“That song…was it Czech?”
He wasn’t just awake. He was lucid, and sharp enough to evaluate a foreign language. Czech was a pretty good guess. He spoke English with a crisp accent that sounded nothing like Armando’s. “It wasn’t Czech.”
He moistened his lips. “Was it Latin?”
“It was Yiddish.”
This answer seemed to disturb him greatly. He wrenched his eyes open and focused on her face. He had fine brown eyes, bloodshot and intelligent. A crease formed between his brows and his gaze darkened with pain. “You’re not Sasha,” he said in a hoarse voice.
“No.”
He let go of her hand, sort of flinging it aside. The extra effort to reject her was insulting after she’d done so much to revive him. But never mind that. He was awake, and she wanted him to stay that way. She brought him a glass of water and helped him raise his head to drink. He took a few sips from the straw, wincing.
“Where does it hurt?”
“Everywhere,” he said, touching the bandage on his collarbone. Then he moved his fingertips to the center of his chest.
“You were shot, and badly burned.”
“I remember,” he said dully.
“You’re lucky to be alive.”
“Not really.”
“How do you figure?”
“I was trying to die.”
This confession shocked her. “Did you set yourself on fire?”
His lips twisted with a dark sort of humor. “No.”
“Who shot you?”
“My associate,” he said, after a pause. “He killed two women with stray bullets but couldn’t aim well enough to finish me off at close range. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“Was it Armando?”
He frowned at the question. “No, it wasn’t. What do you know of him?”
“He brought me here at gunpoint.”
“Ah. Where is he now?”
“He escaped.”
He studied their surroundings blearily. Then he closed his eyes, as if it hurt to use them.
“Let me give you something for the pain.”
“No.”
“You’d rather suffer?”
He didn’t answer. “Will I live?”
“I think so.”
“I stayed in the house as long as I could. I felt the flames lighting through my hair and melting my skin.” He opened his eyes again, trying to focus. “But it was the smoke that really bothered me. I couldn’t stand not being able to breathe. My body refused to lie down, as my brain commanded. Survival instinct, I suppose. I was half-delirious when I crawled out.”
She found herself hanging on his every word. She hadn’t realized how alone she’d felt, or how much she’d missed interacting with people. He was an interesting conversationalist. It wasn’t every day she met a sardonic, suicidal drug cartel member. “Who’s Sasha?”
“My girlfriend. She died last week.”
“Of what?”
“Drug overdose.”
Well, that was fitting. Caitlyn couldn’t bring herself to express any condolences; he’d probably given her the drugs. He didn’t look like a drug dealer, though. Even covered in bandages, he had a sophisticated air about him. “What’s your name?”
“Carlos.”
“I’m Caitlyn.”
“Mucho gusto.”
She shook his bandaged hand. “I’d like to go home now.”
“So soon? We only just met.”
“I’ve been here a week.”
“Have you been treated well?”
“No.”
He didn’t appear surprised. “Perhaps I can reimburse you for your trouble.”
“And for my silence?”
“I am very rich,” he allowed.
“Not rich enough to hire a real doctor.”
“You are not a real doctor?”
“I’m a veterinarian.”
“I see,” he said, giving her a closer study. Then he shut his eyes with a low grown.
She wondered if his corneas were damaged. “I have morphine.”
“Anything but that.”
“It’s all I’ve got, and you’ll be in agony without it.”
“Will you sing instead? Duerme, duerme?”
“It’s Durme, Durme.”
“Yes. That.”
She began to sing, off-key and tentative. It was a poor substitute for opiates, but he didn’t complain. After about a dozen repeats, he drifted off. She stood and added a small amount of morphine to his IV drip. It would help him rest. His recovery would be unbearable if he refused drugs. He’d wake up every few minutes, writhing in pain. Either that, or he’d slip into a coma and die. She didn’t know which outcome to hope for.
Would they really release her if he got better? Or would she get buried with his dead body?
She went to the cot in the corner and lay down, too exhausted to consider the macabre possibilities.
When she finally slept, she dreamed of barking dogs.
—
Armando traveled all night.
It was slow going from Tijuana to Mexicali. He had to avoid the tolls, which meant driving on back roads, far off the beaten path. Before he headed south, he ditched the red car for an old gray truck. Unfortunately, his new ride was also slower and less reliable. It gave up the ghost on a long stretch of highway between Mexicali and Puerto Pe?asco.
He walked until dawn. When the sun rose, he collapsed behind some mesquite bushes that smelled like roadkill but offered shade. He slept facedown in the gravel for several hours, too exhausted to find a better shelter.
“Despiértate,” Alma whispered. “Sarai needs you.”
He jolted awake, shoving at the pillow of rocks. It took him about a minute to remember where he was and what he was doing. He could hardly remember who he was anymore. Armando Castillo was gone. There was nothing left, just this husk. The rotten-carcass stench got stronger as he rolled over and wiped the debris from his eyes.
No wonder. He was lying on top of a dead rabbit. It was flat and desiccated, like a piece of cardboard with bits of fur attached. Crawling away from the bushes, he rose to his feet and looked around. He was on the side of a desert highway. Cars whizzed by at regular intervals. The sun blazed down on his dusty head.