Shadows Across America

by Guillermo Valcarcel

“Oliver spent that night in jail, but the kid’s parents tried to get in touch with their son the next day. They didn’t want to bother him so late at night, so that’s why they waited. But the next day they couldn’t reach him. They sent some officers to his apartment, worried that Oliver might have hurt him even though he was locked up and didn’t have the address. The agents found lots of drugs and some of the girl’s things. That was terrible for everyone. The parents, as you can imagine, were humiliated. They didn’t press charges, but they didn’t apologize either, and Oliver was still suspended for a month. The double life the kid had been living for the past few years came to light. He was mixed up in drug dealing, and they tried their best to find him—really they did. By then, I’d heard about it and bought a ticket to fly back. I offered him my support. You have no idea the state he was in, God take pity on him, but he didn’t want any help. He tried to go it alone. It was as though he was sleepwalking all the time. Suddenly he was talking to himself and coming to conclusions that I couldn’t follow. We went from one place to another, talking to the worst kind of people. You can’t imagine; his colleagues let him do what he wanted, acting like a policeman even though he wasn’t anymore. Sometimes, one of them came along to help. It was a horrible, depressing time. I remember it now with a deep pain in my heart and pray that the people I saw no longer suffer that life of pain and sin. The worst came when we found Tavo. Because we did find him. That boy was in such a sorry state. It had only been a month, but he was completely hooked. He’d become a junkie, a shadow of himself. That was when the Mara were just starting to establish themselves, and it was hard to find them. They were run by deported gang leaders and former guerillas. It was easy for them to move a boy around without the cops ever finding out. But they didn’t just attract the poor; fresas like that nasty rich kid soon began to see them as the next cool thing and got involved in their business. That silly boy Tavo, who was high all the time, had wanted to join him and become a narco, and he was willing to do anything to do it, even sell out his sister. But he was at least smart enough to realize that he had to disappear, or his father would kill him. The other kid sent him to join his homeboys, and soon the boy realized that this wasn’t a fun adventure after all. He got scared, but he was even more scared of his father. He became an addict and started working for them as a hawk. But Oliver had contacts, and they eventually found him. So we went to see him. I’ve never been more afraid in my life, Don Ethan—it was like venturing into hell. We were awaited by a cohort of demons. I entrusted my life to God. Oliver and I went with two of his colleagues, his closest friends on the police force. They knew the gangsters. I went, unarmed, surrounded by boys. They were just children led astray by the evil one. If any of those kids had been taught the ways of the Lord, they would be no different from our own children. The memory pains me so: Oliver’s face when he saw Tavo. He’d promised the gangsters that he would respect him. Nothing was supposed to happen to him. It was the only reason they agreed to let him see Tavo, even though the boy didn’t want to meet, but in the end he was in no position to argue. You should have seen his face and the boy’s: he knelt in front of his father the moment he saw him. I think he peed himself. Then he started to beg forgiveness: ‘Forgive me; forgive me, Father—I didn’t know.’ Then he started to cry. He had debased himself, and when his comrades saw that, they were a little disgusted and disowned him. Oliver couldn’t stand it anymore. He went for him. The hatred with which he grabbed the boy, his own flesh and blood . . . he started to curse and beat him. He would have killed the boy on the spot if we hadn’t intervened. The three of us jumped on top of him, trying to get him to stop, but we couldn’t. He knocked him flat with the first punch, and the other boys just stood by. They didn’t care. One of them laughed and shouted, ‘Thirteen!’ and they all laughed and watched like it was all a big joke. That was when I learned that thirteen meant thirteen seconds. It’s the test they put you through when you join the Mara: they gang up on you for a thirteen-second beating. Imagine the evil that taught those poor innocents such a thing. They started to count the seconds while Oliver asked the boy questions that he couldn’t answer because of the beating he was receiving. Oliver hit him harder than I’ve ever seen, unleashing all the beatings he’d held back since the boy was little. Everything he’d kept repressed inside and all the ones his own father had given him. I heard him say that he regretted not having hit the boy when there might have been the chance of setting him straight. But I can assure you that laying hands on children doesn’t solve anything. A tree watered with beatings grows up crooked. Meanwhile, the gangsters all shouted together, ‘Six, seven . . . ,’ and we tried to separate them. The kid told us everything he knew in the hope it would stop his father, but it didn’t make any difference. Oliver wasn’t even listening.

  “But it didn’t matter because that sorry excuse for a brother didn’t know what had happened to his sister. He and his sister, who was head over heels in love with the other kid, had agreed to run away together. They’d made their plans and escaped, just as we thought. On Sunday they had still been together, but by Monday morning Tavo had gone to the gangsters’ headquarters and started his new life there. The other kid had left with Patricia. He’d said that he’d left the country, that he had his own plane, and Tavo realized that he’d been used. He never heard from Patricia because they’d left her in the hotel they’d gone to that first night. He thought he’d see her again and they’d make the journey together. While he’d been there, the kid had respected her. He swore that to his father on everything that was holy. While he had been with them, the girl’s virginity was intact—they hadn’t even kissed. At her age she was just happy to be with the boy she was in love with. She was happy holding hands. The more the boy said to his father, the harder his father hit him. You can’t imagine how terrible it was to see that disfigured face until the boy finally stopped talking, and we had to drag Oliver away as best we could. Poor Tavo was left lying on the ground. The boy cried, and the others laughed. I think that it’s the worst memory of my life.”

  He woke from a strange, agitated, allusive dream. He was back in the same room. He felt a throbbing pain in his temples and cold sweat running down his neck. Then the waves of pain began to flow from his two knees and his little finger. His mouth was open, and he was able to breathe, so he started to take great, gasping breaths that rose up from his stomach. His body was wet down to his groin, and he could see the remains of vomit dribbling down his shirt. For now, he thought with a sigh of relief, he was alone.

  Suarez spilled a little of the whiskey. He was concerned that he might have drunk too much, too fast. He finished the little the Beast had left and looked for more, disappointed in himself. Tired, he moved from the kitchen to the bathroom, where he turned on the shower to clear his head. As he toweled off, he felt a lump in his throat. Sometimes he had second thoughts about what he was doing. Sometimes he was horrified at himself. Then he went back to the lair, the hidden room where he’d found the trophies: clothes, necklaces, all of which were bloodstained. They had belonged to at least twelve different women. There were also photographs of terrified teenagers, their fear of death captured forever. Maybe there were more, maybe fourteen. He used the discovery to revive his hatred. He drank more. Now that he was refreshed, a new idea came to him. He opened the medicine cabinet, where, next to a couple of expired pill bottles, he found the medicinal alcohol and opened it.

  The Beast saw the demon reappear. He now looked a little more confused and agitated, but he was colder than ever.

  “You pissed yourself, threw up, and passed out. I think it was because the cloth was choking you, but don’t worry; it’s only been five minutes. I have relieved you of the cloth. I think that we now understand each other. You only have to answer my questions, and then you can talk about whatever you want. You’ll never walk properly again . . . maybe you can get an operation. Who knows? And you can forget about driving, not with two ruined knees. Also, you’re missing a piece of your f
inger.”

  “It’s . . . it’s in the right water tank, under the cabin. There’s a false bottom. Half of it is hidden.”

  “See how easy that was? Thank you so very much. I’ll go get it.” He disappeared, pleased at his success, humming a bolero to himself.

  The Beast wasn’t sure what he’d said. Only that it meant relief. He thought that he might have told the truth. Some unconscious part of him had answered, working on autopilot. Then he worried that he might have made a mistake—maybe he hadn’t hid it in there because he’d been making a delivery. Maybe he’d hid it in the false roof in the cabin. He was terrified, like a small child afraid of some terrible punishment. He almost called out to the man to let him know, but he was also afraid to anger him. He wanted to say that he’d made a mistake, that it hadn’t been on purpose, that he just wanted to help—he’d help; it wasn’t on purpose, he swore . . . the footsteps came back up the stairs one by one. The floorboards creaked closer and closer to his chair, and with each creak, panic, terror, and pain coursed through him. Without realizing it, he started to sob.

  Suarez smugly came back in with the computer tucked under his arm. He looked for a socket and plugged it in before turning it on.

  “See how much easier it is this way? If you keep helping me, soon it’ll all be over, and you’ll be free.”

  In the face of his torturer’s bonhomie, the Beast felt the tension break him. He started to sob harder. Suarez looked up for a moment and turned unsympathetically back to the computer. He asked his prisoner for each password as they came up, and the Beast obediently gave them to him one by one. The man logged into his emails and looked into every folder.

  “How many girls have you taken in the past few years?”

  “F-f-for me?”

  Suarez took note of this answer but didn’t react. “For the people who pay you.”

  “The clients?”

  “The clients.”

  “I—I don’t know . . . about two a year, sometimes one, sometimes three. At first it was a different client.”

  “How long ago?”

  “I don’t know. Ten years, I think.”

  “And then?”

  “Then they disappeared. They told some others about me, and the first ones stopped calling.”

  “Who were they?”

  “I don’t know. I met the first through the owner of a strip club. He knew me well and asked me if he could pass them my telephone number. Then a woman called and told me what they wanted.”

  “And what was that?”

  “To take asses from one country to another. Other drivers do it. Sometimes they need to move girls from one club to another without anyone knowing.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know; they were whores. No one gave a shit about them. Because they’d pissed someone off or someone had bought them, maybe. I just took them from one place to another.”

  “From one club to another?”

  “Yes. Just that. I never hurt anyone—I promise.”

  “And you don’t work for the pimps anymore?”

  “No, once I got offered two jobs at the same time and took the one with the girl for the Europeans because they paid better. You know how people are: the others stopped giving me jobs. So I stayed with the Europeans.”

  “And they pay you enough to live on?”

  “I do other things, not just work for them. But yes, I could live on what they pay me.”

  “How do they contact you?”

  “They . . . may I say something that isn’t the answer?”

  “Yes, you may.”

  “My knees hurt very badly. It’s hard to talk. I’m very thirsty. Could you give me something to ease the pain? Something to drink? I’m not asking you to let me go; I just need something for the pain.”

  “No. Later, when it’s all over, they’ll give you tranquilizers, but you don’t get anything until we’ve finished.”

  “Wh-what was the question?”

  “How did they contact you?”

  “I don’t know. They were clients of the other guys, I think. One day the woman called and told me that some Europeans who lived in the south of Brazil needed a driver they could trust for some work. Different work. They’d told them about me and asked if I was interested. I said that I was, and then they called me and said that they’d be in touch by email. That was the only contact I’d have with them. They sent me an email with the girl they wanted, saying where to pick her up and where I had to take her. And just like that, I had to wait in a bus station or a public place they decided on. It was always near Curitiba, but the location was just to trick me; I know that. Then they come to the truck, and I hand the girl over. They pay me, and that’s it.”

  “Why do you say it was to trick you?”

  “They don’t keep them there. They take them to a small town about four hours farther south. They go all the way to Santa Catarina. They don’t know that I know. I found out.”

  “Fine, now tell me the place.”

  Suarez’s questions were now lackluster; he was concentrating on the screen, going through the emails. It took him half an hour, during which the Beast didn’t dare speak so as not to break his concentration.

  “But there’s only three years here. You didn’t work with them before that?”

  “Yes, but they changed the email account and told me that I had to use that one. They sent it to me with the password and everything, and I closed the other one. I’ve forgotten what it was.”

  “Five girls, one after Michelle.”

  “You’re looking for Michelle? I remember her well. I didn’t do anything bad to her. She was very quiet. And I don’t think they do anything bad either—they’re like an adoption network or something . . . I can tell you where I took her.”

  “I’ve got that from your email already. Why do some girls come with photos of the house and the family name while others just have some coordinates?”

  “With some I just do deliveries. Their contacts pick up the package themselves. That was how it was with Michelle. I just had to pick her up. But in some countries they don’t have any contacts, and if it was easy, they’d tell me to get them and give me a bonus.”

  “And they pay you well.”

  “Not that much. It’s not . . . it means food on the table. Life is hard. I swear. If I didn’t have to . . . I feel very sorry for them. I don’t like to think about it, but if it weren’t me, someone else would do it . . .”

  “Then all you know is in these emails. You don’t know who they are or why they’re looking for little girls.”

  “No, I’ve told you everything I know. You can go now. You don’t have to untie me if you don’t want; just call an ambulance. Please, I’m begging you—they can get me out of this, and you’ll be long gone. I only ask that you make the call in front of me so that I know you really did it, or you can hand me the phone. I won’t tell them anything—I promise. I’m so thirsty.”

  “What about the other girls?”

  “What other girls? There aren’t any more. I promise.”

  By way of an answer, Suarez got up with his now-habitual callousness and went back over with the gouge and the dripping cloth.

  “No! Nonononono! I told you everything! No! No, no, no, no! Please!”

  Suarez grabbed him as hard as he could, but the man started to shake his head from one side to the other, gritting his teeth. Irritated, Suarez dropped the cloth and started to stab the point at his lips, aiming for the gums but cutting him all over his face. Eventually, the terrorized Beast stopped.

  “Enough, stop, please! I won’t move! No more, no more, please! No more!”

  But Suarez ignored him and went on even when he opened his now-bloody mouth voluntarily. He dug the point into the top of his victim’s mouth, above the incisors, and started trying to lever them out. To his surprise, however, one of the teeth below broke first with a horrible cracking sound. The Beast let out an inhuman wail and renewed his attempts to defend himself. Suarez
picked the cloth up from the floor and shoved it back in his mouth, the water mixing with the spurting blood. After gagging him, he walked up and down in annoyance, trying to decide what to do next.

  “I told you, you fucker. Don’t lie to me again. You’re making it so difficult. Now, you see, the worst is yet to come.”

  And before a pair of horrified eyes that revealed both pain and panic, he picked up the hammer, slightly uncertain. He hesitated for a little while, unsure what to do with it. Then, when the idea finally came to him, he kicked over the chair, sending the Beast’s head smashing against the floor. He cut the ropes away from the ankles and wrists and forced the legs straight with a terrifying crack of broken, unnatural-looking joints. Suarez took off the man’s shoes and pinned his feet to the ground.

  “You may not know that the hands and feet have more nerve endings than the rest of the body. But you soon will.”

  He put the soles against the ground, leaving the toenails exposed. Then he lifted the hammer as his victim, muffled by the cloth, let out a wild, high-pitched, rodentlike squeal.

  Andrés went on with the rest of the story more easily, as though he’d rid himself of a burden he’d been carrying for many years. He enjoyed the relief of finally having gotten something painful off his chest.

  “Lord knows I wanted to stay with Oliver for as long as I could. I offered him everything I had, all the help he could want. I even suggested he come back with me, though I knew it was useless. I had to go back for work. I’d used up all my vacation time, and my family was waiting for me. I left for the States, dealing with the sorrow of someone abandoning a soul they know needs them.” Now his voice began to break, and he had to take a few moments before going on. “After that, I only know what I was told by other people, but it’s not much, and it’s all bad. Tavo soon turned up shot to death, whether in a shoot-out with another gang, simply to escape his life, or killed by his father, we don’t know. I was told that Oliver started hitting the bottle even harder. Soon his wife left him, and they never saw each other again. He rejoined the force, but now he was obsessed with his daughter; it was all he could think about. Even so, he never heard from her again. A year later they found the horrible kid in Panama. He hadn’t lasted long; he’d continued playing at being a narco until he crossed someone, and they gave him a Colombian necktie. Do you know what that is?”