by Dan Dowhal
“Geez. All right, kid, all right. It’s okay,” Shane consoles the sobbing youth.
Sanchez clears his throat. “Sorry to interrupt this touching reunion, but did you say that you got out of your chains? Seems to me that’s useful information, given the current situation.”
Abraham shakes his head. “’T’ain’t no good. They took away the key. Used to keep it hangin’ on the wall for when someone would release us to work every day. Now they each have a copy they keep on ’em. Won’t leave the key in the motor-sickle no more, neither.”
“Us? There are others?” Sanchez inquires.
“There was a couple of other fellers when they first brought me here, though they was in mighty bad shape. Both dead now.” He starts crying again. “I don’t want to die!” he moans. “Ain’t I been punished enough for stealin’ one li’l bag of food?”
“What food? You took money and, um … other stuff from me,” Shane interjects.
“Not from you. From them. That’s how I ended up here in … in hell. Funny, ’cause I was born and grew up on a spread up north called Holy Waters, and I was told that was as close to heaven as we could get, here on Earth. Then, outta the blue a coupla months ago, I got shunned by everybody — even my folks — and they done run me off the land. All on account of me ’n’ my gal Zaylie was in love, but one of the elders, Jebediah, wanted her for his bride. I drifted around some, and eventually I ended up down here, at the border, where I couldn’t go no farther. I tried to snatch a lunch from some guys I done seen in a warehouse. Next thing you know, they catch me, stick a gun in my face, and drag me down here. I figure they’re gonna shoot me, but when the boss man hears I’m all alone and nobody knows where I am, they look at each other and laugh and knock me around and chain me up and … well, you know the rest.”
“But if the tunnel already goes on through to the other side, what are they still working on?” Shane asks aloud.
“Never no end to the work. The ground’s pretty soft, so we’re always shoring things up,” Abraham explains. “Then there’s these extra caves they’re carving out, like they’re expecting to hole up a bunch of people down here or somethin’.”
“Well, whatever they have in store for us, we’re about to find out the hard way,” Doc Sanchez says grimly. They follow his eyes and see Enrique walking back down the tunnel, alone, the assault rifle resting casually on his shoulder.
THIRTY
At Enrique’s approach, Abraham gives a soft cry and tightens up into a ball, his head between his knees. The drug lord laughs and taps the teenager on the shoulder with the barrel of his gun. “That’s right, you should be afraid.”
“Oh, God,” Abraham whimpers and begins to tremble.
Enrique grabs the youth’s hair and pulls his head up to glare into his prisoner’s face. “I’ve told you before. I’m the only God down here.” He yanks Abraham forward violently. “Get on your knees and pray to me. I’m your God of Abraham.”
“Leave him alone, you puny little piece of shit!” Shane shouts, surprising himself. Seconds ago he was cowering, hoping not to call attention to himself, trying to clear the cobwebs in his head. But he can’t stand this any longer. He is angry, but not with his usual mindless animal rage. No, this is a new anger, a righteousness anger.
Enrique recoils as if bitten. He releases Abraham and steps forward to slam the butt of the rifle into Shane, who manages to twist his body just enough to take the brunt of the blow on his shoulder.
“What’s that you say, tough guy? You think you can stand up to me? You think this is some hockey game with its play fighting? This is my world. I own you.”
“Oh yeah, you’re a big man with a gun in your hand beating up on helpless kids. Why not unchain me, and we’ll see how tough you really are. You know, mano a mano.”
Enrique actually laughs at that one. “You’ve been watching too many movies, gringo. Do you really expect me to put down my gun and fight some big stupid goon just because you’ve insulted my machismo? You’re a bigger moron than I thought. No, I’m the brains who commands the stupid, disposable beasts. I have the balls my weakling father never had! I called our hockey team Los Lobos because that’s what we’re meant to be, wolves who feed on the sheep, on the weak.”
“Your father was twice the man you’ll ever be,” Doc Sanchez interjects. “The only weakness he ever had was you. He spoiled you. You’re a disgrace.”
“Shut up, Francisco,” Enrique snarls. He slings his assault rifle over his shoulder, and from his pocket he pulls out a pearl-handled switchblade, flicking it open melodramatically in front of the doctor’s face. “I’ll deal with you in a minute. You could be useful to me, but if you’d rather be stubborn, I’ll carve you up like the fat pig you are.”
The drug lord turns and points the knife at Shane. “First I’m going to take care of you. I was going to let you live and work you like the dumb ox you are. I figured that even with that broken arm, you’d give me twice the work as this scrawny runt. Now I’ve changed my mind. I said before that I should have killed you out on the highway. Well, now I’m going to fix my mistake. But first, I’m going to make you scream … starting by cutting out your eyeballs.”
As Enrique slowly brings the tip of the blade up toward Shane’s eye, Shane throws his head backward, causing the Grim Reaper necklace Yolanda gave him to jump into view. Enrique stiffens before switching the knife to his left hand in order to make the sign of the cross with his right. “Santa Muerte,” he murmurs.
Seizing the opportunity, Shane swings his broken arm, using the plaster cast like a club. Enrique stabs at him, but gets the tip of his blade embedded in the cast’s plaster. Then Shane sweeps with his shackles, and as Enrique’s feet get tangled up in the chains, he collapses sideways. The narco scrambles to sit up, bringing his rifle to bear.
He does not get the chance to pull the trigger. Another set of chains, these belonging to Abraham, appear from behind. He drops them down over Enrique’s head and yanks violently backward against the windpipe. As the steel necklace tightens, the narco gasps, groans, and gurgles, his face turning red. In desperation, he tries to point the rifle behind him, but Shane rolls over on his side to generate some extra torque, tugging at the chains with every ounce of his strength. There is a crunching sound, and Enrique goes limp, his neck broken. A wet stain appears and blossoms across the front of the dead man’s slacks.
There is a long silence, except for the sound of heavy breathing. “Hmm. That’s too bad,” Doc Sanchez finally observes.
“Screw that! The guy was trying to kill me. I’m glad he’s dead,” Shane retorts.
“No, not that. Good riddance, and I hope the little shit rots in hell.” Sanchez spits on Enrique’s corpse. “But, as it happens, his bladder expelled upon death, and now someone has to fish through those piss-soaked pockets to look for the key.”
“You do it, kid,” Shane tells Abraham. “You killed him.”
“I didn’t kill him. You did when you yanked his legs.”
“Oh, whatever. Let’s just say it was a team effort.” He offers his palm. “High-five!”
Abraham stares blankly at Shane. “Um, Holy Trinity?” he replies uncertainly.
Shane sighs. “Never mind. Help push him a little closer, kid, I’ll do it.”
They find a ring with several keys, and Abraham points out the one that opens all the shackles. Shane then uses the switchblade lodged in his cast to cut through the ropes binding Doc Sanchez’s hands. The first thing the doctor does is pat the cast. “Another reason I prefer plaster of Paris,” he chuckles.
Abraham leaps to his feet. “C’mon, let’s mosey. America’s that way,” he says and starts walking. No one follows. “Whatcha doin’? Come on before one of the others shows up,” the youth pleads.
Meanwhile, Doc Sanchez has picked up the assault rifle. He turns to face south.
“You’re going back?” Shane asks. “What about Enrique’s men?”
Sanchez flourishes the weapon. “Y
ou know what the narcos call this puppy, Shane? Huevos de Toro. The Bull’s Balls, on account of the double drums. A hundred rounds in each. The way I see it, that’s two hundred opportunities to drum some sense into whatever parts of the snake’s body are still thrashing around now that the head’s been cut off. I’m still general manager and chairman of the board of Los Lobos de Chihuahua. No, I’ve worked too hard for what’s back there. I’m not giving it up.”
“Look, don’t hate me, Doc, but I’m not going with you. That cocksucker deserved to die” — he points to Enrique’s corpse — “and I’m not sorry one bit. Shit, I don’t even know whether technically it happened in Mexico or the States, or whether they’d give me a medal or a lethal injection for it. Either way, I’d rather not have to answer for it.” He indicates the northern end of the tunnel. “I’m going that way.”
“I figured as much, and it’s okay with me. I accept your resignation as coach without prejudice.”
“Fuck!” Shane curses suddenly. “I’ve got my wallet on me, but my passport and my Ducati are back there.”
“De nada. Drop me a line to let me know where you land. I’ll send you your passport. And I’ll take care of your bike for you.”
“Fuck it, Doc. Sell the Ducati. The fucking thing has been nothing but bad luck. You know what? Start a youth hockey program with the money. Buy Vern some equipment. Hell, get Gracie a horse.”
“I’ll do that, amigo.”
They embrace. “Vaya con dios, Doc.”
“Good luck, Shane.” The doctor takes the rifle in both hands and hefts it. “Pancho Villa rides again,” he chortles and marches back toward the arena.
Shane hastens after Abraham. “Wait. Let’s take the Indian,” he suggests, and jogs back to find the key on Enrique’s corpse. When he finds it and returns to the motorcycle, Abraham is sitting in the driver’s seat. Shane shakes his head. “No way, kid. I’ve seen you drive. Broken hand or not, I’m the pilot. You ride in the sidecar.”
The tunnel exit is hidden in the same stateside warehouse Shane visited earlier. No guards are on duty, nor do any pursuers materialize, but still Shane wants to put as much distance as possible between them and the border, so they ride non-stop for almost two hours — up through Columbus and Deming out of Luna County toward Albuquerque. Eventually, Shane’s broken arm starts to ache, and since the sun is going down, he decides to find them some food and a place for the night. They locate a truck-stop motel and go inside the restaurant. Heads turn as they choose a booth. At first Shane attributes the rubbernecking to Abraham’s strange attire, but when Shane excuses himself to go to the washroom, he sees himself in the mirror and understands. His face is sprayed with the blood of the man Enrique executed back in the tunnel. His T-shirt and jeans are also spattered, but here Shane’s predilection for black has paid off, as the stains are less noticeable. He cleans himself as best as he can and returns to the diner.
A worn-out waitress with box-red hair comes to take their order. Shane finds he has to teach Abraham the basic principles of eating in restaurants, as if he were a child. Once assured that Shane will be covering the tab, Abraham ends up ordering enough food for three people, while Shane, his head still pounding and his stomach in knots, settles for the only salad on the menu, which is otherwise a grease-filled carnivore’s delight.
Although he is thinking ahead to his own legal predicament, he is wondering what to do about Abraham. He is grateful to the youth, knowing that in all likelihood, he owes Abraham his life. Still, Shane has problems all his own and does not want to be saddled with the teen. And, yet, it would be cruel to simply abandon him.
Shane sighs. “What the hell are we going to do with you, Abe? You have any relatives you can go live with?”
The teenager shakes his head, dislodging bits of food from his mouth. “Nope, all my kin are at Holy Waters, and they done shunned me.” The remembrance moves the youth to begin weeping openly.
Shane grimaces and offers Abraham an extra napkin. “Look, I can give you a few bucks to get you started, but you’re going to have to figure out what to do with your life. Find a job, maybe learn a trade. What schooling do you have?”
“Well, sir, I got my ABCs and can do my sums, but I wasn’t fixin’ to be no preacher. Them’s the ones got the extra book learnin’.”
“Computer skills?”
“What’s a computer?”
“Fuck. Okay, how about carpentry? When I played for Philly I used to see some great Shaker furniture in the stores. You handy with a hammer and saw?”
“Well, sir, there’s a few families who are mighty good at buildin’ … make all our furniture and barns and whatnot. Not mine, though.”
Shane shakes his head. Abraham will have to find menial physical labour somewhere, but in this part of the country, the odds are he will be competing with illegal immigrants who have slipped across the border. If he is lucky enough to find employment, he will likely be paid a pittance and risk being exploited by his employers.
Abraham can read Shane’s face well enough. “I’m in trouble, ain’t I, Shane? Oh, don’t I know it. I been wanderin’ around for a couple of months now, and I feel like Adam, cast out of Eden and landing smack dab in the middle of Babylon. I know I’m not right for this world. Even before those bad men grabbed me, everywhere I went people were lookin’ down at me, and callin’ me names, and runnin’ me off. I felt like I was sinkin’ lower and lower every day. How am I supposed to live in this world run by machines and business ’n’ such. It’s all movin’ so darn fast I don’t even know what’s goin’ on half the time. No, sir, it just ain’t fair for a poor fella who don’t know nothin’ but how to be a shepherd.”
Shane freezes mid-bite, a piece of lettuce dangling from his fork. “A what?”
“A shepherd. You know, I tend sheep.”
Shane starts to laugh. Abraham shifts in his seat, and his face reddens. “What’s so darn funny? Ain’t nothin’ wrong with being a shepherd. I don’t mind saying I liked it, and I was good at it, too.”
“It’s all right, Abe, I’m not laughing at you. I just got the punchline of a joke. A cosmic joke. Trust me, kid. I’m the one that’s feeling small right now.” He leans closer. “I know this is going to sound crazy, but I actually think we were meant to meet, like it was preordained. You know what I’m talking about?”
Abraham frowns. “I used to be devout, but I don’t believe anymore, not since they cast me out just so some elder could take my Zaylie for his sixth wife and say it’s all God’s will. No, sir. Was it preordained that I should end up stealin’? And … and kill a man?”
“You didn’t kill him, Abe. I did.”
“It was a team effort.” Abraham holds up his palm. “Holy Trinity.”
Shane can’t help but smile. “No, kid. It’s ‘high-five’ and what you do is … oh, never mind. You won’t need it where you’re going.”
“What do you mean? Where am I going?”
“I have a job for you. As a matter of fact, I have a whole new life for you. It’s perfect. It’s better than perfect — it’ll be your own private Eden.”
“An Eden without Eve,” Abraham whimpers.
“Well, technically, you wouldn’t be Adam … but I get your point.” Shane shakes his head and rolls his eyes at the ceiling. “I should have known it wouldn’t be quite so easy. Life always seems to want to buck Bronco.” He aims his fork at the youth. “Okay, Abe. If I take you back to Holy Waters, do you think you can sneak in and get your Zaylie to run off with you?”
“But I told you, she’s married now.”
“Seriously? With everything you’ve just seen and done, that’s where you’re going to draw the line? Okay, then, let me help you out. I don’t know what they taught you growing up, but here in America polygamy is actually against the law. So technically, the marriage isn’t valid. Get it? That means she’s not really married. Eat up, then let’s go get your gal.”
THIRTY-ONE
After hearing about how the inhab
itants of Holy Waters live and work, Shane realizes it is best to wait until daytime to rescue Zaylie. As much as operating under cover of darkness initially seemed like a good idea, he learns that the girl will now be sleeping inside the elder’s home with his other five wives, and although the door to the house will not be locked, the chances of slipping in, finding her bedroom, and getting her out — all undetected — are slim. (Also, the newest bride will likely be in her husband’s bed, Shane surmises, but he keeps this theory to himself.) Abraham suggests that they approach Zaylie in the daytime, while she works at her job tending the communal vegetable gardens, since the women work separately from the men.
They take a room at the motel, which Shane pays for in cash, and spend a sleepless night. Abraham tosses and turns, no doubt thinking of the mission ahead, and possibly filled with longing for his sweetheart and uncertainty over whether she will actually run away with him. Shane’s insomnia stems from a different source. He is still traumatized by his bloody near-death ordeal in the tunnel, as well as concerned about Doc Sanchez’s fate. But mostly he is agonizing over whether to turn himself in and face justice. His indecision is coloured by visions of being publicly vilified, then sent to prison. Part of him wonders whether it isn’t wiser to go home to Canada and fight extradition.
He thinks about the prestige and income he commanded as a professional athlete, all now lost. But what did he ever do with all the privilege and opportunity he had, except squander it in selfish hedonism? And his vocation has certainly taken a toll exacted in pain and trauma; his brain is as battered and scarred as his face.
And yet, Shane still loves hockey and feels blessed to have had the career he did. Even if he was only a fourth-line enforcer and never hoisted the Stanley Cup, he wouldn’t change a thing if he had it all to do over again — at least, none of the things he did on the ice. And in that moment, he knows what he has to do. It will be a struggle to take his jumbled thoughts and turn them into convincing words, but he must return to Chicago to defend himself and proudly tell the world what he stands for.