The Black Minutes

Five Black Minutes


23

Rangel heard something moving by the trash can, but he thought it must be the raccoons. His uncle’s presence, sitting somewhere on the terrace, was what really alarmed him: Careful, cabrón, I can’t help you if you’re not paying attention. There was something there outside, and he told himself he had to look into it. The noise grew louder and he remembered Práxedes’ warning: Don’t get distracted, Rangel, put a double lock on the door. But he had slept so little the last few nights he couldn’t wake up completely. . . . He was startled out of his sleepiness when he heard the sound of the trash cans falling to the ground. What’s up, man, what’s going on? He made a monumental effort to stand up and walk to the door. As soon as he walked down the stairs, his feet sunk into a disgusting, muddy sludge. So nasty, he thought, they don’t take care of this land. He was taking his feet out of the mud when he saw the tracks of an animal with long nails, without a doubt a jaguar. Ay, cabrón. He thought that it wasn’t possible, it’d been years since a jaguar was seen in the area, but he was contradicted by the rustling sound coming from the corn fields. Oh shit, he thought, I think I saw something, and he understood the predator was on his tail. It’s not possible, he thought, it can’t be. He moved up as quietly as he could, and was able to make out the hindquarters of an animal moving into the field. Oh, man, he thought, the jaguar’s more than six feet long. As a public safety officer, his responsibility was to trap it, but he wasn’t a hunter, he was a policeman. A worrisome purring told him he had no time for doubts. He was squinting to look past the trash, just as a flash of yellow at his left caught his eye. When he saw the feline in all its grandeur, his hair stood on end. F*ck, he said to himself, what am I doing? And as he touched his belt, he realized he’d forgotten his gun. What an idiot, he thought, I left it on the deck chair. Violent breathing made it clear the animal was coming back. He looked on the ground but he found nothing with which to defend himself. As if he understood his advantage, the animal purred with delight, and the sound of the corn crunching under the animal’s paws came ever closer. Holy shit, Rangel thought, holy shit. He instinctively ran to the abandoned hacienda, it was the only thing he could do, run like that, sideways, without turning completely, so the jaguar couldn’t attack him from behind. He went into the building’s central patio and hid in the first room he found open. Unfortunately, it was an empty room with rickety doors that didn’t close completely. When he had the first door half-closed, he saw the jaguar’s hide through the cracks, and he knew he was trapped. Then he understood that the animal had driven him there to devour him at his leisure. It was playing with me, he thought, like everyone does, and he tried to prevent it from entering, but the animal stood up on his hind legs and pushed on the door. He tried to push back with his body even though he knew it was useless because the jaguar was stronger than he was. The weight was wearing him down but he was unable to keep the jaguar out; the door collapsed and they fell to the ground. As the jaguar dug his claws into his shoulders and brought his snout up to his face, it looked like the animal was smiling. He was amazed to see that the animal had huge, sharp fangs, but his lips and the shape of his mouth were human. He heard him say: “That’s why they call us wild animals, because of the way we leave our victims.” And that was it.
He woke up just as he was about to fall out of bed, with his legs tangled up in the blanket. He had both hands up in the air, like he was fighting against an invisible enemy. Oh damn, I don’t even remember how I got here. Didn’t I fall asleep outside? He felt the other side of the bed, and was pleased the girl had spent the night.
Rangel tried to get up without making any noise, but the girl still said, “Mobdolite, take the Mobdolite.”
So he took the stone the girl was handing him and put it in his shirt. She curled up again and went back to sleep.
He looked at his watch. It was two-thirty, if he didn’t hurry, he wasn’t going to make it. He splashed some water on his face and, before he put on his windbreaker, he stuck his .22 in the waist of his pants. When he was about to leave, his nightmare came rushing back to him, so he went to the chest of drawers in his living room and took out his uncle’s .38 Colt and his shoulder holster.
Ever since his uncle died, he hadn’t had a chance to use it. He just took it out once a month to clean it and oil it, and he didn’t store it with the safety on so that the spring wouldn’t loosen, but that night he seemed to hear his uncle’s voice: You’re going to need the big guns, Vicente, these guys are traitors. He put five bullets in, made sure he had backup cartridges, and put his jacket on top. The stress had caused him a lot of pain in his neck. By force of habit, he was going to leave the door open, but he remembered what Práxedes had warned and he went back to lock it. It was safer for the girl.
He walked through the corn fields on the shore; the corn wasn’t as lush as it was in his dream. He had walked through there so many times that he didn’t even hear the crickets chirping and he didn’t avoid the black, sticky mud in the path. It was a cold night, the fog was thick all around, and as he felt the night’s coldness, he thought his throat hurt. Shit, he said to himself, the fog’s come in.
He took the muddy path that ran alongside the edge of the river, through the thick fog. When he didn’t find the ferry on the shore, he assumed it must be on the other side. There was no one on watch at the dock, just empty boats. Well, if I have to, he said to himself, and went to kick the shack’s door. A fifty-something fisherman came out in his shirt and underwear. Again? he asked. What time is it anyway? Rangel didn’t say anything, and the fisherman added: What can we do about it? The law’s the law. Let me go get my sandals.
When they were halfway across the river, they passed by the ferry on its way back. What time are you coming back, cabrón? And Rangel had to move to the side so that the force of the wave didn’t tip them over. The boat rocked so much that Rangel, who wasn’t as used to all that movement, could barely stay on his wooden seat. When one of the waves hit, he almost went flying, because the bow lifted up so high it almost launched him up into the air. When he fell back down on the deck, he saw that the fisherman, holding onto the motor with no problem, was looking at him with an amused expression on his face. El Lobina hates me, he thought, if he had his way, I’d already be drowned at the bottom of the river.
When they got to the other side, he was able to make out the sign on the shore: “Welcome to Paracuán, home of the Oil Workers’ Union.” As he expected, his assistant hadn’t arrived yet, and Rangel used the time to rub his eyes.
A black butterfly landed at his feet. The kind of butterfly that people think is a premonition or an omen of death. Rangel felt a tightening sensation in his chest, because he wanted to know what time it was, and the batteries in his watch had gone dead. Oh man, he said to himself, what if I don’t make it back? What if they kill me? Who’s going to let my girl out? The world seemed very menacing and he saw dark omens all around him.
He asked himself why his lackey hadn’t come yet. They had to travel under cover of dark if they wanted to surprise them; they had decided what they were going to do and were aware of the consequences. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve made my decision and I’m not going to go back on it now. He sauntered from one end of the dock to the other, enveloped in the wetness of the fog, and he started to sweat. His throat started to hurt.
He had the suspect’s photo in his right pants pocket, but he didn’t want to look it over. Ever since he tore it out of the newspaper, the image had intrigued him. The first time he saw it, he felt a shiver go up his spine. It was like someone who could see the totality of his life had given him a key that he didn’t know how to interpret: “Take this photo. Who does it remind you of?”
When he crossed his arms, the butt of his gun poked him and he asked himself what the person he was about to detain was like. A calculating killer, a savage lunatic, a misfit locked up inside himself? Would it be dangerous to take him away in the back seat of the car? Oh shit, he said to himself, I hadn’t thought about that. Crazyshot has my handcuffs, what am I going to tie him with? I don’t think I can lock him in the trunk.
The sound of the Rubén Blades song “Tiburón” wafted over to him from a faraway boat. Hidden deep inside the murky blackness, the ferry horn sounded, and the lights of a car shone in the officer’s direction. His lackey quickly located him.
“All set?”
“Everything’s ready, boss: gas, engine, oil, water, breaks, air, and coffee.”
Right as he was getting into the car, he felt strangely apprehensive about leaving the girl and he looked toward his house, but the fog had swallowed it up.