The Legend of Zorro

by Scott Ciencin

  Gaining his bearings slowly, Alejandro gazed around identifying his surroundings as a jail cell. Two men in finely tailored dark suits stood on the other side of the bars, one short and ratlike, the other a tall ugly brute.

  The mask of Zorro dangled tauntingly from the hand of the Rat.

  “The drug will wear off soon, Mr. de la Vega,” swore the well-dressed brute.

  The rat-faced man swished the mask from side-to-side, as if it were a tasty treat that he was holding out to a hungry cat, and laughed. “Or would you prefer…Zorro?”

  Alejandro rubbed his throbbing temples, vainly attempting to force the racket in his mind to quiet. These men knew his secret. How was that possible?

  “The day California was voted into the union?” the brute said dryly, seemingly picking up on the question in Alejandro’s eyes. “We followed you to the aqueduct.”

  The smaller man swung the mask before Alejandro once more and grinned. “I believe this belongs to you?”

  “Who are you?” demanded Alejandro, his head spinning. His disorientation worsened as the brute took out his wallet, opened it—and displayed a badge.

  “I’m Agent Pike,” said the brute, his badge gleaming from its leather confines, “this is Agent Harrigan. We’re the Pinkertons: operatives of the United States government.”

  Alejandro blinked the dark suited men into focus. “You’re the good guys?”

  “We’re living in perilous times, Mr. de la Vega,” Pike said, suddenly all business. “America’s gates have swung wide open to people from foreign lands. Which is why, on occasion, we require certain individuals to aid in our country’s defense…people like your ex-wife.”

  Alejandro was stunned. “Elena works for you? As a spy?”

  Harrigan nodded matter-of-factly. “Until California’s statehood becomes official, we don’t have jurisdiction to serve Armand with a search warrant…so we needed someone who could gain his trust.”

  Pike’s ugly face split into a grin. “And who more suited to the task than the woman he could never forget?”

  Alejandro’s flesh burned with sudden fire, his face glistening with a sheen of sweat. “The divorce was your idea, wasn’t it? So Elena would be free to lure in the count…’’

  “In return, we promised to keep the true name of Zorro secret from his enemies,” explained Harrigan.

  “You sonofabitch!” snarled Alejandro, launching himself at the bars. The men laughed mildly, keeping well out of his reach.

  Sighing, Pike was unmoved by Alejandro’s outburst. “Before his arrival here, we intercepted a telegram Armand dispatched to his associates throughout Europe. In that telegram, he claimed he was on the verge of producing a new weapon.”

  “A weapon that would bring about…’’ Harrigan searched for the right way to communicate the threat. “Mass destruction.”

  “With a single target in mind,” added Pike.

  Harrigan rubbed his callused hands together. “The United States of America.”

  Alejandro struggled to make sense of this. He saw no point in denying what these men had proved so easily. “How?”

  “Your ex-wife will answer that very question for us tonight,” Pike said thoughtfully. “We have militia forces ready to intercept the package, but only she can tell us where it’s headed.”

  The blood drained from Alejandro’s face. “If Armand finds out, he’ll kill her!”

  Harrigan rolled his eyes and laughed. “I think you underestimate the count’s feelings for Elena.”

  Alejandro’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the bars. His eyes blazed with rage, the blood pounding in his throat. Suddenly, the fight drained out of him. His hands fell from the bars, his head dropped low.

  “Okay,” Alejandro murmured in defeat. “I know something that might help you.”

  He beckoned them closer—and the dark suited men edged near, taking the bait. In a whiplash of fury, Alejandro’s hand shot out, closing around the necks of his enemies, and he yanked his hands back with all his strength, slamming the Pinkertons’ skulls against the bars with a pair of thunderous cracks.

  “I’ll send you both to hell for this!” vowed the enraged Alejandro. He pressed his advantage against his stunned opponents, smacking their heads against the steel as they grunted, a mad burst of energy seizing him as he realized he might kill them—

  Alejandro thrust the Pinkertons away, shaking violently as he watched them tumble to the floor, blood streaking into Pike’s right eye and spewing from Harrigan’s bruised lips where a loose tooth dangled.

  Imbécil, Alejandro cursed himself. They may have had the keys in their pockets!

  Pike’s hands trembled as he climbed to his feet, straightening his tie and brushed back a few locks of displaced hair. Harrigan seethed beside him, wobbling upright.

  “Our country must be protected, de la Vega,” retorted Harrigan. “Without apology.”

  “By blackmailing your own people?” asked Alejandro. “You call that a democracy?”

  Pike brushed off his suit. “When national security’s at stake, we can’t afford to be democratic.”

  Harrigan spat blood at Alejandro’s feet. “Zorro’s a relic of the past.” He snatched up the fallen mask and dangled it before him once more. “This belongs in a museum. So do you.”

  With a pair of well-rehearsed looks of contempt, the pair turned their backs on Alejandro and sauntered out the door.

  Alejandro stared at them from wolf-like eyes, his blood rising with his murderous rage.

  Within the sumptuous bedroom which Elena had until recently shared with Alejandro, the lovely spy sat before her silver mirror, unable to look herself in the eye—the same problem she had suffered ever since the divorce had become final. Elena peered at her hands, feeling naked without the comfort of her wedding band. Angry crimson streaks slanted in from the balcony as dusk engulfed the horizon. She gazed at the red hues washing over her flesh as if they foretold of the actual blood that might be on her hands if she did not follow the Pinkertons’ instructions.

  Turning from the mirror, Elena selected an emerald and black dress she was certain would entice Armand. The corset was so tight she would be able to feel its whalebone ribbing digging into her skin the entire evening. The neckline plunged, her arms shone through an alluring sheer mesh. She had planned to wear this dress the night California was officially declared a state, celebrating freedom for her people—and her family. Now it had been reduced to another calculated tool of manipulation.

  She winced, sadness stabbing at her soul.

  Gazing down at her jewelry, Elena wondered why she had allowed material objects like her dress and the scattering of keepsakes before her to hold such power. The memories held in her head and her heart, her dreams, the hopes she still nurtured—weren’t these infinitely more important? Was she really a shallow princess, a silly little fool so enrapt in her fantasies that she would passively accept her lot in life, allowing herself to be caged by her expectations and wants, so long as the cage was sufficiently gilded?

  No. She was stronger than that. She was fighting for her life, for her family. And the objects before her were reminders of that, talismans of power that boosted her resolve to reclaim all she had lost.

  Her hand traced the outline of a diamond studded silver butterfly broach, a gift from Alejandro on their first wedding anniversary. She recalled how her heart had skipped a beat when she first beheld his gift, the fire rising within her when she turned from it to set her loving eyes on his.

  They say the butterfly signifies the soul, Mi Amor, he had murmured, touching her hair in that certain way that only he could. When this is near you, know that I have given you my soul along with my heart, now and forever…

  Elena trembled, her head suddenly light. It was magnificent! Her emotions so overwhelmed her that all she could think to do—so that she might regain some measure of control—was to buy some time by teasing him with a few words that were clearly the opposite of how she truly felt. Ah,
what am I to do with you, my foolish love? I can see just how this came into existence. You pass a butterfly on the way to work, and visit that jeweler whose daughter you saved from kidnappers. Did he spin you this yarn to tell me about your heart and soul?

  Of course not, Alejandro said, doing his best to force back his broad smile as he recognized the silly little game she was playing. He was already imagining the passionate conclusion to which it would inevitably lead. You have my brother to thank for that. He instructed me well in the ways to melt a woman’s heart and land her in my bed, even if she’s not the prettiest I might find. Miss Right Now, not Miss Right, if you catch my meaning…Hold on, let me see if my wife is coming!

  Swine, she laughed heartily. And did you not know that silver is for the twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, diamond the thirtieth?

  He deftly drew the broach away from her, using his magician’s lightning quick touch. You’re right. I’ll hold onto this in the meantime, then.

  A single protest and moments later all pretense and playfulness was gone. Her emotions overcame her and she nearly wept with joy at the beauty of his gift as she covered his face with kisses. Then she was wearing the broach on a thin gleaming chain…the broach and nothing else.

  When they’d made love that night, he’d whispered in her ear about a single crib he’d considered carving, one to sit beside Joaquin’s…she’d cried, allowing him to believe they were tears of joy, of ecstasy as their bodies had crashed together. In truth, she had been reminded of the secret she was keeping from him, the words of their doctor after Joaquin’s difficult birth, sadly informing her that she was not likely to ever become pregnant again.

  Her fingers withdrew from the icy surface of the broach as if they had been burned. Then, trembling, she caressed its surface once more, before choosing other jewelry to wear this night. Anger flared in her dark eyes as she thought of what Alejandro had said the night before. How could he have made such accusations? Even if he didn’t believe the things he was saying and had only wished to hurt her, how could the man she loved have become so cruel?

  She peered at her own reflection. You know who’s to blame.

  Elena rose and glided to the balcony, where the bird given to her by the Pinkertons waited in its gently swaying cage. The pigeon cocked his head from side to side. Elena had considered naming him, then thought better of it. She had no intention of becoming complacent in her captivity. She had to view her current circumstances as temporary—or else she might go quite mad.

  Elena carefully removed the pigeon from its cage and attached her message to its foot. She carried the little gray bird to the open window, releasing it with a flash of hope. The pigeon fluttered off, quickly disappearing into the distance.

  “Soon, we’ll both be free…’’ she whispered. Turning away from the window, she was greeted was a deafening silence.

  When had her home become so deathly quiet?

  She knew the answer to that, as well. It was the day she told Joaquin that she was divorcing his father.

  The urge to see her son one last time before departing for Armand’s hacienda overwhelmed her. She burst from the room and stole down the hall. Her son’s door was open and Elena peered in to see Joaquin sitting at his desk, pouring over a black leather-bound volume Fray Felipe had loaned him. He was studying for confirmation, the one subject that truly seemed to interest him these days…other than Zorro, of course.

  “I’ll be back soon—” she began, smiling and trying her best to sound as if all were right with the world.

  Joaquin cut her off savagely. “Bye.”

  Elena was stung by his callous tone, but she knew it was the power of the very young to wound their parents with a mere look or sharp quip—and have no idea that they were doing it.

  He’s brooding again because he doesn’t like when I leave him alone, she decided. All this will be over soon, and then I can tell him the truth.

  A deep, troubling voice from her past rose up in her thoughts. The man who had raised her as his own asked, The truth, dear Elena? And what is that? Will you tell him that his father is Zorro? That you lied to him for so long?

  Elena forced such thoughts away. She would do what was best for her family when the time came.

  She shuddered. If only she could believe that.

  “Adios, Mi Amor,” whispered Elena. With a heavy heart she closed the door and set off on her mission.

  Within his room, Joaquin prepared for a mission of his own. He waited until the carriage sent by the count to round up his mother had departed, then he listened by his door for the heavy tread of the servants as they made their nightly rounds. He’d propped the door open so that anyone who thought to check on him would see exactly what his mother had seen: Joaquin hard at work as he studied for his confirmation. The expected footfalls arrived moments later, accompanied by a low, deep rumble of approval, then his door was pulled shut again by his watchers.

  Safe!

  Joaquin leaped to his feet and bounded for the window. Easing it open, he slid onto the branches of the great twisting tree beyond and skittered down its familiar reaches. He navigated the darkness outside the hacienda and quickly arrived at the stables, where his trusty steed waited. Calming his bold, heroic partner in adventure, he straddled his mount and kicked its flanks.

  And waited.

  “Come on come on come on,” begged Joaquin, “we have to go!”

  The burro beneath him snorted, unimpressed, and remained stock-still. Joaquin couldn’t understand this. He and the donkey were friends, weren’t they? Couldn’t the animal sense the urgency of his mood? Tornado had responded to Zorro as if the two were one. Of course, Tornado was a magnificent stallion. Not a—

  “Stupid ass!” bellowed Joaquin. “Move!”

  The donkey sneezed and looked around in confusion. It eyed the open stable doors in wonderment, the inviting patch of moonlight communicating something that wasn’t quite clear…

  Joaquin sighed and patted the donkey’s flank. “Okay, you’re not a stupid ass…how ’bout I give you a name. From now on, you are the great…The Great Burrito! Okay, okay, not burrito. Uh…Earthquake! Diablo!” Joaquin sputtered helplessly, “Lightning!”

  The burro brayed its approval and rocked excitedly.

  “Lightning?” Joaquin asked encouragingly. “Okay! Go, Lightning!”

  Happily clip-clopping onward, Lightning cleared the stables, the cool evening breezes brushing his flanks and lightly rustling Joaquin’s hair. As Joaquin’s mount slowly shambled and shuffled ahead, the lad pictured the two of them framed against the heavy moon—knowing then the image paled in comparison to the vision of Zorro and Tornado that had danced in his dreams.

  “All right,” Joaquin said, patting Lightning’s flank. “So this may take a while. I’ll tell you what, we’ll play a little game. I will recited for you the speech I have prepared for the vile usurping count, the one I will deliver to him this very night. I am the man of the house now, after all—it is my duty!”

  Lightning snorted and slowed just a bit.

  Sighing, Joaquin spurred him on, shouting, “Count-Whatever-Your-Name-Is, you have insulted my family’s honor! You have bewitched my fair mama and sought to claim all we have as your own. You care nothing for honor, else you would have come to me seeking permission to ask my mother’s hand. Now you must redress this insult. I challenge you to a duel, brigand!” Joaquin whipped out his slingshot. “With the weapon of my choice.”

  He pictured the count quaking before him, sinking to his knees and weeping hysterically. Yes, that is exactly how it would be. The count would go away and never return!

  As they lazily trundled on through a barren field, Joaquin asked, “Lightning, what do you know about this count fellow, eh? His accent sounds French to me and—”

  Joaquin gasped. The pieces of a puzzle that had been before him for weeks suddenly fell into place, forming a picture that struck raw terror in his mind. He’d heard two of the servants gossiping about a “mystery
man” who had swept into town from a foreign land, determined to secure “the most beautiful light in all the heavens” and “return with her to his palace in his homeland,” where he held “great title.”

  This count was not only going to marry his mother, but he planned to pack up his conquest and take her home to live like royalty—and mama had said yes.

  “He will want me to become a ‘gentleman,’ ” Joaquin gasped, “a member of the aristocracy, the ruling class…an oppressor!”

  It was of course quite true that Joaquin already was, like it or not, a member of the Spanish aristocracy. He was a caballero, son of a member of the Spanish ruling class in California, but he did not think of himself in such terms, and with California becoming a state, such considerations would soon be meaningless. Clutching his trusty slingshot, Joaquin trembled with fear. He had no doubt that he could face this man down and turn him into a quivering mound of jelly with his manly fierceness. But going against his mama…only one man had ever done that before and won.

  The man in question was one he would just as soon have nothing to do with, but there was no choice. “Lightning, please! We have to find Papi!”

  The burro nodded glumly and plodded along.

  Joaquin glumly gazed at the road in the distance, calculating how long it would take to reach the heart of the city on foot.

  Maybe he would just walk the distance.

  The sky folded its wings over the high windows of the Peckinpah Hotel, dusk lending a fine shadow to the clouds. Irvin Harrigan stood near the open window of the room he shared with his partner and chewed his nails. A vulgar habit, he knew, but he was a vulgar man, and he had made peace with that fact a long time ago. His partner, Theonius Pike, was annoyingly relaxed, sitting on his chair with his feet propped up on a little table, a book helping him to pass the time.