The Body of Martin Aguilera (13 page)

Lewis saw a fence and two men behind it searching for something. Then he was dizzy. He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them, trying to see more clearly. He heard a rustling and so he stopped, looked around. He stepped toward some bushes for cover. He heard another sound. In a forest without animals, any noise screamed. Then there were footsteps, definitely footsteps. Something had him. A hand was over Lewis' mouth, the gun out of his grasp. He tried to kick and his legs were grabbed. All he could do was look and he saw Ignacio in front of him, controlling his legs and holding a finger to pursed lips. Lewis nodded and the hand fell from his face. He looked behind him and there was Ernesto. Ernesto wasn't looking, but listening.

Lewis tried to breathe normally, quietly.

“Did you two follow me?” Lewis asked.

“Yes,” Ignacio said.

“You're a crazy old man,” Ernesto said.

Lewis nodded.

“I thought about what you said,” Ignacio said. “But it's not up to me alone.”

Lewis realized that they were supporting more and more of his weight. Ernesto said something to him, but he couldn't make it out. He tried to speak, but he wasn't sure his mouth was moving.

“Do you hear it?” Lewis thought he was saying.

“What?” Ignacio asked.

“Listen.”

He could see Ignacio and Ernesto talking to each other.

“Listen.” His tongue felt huge in his mouth.

He read Ignacio's lips to say, “It's okay.”

“No birds,” he said. “No animals.”

The brothers stopped walking and listened. Lewis passed out.

Chapter Twenty-four

It was Mala. Lewis focused. Mala the Doberman sat with unblinking eyes, watching Lewis, his tongue moving back and forth in a slow pant. Lewis frowned, his head hurting as he raised it. He was on a sofa. An Indian blanket was over the lower half of his body. He looked under the cover and saw his legs. He was without trousers, though his underwear remained. Mala closed his mouth and leaned forward. Lewis didn't move. The dog put his cold nose against the side of Lewis' face. Lewis petted Mala's head, then sat up, keeping the blanket over his lap. The room was furnished with mismatched chairs and a large china closet, partially filled, in a corner. A television was on across the room. It was dark outside and the room was lit by two ornate standing lamps, one with a ripped shade so that light blared out of it like noise. Lewis looked away from it. Mala stood and leaned his head against Lewis' thigh. Lewis stroked him some more. Lewis could hear that it was raining outside. He thought how they really needed rain, then laughed. What good could rain do for dead people? He looked at his hands. They had been washed, but the scratches were plain to see.

Slowly, everything came back. Lewis remembered the fence, the masked men, Ignacio and Ernesto. He pulled up the blanket from the bottom to look at his leg. The wound had been dressed neatly in gauze and surgical tape. He could see the sink of the lighted kitchen from where he sat. He heard a rustling and he remembered the woods again.

Ignacio's teenage daughter walked in from the kitchen with an open bag of potato chips. She stopped when she saw Lewis sitting up. “You're awake,” she said.

Lewis nodded, still petting Mala's head.

“I see you made a friend,” the girl said. She sat in an over-stuffed chair in front of the television. “How do you feel?”

“Okay. Did you put the bandage on for me?”

“Me and my daddy.”

“Gracias.”

“No hay de que.”

They sat quietly for a couple of minutes, the girl looking at the set. “What are you watching?” Lewis asked.

“Something about monkeys.
Wild Kingdom
, something like that.”

“Any good?”

“I like nature shows.” She looked at him, offered him chips.

“No, thank you. May I have some water though?”

“Sure.” She got up and went to the kitchen. She came back with a tall glass of water with ice.

“Gracias.”

She returned to her chair, turned up the sound.

Lewis sipped the water. “Where is your father?”

“He said he'd be back soon.”

Lewis looked around the room again. There was a cross on the wall over the mantel of the fireplace. “Where is your mother?”

“My mother is dead,” the girl said without taking her eyes off the television.

“Me llamo Lewis.”

“Carla,” she said.

“Pleased to meet you,” Lewis said. “I wish it could be under other circumstances.” He put his glass down on the coffee table, looked at the old newspapers and magazines. “How long has it been raining?”

“About an hour, off and on.”

“We need it,” he said.

Carla pointed at the screen. “I think they know they're being cute.”

Mala walked away from Lewis, barked once and sat facing the door. Lewis watched the muscles of the dog's body, smooth and tense. Someone knocked.

Lewis knew someone was there before the knock. The girl had to know it too, but she didn't turn her attention from the monkeys until she heard it. She got up and went to the door, opened it an inch.

“Buenas tardes, Carla,”
a man said.

“Sheriff,” she said. Mala stood. Carla held up a hand and told him to stay. He sat again.

“Como esta usted?”

“I'm okay.” The girl held the door where it was and let Manny stand out in the rain. “No one is here but me.”

“Donde puedo encontrar Ignacio?”

“I don't know where he is?”

“Tell him we found his truck.”

“Okay.”

“May I use your telephone?” Manny asked.

Lewis tried to get up and walk into another room, but his head throbbed and he fell back.

“It's not working,” Carla said.

“Okay. Tell him about the truck.”

“I will.
Hasta luego.”
Carla closed the door and went directly back to her chair where she again put her eyes on the television screen.

“Thanks,” Lewis said.

She ate a chip.

Lewis laid back down. Mala walked over, sat and watched him. Lewis closed his eyes.

Lewis woke up again to find Ignacio sitting in the chair beside the sofa. Ignacio leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “How are you?”

“Fine, thanks. And thank you for helping me.”

“I want to help your friend, too.”

“You're a good man, Ignacio.”

“I think the same about you.”

“What do we do?” Lewis asked, sitting up. His head hurt less.

“I'm to bring you to a meeting. Our council must vote on what you want.” Ignacio worked a kink from his back. “Like I said, it is not up to me.”

“I understand. Are we going to the
morada?”

“Si.”

“The sheriff was here.”

“Carla told me.”

“She's quite a young lady,” Lewis said.

“Gracias.”
Ignacio looked at the draped window. “It's raining hard.”

“What time is it?” Lewis asked.

“After midnight,” Ignacio said. He pointed to the end of the sofa. “There are your pants.”

Chapter Twenty-five

It was a hard rain and it had made the night cool. Lewis sat on the passenger side of his truck while Ignacio drove. A draft squeezed through the door and up the rip in Lewis' pants. He zipped up his jacket and folded his arms over his chest. The wiper in front of him did a lousy job, leaving the glass streaked with each pass. He couldn't see where they were going and he figured it worked as well as a blindfold.

“Are they going to ask me questions?” Lewis asked.

Ignacio shrugged.

Lewis imagined himself standing before old Mexican men, giving a presentation, candles burning, a skirted Jesus nailed to a cross on the wall behind him. Lewis thought about the sheriff.

“I hope I haven't caused you any trouble. With the sheriff or otherwise.”

Ignacio leaned forward to see the road better.

“What do you think those men were looking for?” Lewis asked.

“I don't know. Something bad.”

Lewis nodded.

The men watched the windshield. Headlights from approaching cars seemed threatening and each one turned Lewis' head.

“I hope your friend will be okay,” Ignacio said.

“Me too.”

The rain was falling harder when Ignacio stopped the truck in front of the
morada
. There were no torches burning outside tonight. Lewis got out and limped after the younger man, through the mud and into the adobe. Inside, the room was lighted as before, torches on the four walls. Jesus was indeed skirted and on the cross above the altar. There was no body this time. There was a table to one side and at it sat five men, Salvador Alvarado among them. A battery-powered camp area-light sat in the center of the table illuminating their still, solemn faces. Lewis nodded to them.

“Sit here,” Ignacio said.

Lewis sat in a cane chair, one in a row, away from the table. He watched Ignacio as he joined the men. He was the youngest of them.

Their meeting began. Lewis couldn't make out what they were saying. Words were muttered in Spanish. It did not take long before there were louder utterances, no less understandable to Lewis for the volume. Salvador said virtually nothing. Ignacio remained calm, speaking softly to the older men who yelled at him. There were frequent glances over at Lewis. He tried to keep his eyes on them or the floor, so as not to appear to be gazing upon their secret place. Finally, Ignacio shouted and all were silent. They sat without speaking for probably just a minute, but to Lewis it felt like a long time. He adjusted himself in the uncomfortable chair, tried to put his leg out straight so that it wouldn't go to sleep.

Ignacio spoke calmly again. There was more discussion and then the youngest was standing, walking back to Lewis.

“Are you ready?” Ignacio asked.

Lewis gained his feet.

Ignacio walked out of the
morada
without looking at the table. Lewis did quickly glance that way, but none were looking at him.

Outside, the two men trotted to the truck. Lewis climbed in on the passenger side again.

“Well, we talked it over,” Ignacio said.

Lewis nodded.

“You cannot speak of this to anyone, not even your friend if she is alive.”

“Okay.”

“And not to me after this night.”

“I understand.”

“I cannot go with you to get Martin.”

“I wouldn't want you to, Ignacio.”

The words were not coming easily to Ignacio. He looked at the rain rolling off the windshield. “Martin is buried up Lobos Canyon. Arroyo Azul comes down the middle of it. Do you know where I mean?”

Lewis nodded.

“There is a dirt road between mile marker six and seven. Turn there toward the mountain. The road will stop. About forty yards beyond that is where Martin is buried. The grave is not marked.”

“Thank you.”

“You can take your truck.” Igancio opened the door and started to get out, stopped and spoke without looking back. “Martin was not buried in a box.”

“Okay.”

Ignacio shut the door. Lewis slid across the seat. His whole body ached and the cool night air was stiffening him. He could not see Ignacio cross the yard to the
morada
, but he saw him when he pulled open the door and the strange light shown behind him.

Chapter Twenty-six

Lewis started the engine and realized as he pulled away that he didn't know where he was. He drove back the way they came and travelled the muddy road, looking for anything familiar in the darkness. The clock in the truck read one-thirty. He reached the main highway and turned north toward his place. He needed a shovel and a light.

The road up to his house was a mess. He slipped and slid his way up the dark trail. The rain let up some. He prayed he wouldn't meet any headlights. He could imagine his heart failing him at the sight. He had never seen his house so dark and it seemed like ages since he'd been there. The vapor lamp on the barn flickered over the corral.

He walked through the rain to the house, stomping mud off his feet as he climbed the steps. He opened the door and stepped in, switching on the kitchen light without pause. He kicked his shoes off as he closed the door. He put water on to boil and went to his bedroom where he found dry clothes and boots. He realized that someplace along the way he had lost his shotgun. It didn't matter, he figured. It would do more to get him shot than anything else. The kettle whistled.

In the kitchen, he poured the hot water into a bowl and stirred in a package of instant soup. He turned on the radio and ate while he listened to a call-in talk show. People complained and asked what could be done about workers' compensation, which was not commensurate with the limb lost and missing baggage for which the airlines refused to take responsibility and pit bulls terrorizing a neighborhood. Lewis listened to the host ask for calls and considered picking up the phone. “Hello,” he would say, “my friend's been kidnapped and will be killed if I don't come up with a dead old Mexican. What should I do?” He swallowed the last of his tea and laughed. He was losing his mind.

He put on his raincoat over a sweater, grabbed a flashlight and left the house. The rain was light now. As he drew nearer the barn, he could see it. One of the horses stood over something large in the mud. The light on the barn flickered like a strobe. His legs became rubbery as he realized the gelding was standing over the mare. He went to her. Water stood in the mud around her. Her legs were folded awkwardly beneath her body. He shined the light on her. There was a hole in the middle of the race mark on her face. There was no blood; she had been washed by the rain. Lewis vomited up his soup and staggered to the barn door for support.

He didn't have time to think about this now. He didn't have time to think. Thinking was a bad idea. He went into the barn and got the shovel and a tarp. He trotted out toward the truck without looking at his fallen animal.