Five Midnights

by Ann Dávila Cardinal

  Marisol sighed and stepped forward into the shadows again. “I wanted to keep you out of it. It’s not your fault, after all. I came to warn you.”

  “Warn me? What are you talking about? Wait, how did you know I called the police?”

  Marisol shook her head gravely. “And did you have to call Dávila? Him and his niece, that gringa, they’re the reason my mother’s house was taken away, they’re the real reason Vico’s dead.”

  Sebastian shook his head, but worked to keep his voice calm. “M’ija, Lupe’s a teenager like you. She didn’t buy your mother’s house, or kill Vico.”

  “You’re wrong, padre. The gringos are the reason this island is in the situation it’s in, the reason my mother couldn’t pay for her house.”

  “I can’t argue with that, but—”

  “And that girl had the nerve to show up at Vico’s funeral? To disrespect my brother?”

  “Javier said she wasn’t even at the funeral, only there—”

  Marisol cackled, the sound unwieldy, like a needle being pulled across a vinyl record. “Javier? Javier thinks he’s above it all, that he’s better than me, than Vico. It’s his fault Vico is dead.”

  “What? No, no, Vico did that to himself. Izzy, Memo, they made choices that—”

  It was as if a switch was flipped. She started to shriek, the sound bouncing around the empty room. “Choices? They had no choices! I have no choice! I can’t let that gringa get away with this! She’s going to pay for what happened to my brother!” Spittle hung off her lips, her eyes huge and all black pupils. She put her hand to her head as if in great pain.

  He imagined she was.

  It was as if Padre Sebastian’s legs had turned to stone. His stare locked on her. It was his job to read people, to listen and hear what they were really saying beneath their words. Could he have totally missed this? He’d known Marisol since she was a child, visited her mother in the hospital, organized a failed intervention for Vico. He knew she was damaged, but he’d thought she was more of a wounded bird, not a rabid dog. “Marisol, let’s sit down and talk. Let me just—”

  “It’s too late for talking, padre.”

  July 9, 10:15 P.M.

  Javier

  JAVIER PACED HIS apartment, wondering how he was going to make it through the night. It could be his last full night on earth and he was stuck staring at the four walls of his sad rented room like a dog in a kennel.

  He couldn’t breathe.

  He grabbed his car keys and bolted out the door.

  He didn’t have a destination in mind but, as usual, the car found its way to the parish. He knew Padre Sebastian was probably at home sound asleep, but when he was stressed it comforted him just to see the building. His headlights swept the half-shadowed parking lot; they caught the metal trim of a car at the far end.

  Sebastian was still there!

  He parked and walked to the door. The building was dark, but the knob turned easily and Javier closed the door behind him. He smiled in the darkness. Padre was so bad about locking the doors, as if the neighborhood weren’t rough. Not that there was much to steal, and besides, even the sketchy guys respected Sebastian. Javier decided to stretch out on the tattered couch in the rec room in case his mentor returned. He flipped the switches near the door and the fluorescent lights blinked and filled the room with sickly blue-white light.

  Then he saw the priest.

  He froze for a second, trying to understand what he was seeing. The dark red pool spread in a circle around the body on the floor.

  Javier pitched forward, a sob catching in his throat.

  “No!”

  He dropped to his knees and touched the blood, as if he didn’t believe it was real. Sebastian was dressed in his running clothes, a stain spreading on his vintage Chicago Bulls T-shirt. Javier felt like he was being strangled; no breath could get through his constricting throat. It was a nightmare, but worse than any he’d ever had, and his dreams were bad. He covered his head with his hands and started to rock back and forth, his thoughts clouding black instead of his vision.

  Vico, Memo, Izzy, and now Sebastian?

  No.

  He couldn’t make it without Sebastian, he just couldn’t.

  What would he do?

  He grabbed his mentor’s hand, pulling its dead weight into his own. He closed his eyes and held the hand against his face, his hot tears dripping onto the priest’s knuckles.

  I give up.

  The thought was loud in his head.

  He was done fighting.

  This was more than he could take.

  He stood, went over to the desk, dialed 911 on the phone, and placed the receiver on the desk. At least they would find his mentor soon.

  But they wouldn’t find him. Until after.

  He closed his eyes, but he could still see Padre Sebastian’s body in a pool of blood.

  The scream came all the way from the base of his spine, the sound filling the room and rattling the closed windows. He ran out the door, leaving it open. He got into his car and turned it on. Javier beat his hands on the steering wheel, wanting his own blood to mix with the priest’s that had darkened his fingertips. The car roared out of the parking lot and toward the highway as if it were driving itself. The lights along the thruway rushed by in a long, white blur.

  He yanked the car to the right as the exit to El Norte appeared, careening around the concrete-walled corner on two wheels. It felt as if hot lava were coursing through his veins, hatred boiling up into his head, pouring out his eyes, his nose, his ears. He didn’t wonder who killed the other cangrejos and Padre Sebastian. He already knew.

  It was him.

  He was the kiss of death to anyone he cared about and he would not add Lupe to that list.

  He’d rather die and rob El Cuco of the honor.

  Javier’s car roared through the streets, running red lights. He slammed on the brakes in front of the dilapidated two-story building, stopping at an angle under the broken streetlamp, smashing into a metal garbage can on the sidewalk’s edge. It was as if he had been there the day before instead of two years ago.

  He had arrived at Omar’s.

  His dealer.

  July 10, 12:15 A.M.

  Marisol

  MARISOL WALKED ALONG the Malecón, the low sea wall that ran along the very bottom street in El Rubí. She walked and stared out at the glittering sea. The wind was blowing off the ocean in blustery gusts, the almost full moon’s light struggling through a gauze of clouds. She loved the waterfront in the dark, the way the reflection of the lights skittered across the surface of the black water, the crashing of the waves not needing to compete with children’s voices.

  She’d gone to her abuela’s after she left the priest. She’d tried to get Sebastian to understand, tried to warn him, but he wouldn’t listen. But she left there and was able to have a relaxed dinner with her grandmother. Marisol had done what she could with Sebastian. Her conscience was clear.

  Her abuela had tried to convince her to stay over—she didn’t like Marisol driving to Isla Verde at this hour—but in the end the old woman was too tired to argue. She wanted to get sleep because there was a plan in place that required the cangrejo mothers to all be together, and she was standing in for Marisol’s mother.

  El Cuco. Marisol couldn’t help laughing.

  Not about the monster, no, she had no doubt he existed, but at the idea that the group of old women could have any control over a force such as El Cuco. They couldn’t even stop Marisol’s house being repossessed. Didn’t even care.

  The worst thing?

  This whole ritual to call off the monster? Was Lupe Dávila’s idea. Marisol’s own abuela was in cahoots with the enemy. So disappointing.

  The best thing?

  Now she knew where to find Lupe Dávila.

  And when.

  July 10, 10:55 P.M.

  Lupe

  LUPE GNAWED THE edge of her fingernail as she looked out the cruiser’s passenger side window. Alm
ost eleven P.M. and Javier was nowhere to be found. His phone went right to voice mail, and he wasn’t at his apartment or his mother’s house. Esteban left an officer waiting in front of their house, just in case he went there. She hadn’t heard from him since he’d dropped her off at the house more than twenty-four hours ago, and the entire police force had been looking for him since they found Padre Sebastian. Who had stabbed the priest, and did they get Javier, too? And the question she really didn’t want to face: What would happen tonight if they weren’t able to stop El Cuco?

  Lupe felt her uncle’s gaze and she looked over.

  “Javier is fine, he’ll be there.” He took his hand from the steering wheel and put it on top of hers. “I’ve learned a lot about people in my years of policing, and if anyone can beat this thing, Javier can. With all he’s overcome, he’s one hell of a fighter.”

  She loved him for trying, but she still felt a pressure on her chest. “What if whoever attacked Padre Sebastian followed Javier and…” Lupe felt disloyal speaking it aloud, like saying her worst fears would conjure them, make them true.

  “I have cars looking for him all over the area and at the hospital where they took Sebastian.”

  “Any news on the padre?”

  He shook his head. “He’s in surgery, listed in critical condition. The good padre is in God’s hands now.”

  That was what her family always said when they had no answer, when the outlook was bleak. Except her father. She suspected he had stopped believing in God long ago, but the rest of his family used those words like a poultice. It felt like a Band-Aid over a gushing wound.

  She had almost forgotten about the two madres in the backseat behind the cruiser’s bulletproof divider sitting on either side of her aunt. Maria held her sister’s hand; Izzy’s mother Luisa’s eyes were red-rimmed and haunted. The women were silent and in the rearview mirror Lupe could see their eyes glued straight ahead, or out the windows, but none looked like they were really seeing. They had picked up Javier’s mother last. She sat near the window, her hands prim and tight in her lap, tension coming out of her pores. Just before Lupe looked away from the rearview mirror, Mrs. Utierre’s gaze caught hers and for just a moment they stared into each other’s eyes.

  Traffic was at a standstill, so Esteban flipped on the flashing lights and snaked the cruiser around the other vehicles. They were still several blocks away, but the music was already so loud that the closed car windows throbbed with the beat. They were waved through the police barricades and turned the corner onto Calle Amarillo, inching their way through the sea of people. Pulsing floodlights were sweeping the crowd from the far end of the street, and Lupe could see two guys strutting across the stage with wireless mics pressed to their lips, their dark sunglasses reflecting the lights that lit the stage. Even from a block away she could tell that neither of them was Carlos. Papi Gringo had a certain quality that electrified the air around him, leaving no doubt that you were in the presence of a star.

  They parked last in a line of police vehicles. Keeping close to the car and away from the press of the crowd, Lupe climbed out and looked around.

  The night was warm but not oppressive, the black sky crystal clear, the full moon like another spotlight shining down on them. The entire block was a sea of bodies, all moving to the music in waves. Lupe was always shocked at how dressed up people got on the island. Vermont was a very casual place, concerts especially. She loved the colors and fabrics, the skin showing on shoulders, the click of heels on the pavement. The air held scents of rum, beer, and fried pork. The energy that hummed over the entire event was like a tangible thing, something she wanted to touch.

  She turned back to the car and saw her uncle helping the three women from the cruiser. Another pair of officers approached them with Carlos’s and Memo’s moms and Vico’s abuela between them. Most of the mothers looked around with wide and horrified eyes, except for Vico’s grandmother. She looked unhappy but resigned. The driving pulse and obscenity of the music was a language she understood from living in El Rubí.

  Luisa approached Lupe since they hadn’t yet said hello. Izzy’s mother pulled her close. “Gracias, Lupe,” she whispered. Lupe pulled back. She had been so certain Izzy’s mom would blame Lupe for her part in his death. “For what?” Her voice cracked.

  Luisa smiled sadly and rubbed her fingers over Lupe’s cheek. “You tried, m’ija. You tried to save my Isadore. You knew him, he was attracted to danger like most kids are to a new bike. We all did what we could.”

  Lupe wasn’t sure that was true, didn’t feel it in her belly, but she smiled back.

  Carlos’s mother was serious, but totally at ease, clearly accustomed to her son’s world. She was just as attractive and dynamic as her son, and Lupe noticed she was even wearing low-waisted skinny jeans; she was under the impression those were illegal for moms.

  Las madres hugged one another and then joined hands like kindergartners on a field trip. Javier’s mother looked emboldened by having her friends around her and began to yell over the throbbing music.

  “Chief Dávila, are you certain it’s necessary for us to be in this unruly crowd? Until my son gets here it seems futile. I mean I—”

  With one look from the chief, Mrs. Utierre’s mouth snapped shut and she shrank back in line with the other ladies.

  “Lupe, do you think we should move them closer to the stage?”

  It took her a minute to realize her uncle was talking to her. Asking her advice. The other officers and the women were looking at her as if awaiting pearls of wisdom from her lips. In that moment her tío’s spotlight of attention spread, like suddenly her input wasn’t just a game they played on the phone or in his backyard. Like her words held weight and meaning.

  Lupe swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, I think the key is to keep Carlos, las madres, and Javier, when he gets here”—she smiled reassuringly at Mrs. Utierre—“in the same vicinity, to try to reproduce what they did that night when they called him.” Her voice sounded stronger, more sure with each word.

  Her uncle shouted, “You heard the lady, let’s move out!”

  Javier, 11:35 P.M.

  Javier pressed through the people, making his way toward the stage inch by inch. He felt strong, but out of his body, like he was watching this happen to someone else. He pushed by the smiling faces, mouths echoing each word of the artist singing onstage, and wondered if he’d stumbled into a carnival funhouse. He wanted to scream at everyone How can you just go on like this? These might be the last few minutes of his life and all around him it was apparent that everyone was just going to keep going no matter how many people were dead. Vico, Memo, Izzy, Sebastian.

  He was ready to face El Cuco.

  He had a few things to say to him.

  The anger built in his chest like the fire under a grill. He imagined orange flicks of flame licking his internal organs, turning them darker little by little.…

  Focus! He struggled to rein in his thoughts. His trip to the mission when he found Padre Sebastian had been in stark relief. The edges clear and crisp, the colors overly bright. But after that, well, after that the night was buried beneath a thick haze. He remembered weaving up the stairs to his dealer’s, stepping around the people draped all over like discarded clothes, loud music blaring from inside the apartment. It was a scene from a dream, or a nightmare. He squeezed his way through the doorway and looked around for his dealer, Omar. When he blinked he could see flashes of Padre Sebastian on the back of his lids as if burned there, the blood seeping from the priest’s body in slow-motion.

  He remembered Omar appearing, slapping him on the back. “Hey, man! I knew you’d be back. Everybody comes back to Omar.”

  A woman, all big hair and breasts rising from her low-cut top like bread dough, pressed her messy red lips to his, the smell of cigarettes and alcohol overpowering him until he thought he would retch. He saw everything through a distorted lens, each face more monstrous and mocking than the next.

  Then Omar was p
ressing a clear plastic bag with a vial, spoon, and fresh needle into his hands.

  “First one’s on me, pana.”

  Javier stared at the bag in his palm. The sight was so familiar, so comforting.

  Five minutes was all it would take.

  Five minutes and he could escape.

  Five minutes and he wouldn’t care if El Cuco was coming for him or not, wouldn’t care that most everyone he loved was dead.

  Then the darkness appeared at the corners of the room, only it wasn’t just in his head this time. It was in the physical room, in the world, bleeding toward him like smoke. Panic tightened his muscles, pressed against his lungs. Javier dropped the bag to the floor in a rustle of plastic and an echoing thunk, and lurched toward the door. He had to get out before the darkness ate everyone, everything.

  He could hear Omar’s voice behind him. “What the hell?”

  He gasped for breath. The door was moving farther and farther away.

  When he finally caught up with it, he burst through the door, and when he got to the stairs they began to melt, the railing lashing before he could grab it, like a snake pulling back to strike. Each wooden stair seemed to disintegrate before he could step on it, and the voices around him started closing in. When he got outside, he leaned against his car and dragged in ragged breaths.

  He hadn’t given in.

  He hadn’t used.

  But it held little comfort since reality had become darker than the worst trip he’d ever had.

  He drove around through the night, into the next day. He realized that using was no way to honor the death of the man who’d saved him from drugs. Sebastian had taught him to face his fears, his addiction.

  So to honor him, he would face El Cuco.

  He rolled his head around, shook his shoulders like an MMA fighter, and headed toward Amapola.