Traces of Ink

by Antonio J. Fuentes García

  —Dizzy, isn’t it? —Chacon hissed sarcastically—. It is the effect of blood loss. A shot in the stomach can be very annoying; it doesn’t kill you instantly, but you would almost wish it when a few minutes have pass and you have lost almost a liter of blood.

  Jonás looked at his abdomen without losing sight of the old man and saw that his clothes were soaked with blood. Above the hip, about ten centimeters to the right of the navel, a hole bled profusely.

  —Besides, I sense that although to a lesser extent, the wound on the shoulder also influences the loss of blood— Jonás discovered another wound where the old man said—. You will be dead in less than an hour.

  He held the gun tightly, but the revolver was becoming a difficult weight to hold. He got as close as he could, lifted the barrel with the last reserves of energy that seemed to fit him, and pointed directly at Chacon's head. It was less than a meter, so he could not fail. He saw that smile again on the old man's face, and that gave him the momentum he needed. He pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. He triggered the trigger once, and once, but the click of the hammer struck against the empty chambers.

  —Dear Jonás, what you have in your hand is a modified Taurus Model 86 revolver, no doubt a relic, but very special to me— explained the old man—. That special one has a peculiarity, a drum with eight bullets while its brothers only contain six.

  Jonas tried to guess where the old man wanted to go, but he was getting weaker and weaker.

  —If you had been careful, you could have made better use of your options—. Chacon approached step by step as he spoke. On the face the blood drew a maleficent smile, like that of a monster from the depths of hell

  Jonás vomited a stream of reddish saliva on the carpet. He had to escape from that house without losing a second. He was about to lose consciousness, and if he insisted on finishing Chacon at that moment he would not escape alive from there. Before he could utter a word, the world turned black and he stopped feeling pain.

  ****

  Raquel's first reaction was to go out to meet Tony, but something in that man gave her the necessary dose of common sense to stay where she was. On the contrary, Juandi did not use the same sensibility. The giant charged like a fighting bull just when the Italian was less than a meter away from the woman, but Tony dodged him with a graciousness typical of a ballroom dancer. Juandi snorted every time he tried to hit the Italian, and he dodged it with a childish smile.

  When the man got tired of games he went directly to the woman, considering her the brain of the couple.

  —Look, Raquel, I thought in killing you with suffering, but I'll consider it if you give me what I'm looking for— he said without paying attention to Juandi, who was snorting with his hands on his knees. I liked being here with you both.

  —Tony, I don’t know what you think we have...

  —Leave it, don’t be tire— Tony cut, who seemed to be physically hurt by the conversation—. I've been watching you since you came here, I know about the memory stick and everything else. I was thinking of killing him and raping you, but I must admit that I have felt... strange things.

  Raquel could not answer that bloody confession. Her mind had been suspended in a state close to shock. Juandi, on the other hand, had flushed with fury after hearing the Italian's words, and was preparing for another new attack. Tony turned to him and challenged him with his gaze.

  —On the other hand, I intend to skin you if you attack me again.

  Juandi realized that this guy was serious — and that he was trained to do it too— but he could not allow him to hurt Raquel, and no matter how well he pictured it, he was sure he would. Neither of them would get out alive if they did not stop Tony. He decided to attack, but this time he thought about how to get a better game. It was clear that this guy knew how to defend himself, but Juandi took him thirty centimeters and quite a few kilos. A hand-to-hand was his only option. He moved slowly, and the Italian got ready. When he was about two meters away, the assassin took a quick step forward and unloaded several hits that disarmed the giant, and then finish the job with a hook that threw him against the wooden floor. Without giving him time to recover, he gripped his arms on his chest with one knee and began to punch him in the face. Juandi could not move, and there came a point when he stopped noticing the blows. Although he tried to get away from that prey with his greatest weight, the hitman knew his job well and had him totally immobilized. A brutal blow to his nose clouded his vision, and a thick liquid clogged his throat. The weight of the man on the chest and the inability to breathe through the nose caused less and less air to enter, and after a few seconds the lungs began to burn in an almost unbearable way.

  —I’ve told you to stay still— the Italian said between gasps—. Now I will make you drown with your own blood.

  He unloaded a new punch to Juandi's battered nose, and his field filled with bright little dots. He thought that this should be what they called "see the stars".

  The burn in his chest increased, and as Tony pumped new punches into his opponent's face, a new sensation took hold of the giant. A suffocation that ran through every cell and that increased as the air in his lungs descended. He felt an energy that seconds before he did not possessed and that he felt growing with each beat of his heart, and he supposed that this was the adrenaline that his body allowed him to obtain as a last resort for survival. The anxiety to get rid of Tony became as unbearable as breathing for himself and began to move again. The Italian seemed surprised, but it only lasted a few seconds. Sensing a final attempt at rebellion, Tony secured his grip more tightly on his chest. Just as he raised his arm to silence the man's new impetus, the Italian felt a fierce blow on the top of his head that made him lose sight of the room for a few seconds. Juandi took advantage of the moment and turned around, dropping the weight of his monumental body on top of his attacker. With his eyes closed due to dizziness, he hit with all the force he had on the Italian's face, chest and neck, until he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  —It’s ok!

  He turned around and saw Rachel with a poker in her hand.

  —It's ok, sweetheart— the woman repeated—. He doesn’t move anymore.

  The giant opened his eyes, and almost immediately threw up a mixture of bile and blood on the ground. Seconds later, he lost consciousness

  Chapter 43

  Hermenegildo Gutiérrez retained his splendid physique from his days in the army, although the love of tobacco, alcohol and women had ended up shrinking his resistance. That morning, his five kilometers per day became two when he felt a sharp twinge in his chest that extended to his left arm. He put his hand on his side and dropped by a nearby tree. It was hard for him to focus his eyesight, and each time he breathed, there was a sharp, lacerating pain that ran up his chest to her collarbone.

  He knew that he was having a heart attack, but that did not fit into his plans. With his "project" in motion, the last thing he could afford was to die; and less in a dirty park and dressed in sports pants and a pistachio sweatshirt.

  He pulled his cell phone out of his pants pocket and hit the first number on the speed dial. A voice answered at the second tone.

  —I'm having a heart attack, call a team to pick me up.

  He listened to his interlocutor for a couple of seconds and answered, almost on the verge of fainting.

  —On the road that leads to the boiler— he tried to catch his breath—. And start up the program as soon as you hang up.

  Gutiérrez dropped his cell phone and waited for them to come for him. No heart attack was going to divert him from fulfilling his purpose.

  ****

  The call came at 9.45 exact hours, and less than two minutes later, an unstoppable machine began to work, knocking down the chips as if they were a game of dominoes. Networks collapsed, newspapers received anonymous envelopes, televisions called, and the phones of judges, deputies, lawyers, ministers and a multitude of people in charge of running the country began to ring. The well-oiled engine of
the bureaucracy began to have problems from 10.00 that morning on Friday, just at eight days from an election that was beginning to look like a reality TV show.

  ****

  The fluorescents in the ceiling damaged his eyes, and it took several minutes to be able to open them completely. He felt a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, and his head hummed like an orchestra of kettledrums and drums on his forehead and neck. He heard voices next to him but could not understand what they were saying. When he tried to get up, a bolt of pain shot through his chest and down to his genitals, making him moan with anguish. Quickly a hand came to his aid, and with a gentle impulse helped him to sit on the bed. Carlos, the waiter, was chatting with the man who was watching Jonás with a clinical eye, and who went to a work table covered with carpentry tools.

  —I can see that you're enjoying your vacation— Carlos joked, his face twisted—. This is Harrison, a crazy gringo who is dedicated to mending punitive bullies.

  —I... —he choked. His mouth felt like plastered gesso. I am not...

  —I know— he cut—. You don’t look like a resuscitated louse, but the one who "kicked" you was surely an old fox. And don’t worry about the German, he's already in the hospital.

  The Chilean explained that Jurgen had called him and told him to wait at home, that he was in danger. Carlos —an old member of a street gang— had had enough eye to hide on the floor above, because against those guys and armed with a single knife would not have had any opportunity.

  —Unfortunately, it is common to eviscerate a "cuico" like you. These roosters spend the day watching the foreigners, and at the minimum they plant the handle and leave them duck, without a florin and stiff in a corner.

  The old man who had gone to look for something at the workbench came up to Jonás with a syringe and stuck it without hesitation in the arm. Jonás made a gesture, but when he went to protest the man had already injected him.

  —Luckily, good Mr. Harrison is a retired doctor who helps cuicos— Carlos continued. Sometimes the hummingbirds go hand in hand with the cup and seduce the matrimonial pranksters, and of course, they end up in a tremendous seal and flay. The mister present here patches them for a few coins.

  Jonás did not know what that guy had injected him, but he began to feel better.

  —Carlos, thank you very much, but I don’t have here ...

  —Don’t say anything else. The German is my partner for long time, and you seem cordial, so the Mister will not charge you.

  Jonás tried to put on his shirt, but the old man put a hand gently on his stomach. He saw that a bandage had been placed around him from the navel to the chest.

  —I thank you, but if you can go somewhere in my place, maybe I can even pay you the debt.

  Carlos stared at him with a face of not understanding but nodded scratching his chin. The Chilean did not seem like a guy who is easily intimidated.

  —Okay, we go on a carrete to our bar and we talk!

  ****

  He opened the bar door and got in as if he were trespassing on a property. Inside, almost mired in darkness were Jonás and Mr. Harrison without uttering a word. Carlos left the envelope on the table in front of Jonás.

  —Guy, I don’t know what happened in that house, but there's no trace left.

  —And the old man?

  —Not even a footprint. I left him unconscious when I tried to kill you, but there is no one left.

  —They must have cleaned it— Jonás replied with a thin voice. He opened the envelope and found that everything was there. Carlos, buy me a ticket for Spain on the first plane that leaves, I don’t care about the airport. What is left is for you both.

  With great success, Jurgen had suggested to Jonás to keep all the cash (plus something that the German added) and his passport in a sheath, because in that area the assaults on foreigners were very frequent.

  —There's a lot of money here partner— Carlos said with a serious face—. I cannot...

  —You've earned it by far.

  ****

  The Air Europa plane took off around 7.15 in the morning, so Jonás had about fifteen hours of flight ahead. Carlos had done an excellent job, as he had not taken in account the price of the tickets and had opted for a nonstop itinerary to Madrid. After a while in the air, Jonás began to feel a huge heaviness in all the parts of his body, but especially on the eyelids. It must be the mixture of opiates that Mr. Harrison had given him. According to the grim doctor, the bullet in his stomach had been difficult to extract, but once outside, the healing was close, as it had not affected any organ. The one on the arm he had not deigned to consider it, since it had only been, according to Mr. Harrison, a scratch. Even so, he had given him a box full of pills with a detailed note on how to take them. He extracted two tablets of Advil and one of Naprelan, and left them out of the backpack, ready for the next shot. The reality is that he did not feel any pain, and that had surprised him at first. When you watch action movies, you take for granted that a shot and its subsequent recovery is the most painful thing in the world, but Jonás had suffered more pain from an infected tooth than he did at that moment. Thinking about those things the world became heavy, as if he was trying to move through a swamp with a meter of mud and then nothing. He woke up half an hour later and could no longer fall asleep, despite of feeling the muscles as if they were lead. He took his grandfather's diary out of his backpack and started reading from the page where he had left it the last time. The tears had dried up when he reread the newspaper again, but the grief in his soul lingered. Now he understood some things that were previously forbidden, but above all the reason for his grandfather's obsession in locking up that murderer.

  ****

  As I knew him, a game of cat and mouse began between us in which I always took the sticks.

  For more than six months, I asked Eugenio for permission to dedicate myself exclusively to certain cases in which my journalist’s nose rod tanned associated, not only with the depraved taste of murder, but also with other hidden motives. On several of these occasions I arrived on the stage before of the police, since the weekly El Caso was very widespread among the residents of Madrid and sometimes they called us before the security forces. On all those occasions, Chacón, who was affectionately nicknamed "Billy the Kid", appeared there. On two occasions I was taken to the headquarters by the second of the social police to be interrogated for my presence on the stage and stitched with clubs, according to him, "to soften my spirit."

  To me the blows hurt as everyone, but some ointments, the hand of a saint that Mrs. Engracia gave me, my landlady who was a saint, they relaxed my face and my soul exalted, so I continued investigating this Chacón and the murders in which his mark was clearly printed.

  Soon I realized that our beloved regime’s general was stealing hand fully, from medicines to even water from wells, but despite everything, there were still people who did it not only for the money.

  For me, there was a before and after with the case of Vicente Ferrán, an old man who spent his days walking through the Retiro and feeding the pigeons. The fact is that destiny wanted me to meet Vicente in one of the benches near his house, and that he had been the object of a strange robbery the night before. The good Vicente told me —while feeding the birds with crumbs of a hard roll— that he did not understand why they had come to steal him, because he only had at home a few savings that he sent to a daughter who worked as a secretary in Toledo to buy books and a little food to put in the mouth. When I said goodbye to the old man in the doorway of his house, I could see the unmistakable figure of Billy peeking around the opposite corner. Logically, for the fear of a new cane beating I hid among some hedges. Chacon and a tall, thin guy like an earthworm got into Vicente's doorway with laughter and elbowing. Imprudent, as I used to, I went after them and hid in Vicente’s landing, while I listened to the old man's conversation with Chacón. They demanded from the old man some property papers that Vicente had to forge. The conversation led to insults and threats and Vicent
e took his and his cousin's. Chacon demanded to give him the presses, the magnifying glasses, the brushes and the rollers so he would not have to depend again on such cowardly partners. Vicente complained that he only used them to forge a hundred pesetas’ notes a day for books and food. Chacón and his companion beat the old man until they broke his neck, and when I came to his help him, seeing the beating that was falling on him, I ended up with my bones in the back of a "milk van" full of students that the political-social brigade had arrested after a manifestation in a faculty. Even in the headquarters of the DGS Chacón took care of me, and I "met" a truncheon with which he fantasized that he had been given by some fascist Italian friends. Already on the first floor of the General Directorate of Security, in the same Puerta del Sol, I was locked in a room in which I spent 76 hours in which they gave me up even to the roof of my mouth. In the rare times that someone brought me a glass of water or a crust of bread, Chacón appeared to humiliate me in front of the other policemen. He forced me to do "the duck," which consisted of tying my ankles and making me walk on the feet’s tips while hitting the soles with a metal rod. On two other occasions he appeared with the tall guy, who turned out to be Hermenegildo Gutiérrez, escort of Francisco Franco himself and titled bugger. They both held me by the feet and threatened to throw me out the window if I told about Vicente’s plates. Chacon put a gun in my eggs and told me "if I shoot you, nothing happens. Stop touching our balls or I'll blow yours. "