“You know what to do.” El Charro turned to him when they stopped outside a church. They had driven about four hours to get there.
The boy looked out the window, at the tall spires that framed the entrance and nodded.
“Damian, you wait for him by the door,” said El Charro.
Damian got out and followed the boy up the wide, rounded steps to the church. It was only when he was at the entrance that he noticed the trail of blood dripping from the canvas bag the boy was holding. He stopped at the door, like he’d been instructed.
People were gathered inside for a funeral. There was a framed photograph of a middle-aged man in the front, propped up beside the coffin.
‘In Loving Memory of Alfredo Ruben Zamora’, it said.
His widow and children were sniffling in the front row. A priest was speaking to the congregation. They all paused when the boy walked in. He opened the canvas bag and sent something rolling down the aisle.
It was a few seconds before the screaming started, a few seconds before Damian realized that it was the severed head of the man they were holding the funeral for.
“For my parents,” said the boy, before turning around.
Damian caught a glimpse of a bloody ‘C’ carved on the dead man’s forehead.
“El Charro!” He heard someone say as he followed the boy out.
They got in the car, and the boy wiped his stained, red hands on his shirt. No one said a word on the way back.
“Damian,” said El Charro, when they returned to the safe house. “Take him inside. He will be working for me.”
“What’s his name?” asked Damian, as the boy opened the door and let himself out.
“Rafael. He is Juan Pablo and Camila’s son.”
“I didn’t know they had any children.”
“They kept him away from the cantina.”
For my parents, Rafael had said.
Damian nodded. “So the funeral was for . . .”
“Someone from Los Zetas, a rival cartel—the man who shot Rafael’s parents, the man who tried to kill me.”
The man I killed instead, thought Damian.
El Charro had dumped Alfredo Ruben Zamora’s decapitated body outside his home, and had his head delivered during his funeral. In one move, El Charro had brought Rafael into the world of crime and violence, and ensured that Damian witnessed the funeral of the man he’d killed, recognized the consequences of his actions. There was no turning back for the two boys now. They were like flies trapped in El Charro’s web.
“You see this?” El Charro uncapped the gold tip from his walking cane. On the bottom was a retractable blade in the shape of the letter ‘C’. “This is how I like to send a message. Mess with me and your dead body shows up with my mark, the mark of El Charro—the horseman. I wasn’t always capo, you know. I started off as a horse rancher. I branded animals then, and I brand animals now.” He screwed the tip back on. “Tomorrow we attend another church, another funeral.”
Juan Pablo and Camila were laid to rest like heroes, surrounded by flowers and candles and long lines of well-wishers who kissed Rafael on the cheeks after the ceremony. As far as they knew, Juan Pablo had saved El Charro’s life and taken a bullet in the process. Camila had died by his side.
Damian and Rafael stood by their coffins when the last footsteps echoed out of the church.
“I know it was you,” said Rafael. It was the first time Damian had heard him speak.
“What do you mean?”
“I saw the man shoot my parents. I was in the bathroom, but I was too scared to come out. I just stood there. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything.” Rafael looked at his shoes. He was wearing a coat even though it was hot inside, because he had not been able to get Alfredo Ruben Zamora’s blood out of his shirt.
“Hey.” Damian took his hand. It was cold and damp. “You did a good thing. You have nothing to be ashamed of. He would have shot you too.”