Three worlds collide, p.15
Three Worlds Collide, page 15
As dusk approached, they crested a small rise. In a valley on the other side, they caught their first glimpse of the tree. Long ago, the life had passed out of it, but the bones still remained standing like the last remaining fossil in a long-abandoned museum.
Led by the man-in-the-middle, with Armando following, a guard behind him, the two women and the second guard behind them, they made their way down the slope and into the valley. As they got nearer, they could make out bits of clothing hanging from the branches. From behind him, the two women that accompanied Armando whimpered, softly saying, “No, please no.” The escort behind them used his gun to push them along.
Nearer to the tree now, Armando could see what hung from the branches. He recognized a bra first. Then he saw faded panties, some with lace trim. But his eyes fixed on an article that struck a chord of fear in his soul. Boy’s underwear, torn on one side like they had been ripped off. He understood the desperation of the women now. The rape tree. He had heard of this place.
Armando stopped in his tracks, tensed, but before he could turn to run, a blow struck the back of his head and he fell to the ground unconscious.
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Martha had been standing at the door with her hand up for an extra couple of beats before Officer Michael Street turned, took a few steps back to her with an outstretched hand, and spoke in a hushed tone, “Are you coming in, Martha?”
She nodded, broke eye contact with the entity and stepped around so she could enter the room without passing through him. Everyone, besides Officer Street, was so engaged in what they were doing, they didn’t notice her bizarre entrance.
He watched as she paused again to study the room. A bedside lamp near the window lit the room with a soft golden glow, giving it a cozy, intimate feel. The bed nearest the door remained empty, the privacy curtain drawn. She crinkled her nose at the strong smell of antiseptic as she walked past it.
“What’s up?” Sean said as he looked up from the device he and Elena had been sharing.
Wiping a confused look off his face, Officer Street turned his attention from Martha to Sean. “Handlin’ business, how about you?”
“This little lady here is kicking my butt on this game.” Sean chuckled.
Elena paused the game and handed the device to Sean, then looked up at Officer Street. “Hello, I remember you from before. You helped my momma, right?”
He smiled. “I did my best.” He put out his fist to bump with Elena, but she grabbed it with both hands and shook it with a shy smile.
“I’m afraid she doesn’t know that greeting yet,” Jackie said. Elena gave her mother an embarrassed glance, then looked down at her shoes.
“We can fix that.” Sean tapped Elena on the shoulder, “Here, I’ll show you.”
“Hello again, Officer,” Jackie said.
“Please, call me Michael,” he said as he stepped over to Jackie’s side. “Glad to see you here.”
Jackie nodded. “Same to you.”
Michael looked over at Clay. “How you holdin’ up?” He said it in a deeper, more purposeful tone as if to check Clay’s man card was still active.
Clay held his gaze. “I’m good.” He looked over to Jackie and held out his hand. “Help me up?”
She rolled her eyes, smiled, and said, “Sure.” Clay slowly swung his legs one by one over the side of the bed and pushed his feet into the sneaker slippers. With Jackie’s leverage, he stood up and turned to face Michael and his guest.
“Ohhh, you’re really milkin’ this, aren’t you?” Michael said, chuckling a bit. Clay and Sean also laughed slightly. Jackie gave Michael a reproachful yet playful glance.
“We’ve done this a few times today, walking around the room and the hallway. I don’t know if it’s the pain meds, but I feel much better. A little stiff, that’s all,” Clay said.
“Glad for that.” Michael nodded, relieved to see Clay in good form. “I brought someone I want to introduce. Her name is Martha Klar. She is consulting with me on this case. Martha, this is Jackie and Clay.”
Martha nodded to them, “Hello.” Michael turned and introduced Elena and Sean.
Martha brightened at the sight of Elena. “What a sweet little dress you have there.”
Elena looked up and responded in a sing-song voice, “Thank you.”
Officer Street got back to business. “Jackie. Clay. I have video from Sally’s security camera. I think you might want to see it.”
“I’m not sure we want to relive it right now,” Jackie said.
“Well, there’s something...” Michael hesitated. “Something unusual I think you should see.”
Jackie and Clay looked at Michael, a questioning expression on their faces.
Clay spoke first. “If you think it’s necessary.” Then he looked over to Jackie for her take on it. “I’m fine with it if you are.”
“Well, okay.” She looked over at Sean. “Elena, would you like to go down to the cafeteria with Sean to get a snack?”
Sean met her eyes then nodded.
“Okay, Momma,” she replied. Jackie fished in her purse and handed Sean a 20. “Get something for yourself too.”
Sean smiled. “Thanks.” He gave Michael a nod and walked out of the room holding Elena’s hand. Clay sat back down on the bed, slipped his sneakers off, and relaxed back as he swung his legs up.
Michael set his laptop on Clay’s tray table while Martha walked to the opposite side of his bed.
“May I?” she asked Clay.
“Sure.” He motioned for her to come closer.
Michael brought up the video, which began to play, then he paused it. He looked over to Martha. “Should we explain what they are about to see?”
Martha tilted her head and raised her eyes in a thoughtful glance. “In my opinion, it’s best to let them have the experience first, then explain.”
“Explain what?” Clay asked.
“Here, let me start the video for you.” Michael used the mousepad to move the cursor then tapped to play.
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Armando woke to find he had been bound to the skeleton of the dead tree. His pants had been removed. Through his sweat and tears, he could see the details of the various undergarments and bras hanging from the branches like blackened souls decorating hell’s holiday tree. Some faded, some newer. Most torn and bloodied. All representing lives destroyed.
The man-in-the-middle danced around a small fire behind him, mouthing some inaudible tune. He reached some sort of crescendo, then pulled a long knife from a sheath on his hip. Armando looked back over his shoulders desperately for anyone to plead with, but the women were bound, sitting on the ground, looking away. The two guards simply stood back and observed.
The man-in-the-middle brandished the knife in flourishes behind Armando as he struggled with his bindings. The man stretched out the boy’s underwear on one side, and with one smooth stroke, cut a side as he hit a high note, then stepped around and cut the other side with another flourish. He scatted some nonsense as he sheathed the knife then yanked the underwear off. He held them up to regard the sewn-in monogram Armando had paid for with his meager earnings.
Armando looked over his shoulder at the man proudly holding his underwear up like a prize won in a contest. He stared into the tattoo on the fleshy part of the man’s hand, which seemed to come alive in the light of the fire. Armando now came to understand the abject terror and dehumanizing shame his mother had experienced.
The man studied the monogram closely, squinting to make it out. “ABC?” he mocked. “Will you recite the alphabet for me?”
The campfire grew in intensity as the larger pieces of wood caught. Armando looked up into the hills surrounding them, the flames casting shadows as if desert demons danced all around them, celebrating a boy’s looming fall from innocence. He struggled against his bonds. One leg tied, the other not.
“Tell me what ABC stands for,” the man demanded.
Armando said nothing, struggling harder now. The man balled his fist and struck him in the back of the head. “Answer me.” he growled.
“Armando,” he said.
“Armando what?” he barked.
His head falling between his shoulders, he answered, “Armando Beltrain Cardentias.”
The man nodded approvingly. “You have many great names, all in one.” Then he leaned in closer, a snarl on his face. “If only these great men could see you now.” With that, the man hung Armando’s underwear on a nearby branch, taking his time arranging it. Then he let his head fall back, cackling like a demented wizard about to cast an evil spell.
Armando lifted his head and understood. They had sent him to die by the hand of the Cackling Coyote. He had been warned of this man—a much-feared, nasty piece of work known as both a skilled trafficker and a vicious executioner. How could I have walked right into this?
“You have been working for our competition back in town,” the Coyote continued. “You were foolish to come to us.” The man reached for a bottle on the ground and took a swig, then dropped it and pulled a small container from a pocket. He sniffed his nose over it, drawing the inhale deep. “We must send a message.”
Armando’s struggles became more desperate.
The man stood, a drunken sway in his stance, staring at the boy. “Good. I like it better when you fight,” the man said as he unzipped his pants. The women screamed. He turned to them, backhanding one and kicking the other, proudly displaying himself in front of them. “You will be next.”
Armando writhed wildly, the bonds tightening around his wrists. Hands numbing. Screaming sounds, not words. The man-in-the-middle walked up behind him. Armando could feel his breath on his neck, feel his hardness against his back. The man growled as he grabbed Armando by the back of his hair and pushed his head hard into the wood of the main branch, which cut into his cheek. Armando’s struggle turned to wild panic, yanking his arms and legs without regard to injuring himself. No sounds now—then he felt it.
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Anxious to get on with the day’s business, The Alphabet King shot up from the fine leather chair and headed out into the hallway. He stopped at the next door down, which opened up into his bedroom. It looked the same as all the other one-cot rooms set aside for prisoners and patrons, except his had a rusty metal armoire stocked with a few changes of clothes. He stepped forward to look in the mirror hanging on the wall beside it. He tucked his shirt in a little tighter and adjusted his waistband. He smoothed his Mexican Caesar forward and checked his teeth. Gazing into his own dark eyes for a moment, he wondered where his Prizes were. They better be cleaning something. He left the room and headed back up the hallway, scanning the courtyard through the windows. He paused at the door and knocked twice. The guard opened the door and he emerged into the lobby without a word, grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler, and headed down the other hall to a room where the guards had taken Dewey and John the driver. The door had been left ajar. The Alphabet King entered quietly, then slammed the door shut. Dewey and John jerked in place and yelped, “Agah-ugh!”
They had been stripped down to their underwear and bound to heavy metal chairs bolted to the concrete floor. Each had a guard standing motionless behind them with their sunglasses on. There was a grate in the center of the floor and a hose hung on the back wall. A faint metallic smell combined with an underlying scent of rotting fish lingered in the room. ABCs had to look twice at John, who appeared to be nude. He actually wore tighty-whities, which had retreated into a wedgie in the back and were concealed by his belly in the front. Both prisoners sat whimpering, still blindfolded. The room had no window, only a closet on one side, which the chairs faced. He slid open the doors slowly, the rollers creaking as they opened. Dewey and John flinched at the sound, their heads jerking back and forth as they tried to see despite the blindfolds.
ABCs looked over the well-organized shelves built into the closet. A variety of talismans, knives, hammers, saws, and other ominous-looking implements were kept clean, sharp, and ready for use. A well-worn Ouija board, set in a glass frame, hung in the center of the back wall in the closet. He smiled at the sight of the board, which brought back many memories leading up to the day he left his home country. After taking a drink of water, he removed his shirt and hung it up. Aside from the small scorpion on his hand, his well-muscled upper body displayed no tattoos—a rarity in his profession that enabled him to move in more sophisticated circles.
After hanging up his shirt, he reached for his favorite tool—a large butcher’s cleaver sharpened to a razor edge. He lowered his head for a moment and, facing his Ouija board, muttered a few words under his breath, gathering his energy. Then he turned and gestured to his guards. They removed the blindfolds and backed up to the wall.
Dewey and John reared back in their chairs, wide-eyed at the sight of The Alphabet King standing in front of them with the cleaver in his right hand.
John gasped, “What is that thing, man? What are...”
Stepping forward, ABCs lifted the cleaver and nonchalantly smacked John in the face with the flat side, the sharp edge catching some of his flabby face. Blood trickled from a small cut on his cheek.
“Do not speak until I tell you to.”
John could only whimper a response. Dewey froze in silence, eyes following that cleaver wherever ABCs waved it.
“Look at me,” he growled. “Now.”
Dewey and John looked up into the eyes of The Alphabet King. The rims of his irises seemed to have a faint red ring glowing around them. Fixated by the menacing vision before them, they sat motionless, panting heavily.
ABCs lifted the cleaver and pointed it at John, whose gaze locked onto it. ABCs spoke in an inhuman tone, which resonated in the small room, “A: You will never lie to me again. B: You are going to tell me everything you said while you were in jail. C: If I get the slightest inclination you are not doing what I tell you to do, I will put this to use on you.” ABCs waved the cleaver in front of John’s face, who pinned his head back as far as he could. He nodded jerkily in acknowledgement, his eyes following the swaying cleaver. Dewey sagged and looked down in total defeat, resigned to his fate.
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The man-in-the-middle pushed harder against the back of Armando’s head as he used his feet to shuffle the boy’s legs apart. With his other hand, he smacked the boy’s bare ass. Another wild cackle filled the air. The fire popped softly nearby, animating the man’s wild eyes with reflected flames. The other men retreated into the darkness, unwilling to watch. The women sat bound and sobbing softly. Armando’s panicked struggling grew even more wild but slowed when he felt it again... A branch had begun to give.
“Giving up so soon?” the man-in-the-middle said. His mouth downturned in mock disappointment. Armando felt the man’s hands on his hips and he flailed widely now, unwilling to give up, then the branch snapped and freed his right arm. The branch fell and tottered on the main branch. Armando grabbed it and swung around in one crazed motion. The sharp end of the wood connected with the side of the man’s head, knocking him back a step before he fell to the ground. Armando let go of the stick and quickly loosened the binding around his left hand—a simple slip knot. Then he fell to the ground and kicked at the fallen branch his right foot had been tied to. It broke easily.
He scampered to his feet and took off into the darkness, the broken branches swaying and dragging behind him, catching the creosote bushes, hindering his escape.
The man-in-the-middle came to, realized the boy had broken loose, and called out to his men, “The boy! Find him!”
Little Armando ran off into the encroaching night, his embroidered underwear now a woeful ornament hanging from the rape tree of the valley.
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The Alphabet King put his shirt on as he strode from the room. The guards followed him out. They stood in the hall as he barked a string of orders while walking away. “Give them their clothes back. Let them use the bathroom, then put them in separate holding rooms. Give them water. No food. Hose the room down.” After the beating, John only had a few cuts and... smelled of his own filth. Otherwise, he remained intact. Dewey hadn’t been touched or spoken to.
ABCs pounded on the door at the end of the hall. The guard unlocked and opened it for him. He went to the bathroom and washed up. The adrenaline surge made him anxious, and he needed to focus. Although the cool water usually calmed him, the energy coursing through his body would not allow him to settle down. His mind went back to obsessing. Staring at the reflection in the mirror, recurring thoughts dragged him back to an ugly childhood, and how he rose from despair to become The Alphabet King.
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Hiding in the hill shadows, Armando had watched the drunken guard’s brief search. He’d overheard them saying how sure they were the boy would die alone in the desert. Seemingly overtaken with the minimum of exertions, the men moved through the dense brush with great effort. After some debate, they made their way to a hidden spot far enough away from the campfire where they could wait until enough time had passed and they could return empty-handed without fear of doubt.
Squatting in the darkness, watching them, he could hear the cries of a woman. The chill in the air caused him to shiver randomly. Grateful he still had his shirt on, he dug his toes into the sandy dirt, searching for any measure of warmth. His adrenaline now faded, small noises of the desert crept in. The little creatures rustled about their business despite the horrors unfolding in the valley. A pack of coyotes howled in the distance, their sharp cries warning the intruders in their territory. Armando instinctually looked in that direction before returning his attention back to the two guards.
Although he was just a boy, inherently, he understood a couple of things. I need to move. He also knew they were right. He would die alone in the desert unless he found a way to sneak back into camp and steal supplies for the journey back to his village.
Hunched down on the far side of a small hill behind a mass of yucca and creosote bush situated between them and the fire, the men sat drinking, smoking, and cursing the man-in-the-middle. Armando could see them clearly from higher ground, and the campfire past them in the distance, but not far.
