Life went on, relentless.
Alma’s soft voice faded away, and he was struck by the overwhelming urge to give up. This was a rare feeling, probably because death offered no solace. He’d come to terms with the fact that he’d never see his wife again. There would be no heavenly reunion. Although he hadn’t abandoned his faith, he knew that a man who’d committed murder couldn’t ascend to the kingdom of God. There was no reason to wish for a swift end.
He put one foot in front of the other, his side aching with every step. When he couldn’t walk anymore, he stuck out his thumb. A man in a station wagon pulled over and rolled down his window. He had religious figurines glued to his dashboard and boxes of pamphlets in the back seat.
“Do you accept the Lord Jesus as your savior?” he asked.
He studied the deserted highway, his mood dark. God had a sick sense of humor. “Yes.”
“Get in.”
Armando listened to the man proselytize for two hours. It was cruel of the Lord to punish him like this on Earth when he was going to burn in hell anyway. As soon as they reached the city limits, he hopped out. He couldn’t bear to ride with Jesus another moment.
He found an Internet café on the outskirts of town. Before he moved too far south, he wanted to check in on Sarai again. She needed him.
There was a message from her in his in-box. Spirits lifting, he clicked on the icon to read it.
Papá! I’m so glad you’re okay. I got off the train in a place called El Limbo. It is near Tepic. Everything is quiet here but I’m scared. Please come quick! I love you.
He read it three times in rapid succession. His throat tightened with emotion and his eyes filled with tears. Once again, the flood of moisture surprised him. He’d thought it would be difficult to cry after so long, like squeezing blood from a stone.
She hadn’t said she loved him in five years. It meant the world to him to read those words now. He was pleased that she’d gotten off the train without an argument, as well. He’d grown so accustomed to her silent treatments and teenage defiance. He’d anticipated more resistance. Clearly she’d matured into an intelligent young woman. She’d become the dutiful daughter he’d always hoped for. She’d finally forgiven him.
Wait.
He wiped his eyes and studied the message again. “Hijo de puta,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.
This wasn’t Sarai.
It was too easy, and nothing had ever been easy for him. Another man might have fallen for the ruse. Armando had almost fallen for it, out of desperation to reconnect with Sarai. But he’d learned to expect hardship at every turn. He’d been born in the fields of Chiapas, to a mother who’d worked until she went into labor. She’d been back two days later, with him in a sling. He’d grown up in poverty and struggle. He’d had good years with Alma, but she hadn’t been easy either. She’d been like Sarai, headstrong and defiant.
He sat there for ten minutes, drumming his fingertips against the table. Someone had hacked into Sarai’s accounts. But who? His enemies were piling up. He had to worry about the Los Rojos cartel, the Moreno cartel, the American cops, and the Mexican cops.
Fuck.
They might be able to track his location if he responded. On the other hand, they might already know he’d read it, so not responding would look suspicious. He finally replied: I’m on my way. I love you.
It was vague enough to keep them guessing. Then he changed his status to “on vacation.” That was Sarai’s code for “in trouble.” Although they hadn’t discussed him using it, she might notice. He added some little icons, a devil and an angel. They were ridiculous cartoon images. OMGs, or something. He would never post them under normal circumstances. He only wanted to convey that things were not what they seemed.
After he logged out of Facebook, he did a quick search for El Limbo. It was a tiny little town in a secluded valley. If he went there, he’d be walking into a trap. If he stayed here, they’d come to get him. He had to keep moving, but where?
As he considered his options, a terrible thought occurred to him. His enemies might be able to access his page and send a fake message to Sarai from him. Pulse racing, he returned to the site to delete his account. It took him several minutes to figure out how to proceed. Apparently one had to jump through hoops to cut ties with Facebook. He followed the step-by-step instructions and got an error notice. He tried twice more before the account locked.
Fuck!
He wanted to smash the keyboard into bits. Instead he closed out his session and left. The café owner gave him a dirty look on the way out, probably because he smelled like a dead animal.
He lifted a tourist’s wallet at the restaurant next door and helped himself to a jacket hanging on the back of a chair. Neither owner would notice them missing until he was long gone. He walked several blocks until he found a store that sold cheap cellphones. He purchased one and left. When he dialed Sarai’s number, he got through to her voicemail.
Leaving a message was another calculated risk. He had to warn her of the danger without tipping off his enemies. He also had to tell her how he felt, one last time. “M’ija. It’s your papá. I just wanted to say that I got your last message. I love you too.” He cleared his throat, faltering. “But we should talk in person, not on Facebook. Call me back at this number.”
He hung up, cursing under his breath. Maybe her phone hadn’t been hacked. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so cryptic. Maybe she was already in custody.
Maybe she was dead.
The thought crushed his black heart into dust. He’d sell his soul to save her—if he had one. The problem was he’d lost it long ago, and he suspected that God was cruel enough to take her life in exchange for the lives he’d taken.