Fourteeners

by Sarah Latchaw

  “I’m not going in. You are.” What?

  He pried my fingers from his sleeve. “I’m sorry, Kaye.” His voice was suddenly tortured. “But I have to go on without you.”

  “There aren’t any windows,” I hissed.

  He leaned over and kissed the top of my head, then gave me a gentle push, as if he were a parent ushering a toddler into a babysitter’s living room. “Stay here, please don’t follow me and you’ll be safe. I love you.” There it was, the darkness and sadness he’d struggled to hide since we left Colorado, now laid bare to the bone. He planned this from the beginning. The minute I’d forced my way into his Mexico-bound car, he’d determined to ditch me. He cupped my cheek and slipped through the door before it registered that I’d let him go. The door slammed shut and clicked.

  No.

  He’d left me behind.

  And where on earth was I? Fear shook me—that paralyzing dread on the edge of a nightmare, where darkness is heavy and wicked. Pushing at the door was fruitless. I squinted into the ink black room, the sun’s ghost still bright in my eyes. Not entirely black… a dim light. Must and dust hit my nose and I sneezed.

  Silence.

  “Samuel?”

  No answer. I took a tentative step into the room. Hardwood floor? No, packed dirt. I groped with blind fingers and feet in this stuffy, sunless room. My feet hit something and I fell to my knees, put my hands out to break my fall. Fire shot up my newly healed wrist and I cried out.

  “Sam?” My voice was a pathetic whimper. My good hand patted the floor but instead of cold hard dirt, it found fabric. A body?

  Breathe, Kaye. I willed my eyes to adjust to the low light of the room. Not a body, but a basket of fabric scraps and a half-woven rug. I scanned my surroundings—wooden table, two rocking chairs, tiny wood-burning stove. A sofa, its once-bright flowers faded to threadbare pastel.

  I hauled myself off the floor and settled onto the sofa, tucked my knees under my chin and replayed Samuel’s blank expressions, shaking hands, careful words. When had he arranged to dump me on these poor, grieving strangers? The pit stop at the gas station…he must have called ahead. My face landed in my hands. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t anticipated this…this deception, and just when we’d begun to again trust each other. But that was Samuel Caulfield Cabral to a tee, wasn’t it? High-handed, arrogant, always three steps ahead…

  And afraid. He’d told me as much, hadn’t he? Afraid I wouldn’t understand why he chose what he chose, that I wouldn’t understand his love for me. Oh, I understood. He loved me too much to leave me brokenhearted and fragile in Colorado, yet loved me too much to allow me to risk my life for his sister.

  But did he understand how much I loved him?

  Pure, pristine fear—not for myself, but Sam—clawed at my brain and drove me from the sofa to pound on the thick door panels and shout for liberation.

  “He only wants to keep you safe.”

  I halted at the sound of the voice, deep and temperate. The ancient man entered through the only other door in the room, hands raised as if to calm a skittish colt. Though frail, a straight back and buoyant stride belied strength beneath papery skin and sinew. But it wasn’t the man who ultimately held my attention. It was the door he latched behind him. A door that was washed in bright blue.

  Blue, like the door in my dream.

  I watched Señor Rodriguez.

  The man looked heavenward. “My wife is a Nixie fan. She would do anything for ‘SCC.’ Settle in, young lady.” He explained how his wife knew all the comings and goings of La Vereda, how she sat outside their home on the street with her sewing in her lap and her Nixie books, how she watched my husband and knew him instantly, and knew for whom he searched.

  Comprehension filled me as I recalled Sam’s writing. “He left the burner phone number for Marieta, in the Nixie book.”

  “And that book has not left the table.”

  So Marieta hadn’t returned. Who, then, had found the number in the book? Fresh eyes landed on a cluster of framed photographs, proudly displayed on a shelf opposite the stove. I nodded to them in silent question.

  “Please do. You are a guest in our home.”

  Most of the photos were black and white, grainy with age, of unfamiliar relatives posed in gardens, front steps, long-dead cars. Many were adorned in what must have been cheery flowers and cross-stitches, but two color photos outshone the others. The first held a boy and a girl, perhaps eight years old. Behind them was the tiny commercial street of La Vereda. The boy was vaguely familiar, but the girl stole my breath as memories of my own childhood sweetheart shone through her smile, the tilt of her chin, high cheekbones, feathery eyelashes. This could only be Marieta Sanchez. I studied the boy’s face again. Heavy eyebrows and full lips, a scowl that said he was too cool to smile.

  The second picture confirmed my suspicions: Daniel and Marieta, now grown, beaming and brightly embroidered in Mexican tradition. I’d only seen dresses like this at…

  “They’re married!”

  The man brushed a gnarled finger along the top of the frame. “Three years ago.”

  “I wondered, but I didn’t know. How beautiful they are.”

  The old woman—Daniel’s grandmother—slipped through the door and leaned against it, keeping a wary distance. “And few knew of their marriage. Because of her past with the cartel, we thought it better. Those butchers bend people into obedience by attacking their families. It is why your husband asked that you remain in our care until...” She swallowed. “Until he returns from the mercado.”

  Concern again had me turning for the blue door, but the man grasped my arm. Definitely stronger than he looked. “Let him deal with Javier Sanchez on his own, Señora. Money is why they lured him here, and money is what will speak to them. But if you were to storm into their sanctuary, you’d become a bargaining chip. No one could prevent them from shipping you far away.”

  My throat went dry. “Human trafficking?”

  The man nodded and eased into the chair, rested his aged legs.

  The woman sat in the rocker beside him, pulled a slippery fringe shawl from the back and wrapped it around her thin shoulders. “It was this evil that my Daniel and Marieta fought.”

  “What about Javier Sanchez and Camila Flores? They lived in the apartment next to Marieta in Mexico City.”

  “Their life there is a mystery to us. I do know that Marieta was finished with the cartels, but Javier is a selfish man, too weak, too cowardly to get out. And Camila!” She crossed herself.

  “She knows the old plants and poisons, and she’s wicked enough to use them. Some say she even drugged women and children for the cartel, in the way of the Aztecs. I would think Marieta would run far away from them. Especially with—” She clamped her mouth when her husband gave her a sharp look.

  “Especially with…” I prompted, but this was a dead end. I rubbed my temples. “But Javier has a photograph of the three of them, together. It looked recent. If Marieta wanted nothing to do with them, then why was she in front of a fountain, smiling, with her arms around them?”

  “I’m afraid only Marieta could answer that.”

  I sank onto the sofa, struggling to take in all that they said. “Do you think she’s…gone?”

  The man was grim. “We have not heard from her since Daniel’s funeral, but that is not unusual. For all we know, she has left Mexico altogether.”

  “Then who called Samuel at the number in the book, if it wasn’t Marieta?”

  “Probably la bruja,” Señora Rodriguez grumbled.

  “We don’t know,” her husband answered. “Regardless, your husband needs to finish this business, not only for him, but for his family.”

  My blood turned to ice as I remembered the borrowed gun. Samuel hadn’t locked me away to go find his sister, or get answers, or even to pay a ransom. Samuel locked me away because, in his own words, he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

  When would the man ever learn that familia meant you n
ever had to fight bad guys alone?

  I bit my lip, took stock of the frail couple before me: stooped back, deep fissures from decades of hard labor. For what? To have their family torn to pieces by bloodsucking cartels?

  They didn’t seem to be the type of people who sat on their hands.

  “I bet you’re beyond angry.”

  The woman’s black eyes glinted. “Anger doesn’t begin to describe what we feel. They have stolen our grandson.”

  “And Samuel’s retribution is your retribution?”

  The man shrugged. “When I was young, I could have fought them with my fists. Now?” He held up his hands for my inspection, knobbed and curled by arthritis. Now I can’t even pull a trigger to save my family.”

  “But Samuel can.” I nodded to the shotgun that hung above the shelf. “I can too, if you’ll show me where to go.”

  Señora Rodriguez tutted. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  But Señor Rodriguez took in my petite frame, short blonde curls—I was probably Shirley Temple in his eyes. His cracked lips thinned. “The scar along your hairline. How did you get it?”

  “Would you believe a fist-fight with Mexican street gangs?” He didn’t laugh, and I sighed. “I had a run-in with the ground in a skydiving accident.”

  Bushy eyebrows rose. “And the scars on your knees?”

  Embarrassed, I tugged at my frayed cut-offs. “Oh, who knows? Mountain climbing, roughed them up in caves, maybe even bottomed out on a ski slope.”

  “Ah, you’re an aventurera.”

  “Something like that. Or I was…”

  “There are many types of adventures, Señora, and not all involve carabiners.” He squinted at the old clock perched upon the mantle, quietly ticking, and I caught a hint of worry in the deep crags of his face. Samuel had been gone too long.

  “Tell me, do you believe in God?”

  His question was sudden, and I opened my mouth to offer a pat answer. But I paused, reflected. “I think I’ve always known he’s there, though I never gave him much thought. I blamed him for a lot of the bad, but I don’t know if I gave him credit for the good, until he—” I hesitated, knowing how crazy it sounded. “I think he told me to climb a mountain in the middle of a flood, and it saved my life. Does a voice in my head make any sense, or is this a disconnection with reality?”

  The man gave me a patient smile, as one would patronize a young lady off her rocker. But then he surprised me. “I think you’re just the person for the job. Marieta believed so, too. Let’s check on your husband, shall we?”

  His wife scoffed. “Foolishness! You old goat, you will get her killed.”

  “Hush now, she’ll go there anyway. I’d rather she not knock us to the ground to do it.” He padded over to his wife’s rocker, held out his hands.

  With a shake of her head, she drew the filmy black shawl from her shoulders and tossed it to me. “Tie this over that bright head. You’re a walking target.”

  Were they letting me go? Hope flitted in my chest and I obediently tied the scarf over my head like a bandana, feeling ninja-ish. Señor Rodriguez went through the blue door and returned with an old cigar box. Inside was a smaller box—ammunition. He placed them in my hand, then plopped a black Stetson on his head, as if to leave the house. But first, he took the shotgun from the wall and held it out with reverence, like a samurai passing on a sword (if samurais wore cowboy hats). Making sure the safety was on, I slid the business ends of shells up into the loading flap, just as Jamie had taught me. He nodded his approval.

  “She’ll dislocate her shoulder with that old thing.”

  “It does have a terrible kick, so your shoulders will be bruised,” he said apologetically. “But do what you must and listen to that voice. La cabeza y corazón are in agreement.”

  Chapter 22

  Free Solo

  When a single climber scales a mountain without the aid of a belay rope, harness, or climbing partner, and depends on skill alone. It’s a long, long way to the ground.

  Señor Rodriguez had a quicker stride than I’d expected as I scrambled up the dirt path behind him, weaving the forest line on the outskirts of the village like a ninja. Determination had knocked twenty years off of his shoulders. Clouds of mosquitoes from dewy grass swarmed my ankles and feasted on my exposed skin. I gritted my teeth, unable to swat them away because of the monstrous rifle.

  We stopped behind a cluster of homes, little more than one-room shacks. He put two fingers to his mouth and loosed a sharp whistle. Only night sounds replied, the chatter of bugs and pines and breeze. But then a man emerged from one of the homes, similarly black-hatted and armed, then another, and another. One brushed crumbs from his shirt and I wondered if he’d been in the middle of his supper.

  “It’s time,” said Rodriguez.

  Their faces were stone-cold, but their jitters belied an eagerness to be done with the venomous snakes nesting in the backyard woodpile. They wordlessly fell in line behind Mr. Rodriguez like well-trained soldiers. We crept up the mountain slope, prowling behind sheds and animal pens; far enough in shadow not to startle the village dogs, but now and then, someone threw treats into yards. How many times had they done this?

  After a half mile, the village gave way to darkness. “I thought we were going to the mercado,” I whispered to the man in front of me. He put a sausage-like finger to his lips and pointed at the well-lit house on the edge of town. This did not look like a grocery store; perhaps ‘mercado’ also translated to ‘creepy backwoods drug den.’

  Light pooled like a moat to ward off enemies. A watchman stood outside the door, little more than a teenager, huffy and bored, the metal on his fingers glinting under security lights. Metal also gleamed at his jean-clad hip. Nuts. He leaned against the wall and lazily puffed a cigarette, eyes half-closed. Then they flew open and I saw that one of our party had slipped around the house and pressed a muzzle to his back.

  A slow tremor melted from my head to my toes, because I was ambushing a Mexican drug cartel with a local vigilante group armed to the hilt, and this doesn’t happen to small-town advertisers from Colorado. My heart flapped against my ribs like goose wings. One of the village men gave me a shove, repeating what I’d missed.

  “Go around back and hold that gun on anyone who makes for the tree line,” he said in a vernacular I could barely understand. “That’s the safest place for you.”

  Not liking the emphasis, I grabbed the man’s sleeve. “Don’t shoot my husband, okay? Or hurt him, even.”

  The man rolled his eyes as if to say, “I’m not an amateur, crazy gringo,” and shooed me toward the building.

  I didn’t know what to do, so I staked out a place on fairly even ground and took off the shotgun’s safety, my senses attuned to the sounds coming from the other side of the building.

  Two minutes…three… Enough time for me to marinade in the absurdity of this pickle...

  Once, when I was eleven, in a fit of terror I ran headlong into a thorn bush.

  My mother was in the thick of fall harvest, so Sofia invited me to stay the week. Angel was having a sleepover with Samuel, and the two had claimed the basement for video games, which forced me and Dani into the lingering afternoon light. We had a beautiful array of gold, red, orange leaves drying on the deck when the boys tromped through, Sofia calling from the depths of the house to ‘get some fresh air and work out your teenaged aggression, for heaven’s sake.’

  Angel chomped his teeth. “One minute’s head-start to hide, on the count of three.

  One…Two…THREE!”

  Dani and I shrieked across the yard, splitting up when we reached the trees. I knew exactly where to go. I’d staked out this hiding spot a year ago—a newly fallen tree, it’s rotting, hollow trunk filled with pale fungi. But Samuel had lost all interest in playing Search & Destroy with ‘children.’ (He’d had his eye on Cherry Chapstick Girl, and jealousy licked through my veins because she’d had a whole summer of his attention, while I’d languished in Durango with m
y grandmother.) Now Samuel would seek out me. With glee, I shimmied my boyish body into the log and waited.

  Sweet pungent wood rot tickled my nostrils. Not a breath….maybe a bit of air…I evened my breathing, melded into the sponge beneath me.

  Minutes passed. Dapples of sunlight gave way to mute oranges, which faded into cool October shadows. The boys’ sneakers tromped by, but they never waded into the brush that camouflaged my tree. Temperatures dropped. Faintly, I heard Angel: “Oh Aspen Kaye, come out and meet your doooom!” Heck no, I wasn’t falling for that old tactic. Then Dani’s voice: “We give up. Come on, Mamá won’t let us eat until we find you!” Wow, thanks bestie.

  Silence blanketed my corner of the wood. Now the only thing keeping me in the log was belligerence and sheer determination. Once, he would have known where to find me, because we would have discovered the log in the woods together. Heck, we would have hidden in the Same. Flipping. Log. But he was thirteen and I was eleven, which meant I’d become so invisible I might as well have been a toddler, for all the seriousness he gave to my opinions, or heartaches, or interests. He couldn’t even bother to find me here, only steps off the beaten path.

  A rustle in the brush broke through my prepubescent angst and I froze.

  Human footsteps? No.

  A quiet growl, then a hiss.

  I hurled my body out of the log, not caring that my jeans snagged and the knee ripped wide open. No way would I be a sitting duck for…whatever kind of rabid animal lurked in hollow logs. A badger? Mountain lion?

  In retrospect, the likely culprit was a raccoon, but when one is wrapped in the eeriness of an autumn wood, logic and raccoons fly out the window.

  That, ladies and gentlemen, is how I ran headlong into a thorn bush, where Samuel found me covered with a thousand burrs and tree rot… …and laughed.

  …and tagged me out.

  What would Samuel say if he saw me crouched in the shadows, ready to fend off cartel henchmen with a weapon so heavy, I barely balanced it? If I tried to fire, would I catapult backwards, through the shack? Fear slammed me, the same terror of an eleven year girl who ran straight into thorn bushes. This was, by far, the stupidest thing I’d ever done, and I’d done a lot of stupid things.