Diego had once told her a story about the weirdness of looking through a scope and seeing a Taliban fighter in a Van Halen T-shirt. “All this old U.S. culture shit, the excess T-shirts that never got sold, they make their way to these countries like ten years too late,” he’d said. “And then you’re looking through the scope getting all nostalgic, like, ‘Yeah, man, I danced to that song with Zhanna Aronov at my prom.’ And then you shoot the fucker.” She had exactly two seconds to wonder if the shirt was some kind of political statement or just another bit of evidence of the reach of U.S. capitalism. And then they dragged her off the truck and the pain spiked again.
She was standing before them. Or, rather, standing above them. They were short. Really short. And her body was aching, she was trying to stand straight, as though there was some kind of pride to be found there, but she looked at the ground and it seemed like a much better place to be.
The shortest one, the one in the Rage Against the Machine shirt, seemed to be in charge. He inspected her silently, then turned to her captors.
“Why is she bleeding?”
Her captors looked at the ground.
“Did you take her phone?”
They said nothing, and he stepped forward and grabbed her sides, feeling for her pockets, and his touch against her caused pain to bloom, an onset so fierce her vision disappeared and she found herself holding him, arms on his shoulders and her legs weak underneath her, clutching him for support, and he threw her off, thinking she was attacking him, and she fell to the ground and one of the others kicked her, but it barely registered. So strange, that his hands were so painful, not meaning to be, but work boots colliding into her bruised side, the sound of it a dull thump against bruised meat, painless, as if it were no more than the distant sound of a woman pounding a piece of veal in another room. She couldn’t feel it. Above her, somewhere, was a scuffle, and a shouted word whose meaning she didn’t catch. Then Rage Against the Machine knelt by her and said, “I am sorry.” She felt his hands on her pants, her phone sliding out of her pocket, and then, in a resigned voice, Rage Against the Machine saying, “Now the Sia knows where we are.”
And she wanted to laugh, she did. But also, she was pretty sure they were going to kill her.
—
Jefferson was fat. That’s all Valencia could think, seeing him in the flesh. Not obese, and not fat in the way Luisa was fat, where her bulk contributed to a kind of presence. He was just fat. He looked like what he said he was—a rich rancher who lived well, ate well, and liked to spread his money around. He had a small black mustache, a checkered shirt, tan work pants that were too big for him, and a pistol tucked into his belt. He was unimpressive. Somebody’s rich uncle.
“Jefferson,” Professor Agudelo said, acknowledging his presence flatly. The other workers and students stood around the room, waiting for something to happen. Luisa looked at him with visible disgust.
“I heard you were attacked,” he said. “I am so sorry.”
So this was a paramilitary commander. This was the man who’d cornered Alma, called out, Hey Jhon, you wanna eat? Hey Hector, you want to eat? and then watched as they raped her. There was a rumor that Jefferson had killed Luisa’s father. There was a rumor that when he came to town, he’d tortured every Urabeño who wouldn’t swear allegiance. He should look more substantive. He should have a scar on his face, a long crooked scar. A square jaw. Jefferson’s face was pocked, as though he’d had acne as a child, and it was fleshy. His eyes didn’t fix on any one person, but seemed to float lazily around the room as he asked questions about what happened and what the journalist had been doing outside of La Vigia. As the first shock of fear subsided, Valencia began to feel oddly disappointed. Look at him. Just another lump of flesh and blood, like the rest of us.
“The foundation will put out a statement to the media,” Jefferson said, “saying that the journalist was taken by the guerrilla.”
“We don’t know who she was taken by,” Luisa said.
“I am telling you what you will say.”
“Bogotá will not put out a statement that is not verified,” Professor Agudelo said.
“Then verify it.”
Jefferson stood up and a flash of pain came across his face. He looked weak and almost pathetic for a second, but then he got control of himself and looked proudly around the room. He walked to Valencia.
“Where are you from, pretty?” he said.
“Bogotá.”
“You’re studying law?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head. “You should be a beauty queen first. Then go study law.”
Valencia said nothing, felt nothing. Jefferson turned to Sara, who stared at him hatefully.
“You,” Jefferson said. “You go study law.”
He turned back to Luisa.
“I want it known that it was country people who took the journalist.”
“And if we do this for you,” Luisa said, “what do you do for us?”
It seemed to surprise Jefferson, who paused, gave Luisa a measured look, and then laughed.
“It will be very bad here if that journalist is not found quickly. Am I wrong?”
“Perhaps,” Luisa said.
“When death comes,” he said, “he doesn’t come to take just one.”
Luisa smiled, her lips tight.
Jefferson stood up. “The police sergeant should be here soon. Let him know what happened. Country people!”
—
Luisa knew it wasn’t Jefferson. She knew he was smart. She knew he was methodical. She knew he wouldn’t jeopardize his position with some foolhardy, dramatic act. She also knew
