“What are you doing here?” she whispered. “Is something wrong? Have you heard from Izzy yet?”
Javier shook his head. “Izzy isn’t answering his phone.”
Lupe pictured him on that ladder, the gang members moving in like lions feeding on a carcass. She looked back at the darkened house, afraid her aunt could even hear Lupe’s thoughts.
“I’ve been driving around looking for him. I don’t know where else to look. And this whole thing … it gives me such a bad feeling.”
“Of course you have a bad feeling. Two of your friends were murdered.”
“No, you don’t understand. It was what Ángel said. What if it really is El Cuco? What if he really is coming for us? Izzy and me?”
“But you both cleaned up! I mean, if it’s about bad behavior, doesn’t that count?”
Javier shook his head. “I don’t know.”
It was Lupe’s turn to shake her head. “No, I refuse to give up. There has to be something we can do.”
Javier was staring at the ground, kicking at the stones in the path with the toe of his shoe. “Look, I appreciate all you’ve done—”
“I’ve done nothing yet!”
He looked up at her and did that sad smile thing. Too many people were giving her that kind of smile lately. “You tried to help, you care, that matters.” His eyes darted down to her lips.
Just that small shift of his eyes brought a warm hum to her chest. She was suddenly aware of how close his body was to hers, that she could feel the heat coming off of him, smell the light spice of his cologne.
Then he stepped away and she almost stumbled. He moved over and sat down on the patio bench with a sigh. “Lupe, I know if I asked you to step back and let Izzy and me worry about this situation you’d probably punch me.”
“Most likely.”
“It’s just, it’s getting harder. The more I care about you.”
She gaped at him. No boy had ever spoken to her like this, about feelings. Feelings for her.
“What if something happened to you? I mean, whatever this is, los cangrejos brought it on ourselves.”
She tried to stay on task. “I don’t know about that. So we have to worry about Carlos on Saturday, too, right? I mean, if this is about the birthdays.”
Javier looked up at her. “Oh shit.”
She nodded solemnly. “Yeah, his birthday is the same day as yours, right? The street party?”
Javier’s eyes lit up as he shook his head. “No, they’re just having the party on Saturday because it’s sure to get more attendance on the weekend.”
“What does that mean? When is his actual birthday?”
“Lupe, his birthday was the first.”
“Wait, it passed already?”
Javier nodded.
“Does that mean the dates are just a coincidence? That you and Izzy aren’t in danger?”
Javier shrugged, but she could tell from the look on his face that he didn’t think so.
“So why did nothing happen to Carlos?”
“I don’t know. I mean, he left Amapola right after that last birthday party. Maybe because he got out?”
“Or because he didn’t do drugs. Wasn’t addicted.” Lupe folded her arms, thinking. “But again, you and Izzy straightened up. You should both be safe from whoever is doing this. Right?” Her mind buzzing, she sat down next to Javier, not realizing how close they were until she felt her arm brush his. Suddenly feeling awkward, she pointed up to the huge white moon, its double rippling in the dark water of the pool. “The moon is nice tonight.”
He didn’t answer. She could feel his eyes on her like a touch. A tingling spread over her arms, her legs. Suddenly she could hear the music of the coquís, smell the night-blooming jasmine that ran along the fence. When she finally got the nerve to look over at him, he was standing up.
“I—I should go, I’m going to keep trying to find Izzy. Just in case.”
“Right. Of course. Just in case.” She felt like a total idiot. Here she was, melting when this boy just looked at her while her cousin might be in danger. She walked next to him as he headed toward the gate. “I’ve decided I’m going to talk to my uncle when he gets home tonight, tell him everything.”
“You’re sure? He’ll probably think you’ve come all the way to la isla just to lose your mind.” He was quiet for a minute. “Does that mean you’re going to tell him about us?” He gestured between them with his index finger.
“Of course! I mean…” Wait, what did he mean by “us”? She stammered as he smiled at her. What was he smiling about? She felt the heat rise behind her face. Thank God for the darkness.
A car door slammed out front. They froze. Her uncle couldn’t find them together, alone, in the backyard. They tiptoed to the fence, Javier slipped open the latch silently, and they made their way on exaggerated cat feet around the house. The light on the porch of the neighbors’ house across the street went on, the front door opened and closed, the light went off.
They sighed a simultaneous breath of relief. Then started laughing, covering their mouths so her aunt wouldn’t hear them. Javier waved and went toward his car, lifting his legs up ridiculously high in a dramatic tiptoe.
She smiled as she started toward the backyard. For a minute she almost forgot about the ticking clock.
Almost.
Her phone buzzed in her back pocket. Izzy! She pulled it out and glanced at the screen.
I’m coming for you next bitch
She stopped.
Looked at the screen again.
It was from a Puerto Rico area code, not a number she recognized. She was pretty sure El Cuco wasn’t texting her, so who was this? Lupe’s muscles tightened as if ready to run. But she might not be sure how she fit in down here, but there was one thing she was damn sure of: she was not a runner.
Not now, not ever.
She typed two words in response.
Bring it.
July 8, 10:54 P.M.
Marisol
MARISOL GLANCED AT Keno in the passenger seat. At least he’d finally dried off. When she picked him up at The Factory he was soaked to the bone and she was surprised the water wasn’t steaming off him he was so angry. But after he told her what had happened, she joined him in his anger. She had spent the evening at a rally for Puerto Rican independence and she was already worked up, but hearing about the visit from los cangrejos and that gringa tipped her into fury.
She’d tolerated enough of Keno’s brooding for the evening. It was time to take action. “So what’s the plan?”
His head whipped in her direction. “Plan? I don’t need a plan.” He padded the bulge of the revolver under his arm. “I’m going to plug that pendejo, Javier. Simple. Probably Izzy, too, for bringing him there.” He smiled for the first time that night.
“But what about the gringa?”
Keno grinned at her. “You want a part of this? I’ll leave her just for you, baby.” He reached for her hair, rubbing the long black strands between his fingers. Just the thought of violence seemed to turn him on. She shoved his hand away. Generally she tolerated the physical part of their relationship, but now was not the time.
“Guns aren’t my thing, you know that.”
Keno threw up his hands angrily. “I forgot, you think you’re too good for my ‘thing,’ huh? Particularly after you go to one of your ‘political’ meetings.”
He stared at her in that way that both excited and frightened her, like he was on the edge of something … dark. It was like the thumping in her head, they shared that feeling of teetering on the edge of a free fall into the soft, dark abyss. He “got” her in a way no other boy had. And though most of Las Calaveras were morons, Keno and the gang accepted her, didn’t treat her just like Vico’s little sister. Like los cangrejos had. When your family is dropping like flies, that counts for a lot.
He straightened his jacket and lifted his chin. “Forget politics, Marisol. Sometimes the only solution is a piece of lead between the eyes.”
She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. He was so one-note at times. “So Ángel’s talking again?”
“Nah, man. Just when Izzy asked him about Memo. He woke up just long enough to talk some wild shit about Memo getting ‘taken.’ Ángel’s a few cans short of a six-pack.”
“Taken?”
“Yeah, and he actually screamed ‘El Cuco!’” He snorted.
Marisol sat up straight, pulling the car to a stop. “El Cuco?”
“Yeah, loco.”
Marisol’s mind swam with memories, like she was inching through a thick fog, trying to find her way. She could see a cake, one of the cangrejo parties. The mothers were angry at the boys for something.…
“So, you pull over so we could make out, or what?”
Marisol jolted out of her memory as Keno pawed her from the passenger seat. “No!” She shoved him off and pulled back into traffic, horns sounding all around them.
“Fine. I don’t give a shit.” But she could tell by his defensive tone that she’d hurt his fragile male ego. Sigh.
“Look, I’m thinking.”
He looked into the visor’s mirror and primped his now-dry hair. “Yeah, well I think you do a bit too much of that, if you ask me.”
Nobody asked you, Keno. But she didn’t say it aloud. Instead she said, “Well, I have a plan that will take care of all of them.”
He snapped up the visor and smiled over at her. “Now you’re talking.”
As she drove she realized that the darkness was starting to edge into her vision again, the thumping like the footfalls of a beast pounding inside her head.
July 8, 11:54 P.M.
Izzy
IZZY FELT AS if he were walking underwater, like he was in Campeche’s painting. In fact, he’d have sworn he was if it weren’t for the hardness of the sidewalk beneath him and the storefronts passing by on his left. He looked down and could see his body moving, but he didn’t feel it, as if the water was really cold and numbing. But the heroin in his veins carried him on its own wave.
Damn, he’d forgotten how good it felt to be high, the pain receding into the background while the glowing took over, that feeling like everything was going to be okay. Heroin was your mother, your father, your girlfriend, food, water, oxygen. Why had he stopped? It was as if this were the way he was supposed to be, not slithering through his life on his belly, just trying to get through each day.
There was no one else on the street, but then there usually wasn’t in that part of Amapola after sundown. On the other side from El Norte in more ways than one, downtown is a business area, bustling during the weekdays, dead at night. Not that he had any idea what day it was. That had ceased to matter since he’d grabbed that kit from Ángel’s apartment a few hours … or was it days … before. For a few hours he’d tried to figure it out with Lupe and Javier, tried to fight it, but when he was in The Factory, well, it had felt like home. Besides, he got Lupe out. That was the most important thing. Probably the only reason he made it out at all was because he didn’t care if he didn’t.
It was so easy, shooting up was as normal to him as breathing. He’d tried to stop, had promised his mother he would, but Vico … then Memo.… well, let’s just say he preferred his life and his mind buffered, wrapped in a blanket. After the first few weeks of being clean, the darkness seeped in like an oil spill, coating him, pulling at him, bleeding into his mouth and nose until he could no longer breathe. He hadn’t expected that he, Javier, and Lupe would find anything, but unfortunately in just a few short hours a strand of hope had wrapped its way around his heart. The same strand that was now pulling tight, the pumping blood slowing under the pressure.
He wasn’t walking, really. More like falling forward. But that’s okay, at least you’re moving, he thought. Izzy was weaving back and forth across the squares of concrete, like when his father took him skiing before he died. He remembered side-winding down that mountain, the cold New England snow almost like the sand on Vieques island, the skis an extension of his feet, the fronts pointed inward in a V in front of him. His father complained about the cold, but Izzy kind of liked it. He watched the back of his father’s yellow ski jacket, following it as it snaked down the trail in front of him, and thought his father was like the sun. In fact, that was the last day Izzy could remember feeling truly warm.
Izzy lifted his head up and looked around. He was surprised to see the darkened street and not the brilliant white blaze of snow. As the drugs made their way through his body it was getting harder and harder to tell memories or dreams from reality. In fact, he often wondered whether they were the same thing anyway. He stopped with a profound thought—he seemed to be having a lot them that evening—what was real, anyway?
He looked down to the sidewalk and noticed an uncrushed cigarette butt with at least an inch of smokable tobacco. Tsk, tsk. People were so wasteful these days, but hey, more for him. It took a few tries, but he picked it up between his fingers and stumbled back to his feet. As he was struggling to get the hand with the lighter to meet the cigarette butt, he heard footfalls behind him. He wheeled around and saw a figure a block away, moving from a pool of streetlight to darkness to streetlight. A man in a dark suit like the ones his father used to wear to work.
Izzy sniffed and wondered if he was dreaming of roasting meat. He looked down and saw that the lighter was under the wrist holding the cigarette and his dark brown skin was beginning to crackle and shrivel, turning black. He lifted his finger from the lighter switch, the flame sucking back into the clear red plastic base. “Ouch! Motherf—” he yelled, though he wasn’t sure if he really felt the pain, or if he just felt he should feel it. Damn, that’s deep. He stared at his arm for a while, only breaking away at the continued sound of footsteps, louder now.
The suited man was coming closer, his shoes making a clean, clipped sound as they hit the pavement. Izzy was just about to look back at his now truly hurting arm when he saw that the man’s shadows were in front of him, though the light was above. And they were odd, moving differently from their maker, stretching and reaching with thin fingers. Just then the man lifted his head before stepping out of the circle of light from the last streetlamp. He had glowing yellow snake eyes.
Izzy took a huge gulp of air and felt his chest tighten. He lurched forward again, trying to make his legs run. As he went, he saw movement on either side. He swiped left, then right, his body weaving across the pavement. But the darkness was creeping from the corners of his eyes like shadows reaching for him from within his own skull. His lighter clattered to the sidewalk and he willed his body to move faster, his feet dragging behind him. He could feel his heart beating a fast rhythm in his chest and terror gripped the sides of his head as if to crush it. He could only see a slice of the street ahead, his vision swallowed by the blackness. Izzy wished the sidewalk that was moving beneath his feet would go faster; he had to get away. He stumbled off the curb, catching himself just before he tipped over, and hurled himself across the street. Up ahead, through the small hole he had left of sight, he could see rows and rows of buildings, the fire escapes zigzagging down the stone facades like the Erector set he’d had when he was a kid.
He stopped in front of a building, and he could see a pinpoint of the streetlight’s bulb dully flickering in its halogen death throes above him, the bodies of trapped insects pooled in the bottom of the frosted glass globe. He leaned out from the building’s shadow to see where the man had gone, whether he was following. He used what vision he had to scan the blocks behind him but no one was there, the yellow pools of light were empty, the only sound an occasional car that swept by, billowing up garbage and newspapers in their wake. The fire escape above him made crisscrossed patterns on the sidewalk in the flickering light that reminded Izzy of the bars of a cage.
Then the darkness filled out the last of his eyes.
He was blind.
Izzy dragged in ragged breaths, his lungs reluctantly filling.
Izzy opened his mouth to scream,
but his throat was so tight with terror all he could do was gasp.
He wished he hadn’t shot up, that his mind was clear.
Izzy knew he should keep running, but all he could do was shuffle along with his back against the building, his fingers running across the brick, desperately feeling his way. Silent sobs wracked his body as he imagined the man’s shadows growing, stretching, as high as the building behind him, reaching for him.
Izzy moved his eyes back and forth in his head. He could feel them moving, but all they could see was an inky blackness. He could hear the sounds, feel the breeze of an occasional car zip by. There were no footsteps that he could hear. Should he run forward to the street the next time he heard a car? Try to get help? But how would he stop when he got to the street and not get run over? Would someone even be able to save him?
Was he worth saving?
He heard the groan of shifting metal from the fire escape overhead. He whipped his head up and was surprised he could see movement above him in the dark. He dug his fingers between the bricks as if he could ooze his body through them and away molecule by molecule.
Then the hissing sound reached him.
His lower body was itching to move once again, his feet shifting back and forth, but he couldn’t look away from the slithering shadow above. It was like a shadow within a shadow. Like the iron bars themselves were moving, pooling together in a melted mass of darkness and reaching for him. His blood pulsed in his veins like waves pounding the shore in a storm, but still he stood, transfixed. He started to make out a huge, snake-like head, easing its way around the last metal rung of the ladder. A creature with yellow eyes … he had seen them before … where was that? It was so quiet he could hear the scraping of scales against the rusted bars, the groan of metal. Terror wrapped around his bowels, his stomach.
I changed my mind! I don’t want to die!
Five Midnights Page 15
