Then the big woman charged at Tula, whose hand suddenly felt frozen, unable to draw the knife from her pocket, so the girl turned and ran.
Frankie sprinted after her, yelling, “Come back her, you lying brat! Just wait ’til I get my hands on you!”
For a woman her age and size, Frankie was quicker than Tula could have imagined. After only a few steps, the girl felt a jarring impact on the back of her head. Then she was on the ground, Frankie kneeling over her, using a right fist to hit the girl so hard that Tula didn’t regain full consciousness until she awoke, minutes or hours later, in the cookshack.
Woozy and dreamlike -that’s the way Tula felt when she opened her eyes. Nauseous, too. It took the girl several seconds to organize what she was seeing as her eyes moved slowly around the room. Overhead were bars of neon light. The sound of a motor running confirmed that the generator had been started. There was a strong odor of gasoline, too.
Tula wondered about that, making the distinction between the smell of gasoline and the smell of propane, which struck her as important for some reason.
Tula lifted her head to study her body, then lay back again, eyes closed. She was tied, unable to move, her wrists taped to the legs of a heavy table. They had used short pieces of rope on her ankles, securing her legs in a way that suggested they intended to cut her jeans and shirt off next. The owl-shaped jade amulet and her Joan of Arc medallion were missing, she realized, but the girl could still feel the shape of the paring knife hidden in her back pocket. Even so, in her entire life, she had never felt so naked and defenseless.
Could this really be happening?
Yes… it was as real as the blood Tula could now taste in her mouth. The girl strained against the tape again. The table moved a little, but her legs were spread between a stationary counter. Freeing herself was impossible, so she lay back to think, her mind still putting it all together.
Frankie and the Mexican with gold teeth were standing nearby but not looking at her. The woman was concentrating on a camera mounted on a tripod, angry about something-impatient with the camera, Tula decided. Then Frankie spoke to Victorino, muttering, “I told you the battery was in wrong. Stupid wetbacks, if it’s anything more complicated than a knife, you can’t deal with it.”
A moment later, though, the woman swore, and said, “This battery’s no good-probably because of the way you did it. In the RV, I’ve got a camera bag full of shit. Send one of your pals to go get it.”
Tula’s brain was fogged, but mentioning the RV was of interest to her. She had just escaped from the RV, she remembered, where she had left the stove valves open to fill the trailer with propane.
Slowly, the girl’s attention shifted to Victorino, who was wearing surgical gloves for some reason. The gloves and the man’s wrists were stained with blood. He was glaring at Frankie with dead, drunken eyes, and seemed too preoccupied to respond.
It was because of what a second Mexican had just said to Victorino. Even before Tula had opened her eyes, she had heard the man speaking Spanish, but her mind had not translated his words yet his phrases lingered. What the man had said was important for a reason, Tula was sure of it, yet her brain had yet to unravel his meaning.
Poli -she had heard him use the word. Poli was Mexican slang, the equivalent of “cop.” If so, then it was important. But why had the man mentioned police? Tula strained to recall. She squeezed her eyes closed, her brain scanning for details.
Yes… it was coming back to her. The man had said something that sounded like The cop said don’t hurt the girl. They’re coming in. Words close to that. “The girl” referred to her. It had to… didn’t it? Don’t hurt the girl. It suggested to Tula that the police were coming to save her.
Tula wanted to believe it, but what was happening around her was so surreal that she didn’t trust her judgment. Hope was such a tenuous, flimsy thing, after the photograph she had found in the RV, after what she was now experiencing.
The Mexican who had mentioned police was standing in the doorway, holding a radio. He sounded worried. “We dumped all the gas just like you said. Why don’t we torch the place now and go?”
Gasoline… it explained the odor, which Tula filed away as the man, getting very serious, added, “The redheaded witch, she doesn’t understand a word of what we’re saying, right? So leave her here with the girl. Get the woman’s fingerprints on your box cutter and let the cops arrest her for jelly boy. Hell, maybe they’ll think they got into a fight or something. Cut jelly boy free, too-he’s not going anywhere. You know, a steroids war. Let the cops figure it out.”
The man was referring to Harris Squires. Tula had momentarily forgotten about the giant, but events were flooding back now. But arrest the woman for what? What had happened to Harris?
Confused, her mind working in slow motion, Tula moved her eyes to where the Mexican was looking. He was staring at something to her left. But to see, she would have to move her head and risk alerting Frankie that she was conscious.
Into the girl’s mind, the Maiden spoke, saying, Be fearless. You were born to do this! I have not forsaken you!
To hear Jehanne’s voice at such a moment caused the girl’s eyes to flood with tears. Because she was crying when she turned her head, she was unable at first to decipher what she was seeing. A massive pale shape was lying next to her. Tula squinted tears away, and the shape acquired detail. Even then, it took her several seconds to understand what she was seeing.
It was Harris Squires. After what they had done to the man, Tula didn’t want to believe it was actually the giant. His body appeared shrunken, deflated. Harris was naked, legs tied wide, just as they had tied her legs. His chest was peppered with shotgun BBs, his ivory skin patched with blood.
Beneath the giant’s hips, the blood had pooled like oil. Tula didn’t want to look any closer but she forced herself. Her brother was the only male she had ever seen naked, so it took the girl a moment to understand what had happened
Victorino had mutilated the giant.
Tula grimaced and turned away, comforted only by the fact that Squires was unconscious, no longer in pain, and also that he was still breathing.
When the girl opened her eyes again, Frankie was standing over her, staring down. The woman smiled and said, “Well, well, well! My sleeping cutie is finally awake.”
Then, turning to Victorino, she asked, “What are you two yapping about? What’s wrong?”
Victorino was ripping off the rubber gloves, suddenly in a hurry, as he asked the Mexican man in Spanish, “Where’s my Tec-9? Chapo’s got the other one-is he ready? Goddamn it, he should’ve been in contact! We got to be ready for anything anytime!”
The Mexican took a boxy-looking gun from the bag on his shoulder and handed it to Victorinio, saying, “It bothers me that we haven’t heard a word from Calavero or Dedos, either. Dedos, he’s probably passed out. But Calavero, if the cops grabbed him-”
Victorino interrupted, “That’s what I’m telling you,” as he ejected the magazine from the weapon, checked it, then slammed it back. “Shit,” he said, “for all we know, it’s not the cops. It’s some La Mara bangers from Immokalee. Why would cops call and warn us they’re coming? You know, Guatemalan punks talking English because they figure we’re so rich, we got lazy and stupid.”
In Guatemala City, Tula had heard of the street gang, Mara Salvatrucha. La Mara, for short, or MS-13. It was a murderous gang, always at war with Mexican gangs. She lay back, taking in details, as the V-man asked Frankie, “You and jelly boy ever do any business with La Mara? Maybe that’s who it is.”
Frankie got taller on her toes again as Victorino slipped by her, the woman yelling, “What kinda shit are you trying to pull now? I don’t know anyone named La Mara! You and your greasers found the money, didn’t you? Now you’re feeding me some bullshit excuse about why you have to run.”
Holding the box cutter in his hand, the V-man leaned over Squires for a moment, then pushed the razor toward Frankie, saying, “Cut his ha
nds and legs free. Someone finds him, we want them to wonder what happened.”
Tula remembered what the Mexican had said about fingerprints. Frankie took the knife in her right hand and, for a moment, Tula thought the woman was going to stab the blade at Victorino. The man took a step back, thinking the same thing, which was when the Mexican warned Frankie from the doorway, saying, “Don’t even think about it, puta. It’ll be like shooting balloons at the fair. Like back when I was a kid.”
The Mexican was pointing a pistol at Frankie, holding the weapon steady until the woman muttered, “A couple of big tough wetbacks, that’s what you are,” then dropped the razor, too unconcerned to watch where it landed.
Tula was watching, though. She kept her eyes on the razor even as Frankie collected her cigarettes and pushed past the Mexican, outside, pausing only to tell Victorino, “I need a drink. Either of you disappear while I’m getting it, I’ll have your nuts!”
Then, without waiting for a reply, she was walking toward the RV, hips swinging. Tula could see the woman plainly through the open door. The girl focused her eyes on the back of Frankie’s head, then pictured the woman on the RV steps. Tula was telegraphing images, thinking over and over, Light a cigarette… Light a cigarette.
Tula could also see Victorino standing in the doorway, the weapon in both hands, his concentration intense. Maybe he hadn’t heard the woman’s insult. No… he’d heard, because as his eyes swept the darkness he called after the redhead, “You can burn in hell, for all I care-” but then stopped abruptly and crouched.
A second passed, then another, before he whispered to the Mexican, “Hey-there’s a vehicle coming down the road. See it? No lights, but it’s headed this way. How the hell they get past Calavero and Dedos?”
The Mexican started to say, “Our two guys-maybe that’s who it is. See them through the window?” then stopped talking as he watched the truck fishtail, then drift into a slow spin.
Now on his knees, the V-man was yelling, “Shit-that’s our Dodge! Those aren’t cops. They stole our goddamn truck!”
Beside him, the Mexican tried to mention Calavero and Dedos again but was interrupted by two consecutive gunshots, WHAP-WHAP! very close.
Victorino ducked his head back, hissing, “Shit, they firing on us, man! Shooting at us from our own truck!” Then he took a quick look out the door and decided, “We’ve got to get to jelly boy’s truck. Four-wheel drive, we can drive through the goddamn swamp if we need to.”
The Mexican sounded dubious, saying, “I don’t know, man, that shit’s wet out there.”
“Our goddamn truck’s got the road blocked, man!” Victorino said, getting mad. “You don’t got eyes in your head? Plus, they probably got more dudes waiting for us as we leave. We gotta take jelly boy’s truck and get the hell out of here.” The man peeked out the door again, asking, “You ready with the thing I told you about?”
The Mexican showed Victorino the lighter in his hand, saying, “You want me to wait until the gringa is inside the RV? Unless you think we don’t have time.”
Smiling, the V-man replied, “I warned the bitch. You heard me warn her. Let’s go!”
Both men took off running, the Mexican firing three shots at something, then Victorino opening up, his weapon making a continuous ratcheting sound, loud, but not as loud as the pistol.
From outside came the sound of more gunshots-maybe Victorino’s men. Maybe someone else.
Tula’s mind was too busy thinking to notice or care.
Sensing the room’s sudden emptiness, Tula lay back for a moment, concentrating on breathing into her belly to calm herself. Then she attempted to communicate with the Maiden.
They poured gasoline, I can smell it. This building might catch on fire. Please don’t let me burn.
Jehanne didn’t reply, but into Tula’s head came words Joan of Arc had written, words the girl had committed to memory: Help yourself, and God will help you. Act, and God will act through you.
Tula raised her head. Through the open doorway, she could see that Frankie was on the steps to the RV but crouched low because of the gunshots. Maybe the woman would seek cover inside the trailer and light a cigarette later to calm herself. Revenge wasn’t a priority in Tula’s mind now, though.
Her eyes moved to the razor Frankie had dropped. The box cutter had landed only inches from Harris Squires’s right hand. The giant no longer reminded the girl of Hercules or polished stone. Only a few hours ago, the veins of his body had resembled blue rivers, tracing the contours of his biceps, the muscles of his chest and calves.
Now the rivers had been drained. The giant appeared shrunken inside his own skin, a mountain of pale, dead flesh, although the man’s chest continued to move.
Tula watched Squires’s chest lift and fall, his breathing shallow. As she stared at him, the girl focused all of her attention on the man’s unconscious skull, seeking the spirit that lived inside.
Open your eyes. God will save us. Open your eyes. You are the strongest man I have ever met, open your eyes…
For more than a minute, Tula repeated those phrases, but then was stopped by more gunshots, then a Woofing detonation that shook the floor beneath her. It was a firestorm explosion so close that it sucked air from the room, replacing it with heat so intense that it felt like needles on the girl’s face and arms.
Through the doorway, Tula saw a wave of fire rolling toward her, the flames so wild and high that the RV was screened from view.
Had the trailer exploded?
The fate of the redhead seemed unimportant now, and Tula threw her head back, screaming, “Jehanne? Jehanne!” then strained to use her teeth on the tape that bound her wrists. The table to which her hands were tied moved a few inches with each effort, but the angle was impossible.
As the girl convulsed her body, trying to tear herself free, the memory of her father’s last moments came into her mind, an image so stark, so sobering, that it caused Tula to stop screaming long enough to hear a voice calling to her. When she tilted her head to listen, the voice summoned her again, a soft voice, barely audible.
Tula became motionless, head up, eyes wide, listening for what she expected to be the Maiden offering advice… or, at the very least, comfort.
Instead, she heard a man’s voice beside her say, “Sis… Sis! Shut your mouth long enough to answer me. Are those assholes gone?”
Tula turned to see Harris Squires looking at her, his eyes two dull slits. On his face was an inexplicable smile that gave the girl hope even though she knew it was because the man was in shock, probably delirious, he was so near death.
Tula began crying, she couldn’t help herself, and talking too fast as she replied, “Harris! I am so sorry they hurt you. But you’ll get better. I will take care of you myself. I will take you home to the mountains and make sure no one ever hurts you again. I promise!”
No… the giant wasn’t delirious. He was alert enough to look toward the door, see the fire, then say, “Shit! This place will go up like a bomb. I’ve got to get you out of here!”
That possibility stayed with the man for a second, but then he realized the hopelessness of what was happening. Squire’s face contorted, then he slammed his head back and began to sob. “Did you see what those sons of bitches did to me?” he moaned. “I fought and fought, but I couldn’t stop them. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m no good to anyone now.”
Tula yelled, “Harris, stop it, you’re wrong!” to snap the man out of his misery. Then she used her head to motion toward the box cutter, telling him, “We have a knife, Harris! If I can pull myself close enough, maybe you can cut the tape on my wrists.”
Squires opened his eyes as the girl added, “Don’t leave me again, Harris. Stay strong, please. God will help us-but we have to help ourselves first.”
The giant appeared to be fighting unconsciousness, his voice barely audible as he replied, “My guardian angel, I forgot.” Then, gaining focus, he asked, “What knife?”
Because of all the bl
ood on the floor, Tula wondered how the man found the strength to open his fingers and take the box cutter into his huge right hand.
Inch by inch, Tula dragged the table closer to the giant. He held the razor, fighting unconsciousness as he waited. Two minutes passed, then four minutes. From the doorway, the girl could hear the roaring energy of combustion as the fire drew closer, feeding itself on gasoline fumes and grass. Soon heat and smoke made it difficult to breath, but the girl continued to fight the weight of the table.
Squires watched her, struggling to remain focused after losing so much blood. Every minute or so, he would awaken himself by telling Tula, “Don’t give up! Just a couple more!” These were phrases he had spoken so many times in weight rooms while spotting partners that he repeated the words by rote.
Even so, the giant’s determination was an inspiration to Tula, but his terrible wounds also caused the girl’s heart to ache.
When Tula realized the roof of the wooden shack had caught fire, she began to lose hope. She was dizzy from breathing smoke and her arms ached. For a few seconds, the girl paused to rest, and also to gauge the distance remaining before Squires might be able to cut the tape on her left wrist.
Two feet… a little less. The wooden building was burning so ferociously, though, it might as well have been two miles.
Tula closed her eyes and summoned the Maiden, resigned now that she and her warrior giant were probably going to burn to death. No.. . the smoke would kill them first, the girl reminded herself. In books she had read about Joan of Arc, witnesses all agreed that the saint had died from smoke inhalation before flames despoiled her flesh.
In a way, Tula found the recollection comforting, but she wasn’t ready to give up. Before yanking at the table once again, she spoke to her patron saint. A request.
Give us time. Just a few more minutes. If not, please grant me just one wish. Spare this good man from more suffering and pain.
FIFTEEN
Night Vision df-18 Page 28