Wara looked around wildly, wondering if anyone was gonna do anything about this. Weren’t there any police? She and Lázaro were aiming weapons at each other in broad daylight and nobody seemed to give a crap.
“No one cares,” Lázaro hissed into her ear. “People are used to seeing women dominated by controlling men around here. It’s just part of the culture, dear. No one is going to care if I’m getting you back in line. Now walk!”
He pushed her forward, and Wara couldn’t see the people gawking from the river anymore because the tears were taking over. Lázaro marched her over to a squatty building and passed coins to the kid in a Justin Bieber tee who sat at the entrance. It was blurry, but Wara could make out the French word for public showers on a tattered sign next to the doorway. The kid dropped a fat plastic pearl of shampoo into Lázaro’s hand and Lázaro held the pistol out towards the kid. And the cell phone, smeared with drying mud. Lázaro must have grabbed it from the ground on his way to tackle Wara.
Wara could feel the anger steaming off the man holding her. Lázaro’s muscles were taut.
“Watch these things for me,” Lázaro ordered the kid in French. “You’ll get a tip. You don’t want to imagine what will happen to you if it’s not here when I come out.”
The kid grinned and made the pistol and phone disappear somewhere under the table. “Yes sir,” he saluted.
Lázaro made her walk through the door. Inside it was dark and cool, the only light a small orange rectangle of dying sunlight near the ceiling. He pushed her into the section that said “Men.”
“Lázaro, please,” Wara gasped. She could not get enough air with his arm cinched around her neck. But the lack of air could have been from the fear.
“Shut up!” Lázaro screamed at her. He dragged her into a shower stall, chipped blue tiles and a concrete floor. Lázaro cranked the water on, closed the opaque plastic curtain behind them and pushed Wara face first against the tiles.
The water was hot. Steam misted around them as Lázaro let go of her neck and held her against the tiles, letting the water pound over her head, stream down into her eyes. Mud poured off her body and swirled around the drain at their feet. Her clothes stuck to her skin, bubbling with pockets of air.
Lázaro yanked her around and locked his arms around her back, trapping her with her cheek plastered against his muddy chest. The air around her pounded and writhed and she didn’t know if it was Lázaro’s heart slamming with fury against her cheek or the torrent of water. A steamy river washed the mud off her back, ran down Lázaro’s face and trickled down into her hair. He had her backed far enough into the edge of the stall that she couldn’t get any leverage to kick him. Her arms were useless.
Wara felt herself sob against his chest, one time, raw and loud. Lázaro pushed her back against the wall and forced her chin up towards his face.
“P-please,” she babbled. The water tasted like salt tea, dripping down her temples, across her eyelashes like tears. “My sh-shoulders hurt. Last year I was in prison in Iran, and they tortured me. It hurts too much to be tied up like this.”
The faucet squeaked loudly as Lázaro shut off the water. He was breathing raggedly in the absolute silence. “Turn around,” he said hoarsely. He flipped her around face first against the tiles and Wara didn’t even protest. “I’m cutting your ties off. Hold still or I might decide to do your wrists instead.”
Wara felt herself shivering violently. She was totally not holding still. Somehow Lázaro managed to cut through the thick plastic without nicking her. When Wara could move her arms around to the front of her body she started to cry for real.
It hurt. A lot. All the muscles and tendons were screaming. She slowly lifted up the edge of her shirt to try to dry her eyes so she could see. Her shirt was still dripping and she was shaking like a druggie from cold and the pain. Yeah, and from the fear.
She wanted to say thanks but just could not.
Lázaro ripped open the plastic curtain and waited for her to exit the shower. He would not look at her. “Outside,” he grated at her. “The air’s so hot you’ll be dry before you stop feeling the marks I left on your arms.”
The boy was waiting with the scarred white man’s possessions when they left the darkness of the showers. Lázaro kept the pistol trained at her back as they walked back to the Land Cruiser.
“If you’re thinking about trying to get the weapon from me again on the way to Timbuktu,” Lázaro told her as they slammed the car doors, “I would think again. Even if you’re up to driving overland, I wouldn’t advise it without my protection. You don’t want AQIM to find you in here alone.”
Lázaro slammed the keys into the ignition. The two of them pealed out of the mud and on towards Timbuktu.
Darkness
NIGHT HAD FALLEN. CAIL STOOD NEXT to the hospital wall, fingering her Glock, taking comfort in the desert heat that still radiated from the walls.
Thanks to Alejo, they’d been able to keep the kids at the hospital safe after Wara’s warning. They’d found the bomb, and Alejo seemed to know what he was doing with it. He said the thing could be moved, and he and Lalo drove it outside of town. Alejo disarmed it, said that Lázaro had made it easy, almost like he wasn’t all that enthused about the idea of blowing up a building with the kids inside. Again.
But it was good Wara had warned them about the explosives, because that bomb was big enough to take out the whole corner of the hospital where the kids were sleeping.
Cail leaned against the side of the hospital and sighed, long and painful.
Yep, she knew she shouldn’t be, but she was worried. About Wara.
When she told Alejo about Wara’s call, all the color had seeped right out of his face and into the dirt.
They didn’t know what happened. Wara had Lázaro’s weapon and cell, and then he obviously made a move on her. And the line went dead.
But she’d warned them, saved the kids, confirmed Lázaro and Tsarnev were after Lalo. And she’d put herself on Lázaro’s bad side to do it.
Cail had been worrying about Wara all afternoon, wondering what Lázaro Marquez liked to do to people when he was really, really pissed off.
She was sure Alejo had been thinking about it even more.
This had been a very long day.
Just that morning, they had discovered the danger that Lalo was in, that they all were in.
They’d made it through the day, disarming the bomb, guarding the hospital and calling Rupert for updates every hour on the status of transportation out of here for the kids. The kids’ pain level was pretty high, and they needed a plane with room for IVs and blankets so the kids could lie down.
Rupert was trying, but there weren’t exactly a lot of private planes lining up to do a flight into AQIM-surrounded Timbuktu.
Ashton was here, though. To pick up the Ancient Text guys. His plane had roared in about an hour ago, just before dusk, ready to fly the scientists and their security team out in the morning. It seemed the chubby hippy pilot was made of stronger stuff than it appeared at first glance. The guy had been in Iraq and Afghanistan, after all, ten years back. It seemed like Ashton was the only pilot around who was willing to fly into Timbuktu.
Well, at least Jonah and the rest were going off to safety. For that, Cail was grateful. At any moment, all the AQIM fighters could move into the city, looking for Lalo, bringing violence to the people of Timbuktu.
She needed to think about Lalo, now. And the kids.
And she couldn’t bear the idea of Jonah being around if things got violent. All she wanted was for him to be safe.
The radio on her belt squawked and Cail nearly jumped. It was Alejo. “Head back over to the compound for some rest. Now would be a good time.” Alejo and Caspian were stationed at other points around the hospital. They had made Lalo stay in the mission compound when darkness fell, for his safety.
“Ok,” Cail told Alejo. “I’ll be back in thirty.” She wanted to check on Lalo, bring back water and something to eat fo
r the three of them who would be staying up all night out here under the stars.
Hopefully, this would be the last night out here. Rupert should be able to get a plane sometime tomorrow, either convince Ancient Texts to rent out their plane along with Ashton or else hire some other private plane. The plane would take the kids to Italy for medical care and asylum. Then Lalo and his team would get the hell out of here, either in another plane ride Rupert would set up or sneak out in a truck overland.
The mission would be over. Finally.
If the kids were safe, at least that part would have turned out well. Because getting rid of Lázaro and securing Wara’s safety…that part had turned out totally crappy.
“Do you want any snacks in particular?” Cail asked Alejo over the radio. “Because I think we have bananas. Or more bananas.”
There was a pause. “Not hungry,” Alejo clipped.
Caspian came on the radio. “I’d like some bananas,” he said. “I’m wicked hungry.”
“Got it.” Cail left her post and started to walk the few blocks back towards the compound, weapon ready. Moussa the doorman let her in, looking as unruffled as usual. Yeah, militants were outside his city, but Moussa had seen it before. Not that he was happy about the whole thing.
Johnny was patrolling around the front door, and Cail assumed the other two guards were out back. Lalo wasn’t in his room. The chipped green door was closed, but she banged a lot of times and no one answered. Cail pushed inside and saw the little cot with the smooth gray wool blanket, all nicely made. Lalo’s Angry Birds shirt was slung over the sink basin to dry. His sandals were next to the bed, though. Which was weird. The boots were also over in the corner.
Didn’t Lalo care about walking around barefoot? Because there were scorpions running around this place. Bigger ones than there had been in the mountains in Pakistan where she did guard duty at the girls’ school.
Jonah and all his team seemed to be in their rooms. All the doors were closed tight.
Cail walked down the hallway, frowning, checking the retro 50’s living room, the kitchen, and all the bathrooms for Lalo. Everything was empty, so he was either outside or in one of the Ancient Text rooms. She decided to check first outside.
Cail tiptoed down the hall and pushed open the door to the laundry area. It was a long concrete space, roofed in tin and open at the end to the patio outside. A wide cement sink ran along one wall, lined with scrubbing brushes and laundry powder. Everything smelled warm and humid and like lavender.
Cail blinked, because Lalo was in the laundry room, sitting on a stool, surrounded by three inches of bubbles and water on the laundry room floor. And Lalo had his Glock 17 tucked under his chin, aimed right at his brain.
She was terrified of startling him, but Lalo saw her right away. His eyes flipped lazily her way and he sighed.
Cail made a choking noise and her eyes flew to the laundry room exit that went to the patio. The metal door was shut. None of the guards outside could see what was happening.
“Lalo!” Cail breathed. “Put it down. Please.”
She was about five feet away from him. He couldn’t be about to shoot himself, right here in the laundry room. Not right before her eyes.
Darkness flashed across Lalo’s eyes, and it was painful. Then he sighed again, put the safety back on his pistol and lowered it to his thigh. “I didn’t think I would see you here,” he said. “I felt bad about leaving a mess for everyone, and thought the laundry room would be best.”
“Oh my gosh.” Cail was almost seeing stars. She stumbled down the step and splashed through the water to Lalo, folded him in her arms. He felt very, very cold. The water soaked through her boots, warm and sweet.
Cail didn’t let Lalo go for a long time. Finally, she released him from her arms and picked up his pistol, carried it over to the concrete sink, far out of his reach. She hauled an empty stool through the water, right up next to Lalo and sat at his side.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, begging him to look into her eyes. “I can’t believe…”
Lalo’s face looked pretty blank. “You can believe it. You know this is the best solution,” he said. “If I’m dead, they can’t use me. Or you.” He paused and met Cail’s eyes. “They won’t need you, if I’m dead.” Lalo’s eyes were hollow.
“But I can’t do it,” he finally said. “I’ve thought about it, a lot, over the years. Never more than today, though. But I just can’t.”
“Good.”
Lalo’s eyes flashed a little. It was better than the blank stare. “No. It’s not good,” he said. “It’s because I’m afraid.” His voice started breaking up. “I know that evil is real. I’ve seen it. And when I see the things that I see inside my head…somehow, I think the evil is in me. It has to be. The things that they did to me, where I come from…how could evil not be inside of me? And so I can’t do it.” Lalo flipped his long fingers up like a pistol and made the motion of blowing his head off. “Because I’m too afraid. Of what’s waiting. Of what I might see, and never be able to wake up and escape.”
“Lalo, I don’t want you to have the courage to kill yourself,” Cail hissed. “I want you to have the courage to live!”
Lalo actually looked angry. “To live so I can watch them make you suffer? So they can use us to hurt other people? Cail, you know this would be the best thing to do. For everyone. But I’m too freaking scared to do it.”
“It’s not best for everyone,” Cail enunciated slowly. “This is the truth: I would rather be with you, no matter what they do to me, than keep living, safe, knowing you are gone forever. I don’t want to live that way.” Stupid tears were welling up in her eyes. “Do you believe me?”
Lalo’s eyes flickered back and forth across the wall. Then his shoulders slumped. “Damn it! Yes. I do believe you.”
That seemed to give him hope and despair at the same time.
“Lalo,” Cail told him, “what they did to you is not your fault. The evil is not inside of you, any more than it’s inside all of us. You are not what those people did to you, the scary stuff you see in your head. You know evil is real, but doesn’t that mean that good is real as well? That there’s something stronger than evil?”
“You mean Jesus?” Lalo said.
Cail stopped. “Jesus knows the world is full of evil,” she said. “But that didn’t stop him from valuing us, caring about the world and coming to save it.”
“I don’t see it,” Lalo sighed. “The world doesn’t look very saved.”
“Look at me,” Cail grabbed his hands and leaned into Lalo’s face. Her nose brushed against his. “I’m saved. I have evil and corruption in me, and sometimes I’m very messed up. I’ve been more messed up. But there’s hope. We are here, and we care about each other. We love each other.” Cail closed her eyes and felt her lashes brush Lalo’s cheek. “We are fighting the evil. You are fighting the evil, Lalo. You do not want that. It’s not you. And it can’t have you.”
Cail wrapped her arms around Lalo and pulled him into her shoulder, felt him melt into her as he hung there on the stool. His skin still felt so very, very cold.
“There is something stronger than evil in the world,” she said into Lalo’s cheek. Her own memories were enfolding her here as she held Lalo in her arms. It was excruciatingly painful.
Lalo had trouble seeing the good because he’d been surrounded by so much darkness.
Cail had trouble trusting in goodness because years ago she’d thought she was surrounded by Goodness. Bathing in it, breathing it in, living her whole life just to do whatever Goodness asked of her.
And it all fell apart.
Cail felt herself sob against Lalo. “Lalo, there is good,” she repeated to him. And to herself. “And it can conquer the darkness. And you know what? The darkness can’t have you. It can’t have you, Lalo. I won’t let it.”
Sick with Love
Nebraska
Fourteen years ago
THE COURTROOM SMELLED LIKE SICKLY swee
t lilac. Even huddled in the witness stand, Cail could smell her mother's perfume. The lilac scent floated among the smell of old wood and lemon, reminding Cail of home and church.
Today they might take her away to prison.
Cail still couldn't fathom she was here. There was a murder trial, and she was the suspect.
They said she tried to kill her true love, Jonah Jones.
Everyone was talking, all around her in the courtroom, saying things that seemed alien and hard and unreal.
This just could not be happening. Cail was sitting on a hard wood chair up front by the judge, just like every courtroom scene she had ever seen on TV.
She was the suspect.
They’d found the notebooks with the drawings in her bedroom, presented them as evidence that Cail had premeditated it.
Premeditated murder.
Cail could have just as easily believed she was on Mars in some other dimension.
She sat shaking on the chair, hands knit together on the lap of her long khaki skirt. She was wearing a loose white sweater over her t-shirt because the room was freezing and because she didn't want everyone to be able to see more of her than they already could.
They were all staring. A lot of people were taking pictures.
Court had already been in session for quite a while, but now it was her turn to be questioned. Cail was positive she wouldn't be able to speak, because every molecule of moisture had been siphoned from her mouth over the last three hours while the prosecuting lawyer laid out how this evil person named Cail Lamontagne was crazy as a bat and had tried to kill the nice boy from Nebraska, Jonah Jones.
At this point in the trial, a psychiatrist Cail had talked to by court order was telling the court that Cail had something called obsessive compulsive disorder. He explained how it made her have all kinds of thoughts, about religion and violent behavior.
The prosecuting lawyer made it sound like following God was just craziness, some chemical reaction in her brain. He also made it sound like the Voice telling her things she should obey wasn’t God at all, just mental illness.
Burn (Story of CI #3) Page 26