by AJ Adams
“Barely.”
“I’m on my way.”
By the time he arrived, I’d opened a pack of milk and nuked it. I was sitting her up and holding the mug to her lips when Chumillo pitched up.
“This is incredible,” he exclaimed. “Who is she?”
At the sound of his voice, the girl stirred. I held the mug under her nose. “Drink,” I told her. “Come on. It’s milk. Good for you.”
I don’t think she heard me, but her mouth twitched and then she was gulping it down, shivering and shuddering. Half of it went over her, but the other half went into her.
Chumillo took some more pictures and then he was on the phone, gabbling away in Spanish. “Nobody knows a fucking thing,” he said eventually.
I put the girl back on the grass. Under the mud she had tangled hair that was probably blonde when clean. “Not local, I think.”
“We’ve had some cowboys from across the border dump unwanted wives here,” Chumillo said thoughtfully. “She might have crawled out of a shallow grave and landed in the river.”
“Do I give her more milk, or do we throw her back?”
Chumillo stared at me. “Throw her back in the river?” He sounded surprised, and I realised I’d come across as cold and heartless. I am, but was a mistake to show it. I was fucking up.
I smiled, and quickly made the proper noises. “Then I guess she comes with the house. Keep an eye on her while I see if my cuff keys will work.”
“You have cuff keys?”
“For work.” It was the truth, but it was the wrong thing to say because it reminded him of what I was. But he shrugged and didn’t say anything.
When I came back, Chumillo trying to talk to her. He wasn’t having any luck.
“It’ll take her a couple of days before she can speak,” I told him. Then, seeing a neat row of red cigarette burns on her arms, I added, “Longer, maybe. She’s been systematically tortured.”
“That hijo de puta!” Chumillo’s reaction was instant.
I went with it. “Right! The scum bucket.” The second key opened the cuffs.
Seeing Chumillo was on the phone again, talking to Kyle, I got the kitchen sponge, a bottle of detergent, and the garden hose. She didn’t move when I scrubbed her clean, not even when I tried to untangle the hair. It was so matted that I got the kitchen scissors and ended up chopping most of it off.
When she was finally clean, I gave her another half a cup of milk. She drank, but this time she tried to open her eyes. Although swollen with black bruises, I got a glimpse of grey. Definitely not a local girl.
Chumillo took me aside and lowered his voice. “Look, we’ve got nothing. Her face and prints aren’t in our own database, so she’s not one of us. She’s not in IFE, our national citizens database, or in IAFIS that the American Feds use or in Interpol’s system.”
That was hi-tech and slick. I was impressed. The Zetas maintained military efficiency. “What do you want to do with her?”
“That’s the thing.” Chumillo rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “I guess—” His phone rang again. “It’s the jefe.”
As he spoke to Arturo, I looked at the girl again. She was a ghost of a girl, one who’d come as near to crossing over as it’s possible to without going all the way. She was alive, but it was touch and go. All she had left was willpower.
“The jefe wants a word.” Chumillo pushed his phone into my hand.
Arturo’s voice was loaded with curiosity. “What a thing! What an amazing thing!”
I murmured something noncommittal, as I wasn’t sure why he was upset. The Zetas killed on an industrial scale, so one more body didn’t seem a big deal. But clearly Arturo didn’t like it.
“Some capullo cowboy beating her up and burying her alive or throwing her in the river. Es barbare!”
I had my cue. “It’s dreadful,” I agreed.
“Yeah, and if she’s a Yankee and this gets out, it’s a fucking disaster,” Arturo said. “Think of the headlines, ‘I was left for dead in Mexico.’ It encourages the American public to fund the wall, and we don’t want that.”
So she was to die.
“Look, she’ll have to go.” Arturo spoke briskly. “But please, don’t let her suffer any more. Make it fast. She’s been through hell.”
It was very odd, this combination of compassion and brutality. I thought for a moment, putting myself in Arturo’s place. His love for his girlfriend, the way he’d talked about Chumillo’s dates, and the respect and liking he’d showed for the wives of his men were all heartfelt. Arturo would never compromise his business or security but his regret was genuine.
“Do you want her dead?” I asked.
As I asked, I saw Chumillo pull a face. He wasn’t liking what he was hearing.
Arturo was reluctant too. “Well, no. I mean, we don’t know who she is, but she’s certainly not anyone we want to be rid of. She’s not a fed of any kind, we’re certain of that.”
“We could dump her in a clinic over the border.”
“The cops would be all over it, and she’d talk the moment she recovered.”
“It’s nothing to do with us.”
“Anything that happens in Mexico to Yankees is trouble. If she were in a state to take a warning it would be different, but the way she looks, she’ll be out of it for two weeks, minimum.”
Arturo was a connoisseur of pain and recovery. That was interesting. He also clearly didn’t want to kill her. Now I could do him a favour and help myself too. “I’ll keep her.”
“What? Really?”
His voice was relieved. I’d guessed right. I could see Chumillo smiling too. Yes, definitely right.
“I’ll hang on to her for a few weeks, and when she’s better we walk her across the border. By then she’ll know enough to keep her mouth shut.”
It would help me fit in, and if she became a problem, two minutes in the river would dispose of her.
Chapter Eight: Morgan
The river carried me along, dark, dirty, and foul. I tried to float on my back, but waves and weeds pulled me under time and time again. I fought my way to the surface, gasping and choking, only to be tumbled down into the inky waters.
I don’t remember drowning. There was simply darkness, and then I was sliding into the depths. Water was replaced with filth and slickness. Mud ran into my mouth, earthy and thick. Then, suddenly, the scent of flowers.
The river had vanished, but velvet darkness pressed down on me. The cuffs pinning my wrists, the pain in my lungs, and the sludge in my eyes were no longer registering. I’d lost all sensation. My body had disappeared.
An eon drifted by. Disembodied and disconnected, my essence cast on the winds, all the fight, rage, and torment wafted away. Only my soul remained.
I was moving into the light, floating upwards. This was it, I thought. This was death. And the light was the door to the afterlife. It surprised me, I thought I’d be going down, but I was definitely on my way up.
Then it all became rather strange.
“Drink the milk.”
It was a light, pleasant voice. I was sitting up, leaning against his chest. I could feel arms around me. He was strong. I could feel his muscles ripple.
Then there was the most heavenly scent. Warm sweet milk. I was desperate for it, but my throat had swollen almost shut. I got some into me though. It slid down gently, delicious and warming.
He put me on the grass again. Clean fresh grass. I could hear sounds, but they didn’t make any sense.
Then the scent of soap. Lemon and foamy. The sponge moved over me, washing away the filth. The tangled clumps of hair that were so painfully tight in my neck vanished.
I wanted to cry with relief and pleasure, but I was too weak to do more than open my eyes. Everything was blurred, but I sensed a shadow moving around me.
He had blond hair, lit by a halo. His face was beautiful with a broad forehead, slanting cheekbones, sculpted nose, and full lips. The eyes were a heavenly cornflower blue but lifeless. There w
as no doubt in my mind; this was an unearthly being.
His gentle strength lifted me up. “Drink. Slowly now.”
More milk.
I drank until I felt so full that I thought I’d burst. The arms held me securely as he intoned, “You’ll be okay now.”
He was my guardian angel. I closed my eyes, turned into the hard chest and sighed with relief. I was safe in paradise.
Chapter Nine: Rip
Keeping the girl was an immediate success. Arturo was delighted, and when I put down the phone, Chumillo was grinning at me, all the hesitation gone. “Man, I’m glad you’re taking her in.”
“How could I not? Seeing she’s not a threat.”
I got it spot on because Chumillo was nodding. “Absolutely. I’m off to Miami in the morning, or I’d have taken her myself.”
“Glad to do it.”
We zoomed to a clinic where the medic displayed no surprise at all at the state of the girl. He simply checked her out, stitched up the various cuts, took some blood, and loaded her up with drugs. He had a brief word with Chumillo, but I didn’t understand a word of it.
“Cracked ribs, broken nose, and the rest is surface damage,” Chumillo announced. “It’ll all heal, but it will take a few weeks.”
Beatings take it out of you. I’d administered some excellent ones in my time, and the thought of the girl wailing and moaning while she healed was off-putting.
I framed it so that the Zeta would be impressed by my thoughtfulness. “She’s going to be in lots of pain. Can we sedate her?”
“Sure! Good idea!” Chumillo got onto it right away, and we were instantly handed enough opiates to send a herd of elephants into clouded bliss.
“This little cockroach says she just needs food and rest,” Chumillo translated. “I’ve told him there will be trouble if he’s wrong.”
He spoke casually, but from the look of fear in the medic’s eyes, I knew the cartel lieutenant was quite capable of doing some damage. Broken hands maybe. That would worry a quack.
“Tell him I don’t speak Spanish, but if he gets a call from me to get his arse into gear and get to the house, quick.”
“That’ll work.” Chumillo quizzed him mercilessly and then told him to make daily house calls until further notice. The man nodded, sweated, and shuffled us out as quickly as he could.
When we got home, the girl was out cold but feeling no pain.
Chumillo was gazing at the battered body and sighing, “She looks dreadful.”
“You’re sure she’s not bleeding internally?”
“The cockroach says not. His advice was to keep her warm and feed her soup.”
“That’s doable. Want a beer?”
“Hell, yes!”
We had a drink, exclaimed over events, and then I got a slap on the back and he was off, calling, “I’ll phone from Miami.”
Now the girl was cleaned up and bandaged, it was clear she was a mess. The bruises were spectacular, and the various cuts had taken dozens of stitches, but what worried me more was that the river was polluted. If she’d picked up a bug while in this weakened state, she might easily perish.
I didn’t have a lot of faith in the doctor. He had made it clear he wanted to be as far away from the Zetas as possible. As he knew that attending the girl in his clinic meant having the gang around full-time, he’d whacked her full of drugs and rushed us away as fast as possible. Hopefully the brutally basic care would be enough to pull her through.
I had a good look at her and tried to figure out who she might be. The calloused hands and muscled body suggested she had done manual labour of some kind. I ruled out farming as the unmarked patches of skin on her lower legs were too pale for that. Whatever she’d worked at, it was decent pay because she was well nourished and had good teeth and well-kept nails.
Frankly, I was stumped. Given she was out, I wrapped her in a blanket, put her on a lounger so I could keep an eye on her, and got started on the garden. The weeds around the pool were the size of triffids, so I set to pulling them up.
I was half way done when Kyle rocked up on a massive bike. I knew instantly he’d come to check on the girl, and from the second I saw the silver eyes rake me over, I knew he didn’t trust me.
“Rip.” He had a deep bass voice. “Interesting morning.”
“Isn’t it?” He was so rock-solid and disapproving of me that I was tempted to rile him up, just for the fun of it. But remembering Tricky preferring his friends over his assets, I decided to be friendly. “You’ve come to see the girl?”
He was looking her over, his big hands surprisingly gentle. Like me, he checked her palms and then paused, frowning as he thought about the implications. It was rather revealing; Kyle was a hunter himself.
I left him to it and went to get beers. By the time I returned he was done. The Zetas were Olympic-standard talkers, but Kyle sat in total silence, gazing out over the river. With the bulky muscles, all black gear, and strange silver eyes, he was unusual, unnerving almost.
Eventually he put down the empty bottle. “Is she safe here?”
Right to the point. “Absolutely. I don’t kill women.”
The silver eyes gazed at me. I couldn’t read him at all. But he nodded, saying, “I’ll tell the doc to check in twice a day.”
“Thanks.”
A minute later, the superbike roared down the road. I looked after him, wondering what to do. From his attitude, he knew what I was, and he didn’t like it. I’d have to work on that, or he’d poison Arturo against me. I’d have to find out what made him tick and manage him.
I spent the rest of the day pulling weeds, reading Arturo’s files, and pouring milk and soup into the girl. She swallowed, but there was no sense of awareness. Her body was entirely focused on repairing the damage she’d suffered.
Chumillo called at suppertime. “Just checking in. Has she said anything?”
“Not yet.”
“Is she feverish? Shall I call the cockroach?”
“He’s dropping by regularly. We just have to wait and see.”
“Okay. Look, call me if there’s anything.”
“Sure.”
“Miami’s great! It’s wall-to-wall gourmet food, and the women are beautiful. I’m drinking the most perfect fresh orange juice ever, and the sizzling Philippine-style pork is to die for. Want anything from here?”
Kyle called five minutes later, and we had the same conversation but in short form and without the camaraderie.
“She talking?”
“No.”
“Fever?”
“No.”
“Call me when anything changes.”
Yes, the Zetas really were obsessed with women. I’d have to work with that and give updates they’d be interested in. The prospect of that seemed remote; she was out of it. I considered possibilities as I ate. But despite a steak the size of a dinner plate and so tender you might eat it with a spoon, I came up with nothing.
At least the girl was easy to care for. She had more soup—I didn’t want to challenge her digestive system—and after dinner, I settled her on the sofa with me, watching the news.
At bedtime I was planning to put her in one of the spare rooms. But when I checked her over, she was too cold to the touch. I was expecting warm or feverish, which would’ve been a sign of her body working. Cool was a warning of trouble to come.
In short, I took her to bed. I wrapped her in a blanket and put her next to me. Having been shy of company for as long as I could remember, having her in the room was weird. I tossed and turned, and just as I was about to kick her out to take her chances alone, I fell fast asleep. God knows why, but I woke up in the early hours knowing something was wrong.
I touched her and found her cold and stiff. I thought she was gone, but a mirror held to her mouth showed a slight mist. It was around five, the time of day the soul is weakest. Looking out at the darkness outside, I had an idea.
I picked her up and took her into the garden. We sat by the pool, looking
east. The sky was just beginning to lighten; the sun was on its way up. I thought that if she could see the start to a new day, she might rally.
That’s when I realised I had no idea what to call her. I looked at the raggedy hair, the smashed button nose and the large mouth. Nothing came to me. Honey, angel, sweetheart, silly cow—nothing seemed appropriate.
It came out of nowhere. “Morgan!” I patted her face, avoiding the black eyes and the split lip. “Morgan, wake up. Look at the sun. Come on, Morgan!”
I kept patting, dipped a hand into the pool and flicked water over her face. It wasn’t working. The sky began to turn aqua and pink, but she wasn’t seeing it.
I was losing her. Time for drastic measures.
I pulled her out of the blanket and dropped her in the pool. She went under and then she convulsed. I reached in and grabbed her by an arm. As soon as she got to the surface, she began gasping and choking. I pulled her out and sat her on the grass.
“Come on, Morgan!” I patted her face again. “Open your eyes!”
I bullied and yelled at her until she was with me. Then I turned her head to the sun. “Look! Look at the sky!”
She was struggling to breathe, shivering with cold and shock, but then she got herself together. She was moving and turning her head to the light. I picked her up, wrapped her in the blanket and patted her dry. “Keep looking at the sun, Morgan. Don’t close your eyes. Stay awake.”
The sun did the trick. As it rose in the sky, Morgan warmed up. Even better, she was listening to the birdsong. Time to get some nourishment into her.
“Come on, Morgan. A spoonful of honey.”
It’s lovely stuff, honey, rich and sweet. It doesn’t do much else, but I wanted her to taste, to experience life. The sun in the sky, the warmth of the blanket, and the silken honey did the trick.
She struggled out of the blanket to wipe a stray hair from her face. It was the first natural movement I’d had from her. I quickly fed her three more spoonfuls of honey.
Ten minutes of sitting in the sun and then I took her inside, scrambled some eggs, and gave her a bowl of that. She kept it all down and the warm milk I fed her two hours later, so when Rafa and Pedro Rojo turned up at lunchtime, I was starting on the garden and feeling pretty chipper.
