Applewood (Book 3): The Space of Life Between

by Myers, Brendan P.

  Dear Lord, he sometimes asked himself. Did I kill children? And every time he asked himself that in recent days, the blissful sense of peace and calm provided by the boy washed over him, and the bad feelings were gone.

  That he was an American who had come to Mexico years before, he knew for a certainty. He recollected too that for much of his time here, he had been a wrestler, though mostly in low rent dives and church basements that used crudely constructed platforms with very little padding and fraying rope. Still, it was an honest living, and sometimes, a good one. He played the heavy, of course. His character was called Americano Feo, the ‘Ugly American’, no surprise given his size and plug ugly face and multiple busted noses. He got most of those courtesy of barroom scrapes and had every one of them coming.

  Still, he had liked being a wrestler, enjoyed the small bit of notoriety it brought, if only on the dusty Mexican circuit. He was even featured in a wrestling magazine once. Most importantly, it had given him a purpose, and somehow he knew, even in the alcoholic fog he so often found himself in, that having a purpose was essential. Plus, he liked entertaining the kids. That was always the best part for him, hearing their strident squeals at one of his pratfalls, or jeering him with malice when he put their hero in a headlock. Kids by nature enjoyed rooting against the bad guy, though in their hearts, Pruitt knew that they secretly rooted for him.

  But the wrestling lasted only a couple of years, before the bad memories of his previous life became unbearable, and the bottle took hold and would not let him go. What those bad memories might have been, though some did seep in every now and then, he had only the murkiest of recollections. He supposed the boy thought that he just wasn’t ready.

  He did remember clearly making it his goal to drink himself to death. After the wrestling dried up – mostly because he was too unreliable to be counted on to show up – he became just another lowlife drifter, a vagabond dressed in rags moving from town to town, begging to wash dishes or sweep floors or worse, for the few pesos it would take to get just one more drink. He prayed always that his next would be his last, the one that finally did him in. Near the end, not long before he encountered the boy, he wasn’t above mugging people or lifting their wallets when they were careless with them. He hazily remembered he was in the process of contemplating far worse.

  The last bit of his old life he did remember was being physically ejected from a bucket of blood saloon just up the coast, when the bartender learned he had no money to pay for the drinks he had already consumed. Stumbling away from the joint, shouting the vilest of curses they did not deserve, he soon found himself standing at the edge of a windswept bluff, watching the waves pound the craggy rocks below, and realizing with a spark of uncharacteristic clarity that their were quicker ways to end things than drink.

  However, for some reason, he stopped himself, then turned to see the boy standing there, not five feet away from him. An immediate sense of serenity and blessed peace coursed over him. Next he knew, he spent the subsequent days and weeks in a small room, shivering and sweating and puking up the bland bits of food and small cups of water the boy left for him each day. And though in no way did he sense that he was a prisoner, he did know it was vital that he stay in that room until the tremors and quakes passed and he was in shape to serve the boy.

  He vaguely remembered at some point being washed in a warm bath, and afterward having a selection of clean and respectable clothes waiting for him. He hadn’t worn such fine clothes in a while. That the boy let him choose for himself what clothes he should wear had brought him to tears. He had been in the boy’s service ever since.

  He occasionally experienced brief flashes of memory, fleeting glimpses of faces he guessed were likely a part of him. For example, he was fairly sure there had been a girl back in that far distant American past, and a pretty one at that. She may have even been his wife, though it was hard to believe one so beautiful would have ever been with him. He was sometimes certain there was a child too. He had loved them both before going off to war, or in his own clumsy way, had tried to. Upon his return, he found that he still loved his wife. It disgusted him to think it was the child he could no longer bear to look at.

  Had he killed children?

  None of that mattered anymore, not now that he was with the boy.

  And so, as he beheld the beautiful girl dancing gaily around him, heard the haunting music that was part of the ancestral heritage of this beguiling and enigmatic country, and listened to the laughter from across the room, Pruitt smiled. To even his own surprise, he found himself suddenly on his feet. Bowing toward the girl, he reached out his right hand for hers, and she took it. Standing straighter, putting his left hand on his hip, he fixed his eyes upon hers, this girl he had sworn to protect, and started dancing an inexpert and unpracticed and awkward, to be sure, but otherwise not too shabby, Flamenco.

  5

  Dan was in the rear sitting area of the guest house reading the newspapers. He had bought two of them from a kiosk before hailing a cab back to Esquinaldo’s. One was the paper Rodrigo Salazar had written for. His newspaper reported he had been ambushed in a crowded restaurant in broad daylight while waiting to meet with a source. A man had walked up to his table, pulled out a machine gun, and blown him to kingdom come. Oddly, no one in the restaurant was able to describe a single thing about the perpetrator, and Dan couldn’t blame them. The assassin then exited the establishment, got onto the back of a waiting red motorbike, and was soon lost in the byzantine labyrinth of Mexico City’s streets. Dan almost smiled to see that at least one eyewitness had courage enough to reveal the color of the getaway vehicle.

  Though the reporter’s newspaper did show a grisly photo of its own on the cover, no doubt compelled to by competitive pressures, it was tasteful compared to the second newspaper’s chosen image. Though he quickly averted his eyes, Dan thought he had seen what could have been brain matter dribbling down the wall behind the dead man. This paper also wasn’t afraid to speculate about the motive behind the shooting. On an inside page garnished with yet more gruesome depictions of the crime scene, an inset photo showed the drug lord the newspaper accused of being behind it. Dan scanned the picture and found something vaguely unsettling about it, perhaps just the shark eyes of the accused, before turning the page and attempting to get his mind off it.

  In news from up north, President Reagan had given yet another speech decrying Congress’s cutting off funds for the Nicaraguan Contras in their war against the leftist Sandinista government. In this one, the president stated that if nothing was done, Communist tanks would be at the Rio Grande in no time. Dan could only shake his head at that one, and smile at the Hollywood actor’s imagination. That, and he’d been to Texas. As far as he was concerned, they could have it.

  In international news, in their fifth year of war, Iran and Iraq remained at each other’s throats. They were now lobbing Scud missiles at each other. The article went on to say Iraqi airstrikes into Iran in the last month had killed hundreds of civilians.

  Meanwhile, in Lebanon, another hostage had been released, the second in as many months. Dan puzzled over that. The article said it was on humanitarian grounds, but that made little sense either. These savages hadn’t exhibited an ounce of humanity in the past.

  Why the hell were they even taking hostages? Dan wondered. What the hell did they want? For the entire country of Israel to just up and move? That seemed unlikely. For the entire world to convert to Islam? That seemed equally unlikely. More than a few hostages had already been killed. Why suddenly were they releasing them?

  Shaking his head, he turned to national news and saw the Vice President of the United States would be in town this week to strengthen trade ties and coordinate the two countries’ war on drugs. He frowned when reading that part, thinking back to the grisly photographs on the front page. If there were indeed a war on drugs, he thought sourly, it was a war they seemed to be losing badly.

  Flipping the paper aside, antsy all of a sudden, he sto
od up from the chair and wandered to the telescope, where he looked through its viewfinder to the city below, a city that for him was suddenly filled with intrigue. In parks, he saw young couples on blankets enjoying the late afternoon sunshine. Or was that a cover for something? On sidewalks, he watched mothers pushing shaded baby strollers. But what was really inside? And he stopped at every red motor scooter he saw, following each until it was lost to his sight in the confusing maze of the city’s streets.

  6

  Dugan took care to make a more conventional entrance this time, stepping loudly on branches and snapping smaller twigs as he got closer. He even cleared his throat as he entered the ravine, where below, just outside their hidden hollow, he found the blond man waiting. His bag was zipped up beside him. The electronic equipment had been put away, for now.

  Through the darkness, Dugan made a noisy clamber down the rocky incline. Richards smiled with satisfaction upon hearing his approach.

  “Now that’s more like it,” he said happily, then asked, “How was your night? Everything okay out there?”

  After Dugan said it was, Richards went on.

  “I’ve got some good news. I did some exploring while you were away and found a small fishing village about two clicks downstream. I’ve arranged for a boat to take us up river.”

  Dugan nodded as Richards picked up his bag and then followed him up the opposite incline into the jungle beyond. The going wasn’t much easier than it had been the previous night, with both of them still barefoot, but at least this time, they weren’t running. The renewed ability of Richards to carefully plant his feet before stepping resulted in far fewer expletives emanating from his mouth on this trip.

  About forty minutes later, they neared the outskirts of a village. Dugan heard music playing from a tinny transistor radio somewhere close by. Richards led him out of the jungle onto a dirt path fringed with primitive shacks and bamboo dwellings. In one, a baby cried. On the porch of another, a chained dog barked in warning but didn’t trouble itself to get up.

  At the end of the dusty trail, Richards turned left toward the riverfront, taking them behind a large wooden structure where just beyond lay the river. Coming out upon it, beneath a moon drenched sky, Dugan saw stretching a few dozen yards out into the water was a jerry-built dock made of moldering wood and logs and bits of scrap metal that appeared to serve the four saddest looking vessels that had ever set their rudder in the water. Carefully making their way across a yawning gap between the shore and the dock, Richards led Dugan toward the saddest looking vessel of them all.

  Not more than twenty-five feet long, flat bottomed, dangerously top heavy, it was painted in gaudy stripes of turquoise and red and black. Its overlarge wheelhouse was crafted from scraps of wood and stray bits of metal. The roof was rusty corrugated tin with a smokestack made of brass piping. A square structure stuck up knee high from about the center of the boat that Dugan supposed was used for storing fish. Dozens of beat up Clorox bottles were strung around the wheelhouse hanging like strange fruit. Fishing rods of varying lengths were mounted to its exterior walls, their mismatched ends projecting above the roof like antennas. The bow was a maze of netting and canvas tarpaulin. A long and low tackle box was fashioned along the stern.

  On its deck were a man and a young boy. Both wore loose white flannel shirts, long pants, and straw hats. The man, who appeared to be preparing for a voyage, lifted his hat at their approach.

  “Hola, senors,” he said in a smiled greeting that was not quite toothless, but well on the way. With unvarnished pride, he held up his arms and gestured expansively. “Bienvenidos a la Golpe de Suerte!”

  Welcome to the Lucky Strike.

  “Hola, Miguel,” Richards replied in Spanish. “And thank you again.”

  The captain beckoned them on board, saying, “We both know it is I who should be thanking you, senor.” As the two climbed on deck, he put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “This is my son, Arturo. He will be joining us.”

  Setting his hands on his knees, Richards bent low in greeting. “Hello, Arturo. It’s very nice to make your acquaintance.” Standing, he gestured to Dugan. “This here is Scott.”

  Dugan nodded to them both. After he did, Miguel seemed to inspect him longer than necessary, but who knew what Richards had said to him with regard to his condition. For all he knew, Richards had told the truth. The boy’s reaction supported that theory, for he could not take his deep brown eyes off Dugan, gaping at him with what could either be fear or wonder. Though no stranger to second glances, Dugan did think there was something off kilter about this one, before dismissing it as likely unimportant.

  “Please, senors, make yourselves comfortable,” Miguel invited graciously. “You may use the tackle box in the rear for storage, if you desire. We will be leaving presently.”

  Dugan and Richards made their way toward the stern, both dropping their bags to the timeworn planked deck. Richards collapsed his lanky body to the hard wood, stretching out his legs and leaning against the box. Dugan sat down on top of it, resting against the flat rear of the boat and lifting his arm over the side. His fingers were mere inches above the dark water.

  After a minute or so, with a choking gasp, the engines rattled to life. Thick plumes of oily smoke started belching from the brass smokestack above the pilothouse. The boy leaped onto the dock and untied the boat from its moorings, tossing the lines to the deck before expertly hopping back on board. Moments later, with a grinding clatter as if Miguel was having trouble finding the correct gear, the boat started backing slowly away from the dock and they were off.

  7

  Their journey began lazily enough, with the boat puttering its way through the placid waters, making steady, if not good time. The feeble thrust offered by the engines forced the stern lower, and Dugan found himself now dragging his fingers knuckle deep in the bathtub warm water behind him.

  Soon after embarking, he asked Richards, “How long will it take?”

  “It’s only about a hundred miles to the Pacific,” Richards replied, “but that’s as the crow flies. I’m told this river is about as serpentine as it gets. So we’re looking at two, maybe two and a half days. Miguel says this river will eventually empty into a larger one once we’re nearer the coast.”

  Dugan thought about that, out of habit glancing about for his sleeping options. The boat had no discernible shelter that he could see. Worst came to worst, they’d have to stop the boat. If worst came to very worst, he’d force them to stop it. But he had plenty of time before he needed to worry about that.

  As time ticked on, Richards went to the wheelhouse to have a few words with Miguel. The boy was in there too, standing beside his father and keeping him company. Richards returned some minutes later and once again plopped himself down on deck.

  Soon after, Arturo came to the stern with a basket filled with bread and cheese and a bottle of wine and set them down next to Richards, who reached inside and began eating ravenously. Picking up the bottle, he twisted off the cork and chugged down half its contents in one gulp.

  Dugan noticed again that when he approached, and now as he backed away, the boy kept his wide open eyes fixated on him. Puzzling over it, he glanced to the prone Richards and saw what could only be described as a shit eating grin on his mug.

  “What is it?” he asked defensively.

  Richards took a bite of cheese before answering, pointing with his chin toward the retreating boy. “The kid. Arturo. He’s fascinated by you. Thinks you’re a wolf. Calls you ‘Ojos de Lobo’.”

  Wolf eyes.

  Dugan smiled, flashing back to a long ago summer day spent in the company of his best friends.

  “Ojos de lobo,” he repeated slowly and deliberately as if turning the words over in his mouth. Catching Richards’ eye, he went on. “I like that. And I want you to call me that from now on.”

  Richards snorted and went back to his cheese.

  As the hours drifted by, Richards began to doze, while Dugan let his thou
ghts roam aimlessly. He thought about his old friends back in Grantham. He wondered about his uncle and hoped he was doing all right. He remembered the cheroot smoking pilot so ruthlessly killed when salvation might have been just a few hundred yards away. And he reflected on the crates of weapons the obviously off-the-books cargo plane and its motley crew of ex-military had dropped so randomly all over this poorest and most beleaguered of countries.

  When he came back to himself, he looked up to see the boy, waxen moonlight shining on his golden bronze skin, leaning on the starboard rail, gazing out at the thick forest passing them by. Seconds later, the boy sensed someone nearby. He looked left, only to see Dugan standing right there. With a start, he blinked and looked again, and Dugan was gone.

  Wheeling, he saw a smiling Dugan now behind him. Taking in a sharp breath, he blinked again and saw Dugan all the way over on the port side, leaning lazily against the railing in the same manner he himself had been doing moments before. He blinked once more and next saw Dugan again seated atop the tackle box at the tail end of the boat, his arm outstretched and reaching into the water as it had been for much of the evening, though now, he was looking the boy’s way and smiling.

  The boy’s eyes went wide, but soon, intuiting as only a child can that it had all been a game, he sent a gap-toothed grin Dugan’s way, and soon returned to his woolgathering by the railing.

  8

  Upon waking from his slumber, after another few bites of bread and a nibble of cheese scoffed down with the remainder of the wine, Richards unzipped his bag and pulled out the radio. Dugan saw the green LED still glowed powerfully. In a hushed voice, Richards spoke into it, repeating: “Home base, this is Golden Boy, do you copy?” but receiving nothing but static in return. Still, Dugan noted he wasn’t frustrated. After a few more tries, he simply put the radio back into his bag. Dugan suspected they probably weren’t yet in range. Still, he couldn’t help himself.