Redemption's Warrior (17 page)

Christopher had bowed his head. Looking up, his eyes shine. “Thank you Anna. Your words give me hope.”

Surprising Christopher yet again she’d pulled him to her for a quick hug. She said, “Christopher I did not tell you God’s Favor is in your future to give you hopes. The words that come through me are a gift of prophecy. I cannot change this about me anymore than you can change the gifts special to you. Our only choice is to ignore them or enhance them.”

“Yes Ma’am,” Christopher said with respect as he’d reached, barely limping, for the door.

“And Christopher,” Anna smiled, “Never forget the power of love.”

The next day Christopher had taken Anna and her husband a basket of eggs. Now he thinks
Anna is the only one on the island able to heal Checo’s burn and bitterness.

To counteract Checo’s disapproval Christopher gathers the colors of the golden sun from his belly before he speaks. “Checo, if you’d meet with Anna once you’d change your mind about her. Please think about seeing Anna.” The words sit untouched between them. Checo’s face does not flinch. Making no eye contact he says, “I’m not interested Christopher. Drop it.”

• • •

One bright morning Christopher sees familiar faces step off the weekly supply ship.
El Jefe
assists his sultry wife Carmen disembarking from the boat. Fat Luis follows close behind.

Christopher’s heart begins a war drum thump. Here is Fat Luis, his link to the Vargas fishing boat and possibly escape. In this single instant his life transforms, the endless waiting over. Now danger and positive possibilities juggle in a never ending pirouette.

Preoccupied with his plan Christopher almost doesn’t notice the look on Checo’s face. A black rage shimmers around Checo. For the first time in many weeks Christopher sees the Jaguar. It’s mouth open in a silent scream, the cat leaps toward
El Jefe
.

Gently Checo puts his hand to his check. The injury is part scar, part open wound.
Ave Bonita
dives streaking across the sky.
This will require watching
, thinks Christopher.

F
reedom. Christopher’s flight for freedom has arrived. Freedom runs through him like an electrical current. Each morning his eyes snap open and his heart thunders in his chest. Nothing can contain the adrenalin pouring through his veins, firing his muscles.
La Luna’s
suffocating grip has changed him. In a fever of anticipation he lives on borrowed time with
El Jefe’s
return. Each night he wonders if he’ll be dragged into the jungle for a slow death before he can organize events in his favor.

On the surface he pretends to be relaxed. He offers help where needed at work. He practices martial arts because they have all come to expect this behavior. In reality he’s living a double life. The strain cracks his composure.

Occasionally he catches Checo’s eyes on him, watching, gazing speculatively.
Does he know? Does he suspect I’m planning escape?
He misses his beautiful Juanita. Their future never had a chance once her father decided to outrun Olivia. Time will have to work its healing. First he must escape. Return to his family. The memory of Juanita’s brightness will carry him home.

• • •

Christopher discovers
El Jefe
and Checo nose to nose just outside the inmate kitchen. Christopher has only seen Checo’s jaguar once since his beating,
El Jefe’s
shoulders swollen with the fighting stance of a bull, both are surrounded with a grainy red streaked aura of combat. Black bolts attached to the dispute arc the distance between the two men.
Why would
El Jefe
be by the prisoner’s kitchen
?

Grabbing his whip
El Jefe
transforms the yelling match into a fight. He is forestalled by Checo’s long reach. Wrenching the braided handle away Checo crashes his arm upward breaking
El Jefe’s
grip. The length of leather lashes out.
Ave Bonita
screams violently swooping over Checo’s shoulder. Her beak, claws and wingspan add to the confusion.

The whip in his control Checo strikes out. His fury focused in this one moment. The ribbon of leather crashes over
El Jefe’s
face and shoulder. Checo yanks the leather toward him transforming it into a cutting blade ripping
El Jefe’s
clothes tearing his face, carving his shoulder and biting into muscle. Christopher is horrified to see the whip has cut all the way to the bone. The white of
El Jefe’s
collar bone is clearly visible. He roars head down for a charge, infuriated.

Christopher shoves his way between the two men. Turning to face Checo, he pries his fingers off the grip of the whip handle. Speaking in a calm but urgent voice Christopher talks Checo down from his fury. If Checo cannot contain himself, if he cannot pull in his anger and function within the realm of the prison authority, under the jurisdiction of the guards, he will die. Before sunset.

Dislodging the whip Christopher turns, sandwiched between the two men. He hand hands the leather stick back to
El Jefe
. Now he can see the corner of
El Jefe’s
mouth has been carved away. Christopher stoically watches deep red liquid pool in the crevice of
El Jefe’s
mouth and leak down his chin. A scar will cover the wound, his mouth forever altered. He’ll need stiches for his lip and collarbone.

The men march away in opposite directions. Christopher worries
if the guards come for Checo in the middle of the night they may decide to take me as well. Just for the efficiency of killing two in the time it takes to kill one.
Islas Tres Marias
has become too small for those two. Death is stalking Checo and he doesn’t seem to care.

Christopher doesn’t know what to do. Checo is closed off.
I’ll have to make my move soon. Before we are both dragged into the jungle and left to disintegrate on the bone pile.

Checo’s head throbs. In the foggy distance he can hear the distressed chatter of
Ave Bonita
. He tries to open his eyes. They are stuck shut with clotting blood. He raises his hand to brush free his eyelids. While he can feel his brain transmit the message to his muscles, his hand does not arrive at his face.

His brain sent the correct message. Something wrong, he does a mental scan.
My body stands upright. What’s going on here? Am I encased in concrete?
He cannot remember what happened, having difficulty thinking clearly. How did he get in this predicament? Fueled by his panic one blood encrusted eye pops open. He hears laughter behind him but he can’t turn his head. The realization slowly dawns on him. He is buried up to his neck in sand. He yells. “Stop the joke!”

He screams, “HELPPPP, HELLLPPPP.”

A terrible dread turns his insides liquid. Checo’s clouded brain clears enough to identify the man’s laughter. Yes, he knows this laughter. His fears confirmed when the crack and boom of a whip lashes his head and the man speaks the final words Checo will hear, “
Adios amigo.
”

The tide inches forward with each surge. Checo screams and screams. No one hears over the incoming surf.

When Checo doesn’t show up for dinner inmates feel uneasy. A vibrant figure in prison life, his physical strength radiates confidence and inspires admiration. Even the guards admire Checo. Some secretly cheered when Checo gained control of
El Jefe’s
whip.

As night falls, rumors spread fast. Checo does not arrive for lights out. By morning he is still missing. Prisoners grow silent. In the quiet a menace swells. The guards announce Checo went swimming. He is assumed drowned, accidental drowning.

Inmates know
El Jefe
stalks Checo. Who else would have masterminded his disappearance? The prison grapevine confirms the rumor.
Ave Bonita
has been observed following
El Jefe
in his jeep. She swoops and squawks, aiming for the eyes, over and over. A sight repeated throughout the island racing along the prison rumor mill.

Christopher searches for Checo on the back side of the island. He goes to the salt pits and then the boneyard they discovered together. He finds no sign of Checo or foul play.

He walks the agave fields but finds nothing. He explores the lower, easily accessible cliffs and some of the higher west facing cliffs.

Unsettled he goes to the cliff above the dock where he and Juanita sat. He sits waiting for a sign. Anxiety unrelenting, skittering across his synaptic nerve endings and the chasm of what he knows and doesn’t know about Checo’s disappearance.

As the tide pulls out he notices a group of seagulls huddled around what looks like a beach ball.

Christopher hurries down to investigate.

As he approaches the smell keeps him away. Checo’s head swollen with salt water, seagulls have eaten the most delicate tissues, the eyes. Christopher turns and vomits. He wretches and gags until his insides litter the sand around him. Every drop of bile excavated he stands with resolution. Saying a brief prayer for Checo’s spirit he turns away and walks purposefully to his cave.

He has already calculated the Vargas boat returns tonight for a fishing run tomorrow. Christopher has counted the cycle of their fishing pattern for the last months even before the devastation of Hurricane Olivia.

He finds Fat Luis lounging in his jeep just outside the administration gates in front of the church. Blood singing through his veins, heart rate accelerating Christopher approaches Luis with the bottle of Champagne.

“Hey Luis, look what I found. I came across it looking for my chickens. It’s yours. I don’t drink Champagne.”

Taking the gift the obese man ogles the bottle. His fingers leave a greasy trail across the glass.

Watching him Christopher wonders
did you watch Checo die
?

Luis looks speculatively at him. “What do you want Christopher?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs, “nothing but maybe some fresh barbequed fish. Check with
El Jefe
and see if we should buy more fish?”

Fat Luis drools and carefully wipes away the spittle pooled at the corners of his mouth. “Good idea. I miss fresh fish myself.”

Disgusted Christopher thinks
you can’t make this stuff up
. The line cast. The hook set when later in the afternoon Fat Luis tells Christopher to be ready the next morning for a fish run. Christopher spends the rest of the afternoon digging barbeque pits. He strategically places them parallel to the beach.

Mid-morning the next day Fat Luis and Christopher speed across a flat sea towards the Vargas fishing boat. Vargas looks up at the approaching launch. “
Mijo
, our easy money is back. Prepare to tie up.”

Leon adjusts his hat, removes his sunglasses stowing them in his shirt pocket. The launch, drifting, collides gently against the rubber dock bumpers. Christopher jumps forward to assist in tying the lines. He vaults aboard the fishing boat. After a quick greeting, his back to Fat Luis, he presses a thick wad of
dineros
into Vargas’s hand. Quietly he says, “There is more to come. Let’s go below and look at your catch. I will explain.”

Fat Luis pops open a soda. He leans back in the Captain’s chair and puts up his swollen feet. He leaves the conversations and selection of fish up to Christopher.

Vargas senior mops his head with a large bandana grateful for a moment in the cool shad below the deck. He’s tense, uncertain, yet knowing the contents of the conversation to come. He has never fully recovered from the devastating news that the man he shot, his only crime was that of a brother protecting a sister.

In a very personal way he will never fully trust the judicial system again. When it comes to his boat and justice he will come to his own decisions, a new and uncomfortable responsibility. He fears his decisions will be challenged today by Christopher.

Tossing open the hatch, exposing the catch, he looks at Christopher. He slaps him on the back. “What is this dinero?”

“Two thousand
pesos,
” says Christopher, “the first half of your payment. Smuggle me to Mazatlan. Tonight I will swim to you here.” He hopes it will be enough.

The silence stretches.

Vargas shakes his head. “I am a fool.”

Grabbing Christopher’s bicep, squeezing, he says, “I’ll help you. Providing I don’t see anyone chasing you,” he qualifies.

“You’re a good man Christopher. I’ve watched you over these months. I don’t know what mischief brought you, to
Islas Tres Marias.
But I’ll help you get free of her grip.”

They briefly sketch out a plan.

Vargas turns and speaks loudly, “Okay, three tuna and ten Dorado today.”

They need Fat Luis to think it is business as usual. Together they climb to the deck. After loading the last fish Christopher swings himself over the railing landing lightly on the launch. Reaching his hand toward Fat Luis, Vargas takes his money. Luis steers the launch back toward the dock.

The reality of his escape buzzes through Christopher like a high frequency whine. He tightens his hands into fists biting down on his lip. Backing away from Fat Luis he crouches by the fish hoping to be invisible. Swiveling his head Luis shields his eyes. “What’s the matter with you
gringo
? You look like a girl guarding her dolls.” Fat Luis takes a long pull on his soda. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen. I’m nineteen.”

“What did you do? Steal? Drugs?”

Gathering his strength, centering his attention, Christopher pulls himself into the moment glaring on the tuna. He worries he’ll hyper-ventilate. He prays not to do something unthinking and stupid that will reveal his plan. He grips the railing. Leaning in toward Luis he yells. “I didn’t steal. When I turned eighteen I brought my Chevy that I’d spent years… Years!” His outrage has brought him to hyper-ventilate. Just the moment he was seeking to avoid. Seething, he screams, “My Dad and I spent four years restoring the Chevy! That tuck and roll upholstery, that skunk, stole my car!”

Fat Luis laughs and his belly heaves and jiggles. Orange soda spills down his pants and still he laughs. “What are you talking about
gringo
? A skunk stole your car and you were sent to
Islas Tres Marias
?”