Do They Know I'm Running

He had their full attention now. Repetition of the word “dead” tended to do that.

“Okay, you’ve still got the two areas at extreme angles on either side of the door, deep back near the far corners, right? Maybe nobody’s there. Maybe there’s one guy, you don’t know which side. Maybe there’s two, one on each side. You commit-choose one side, step into the doorway, strong-side foot forward, aim toward the space, but check back over your shoulder, boom, just a glance, tenth of a second tops. Be decisive, keep moving, that’s your advantage. You see something, pivot, drop to a knee, fire up at the guy, chest shots, head shots. If there’s two, hit the guy behind you first, then pivot back for the one in front. If you’re still alive, clear the rest of the room.”

He guided them through stairwells next, same fundamentals, different geometry, emphasizing decisiveness, mobility, aggression. Efraim, as always, proved the model student, careful with his footwork, mindful, precise. Next to him, even Puchi looked sorry. At times the vato showed real promise, the makings of a stone killer, but at some point his concentration always broke, he played down to his audience, Chato. It became just another round of what-the-fuck to them, sharp one minute, sloppy the next, no clue how easy it was to die. Christ, you didn’t even need to be stupid. He’d seen it, men he knew, buddies, crashing through a doorway, responding to the shadow in the corner a snap too late. And yet only a sniveler could be so weak, he thought, as to convince himself there’s a smart way to die.

Twenty-Two

ROQUE WATCHED THE THREE FIGURES EMERGE FROM THE SHADOWS of the southerly ravine. Humilde led, with Tio Faustino trudging behind with a bit of a limp. He looked thinner from a distance too, something Roque dismissed as a trick of the eye. Samir brought up the rear with an ungainly lope, clutching the soft leather bag at his hip. No zopilotes lazed overhead, waiting for someone to falter. A good sign, Roque supposed.

Lupe was curled up in the backseat, sleeping, pretending to sleep. He remembered what she’d said, How dare you? Get used too often, he supposed, kindness begins to look like nothing more than step one in getting screwed. He wanted to feel for her. He wanted to feel clean. He wasn’t sure either was possible. Or wise.

He glanced back at the three men laboring up the ravine. A cooling wind caught their backs, though he suspected the day would heat up soon. By early evening they’d be in Tecun Uman, the opposite end of the country, assuming the roads were clear, no problems at the checkpoints. They were to go to the Posada Rico and ask for a man named Beto. He would take care of the border crossing into Mexico and through Chiapas.

As the three of them came within earshot, Roque considered calling out but merely waved, a gesture Tio Faustino, slogging waist-deep through swaying grass, listlessly returned, breaking into a smile. The smile of a man with a nice-guy death wish, Roque thought. Was that really such an unforgivable thing?

Humilde gestured for water as the three men staggered up and Chita, the owner of the chalete, plucked three bottles from a cooler and handed one to each. They drank in parched gulps, scratching at the tick bites on their legs. Tio Faustino had a particularly nasty spider bite on his ankle as well. Probing the tender flesh with his thumb, he glanced up at Roque.-Maybe Lupe would spare some of her magic cream?

Roque went off to ask. Rapping lightly on the glass where Lupe’s head rested, he waited for her to stir, sit up, crank down the window. A funky wave of heat greeted his face.

– My uncle was wondering if you had any of the heparin cream left.

She mumbled something, rubbed her good eye, rummaged around in the plastic bag that held her clothes and medicine-everything she owned now. Finding the half-depleted tube, she handed it to Roque.-What happened?

He turned away, not answering. What do you care, he thought, biting his tongue.

Tio Faustino was holding a small jagged chunk of ice dredged from Chita’s cooler against the spider bite as Roque returned. Dabbing the welt dry, he applied a smidge of cream, gingerly rubbed it in. Without glancing up, he asked,-So how is she doing?

Samir snorted.-She’s not your problem. Stop worrying about her.

– She’s okay. Roque didn’t know how much he should say in front of Humilde, didn’t know how much had already been said.-She sleeps a lot.

The coyote shook his wrist, rattling his watch around so he could check the time.-You should get going. You’ll want to reach Tecun Uman before dark. It’s a bad place to get lost.

TIO FAUSTINO, WHO NEVER FELT MORE AT HOME THAN BEHIND THE wheel, gave in to his exhaustion and the stiff swollen ankle, telling Roque he should drive. There was a far more difficult crossing ahead that night and he wouldn’t be alone in needing rest.

Lupe kept her perch in front, Samir and Tio piled in back. As the car pulled away from the chalete there were no farewell waves, no shouts of “bueno suerte.” Roque wondered what had happened overnight to create such a chill, though on reflection he could understand not wanting to get too close to people you knew you’d never see again except for bad luck.

The two-lane road curved gently through rock-etched hills, small cane fields, patches of dense green forest. Roque marveled at how empty the countryside was, only the occasional champa of scrap and tin, so unlike El Salvador with its crowding, its overworked land, as though a switch got thrown at the border- one moment you’re in India, the next you’re on the moon.

In the backseat, directly behind Lupe, Tio Faustino drifted in and out of a rumbling, fidgety, leg-scratching sleep. Occasionally, giving it up, he would gaze out his window and hum softly, the inevitable “Sin Ti.” From guilt, perhaps, or self-consciousness, Lupe glanced over her shoulder at him and, this was the strange part, began to hum along. Tio fought back a smile, eyes closed, humming in inadvertent harmony now, given his lamentable pitch. Finally, as though from some unspoken signal, they both began to sing, their voices barely rising above a whisper:

Sin ti

Es inutil vivir

Without you

It is useless to live

Using English, to shut Lupe out, Samir said, “Old man? You sing like a dying goat.”

Tio Faustino chuckled, then winked at Lupe.-No, my friend, I know what a dying goat sounds like. A whole truckload of them, actually. I’ll tell you about it sometime.

The car topped a steep grade, then rushed down a blind curve into a deeply gorged valley, thick with shadow. Roque didn’t spot the roadblock until too late-not soldiers, not cops. An unmarked pickup sat lengthwise in the road, right at a pinch point, the rock faces looming close to either side. There was no way to steer around. Four pistoleros, two in the truck bed, the other two on the ground, aimed their guns at the Corolla, bandannas masking their faces.

“Stop! Back up!” Samir pounded the seat behind Roque’s head. “Now! Fast!”

Roque braked, reached for the gearshift, but then one of the pistoleros, aiming skyward, fired off a shot and the air in the tight ravine cracked open with the sound. Roque froze, remembering the uneasy lack of farewells or good wishes at the chalete. Humilde had betrayed them, set them up. No, he thought. That can’t be true. Please don’t let that be true.

Samir, gripping the seat back, pulled himself forward, hissing in Roque’s ear: “I know you are afraid, but you have to do it. Now-reverse!”

The two masked men approached the car, twenty yards away, closing. Above them to either side, jags of weathered stone thrust upward, flecked with scrub. A black zanate, rousted by the gunshot from its perch on one of the overhangs, winged down and away into the swallowing darkness. Roque at last felt something turn, his hand blindly sought the gear knob, fumbled, found it-he jammed the transmission into reverse, floored the gas pedal and turned to look out through the back window as another shot rang out.

He’d gone no more than thirty yards when he realized there was a pickup behind them as well, breaking the