidnappers wanted, in every way. Maybe when they got back to the flat, his mother would be there, waiting on the doorstep. He could almost see her there, tired and pale but so glad to be alive. So glad to be back with him, and with the family. He’d hug her and hug her and not let the police come near her with their questions. He’d not let anybody bother her. He’d make up his bed in the spare room with fresh sheets and she could sleep there. She’d need to sleep. In the two weeks those creatures had held her, she’d probably hardly slept. They’d probably deliberately kept her awake, those . . . He clenched his fists in his lap. He hated them worse than ever, now. They had turned him into a coward.

  When they returned, she wasn’t back, of course. He hadn’t really expected her to be, he’d known that was just wishful thinking. It was still a blow, but he soon forgot it, for when they switched on the laptop – just in case, Alda said – there was a message.

  Gloria will be released tomorrow.

  Chapter 23

  It was nearly 2 a.m. when they got back from the cemetery, but the message made sleep impossible for the family. Everyone was too jumpy. Alda was the only one who could face going to bed. ‘There’s nothing else we here can do for the moment,’ she said. She’d briefed Castro fully on what had happened. He and his colleague had not had time to get to the Hinojosa grave in time to see who had taken the bag. Listening to this, Emilio felt a squirm of unease. He knew he should speak out about ‘the old couple’. But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Until his mother was safely back with them, he would keep his mouth shut. He didn’t care about the kidnappers. He didn’t care about the police investigation. He just wanted his mother back.

  As the night wore on, Tía Isabel made dozens of fresh tortillas and gallons of coffee and chocolate, and they ate and drank with blankets around their shoulders against the late-night chill and played cards and lit candles and prayed for Gloria’s safe return and for the repose of the souls of their departed, including Emilio’s father. It was a very small and very sober tribute to the festival they were missing, and it helped to calm them all somewhat. Luz eventually fell asleep at the table with her head pillowed on her arms, and her father carried her gently to her room, but Emilio stayed wide awake, his mind buzzing with anticipation and anxiety, checking from time to time to see if there had been any further message. But there was none.

  Five o’clock came. Six. And then at 6.15 precisely, the downstairs buzzer rang. They all rushed to the intercom, but Emilio got there first. A voice said, ‘Parcel delivery.’

  All the blood rushed out of Emilio’s face. He tried to speak, but couldn’t. His aunt took the phone from him. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Parcel downstairs,’ said the voice, and cut out.

  Emilio ran for the door. Tía Isabel said, ‘Wait, we have to—’ But he didn’t stop. Fumbling with the locks, he pulled open the door and vaulted down the stairs to the bottom floor, where the mailboxes were. There was nothing there; but when he pulled open the street door, he found—

  No, not his mother, but a little box, wrapped in newspaper and addressed to ‘the Lopez/Torres family’. The disappointment was so sickening that he nearly threw up. An instant later, as he remembered some of the things he’d read about families being sent ears or fingers or other body parts of victims, he imagined what might be in that box, and he really was sick, throwing up much of what he’d eaten that night.

  ‘Milo, Milo, come inside.’ Juanita’s hand was gentle on his shoulder. Emilio looked up, his throat raw, his eyes red. Alda was with his cousin, her normally neat clothes rumpled as if she’d slept in them. She picked up the little box. She said, ‘I think it’s a key. I can hear it rattling.’

  Emilio was ashamed, about imagining things, about throwing up, about how shaky his limbs were, about how helpless he felt. Wiping a hand across his mouth, he nodded mutely, and followed the two young women back into the flat.

  It was just as Alda had said. The little box held a key. There was a printed note taped to it. An address which proved to be an abandoned building located in the neighbourhood of La Villa de Guadalupe.

  Things moved very fast after that. Castro was informed and immediately arranged a car to take the family to the place. Not Emilio and Luz, though – he was categorical about that, and for once all the others agreed. It was much too dangerous, they said, and no matter how Emilio argued, it didn’t change things. A young policewoman – not Alda, who went with the others – was left with them, for protection they were told, but Emilio suspected it was just as much to make sure they didn’t disobey orders and leave.

  Anger at being treated like a child soon gave way to gnawing fear. What if the kidnappers were playing yet another of their games? What if his mother wasn’t at that address? Much worse, what if she was, but not—no, he wouldn’t think that. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He’d made Tía Isabel promise she’d call him as soon as they had found his mother, but the time seemed so long, so long, and he couldn’t concentrate on anything, pacing up and down while Luz and the policewoman played cards. How can they? he thought. Clutching his mother’s ‘little heart’ in his hand, he paced, and prayed under his breath, promising God all kinds of things if only his mother could come home safe. I’ll never try to get out of Mass, I’ll never laugh again at the catechism teacher’s upcountry accent, I’ll study more, I won’t draw rude cartoons of the teachers, please, if you’ll only help us, I’ll do anything! I’ll even give up my iPod for Lent, well at least for Holy Week, I promise, God, please!

  When he was in the kitchen getting a drink of water, his phone rang. He jumped to answer it. But it wasn’t his aunt. It was Evita.

  ‘I’ve just seen the man,’ she said, without preamble.

  ‘What?’ Emilio had no idea what she was talking about. Then he realised she must be speaking about Esposito, the man who’d sold her the phone. The one who’d taken Flor to the nightclub. But he didn’t care about that man, not right now. ‘Look, I’m waiting for a call – it’s really—’

  ‘He’s at a plant stall in Mercado Jamaica,’ she said, ignoring his interruption. ‘But he’s not buying.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Emilio weakly, wondering briefly what Evita was doing at the plant market. Wasn’t the orphanage supposed to have picked her up when she came out of hospital?

  ‘He’s selling,’ Evita said. ‘I can see him. But he can’t see me.’

  ‘Oh. Good.’ Luz and the young policewoman had heard the phone and come into the kitchen. He mouthed, It’s not them.

  ‘I thought you and your tía might want to know,’ Evita said.

  ‘Oh. Thanks.’ He felt bad about shuffling her off quickly, but he was really desperate to have the phone line free. ‘I really have to go and—’

  ‘Is your mamá okay?’ The simple question took him by surprise.

  He gulped. ‘We – we hope so.’

  ‘I will pray for her.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he whisp
ered. He struggled to regain his composure. ‘We – we will speak later. I promise.’

  ‘Okay. I send you now a picture of the stall,’ she said abruptly, and rang off. An instant later a picture message came through. Obviously Evita hadn’t yet mastered the phone camera very well, or she was trying to zoom in from a distance, because it was a bit blurry. But he sent the picture through to Alda, with an explanation. She’d pass it on to Castro. And, feeling guilty, he texted Evita, too. Thank you. Speak soon. Hope you are enjoying YouTube. A text came back almost at once. Yes!

  He must not forget about her, he thought. Once it was all over, he had to try and help her. Right now, though, he couldn’t think of anything else than what might be happening at that abandoned building. Why hadn’t they called yet?

  Half an hour later the call he’d been longing for finally came through. ‘Milo, your mamá querida, your darling mother’s here. Oh my God,’ said his aunt, her words tumbling over each other. ‘Oh my God, cielito . . . ’

  His stomach lurched with terror. ‘What’s wrong? Is she – is she . . . ’

  ‘She’s alive, Milo, she’s alive – oh yes, I’m with her now.’

  ‘Can I speak to her? Please. Please.’

  ‘No. No, Milo. She’s not – she’s not awake. She’s in a coma. They drugged her, you see. She – she’s being taken to hospital. I’m with her in the ambulance.’ His aunt’s voice was shaking. ‘I won’t leave her, don’t you worry.’