by Johnny Miles
addressed Perez in a slow and deliberate voice.
“Don Bernardo went to sleep an hour ago. He left me with strict orders not to
disturb him. For anyone. Not even his son. Therefore, I cannot imagine he would
wish to see you before his own flesh and blood. Do you?”
There was a moment of stunned silence.
“Why, you…insufferable…” Perez grabbed at the coiled whip at his side and
unraveled it. He raised his arm, meaning to strike, but Alonso stepped between
them and held Perez by the wrist. With height and strength easily to his advantage,
Alonso overpowered the overseer and gave him a murderous look.
“Perez!” Alonso half bellowed, half whispered. It was a tone he had never
heard come from his mouth before. But his anger was very near the surface. “I told
you once before, I'm not going to tell you again. I will not have you speaking ill of
our slaves or coaxing them into anger.”
“I wasn't…speaking…ill.” Perez struggled against Alonso. “I was only…going
to…beat him!”
Alonso gritted his teeth, allowing his anger to come forth. He leaned into the
smaller man until their faces were inches apart.
“I suggest you remember yourself…señor,” Alonso muttered. “This is my
father's house. You will not treat him, me, anyone in my family, including our
slaves, with the disrespect you just exhibited. Do you understand?”
“But—”
“I said…do…you…understand?” Alonso repeated and squeezed harder on the
man's wrist. Perez winced. In the same instant a vein pulsed in Alonso's head and
sent a piercing stab of pain up into his scalp and to the back of the head. He'd had
enough of these overgrown boys playing at being men, his father included.
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But Perez—he was nothing more than a sniveling, snorting swine pretending
to be human.
Alonso felt disgust rise within him, and he fought the urge to spit in the
overseer's face. He took the barely audible moan escaping Perez for an answer, gave
a grunt of satisfaction, and shoved.
A look of shock lined Perez's face as his arms flailed. He struggled to remain
balanced but wound up on the ground on his ass, legs splayed. There was a look of
childish hurt on his round face.
“You…you…” Perez stammered and looked as if he was trying to comprehend
what had just happened.
“I will thank you to get off my property,” Alonso said. “Quietly and quickly.
Before I come after you and give you more than just a bruised ego.”
Alonso turned brusquely, brushing past a gleeful Dante, who seemed barely
capable of suppressing his laughter, as he darted into the house. Alonso heard the
door slam shut behind him. He turned toward Dante.
“Do not, under any circumstance, open that door to let that despicable man
into this house, or I will beat you myself,” Alonso warned and strode toward his
father's study. He needed a drink.
There was much commotion somewhere in the distance. Loud voices. Words.
Yelling. A banging. He told himself he was dreaming. That he was simply just
slipping from one uneasy dream and into another—one in which his son handed him
a pistol with a malicious grin and said quietly yet somehow loudly, firmly, almost
accusingly, “If you had let him die, none of this would have happened.”
But there was a part of him that realized something else was indeed
happening outside his dream.
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Bernardo opened his eyes with a calm mind and dread in his heart. But at
least he knew what must be done even as his son's accusation resonated in his ears,
then sank deep into his soul.
“If you had let him die, none of this would have happened.”
Then a different voice demanded his attention. He realized who it was the
moment he heard it, and he cringed.
“Madre de Dios,” Bernardo muttered, almost in prayer. “Grant me the
strength.”
“Don Bernardoooo! Wake up! I need to speak with you! It is urgent! Don
Bernardo? Don Bernardooooooooo!”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The pounding on the door echoed throughout the house. And though his body
hummed and vibrated internally, protesting its lack of sleep, Bernardo climbed out
of bed.
Irritable, he stormed across the room, threw open his bedroom door, and called
for Dante.
But the slave was not quick to respond.
“Goddamnit!” Bernardo mumbled through gritted teeth, then bellowed, “Dan-
teeee! Por dónde andas, negro hijo de puta?”
Dante did not know what to do. He stood trembling in the kitchen with Cook
and his wife. He adored don Bernardo, but don Alonso was the breath of fresh air—
the hope—he had never even expected. He didn't have it hard at Casa Rodrigo.
Frankly, none of them did in the house.
But to have don Alonso threaten him with a beating? And now to have don
Bernardo call him a black son of a whore?
“They're just upset,” Cook said, trying to console him. “You know how our
master is. He doesn't mean it.”
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But Dante remained unconvinced even as he heard a tinkling crash followed
by a loud stomping that sounded as if it came from don Bernardo's study. The
stomping made its way down the corridor and toward the front door.
“Dante!” don Bernardo called from above a moment later, his own footsteps
unusually loud as he made his way down the stairs.
Alonso had grown tired and weary of the sniveling, whiny man on their
property. With great disgust, he kicked back the last of the rum in his glass and
hurled it toward the fireplace, where it shattered. Then, reveling in the burn of the
liquor that spread across his stomach, Alonso stood and crunched shards of glass
beneath his feet as he made his way across his father's study.
As he stormed down the hall, toward the front door, Alonso thought he heard
his father moving hurriedly about upstairs.
Alonso flung the door open. Perez stopped pacing. He looked small, frightened,
yet determined.
“You have one last chance.” Alonso made every attempt to remain civil, yet his
voice grew louder and deeper. “Tell me what you came here for. What is so damned
important that you're making such a spectacle?”
Perez shook his head.
“I'll speak only to your father,” he mumbled.
Alonso huffed and, with a growl, charged at Perez like an angry bull. He
grabbed Perez by the shirt with one hand while his other turned into a fist. Alonso
pulled back and smashed into Perez's face with great satisfaction.
Carajo! That felt magnificent! Alonso grinned, wishing he'd had the foresight
to get into a brawl the night before. It would have made him feel so much better.
The overseer struggled to free himself from Alonso's grip, to no avail. Blood
spurted from his nose as Alonso pulled back and connected again, this time in a
direct hit to the mouth.
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Perez fell from the force, a piece of his shirt tearing in Alonso's hands. He
looked at it with an amused detachment. Look at that! The
n he flung it to the
ground.
Alonso turned his anger back toward the overseer, who now struggled and
scrambled to get away. Alonso charged toward him again with every intention to
kick him and to keep kicking until his anger subsided.
There was a part of him that was appalled at what he had turned into. But
there was another, more beastly side of him that relished being released from its
cage. It pulsed through his veins, pushing aside the calm, otherwise civil young man
he was supposed to be, hungry for more and needing to feed.
But several hands pulled at him and kept him from going at Perez once more.
He struggled against the constraining hands and felt more than saw his father
nearby.
Alonso could barely see; his vision had grown cloudy and blurred. He could
barely hear. A maddening, echoing silence made the voices sound as if they were at
a great distance. It was as if his entire mind had been stuffed with cotton.
And then he gasped as someone doused him with water.
Gradually, he became aware of his father standing before him, looking more
disheveled than he remembered ever having seen him.
Cook pinned Alonso's arms back, and Dante, looking small and ashamed, held
an empty pail. Beyond his father's shoulder, Perez watched and finally managed to
stand.
Alonso looked into his father's searching eyes. He both detested and admired
his father's calm anger. His fiery eyes and the rise and fall of his chest were the
only signs he was agitated in any way.
How could he be so—
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“Take him inside!” Bernardo barked. Cook pulled, but Alonso freed himself
from the bigger man's firm grip.
“I'm not going anywhere. Not until he”—Alonso pointed his chin at the
overseer—“speaks and says what is so damn urgent.”
“Not one…more…word,” Bernardo warned, a finger inches away from Alonso's
face. Alonso licked his lips and nodded, sensing his father was at his limit.
Bernardo turned toward Perez. The overseer, still holding his nose, flinched
ever so slightly but stood his ground.
“Speak. What is so damn urgent?” Bernardo demanded.
The overseer hesitated but a moment. He mumbled something unintelligible.
“What? Speak up, man, or I'll let my son finish the job!”
The overseer pulled his hand away from his face. Droplets of blood spattered
across Bernardo's crotch.
“Arbor,” Perez managed to mumble, despite the cuts on his already swollen
lips where they had sliced against his teeth.
Alonso suddenly felt queasy at the sight of the damage he had caused. He
could still feel the impact on his hand and was ashamed at how much he had
enjoyed the sensation.
“Arbol?” Bernardo repeated, puffed out his chest, and looked as if he was
bracing himself for the worst. “What about Arbol?”
“Heath…heath ethcaped.”
Bernardo felt as if someone had punched him in the gut. He was aware of a
sudden retching behind him.
“Are you sure of this?” Bernardo pressed. Perez nodded.
Bernardo closed his eyes and swallowed. His Adam's apple bobbed repeatedly
before settling down.
“Who did you leave in charge of the slaves?” Bernardo asked.
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“Rowando, theñor.”
“Rolando?” Bernardo asked, making sure he'd heard properly. Perez nodded.
“Very well. Get on your horse and head to the Velasco plantation. We'll meet you
there.”
Bernardo then turned to Alonso, who was getting up from the ground finally,
wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. He truly hoped Alonso had had
nothing to do with this, or the boy would surely pay.
“Dante. Get down to the stable and have Augusto ready some horses. Cook,
you go back inside. I no longer need you. And you…” Bernardo approached his son
and grabbed at the scruff of his neck with strength and agility. He half pushed, half
pulled Alonso a few feet away so they wouldn't be overheard.
Bernardo released his son, and Alonso rubbed at the back of his neck with a
hurtful look.
“Did you have anything to do with this?” Bernardo glared at Alonso with a
quiet yet seething intensity.
“No, Father,” Alonso whispered vehemently. “I swear it!”
Bernardo searched his son's eyes for any shred of evidence to the contrary.
When Alonso did not look away, Bernardo cleared his throat and took a step back.
“You're absolutely sure?” Bernardo cocked his head. An eye twitched. “You're
not…getting back at me for…all you learned about last night?”
“Oh I want to get back at you,” Alonso replied boldly, almost defiantly. “But
you asked if I had anything to with Arbol's disappearance. The answer is no.”
“Very well. I believe you,” Bernardo said cautiously. “But I want you to
understand the severity of this issue. And of what you've done to Perez.” Bernardo
stepped away and turned, stopped, then turned back. “And by the way, if I find out
you're lying, things will not go well for you. Just want you to be absolutely sure
before I stick out my neck and reputation for you. Understood? Now, come with me.”
“Wh-where are we going?” Alonso exhaled.
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“We have to investigate. And I want to make sure you're there to witness
everything, because so help me, if you know something, this will plague you for the
rest of your life.”
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Chapter Fourteen
Bernardo and Alonso arrived at Raúl's plantation just moments after Perez.
They remained mounted and watched as Raúl opened the door, drink in hand.
“What the hell happened to you?” Raúl cried out at the sight of Perez's injuries.
“Mind you, it's a hell of an improvement.” Raúl giggled. Alonso exchanged a look
with his father. He could tell this was not Raúl's first drink of the day.
Perez tried to explain through drying blood and swollen lips but only managed
to make Raúl laugh.
“You sound like a member of the Castilian court!”
“God help us,” his father muttered. “Never send a fool to do a man's job. Wait
here. Don't even imagine riding back home to get out of this one!”
Alonso absentmindedly shook his head and watched his father dismount. As
nervous and somber as he was over the fury that was about to unfold, Alonso
couldn't help but pull back and wonder about the man walking toward Raúl. Yes,
the man looked like his father. But Alonso had never seen him before. At least, not
this confident, unbowed man with an erect back and a sure step. Despite the
possibility of Velasco's unleashing his anger at him, his father still gently wedged
himself between Perez and Raúl, something Alonso would never do. He had to
admit that the man deserved respect for sheer decorum and bravery.
Alonso was fascinated and frightened at how quickly the drunken, glassy-eyed
hilarity left Raúl's face, only to be replaced by a sober, glassy-eyed, calculating
hunter.
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As his father informed Raúl of the sc
uffle, the man looked toward him with his
good eye. The other eye was hidden by a patch of black silk. Somehow that made the
piercing blue eye fixed on him even worse. The glare made his skin crawl.
“Why?” Raúl asked. “What's this all about?”
And then the bomb.
“It seems Arbol may have escaped,” his father said without hesitation, excuse,
or apology. Raúl glanced from Alonso to Bernardo, then back to Alonso again.
A moment went by. Another. Then another. And somehow the silence was
worse than the expected, furious explosion.
Alonso felt as if he couldn't look at anything or anyone but Raúl. There was a
coldness on his face that made Alonso shiver. The man licked his lips, pushed
Bernardo aside, and made his way toward Alonso.
Still mounted, Alonso's first reaction was to flee. But his legs and arms seemed
powerless.
Alonso could see the stubble on Raúl's face. Felt his excitement as he placed a
hand firmly on Alonso's thigh. Raúl's one good eye remained fixed on him the entire
time. His voice was slow, quiet, and deliberate.
“Your father is the only man I've ever trusted. But if I find that you had any
part in this slave running away, I'll be happy to sever my friendship with him
immediately. Just so I can have the personal satisfaction of stringing you up beside
that dirty African boy and beating you both to within an inch of your lives.” Raúl
smiled insidiously.
“My father will never allow you to do that. He'll see you dead first,” Alonso
replied, feeling braver than he felt.
“Will he now?” Raúl cocked his head and peered at Alonso. The man chuckled,
patted Alonso's knee, and walked away, leaving Alonso to shudder.
“Perez! Fetch my horse,” Raúl hollered and stormed into his house. “Tobias!”
Raúl disappeared with a slam of the door.
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“Wh-where is he going?” Alonso asked almost hesitantly as his father
approached and remounted his horse.
“To his personal armory,” Bernardo replied without looking.