Up until now, Andres has had financial stability, food on the table, and, most important, the security of knowing that he would have it there the next day, and the day after that. Now he is driving toward the sun, on a potholed road that will soon turn to dust, unsure of what the next hour will bring.
He checks his rearview mirror, paranoid that he’s being followed. Guillermo warned him that the kidnappers are likely to test that he’s alone before giving him the directions to the drop-off point. He told him not to deviate from their instructions, not even if there’s a back road that will be faster or if traffic gets too hectic. Andres had begged Guillermo to come with him, in case there was a way they could rescue Marabela without giving in to the captors.
“Without giving them your money?” Guillermo asked, incredulous.
Andres felt ashamed for even mentioning it. “I was just thinking, in case something happens, and things get dangerous.”
“This isn’t like the movies. They already told you she won’t be there. Your only choice is to drop off the money and wait for them to send her home. Remember, it’s a trade-off,” Guillermo said.
One life for another, he’d thought.
“All that’s left now is for you to do your part,” Guillermo said. He shook his hand then, and they patted each other on the back and held it in a stiff embrace. “Go with God.”
Andres feels the road deteriorating underneath him, the ride rougher until it is all dirt and sand, leaving a plume of fog in his wake. In the rearview mirror, he can hardly see the city behind him.
He arrives at his first destination at a quarter to seven. All Hades told him is that he was to arrive at a billboard for an ambulance service off the side of the highway and find a set of instructions.
“You like puzzles, don’t you?” Hades had teased. “Just be quick about it. I don’t have all day.”
Andres parks his car next to a pole that towers over him. He starts at the bottom of the billboard, knees bent, and walks his hands to the top, the metal scorching his skin with each quick tap. There, almost out of his reach, is a piece of duct tape, wrapped multiple times around the pole. Picking at it does nothing; he goes back to his car for a knife Guillermo packed for him. When he tears it, it releases a small plastic bag with a note inside.
Take the next exit thirteen kilometers east, it says. Come alone. We’ll know if you don’t.
He rushes back to his car, looking in all directions for any sign of someone watching him. He drives faster, but his car protests. It takes every bit of self-control Andres has to slow down; it’s like walking out of a burning building when his instincts are telling him to run.
Every once in a while, a car will fly by in the opposite direction, and Andres wonders if it’s one of the kidnappers, checking to make sure he’s not being followed. After he’s driven fifteen minutes without seeing anyone, he realizes his steering wheel is soaked in sweat. Andres rummages through the backseat with one hand for a bottle of water. Placing it between his legs, he unscrews the lid and is about to drink when the car phone rings. Even though Guillermo has called twice already to check in, the sound continues to startle him.
“How are things going?” he asks.
“Todavía no hay nada,” Andres says.
Still.
Nothing.
Maybe there won’t be anything. Maybe this is just it, maybe that was it, and the last time he saw Marabela he didn’t say a word to her, didn’t tell her how the rhythm of her breathing helped him fall asleep all those nights when he got home after she’d already gone to bed, didn’t tell her that Cynthia did this pensive thing with her eyebrows the other day and she looked just like her mother, didn’t tell her how much he’s loved her all these years.
Sometimes he wishes Marabela had just left him four months ago and never come back. Maybe then she wouldn’t be out in this lonely desert, carrying around so much uncertainty and pain and fear. Then he could at least imagine her in some other city, living another life where she might be happy. He keeps his eyes on the road, his ears ringing with the voice of the man who has been with Marabela all this time, putting his hands on her, striking her, slowly wearing her down one day at a time.
Hours have passed and Andres has collected only two additional notes, each more detailed than the last. He’s starting to feel like he’s just going in circles and headed nowhere. He holds up a small piece of lined yellow paper to the steering wheel and struggles to read the instructions as it shakes in his hand. When he merges off the road onto a highway, he realizes that his destination is somewhere in the forgotten, destitute districts sprawled miles ahead of him.
“Not here,” he says into the emptiness.
He takes his foot off the accelerator as the pueblos jóvenes get closer. The dwellings scattered along the sides of the desert dunes have a loose sense of order to them—shacks in every color from mint green to cracked white to faded blue cluster together in off-kilter rows. From afar, from where he’s used to seeing them somewhere in the background of his existence, they almost look like a colorful tapestry blanketing the bluffs. As he approaches he begins to see the threads of dirt and sand that run through them. Everything is covered in a dull brown layer, like years’ worth of dust.
Andres drives past a dilapidated billboard advertising ice cream and makes his first left, leaving the last of the ragged asphalt behind him. He slows his pace, and the ground crunches and cracks beneath his tires as he drives over stones and debris. He double-checks that his car doors are locked. This neighborhood is exactly the kind of place Andres has spent his whole life avoiding, while Marabela spent years venturing into its depths, chronicling the struggles of the city’s poor. Most of them are migrants from the countryside who came to the capital in search of a better life and found it had no room for them. Instead, they built their homes out of the city’s discarded materials, creating settlements without running water and electricity.
He tries not to look at his surroundings, but he’s sure he’s being watched, and he can’t shake the thought that he’s walking into a trap, that it’s only a matter of seconds before swarms of people raid his car. Why else would the kidnappers lead him here? And how could he be so stupid as to follow their directions so blindly? He wants to turn his car around and leave this nightmare in the past, but he has to keep going.
He drives a few hundred yards before seeing his destination: a house with a wooden ladder resting next to the front door. It’s the last one on this block, and next to it, a wall is painted white with red letters that say VIVA EL PUEBLO PERU. P.C.P. The wall seems to go nowhere; it’s as if someone started building it and ran out of bricks. But everywhere around him, the walls speak. Some shout messages of allegiance to the Peruvian Communist Party. Some echo cries for Cambio 90, Fujimori’s promise of change when he ran two years ago. All seem to fall on deaf ears.
His instructions are to wait by this home—for how long, or for what, he doesn’t know. Andres can’t bring himself to put the car in park. He leaves his foot on the brake, pressing so hard that his leg muscles begin to shake from nerves and exertion. From what little he can see through the house’s small window, which is partially covered by a bedsheet, no one appears to be inside. He keeps focused on the door, then checks his rearview mirror, then the side ones, his eyes darting everywhere at once. Everything is still and too quiet.
Something about this stop seems final—not just a way station along a highway but a place where people actually live. Andres has this daydream playing out in his mind, of encountering the kidnappers and handing them the bag of money. At the last second he swings it at their heads, knocking them unconscious. He imagines two of them, a boss and his willing apprentice, falling to the ground like a pair of dominoes. In this fantasy, Marabela is waiting for him in a van just a few yards away. She looks healthy and happy.
Boom! A knock against his window nearly shatters him. Terrified, he turns to see a small fist pounding against the glass. The hand opens and waves at him side to side.
Andres follows the arm and sees it’s a little boy. He can tell by the way the boy’s face searches the space in front of him that he can’t see through the tinted glass. Andres’s first instinct is to shoo him away, but he’s afraid to roll down the window. He puts the car in reverse and is about to pull away when he hears the boy’s muffled voice.
“Le tengo un mensaje, señor.”
He stops and turns to get a good look at the boy, who repeats himself.
“I have a message for you, sir.”
Slowly, he rolls down the window just enough for the boy’s hand to shoot through and drop a note inside. He’s gone before Andres can catch it in his lap.
Put everything in the bag inside the house, then leave exactly the way you came.
Dread washes over him. So this is how it all ends—the nightmare or his life. He puts the car in park and picks up the duffel bag. The weight of his life’s work digs into his shoulder as he walks toward the house.
The door, when he knocks on it, turns out to be open. It budges just a bit and he pushes it the rest of the way slowly. The inside of the shack is little more than a narrow, long space, and the floor is just more dirt, as if someone simply put a roof over the earth and called it shelter. It’s completely empty except for a navy-blue bag against the wall.
Andres stands over the bag, hesitating. He’d always imagined that when this moment came he’d be eager to be done with it. Now he fears he’s just repeating the same mistake he made at the bus stop and handing his hopes over to a thief. He has to remind himself that this time is different. This time, he has Guillermo’s guidance. Even Hades, in his own twisted way, tried to reassure him that things would work out so long as he did as he was told.
After you’ve made the drop, it’ll take time for us to pick it up and make sure all the money is there. You will go home and wait. You are not the only one expecting this to go smoothly.
He moves quickly, emptying his bag and transferring his money into the kidnappers’. Andres makes sure each bundle of ten thousand dollars is lined up evenly with the next. There are twenty-five bundles total, so he makes five rows of five. He remembers how his mother used to pay the maids in cash when he was a child, always counting the money right in front of them so they wouldn’t be in the awkward position of having to count it themselves in front of her. He knows this is a situation beyond the bounds of trust, but still he lines up the edges of the bills so they make tight, sturdy packages, hoping that his precision will make a difference.
He zips up the bag, pushing it back against the wall like he found it. Before leaving, he feels the cash through the canvas one more time. It’s just paper, he reminds himself. It adds up to nothing more than a number.
Andres rushes home with the foolish anticipation that Marabela will already be there, waiting for him. Even though he knows that logistically this is close to impossible, his hope takes on a life of its own. Every second that he’s in traffic, every car that cuts him off just inches shy of his side-view mirror, serves only to convince him that life will be different once she’s back. When he pictures her in his arms, any fear or darkness gets cast away by his love for her. He can practically relive it now, as pure as the first time he held her. He swerves from lane to lane, passing cars and honking at those that try to cross him. For a moment he forgets everything except for a truth that hasn’t happened yet. Marabela’s rescue will be their rescue. Her survival will be theirs to share. Nothing will matter except for that.
But when he finally arrives at the house, it’s empty. Without the kids, the maids, and the driver going about their normal routines, the space feels like a museum. He feels disoriented, like he’s just woken up from a dream. The only person here to greet him is Guillermo.
“How did it go?”
“I . . . I don’t know. I guess we’ll have to wait and find out.” He paces around, hesitating to touch anything for fear of changing it. The thought of Marabela coming home to yet another foreign space is more than he can handle.
They make their way to the kitchen table, each of them hugging a warm cup of coffee with the palms of their hands. The coffee is a prop, something to keep them occupied. It’s the first time they’ve sat together, face-to-face, outside their normal headquarters in the darkroom. They’ve silently agreed that they have no business going there anymore, as if waiting there would be a form of surrender. The phone stretches out from the darkroom to the foot of the stairs, its extra-long cord winding through the hall like a bomb fuse in an old cartoon. The men have taken their places at the most inconspicuous spot in the house, where Consuelo and Carla used to eat dinner. From here, with the kitchen door held open by a clay pot of herbs, Andres can see the living room and the front entrance to the house. He can see the hallway that leads to the garage door, and behind him, through a window in the wall, the dining room and the glass door that opens up to his backyard. He will be able to witness Marabela’s arrival from any angle.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have sent the kids away.”
“Maybe. But we don’t know what condition she’ll arrive in. It could be hard on the kids to see her like that,” Guillermo says.
Andres tries to focus on his cup of coffee, but his capacity for waiting, even for it to cool down a bit, is gone. He burns his tongue on the first few sips and doesn’t even feel the rest. “How will she get here? They’re not just going to drop her off.”
“It varies. I’ve had clients tell me they were sent home in a taxi. Others have been left to fend for themselves on the side of the road. A few walked to the nearest phone and called home; one man walked the whole way.”
“For how long?”
“A few miles. He said his body just remembered the way. The human body’s capable of more than you’d expect,” Guillermo says.
But Andres doesn’t know what to expect. They’ve arranged for Marabela to see a doctor tomorrow, so that they can attend to her needs right away. Guillermo explains that he’s worked with this doctor for years, that the man is discreet and experienced with crisis situations.
“How much experience?” Andres asks.
“Some would say too much. It’s unfortunate that our jobs are necessary. In a better world, no one would ever have to hire me, or see the doctor under these circumstances.”
“And if that was the case, you’d be out of a job. Then what would you do?” Andres takes another sip, wishing for a stronger drink.
Even though he meant the question as a joke, Guillermo answers it without hesitation. “What I used to do. I was a cop before I got into this, twenty-six years ago. I never set out to work in kidnappings, but we started getting more and more of them. At first, we even solved a few. We helped the families make the drop, and when the victims were safe we investigated to find the captors. There were even rescue missions when the opportunity seemed right. Those were rare, though, but gratifying.”
“You don’t do those anymore?”
He shakes his head. “If it were up to me, I’d still be fighting on that side. But eventually I couldn’t tell which side we were on.”
“What do you mean?” Andres asks.
Guillermo sets his cup of coffee down, turning it in circles like it’s a dial he’s trying to adjust. Neither of them is used to talking about anything other than business, and clearly Guillermo isn’t eager to start.
“Dale, pues. How else do you expect we’ll pass the time?” Andres says. He knows he has a point Guillermo can’t argue with.
“The cops are supposed to be the good guys. No one believes that anymore, and I can’t blame them. I made the same mistake and I worked years with these guys. On our last rescue, I went in with my captain. The space was too small to send in a larger group, and it was just me and him on the inside, a few other men on the perimeter, guarding the exits. We basically walked into a trap. We were expecting a small operation and one hostage, but we found a room with seven, eight captors and several hostages in a room. Lots of cash, too. Piles of it.” He scoffs at the memory of it. “Th
ey could’ve killed us, but they wanted to make a deal. Let them go, and they’d release the hostages and we keep some of the money. I wasn’t in a position to speak or negotiate—I was supposed to do whatever my captain ordered. He agreed to the offer so fast, you could tell he’d done this before. So the captors took some of the cash, gave most of it to my captain, plus a little extra so we could say we recouped it as part of the raid. We came out looking like heroes, and those imbeciles got away. They probably kidnapped twice as many people after that, trying to get back the money they lost.”
“Anything to stay in business, huh?”
Guillermo grabs an apple and a knife from the counter next to the refrigerator. His movements are precise as he peels the apple, forming a long green spiral ribbon. His eyes don’t move from the knife as he talks. “To them, it’s just an investment in their future growth, the cost of doing business. If you think about it, it’s the perfect business model. Who is willing to gamble their loved one’s life just to break the cycle of supply and demand?”
“Then why do you keep working in it?” Andres asks. Guillermo bites into the fruit and looks up at the ceiling as he chews, as if he might find the answer there. Andres can’t tell if he’s stalling for time, or if he’s just taking his time to swallow.
Finally Guillermo gestures to the empty space around them with his knife. “Working with the families is the one place you won’t find corruption. It’s the one place people value life in a way that can’t be counted with money.”
“So what will you do after this? Wait for the next one?”
Guillermo shakes his head, looking, for the first time since Andres has met him, exhausted and uncertain. “I think this is it for me.”
Chasing the Sun: A Novel Page 18
