There wasn’t much of an Hispanic accent to the voice; in fact, it sounded more redneck to him, more southern-hillbilly than Hispanic.
They’d reached an underpass, and Macon looked over his shoulder. Padre was leisurely biking behind him, smoking a cigarette, and he motioned twice with this hand, meaning Macon should move onward.
Macon darted down the trail’s decline, sprinted underneath the bridge, and made his legs work to move back up again.
Go ahead, run as fast as you want, and you will regret it… The memory of Erin’s morning words made him almost want to smile, and as if to follow her suggestions too late, he slowed his run to a trot. Moving at a slight jog, he hit redial to call Erin’s number and put the cell to his ear.
The phone began to ring. It was ringing, where before it had gone straight to voice mail. With each ring Macon felt his feet pick up speed, and as his pace quickened so did the ringing of the phone, building and building to a crescendo. There was going to be an answer. They would figure this out. He would tell them what he could offer, make a deal, and nobody would get hurt.
The rings stopped. They stopped and he waited, but nothing. Silence—but not just silence, black silence of someone on the other end followed by the hint of a breath.
“Hello. Hello. Hello.” But there was no answer. Then the listener hung up.
Fuck! He picked up steam and ran with his eyes tracing for any sign of Erin. Sweat dripped now, beads rolled off his forehead into his eyes, and the tiny stings gave him strength. His finger hit the redial button two more times, but now the phone was perpetually rolling straight into voice mail once again.
To the beach. He would run to the beach and back, and then he would have answers. Authorities would have to be called. Hank would be questioned by men in blue with guns at their sides. Macon realized they would question him as well and he may go to jail for leaving the state and breaking probation, but bigger and higher powers were needed to fight this battle.
Every few strides he would hang up, redial, stick the phone to his ear, and listen. Each time, he was mocked by Erin’s voice-mail greeting.
“Hello, you’ve reached Erin. If you think we need to talk, leave a message. Peace be with you.”
In the light of day, he could see the end of the trail on the horizon and figured it was the beach. Yes, that’s what happened; somebody on the beach kidnapped her in one of those vans and took her somewhere. Maybe there were witnesses. He dipped down another underpass, shot underneath, and got ready to rise up and continue down the trail when he saw it.
The stroller. The blue vinyl, double-seated, fold-up jogging stroller was just off the edge of the trail underneath the bridge, facing the direction of the beach. The brown blanket lay across the seats.
His chest heaved up and down. The air he sucked in, always loudest when the run stopped, was made worse by his beating, expectant heart. Nobody was in sight, but this place wasn’t so distant that a gang member hadn’t been here and tagged the concrete. Leviticus 19:28 was written in big, blue letters.
He grabbed the blanket and pulled it aside, waiting to see Lyric hiding underneath and her blue eyes shouting “Boo!” If only this was just a long, weird game of hide and seek.
He flipped the blanket in the air, shook it out, looked in the pockets on the sides, examined the tires to see if they’d gone flat, and then shimmied down toward the ravine to see if anyone had fallen. Everything seemed peaceful.
But the police would have something to go on now. He could call them, and they could get dogs to track her scent. This was progress. His run had gotten him here, and hell, he did do something on his own. Call the police from this spot.
But first, one more try at a redial. The phone rang once. He heard a click like someone answered, and then it hung up.
What the hell? He glanced around, looking for answers. I’m on to you, he thought, I’m on to you, and now you’re scared of me. That’s it—I know it.
He rang again. Don’t you want your damn money?
One ring.
Two rings.
Three rings.
Click. An answer, and a voice.
“Yer money. You got it? Got yer money? We still have ’em here. Yer girls are here and you better be too. We start in a hour…”
The voice was tired, confused, and seemed to be coming not just through the phone, but directly into both of Macon’s ears. He got ready to spit out the words he’d been waiting to say, but then stopped.
The voice sounded strange, and he realized why. He was listening to him live. There, in the shadow of the underpass, kneeling down by the large sewer drain, he could see the shrouded figure of the person on the other end of the phone. The man with Erin’s cell phone, who claimed to have her captive, was fifteen yards away.
Macon said not another word, slipped the phone in his pocket, and took a few steps toward the trail. The shroud didn’t move. The man was crouched down, not fully hiding, not fully visible. Macon moved off the grass onto the cement trail and took a step his way—still no movement. He took another, saw the man glance at the phone and the blue light of the cell shine toward his face. “We start with yer daughter, then yer wife,” he said into the phone.
Macon took a quicker step and heard soft-spoken, rapid curses from the man’s mouth.
He has no idea who I am or what I look like.
Another step.
The man’s head swiveled, made eye contact with Macon, who feigned to not notice, pretended to be just walking, but he could feel his blood pulsing with raging, red energy. Just as the man moved toward the gaping sewer hole, Macon launched himself at the man.
Three strides—it took three strides and then one shoulder down before he plowed into this being. Macon felt his clavicle smack into the spine of the man, felt it bend at impact, and they both went crashing to the ground.
Quickly his elbow cocked back for a right hook that started from his hip, moved through his shoulder, down to his fist, then through the side of the man’s face and beyond. He pounded the man’s cheek and quickly followed it with another punch, a left hook, smashing into his jaw bone with fury, so both halves of his head had been bloodied. The feeling of smacking him was the greatest rush Macon ever received. The man was fully underneath him on the ground, and a series of jabs descended upon his face.
Bam-bam-bam-bam.
He delivered punches to the beat of a primal drummer, and the flailing arms of the wretched, reeking man trying to stop him were nothing. This was not some seasoned military man who had kidnapped Erin and Lyric. This was a boney character who could just as well be a part of Hank’s group of homeless fucks.
Macon felt his fists impacting the man’s skull with each smack, bruising the man’s brain. His own knuckles were about to break from the impacts, and underneath was this scrawny piece of shit who thought he could take Macon’s life hostage. Grunts from the man swirled in Macon’s head, until it seemed he could hear Erin screaming for help, maybe nearby. Or did he imagine that? No, she was… it was her. She was right there, wasn’t she?
Macon looked down and saw death in the man’s eyes. His tiny black dots showed surprise and fear at the shower of pain raining down on him, as if his dirt-colored face had finally been caught and exposed. The tiny dots were ready to close for good and die under this pounding of fists.
But in an instant they changed. The eyes showed relief, like they had seen the light of God, and heaven was opening up just above Macon’s shoulder. His eyes lit up with such fantastic relief that Macon couldn’t help but stop the beating to turn and see for himself.
He turned just in time to see Padre bring down a basketball-size boulder onto his head. The large cracking sound of his own skull was the last thing he heard before everything went blank.
Chapter Thirteen
Lupita soaked in the new silence. The hammering patter of Q and the delicate pitter of T had faded into distant echoes. Lupita was glad to know the kids were gone to feed. Just the quiet hum of the inner-cave
remained.
Now she had something fresh next to her: the angel called Lyric, and it made this place more bearable. The rocky walls were just a mirage and no longer threatening to cave in. So many nights she could hear them––the walls moving, talking, squeezing her in and slowly choking her.
She felt the child’s skin, traced its smoothness, and ran her fingernail lightly along the girl’s forearms. Ivory—they were like ivory, untouched and tender.
Lupita breathed deep, and with each inhale felt an air of freshness come from the child’s presence. The clean air that the child had lived in for all her young years was made of a different oxygen it seemed, like air Lupita had never known, not in the orphanage, not picking from the garbage, not on the streets of Tijuana with taco stands and dust in the air, and certainly not in this dank dungeon.
The child sat stiff in front of her, legs folded, head staying perfectly still, terrified but so precious. Lupita pulled her into her lap and imagined for a moment the child being in her own womb. What if she had carried this angel and delivered her in a white, clean hospital with a staff of expert doctors and kind nurses caring for her like she was a queen.
She’d seen such delivery’s before on the TV, watching the show María la del Barrio. If only Lupita’s mother was like Maria’s Godmother, Casilda, who begged the priest not to leave Maria to fend for herself, scavenging on the street. Like Maria, Lupita was also of the slums.
But if she could have a daughter like Lyric, part of her would live on in the heavens. If she were the mother of this angel, the child would wear dresses with splashes of color and matching shiny shoes, and she would not have pictures drawn on her perfect flesh. They would have walks together. They would make tea with lemon and sugar and drink sitting in green fields, always under the sunshine.
She would be this girl’s mother if she could, start over—start from scratch with someone who was an angel-child.
“Can I see my mommy now? Can I go home? I want to go. I have to go home now.”
“Home. Child, you are home now. This is home.”
“No, no, this isn’t home. Where’s my mom? I want my mom. And my dad.”
“Near—your mom is near. She’ll be here. You love her, you love your mom.”
The girl shook her head vigorously and then cried, silently at first but then loud and out of control. Both baby Q and T used to cry like this, but they’d stopped this long ago, same as the girls she grew up with in the orphanage. Expectations squashed meant you only cried for pain that hurt your body, not pain that hurt your insides.
“She will be here. She will be here soon.”
“When? Why are we here? I want my mom.”
“Wait. We can wait here for her. Or you can stay here while I go get her.”
“Can you go get her, please?”
“Child… yes, child.”
Lupita lifted Lyric up on her feet, felt how well built and fed she was, and then walked in circles, gathering some of Q and T’s playthings: sea shells, rocks, and a pile of twigs. She put them in the center and set the angel-child down around them, right in the middle of the circle of lantern light.
Alone. The child would be alone, trapped in the room. It wouldn’t be right, so she grabbed Oscar by his shell and placed him next to her in the light.
“Here. You stay here. I’ll make sure you are safe and shut the hatch. Me and your mommy will be right back.”
“How long will it take?”
“Not long. Count to thirty-six. Count to thirty-six, thirty-six times, and then I will be back.”
Count to thirty-six, thirty-six times. The nuns at the catholic orphanage told Lupita that when she was waiting to eat, when she was waiting to get shots, when she was waiting to get washed, whenever they needed her to obey. She could count to thirty-six, but could never remember how many times she had done so. She always got confused around the sixth, sixteenth, or twenty-sixth time. How many times had she counted to thirty-six? She could never be sure.
She ended up counting to thirty-six again and again, so many times in her head that she just swirled up in circles and forgot the whole world outside of her.
They knew this. The confusion was control.
Lupita made the climb up the ladder in four steps and quietly tried to slide the plank over the opening, putting the weight of one boulder on top, not all three that had gathered there over the years. The full weight had been on top six years ago when she was locked in by Dante, and most nights he shuffled them back inside so he could sleep free and easy. Funny that Lupita would take better care of this cherished girl she had trapped than Dante took care of his own children. She would keep this child well, keep her fed, and somehow make this work.
Lupita walked the incline of the cave toward the drainage tunnel, listening for the sounds of her children up ahead. She had no light, but needed none. She knew the place in the dark now, knew which portion had jagged edges that would scratch her skin, where she could bruise a knee, and where the tunnel was hauntingly low and would smack her forehead. She pushed onward, hoping to bring this angel-child what she wished for.
Rays of light shined ahead of her. The lanterns of her children made shadows of their limbs move up and down the walls. They were huddled and feeding.
Then she heard the frightened voice of the woman, the angel-child’s mother. “Your poppa shouldn’t feed you this. There’s food. I can get you it. I am a mommy. I have a daughter. I had two children.” These words were followed by half-muffled screams for help.
“Children! What are you doing?” Lupita ran ahead. “Stop it. Stop it, children. Stop and sit and wait.”
They scattered from their places, found safe spots, and Lupita scanned the area. Dante wasn’t around. Where was he? She hated it when he was gone. She would think of her escape and somehow, as always, he would sense this and do things to get her to stay. The ropes on her were invisible and infinite.
A tiny man was lying next to the mother, his body still warm. His chest showed signs of movement and breath. He was still fresh enough. He’d been cut just right so that all the insides didn’t spill out and go to waste.
“This man. Stay with this man and feed if you want. Poppa will be back. You shouldn’t do this. Please, sit and wait, or stay with this man. She is not meant for this yet.”
Lupita waved an arm, and the two children scattered, first in opposite circles, but then coming back together. Each of them sat by either side of the black man.
Q’s hand was cuffed around some object, and he held it close to his side. He was trying to hide something, but had no idea how to hold such a thing. Yes, Lupita could see the edges sticking out. Q had a knife. Why was there a knife? Why was Dante not here?
“I know what you have, Q. I know you have a knife, and if your father sees that…” Lupita held out her left hand to show the stumpy leftovers of her pinky finger. She used the stub of her finger to remind them to obey. This is what their father would do to them, too.
“Give it to me, Q. Give me the knife so I can return it to him.”
Q presented the knife with his head to the ground. Lupita put it in the waist of her pants and used her child’s flashlight to turn her attention to the woman lying below her.
Long hair was scattered about the woman’s tear-covered, feverish face. A baseball cap sat next to her, fallen off in the fight, and Lupita reached for it and set it on her own head. It was a nice fit. She took it off and set it aside. She’d keep this to wear later.
The woman’s face moved as if to speak, and her eyes fluttered open and shut. Her shirt read Bank of America Chicago Marathon 2009 and was full of cave dirt. Her blue shorts exposed white, fleshy legs. Strong skin was pulled tight and taut over nourished, sinewy muscles, and it was clear she was well-fed, but not chubby and fat like some of the men with saggy flesh. And the drawings that covered her skin seemed like dark reflections of this cave.
They had captured something unique in their nets. Nobody had ever given them a fight such as this
one gave.
“Dear. My poor dear. I’ll bring you to your daughter.”
“You have her? You have her, really? Oh God! Thank you, thank you.”
White eyes stared up at her, more undecipherable words came drooling out of the woman’s mouth, and Lupita put a finger down to cover her lips, to signal her to be silent. Then she positioned the gag back over the woman’s mouth and pulled it tight around her neck. The whites of her eyes got bigger. Lupita put a finger back over her lips and mouthed another shushing motion.
“You can’t scream. You can’t scream now.”
Dante. What will Dante say when he comes back and the woman is missing?
The chamber—I took her there so she did not escape, I will tell him.
Then fighting sounds came from the trail. Lupita and the woman both turned their heads as soon as they heard them—the sounds of men’s voices and bodies wrestling.
And then the woman did scream, or tried to. At first her powerful noise was muffled by the gag, but somehow the cloth came off and she shrieked like a woman on fire before two kicks to the back of her neck kept her quiet. The gag was stuffed deeper in her mouth and tied tighter, and the screams returned to only muffles.
Lupita lifted the woman by her armpits and walked backwards, surprised at how light she was to drag. Her body was sturdy and svelte, as if there were muscles and nothing else under her skin, nothing like the blubber of men that she had to drag after the kids were done feeding.
The supple woman struggled, resisted, twisted free, and dropped to the ground more than once before Lupita warned her, “Daughter. I’m taking you to your daughter. I’m taking you to her only if you’re good. Now stop it.”
Lupita used her legs to drag and slide, drag and slide, with a few big pulls to get her over some bumps. Both her arms and legs were tied, and her mouth remained gagged despite some protests. She got to the hatch, moved the concrete slabs aside, lifted the wooden plank, and had to decide how to get the woman down. Just drop the mom in like we used to do with bodies. This could break her legs in front of her angel-child. There would be noises, tears, commotions, and problems. But the mother couldn’t get down the ladder with her legs tied.
On the Lips of Children Page 11
