The Parker Trilogy Read online

  “He’s saying, ‘Do you understand?’” Luisa translated. “‘This shit will get us killed. Forget about the little white . . .bitch.’” Luisa looked at Maggie sheepishly. “Sorry.”

  Maggie shrugged. “I’ve been called way worse.”

  “Yeah. Well, he said a lot of stuff before bitch, but I left that out.”

  A conversation between Moe and Miney began and the look that came over Luisa’s face was alarming.

  “What?” Maggie asked.

  “They’re . . . shit.”

  “Say it.”

  “Eenie’s trying to tell him they should just kill you. Tell Güero that you tried to escape.”

  Maggie’s panic came back with a vengeance. I knew it.

  The only weapon she’d found was a quarter of a broom handle, not sheared but cut flat, that she’d found jammed into one of the floorboards near the corner of the shack. It would offer little or no distance from her opponent. Being this outnumbered, she needed distance to properly mount a good defense.

  Luisa’s eyes went wide. She suddenly began looking around for an escape. Then, apparently hearing something surprising, she spun back to look outside and her face began to relax.

  “What?”

  “Moe was asking which one of them wants to kill you and answer to Güero, because he wasn’t going to be the one to do it and face the consequences of not delivering you safely to the boss.”

  “Any takers?”

  “No.” Luisa looked embarrassed again. “Um. Miney said ‘no thanks’. That Güero is infatuated with you . . . wants to do . . . um . . . with you.”

  Maggie rolled her eyes. “Never mind.”

  Luisa put her hands over her mouth. “They’ve all taken a pass except . . . Thank God! Meenie’s just said he’s out, too.”

  Maggie exhaled and felt herself shaking. “Okay. Okay.” She wiped her hand up over her forehead and across her hair. “Figures. Chickenshit can’t do anything on his own but cop a feel.”

  “I’m so sorry, Maggie,” Luisa said out of nowhere, a haunting sadness to her voice.

  “For what?”

  “This whole thing is my—”

  Maggie hugged her. “No. We aren’t going down that rabbit hole, okay? You had no idea your uncle was this evil, did you?”

  Luisa buried her head against Maggie’s shoulder and hugged her back tightly. “No. I swear. I knew he was in the gang . . . but this? No. The brujas—the witches—there are some in our neighborhood. Potion people. Silly stuff. But these ones? I think they’re real.”

  “Real?”

  “Yeah. I can almost feel their evil.” And now she looked even more like a child. One who had watched one too many horror movies.

  “Luisa, that stuff’s not real,” Maggie replied, hearing the lack of conviction in her own words, which was more than a bit unsettling. Yeah. Exactly what “stuff” are you referring to, Maggie? What about the dreams of Father Soltera? And the boat? The dreams of the past, with the island, and your grandmother?

  “Yes, it is, Maggie. Evil spirits are everywhere. Even my mom would tell you that. On Día de los Muertos, we light so many candles in my house.” Her breath rattled. “You can feel them, in our neighborhood sometimes. People die, or bad things happen, and the streets seem happy. Like every dead body found on a corner was led there by some sort of bad crossing guard.”

  “Luisa, don’t get yourself—”

  “I’m sorry I was lying on the cot so much. I’m scared, Maggie. And really, most of the time, I was trying to listen to what these idiots were saying. I should be stronger for us. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be silly. We’re gonna be okay, as long as we stick together. Help will come. I just know it. So all this time you’ve been listening to their Spanish? Tell me, what else were they saying out there?”

  “Mostly stupid stuff about football soccer or poker games they’d won. But then, the more they talked? The more I didn’t want to hear.”

  The air was getting stagnant in the shack as the heat outside rose. “Why?”

  Luisa’s face froze in a sort of desperate stare, off into the distance. Then, quickly, she looked into Maggie’s eyes. “They want my baby, Maggie. The brujas, I mean.”

  Maggie felt her jaw drop. “What?”

  “Yes. That’s the only thing I have left now: hope that my uncle, of all people, will not let them do it.”

  “Do what?”

  Luisa’s eyes filled with tears. She shook her head, refusing to reply. Car doors were opening and closing outside. Maggie took another peek; they were almost done. They’d be coming soon.

  Maggie turned back to Luisa and put their foreheads together. “Tell me,” she whispered.

  “They want to—” Luisa’s voice caught in her throat and her lips trembled. “They want to cut it out of me.”

  A stone rolled over Maggie’s heart as her body went ice cold. She was incredulous. “What!”

  “He said no. Back at the warehouse. It was the only time he stood up to them. They said it was the quickest way for whatever sick ritual they’re planning, but they didn’t care how it happened, as long as it happened.”

  “As long as what happens?”

  “I have to die, right when the baby is born. My death has to cancel out its life,” she whimpered as she buried her head into Maggie’s shoulder. “But that won’t happen, right? I have you and we’ll find a way out of this, right?”

  And you were going to run, weren’t you? Maggie thought. As her shame returned, she took Luisa in her arms. “Yes,” she replied with conviction. “You do. And we will.”

  Chapter Eight

  Father Soltera watched as Gabriella stepped forwards, fell to her knees and reached a hand out to run her fingers through the threads in the driftwood. As she did, a tiny gasp escaped her mouth and a sorrowful look came over her face.

  His heart swelled again, both at her sadness and his own. How long had he been so distracted by his desire to escape, both his loneliness and his cancer?

  Too long. In fact, the days had totaled a healthy sum long before he’d ever even met Gabriella. Now, however, the Holy Spirit had finally elbowed his way back into that space between his soul and his heart. It hurt. Badly. But it was also good. It was not fair now, nor had it ever been, to try using her as his escape. “Gabriella?” he said, too softly for her to hear, so he repeated himself. “Gabriella?”

  She glanced up at him. “Y-yes?”

  He knelt down and looked her in the eye. “Pray back to her.”

  “What?” she asked, timidly.

  “Your mother. Pray back to her.”

  A quizzical look came over her face, but it was not cynical. “Really? Do you think that would work?”

  Father Soltera smiled gently. “If God can answer her prayers to you, then I don’t think it’s much of a stretch to think that He could answer yours to her.”

  She nodded, and the torture in her eyes was swept away by a look of hope. She folded her hands in her lap and bowed her head. Father Soltera truly believed that somewhere back in the real world her mother might feel a twinge of peace, of comfort, for no reason at all it might seem.

  But this was not the only reason why he wanted Gabriella to pray. Something told him that Gabriella had to begin reestablishing her connection with the real world, if she were to ever have any hope of getting back to it. Here, in this place, she’d abandoned her life. She’d been isolated, which was where the enemy always wanted you: isolated and lonely.

  He also needed to have his own moment with God, didn’t he? Yes. He did.

  Unbeknownst to Gabriella, Father Soltera reached out his right hand and held it just above her head. Clutching the rosary around his neck with his left hand, he closed his eyes and opened a dialogue. It began with a tiny request of forgiveness, which, like a seed, unfurled into a prayer. Help me save her, Lord. Help me be the bridge that gets her home. I hope that’s why you sent me. I believe that’s why you sent me. Please, Lord, let it be true, and pleas
e help me succeed.

  Around them, the waters of the island lapped against the shore, soft and gentle, back and forth.

  It was while in seminary, as a young man, that he first discovered the depth and width of prayer. How it could be both clarifying and purifying at the exact same time, as if the cool waters of heaven were being dribbled down, through the creek of your soul, to form currents that would sweep away the twigs and rotting leaves within you. Each morning, noon and night, he and his brothers would pray in the small church chapel, and after a time Father Soltera believed that though he could only know his own prayers, he could feel theirs. In the air, like pollen on a soft breeze.

  And now, he could feel Gabriella’s, too. They were gentle, as he imagined they would be, the prayers of a child to their mother. The bond of the womb, sacred still. She began to weep softly. “I’m so scared, Mama,” she whispered. And he was thankful to her for sharing, because he could then pray, in whispers of his own, right over her, one of his favorite prayers for addressing fear: one by Thomas Merton, from Thoughts in Solitude. “‘I trust you always, though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.’”

  He nodded softly, knowing that every word he uttered for her sake, he was also uttering for his, their shared existence in this place so far away from where they both belonged needing to come to an end, in more ways than one.

  As if sensing his thoughts, she ended her prayers, sat on the back of her feet and looked up at him. “I never meant to fall in love with you, Father.”

  Startled, he looked away, then gathered himself. So now was the time for the words between them to finally be said. So be it. He nodded and looked back at her. “Nor I, you.”

  She looked at him intently, as if she always knew he felt the same but was finally relieved to hear it confirmed. “Why do you think it happened?”

  “Hmm,” he said with the tiniest of laughs. He took a few extra seconds to consider things before he answered. “Perhaps because you were at a place in your life where you needed an idealistic sort of love . . . and so did I.”

  A breezed picked up, blowing strands of her dark hair across her face, which she swept away with her hand. “You mean, it wasn’t real?” And there was a tone of hurt in her voice.

  Even now, in repentance, her beauty still called to him. Double-minded, he struggled for a moment, then replied, “No, it was real. But also . . . not.”

  “What do you mean? How could it be both?”

  “It was a reality based in a fantasy. But it was mutual, you see. I don’t know why but I think that makes it different somehow.”

  “A shared reality . . .”

  “And a shared fantasy. That you could ever live down the stigma of seducing a priest from the faith or that I could ever live with seducing a congregant that trusted me with her deepest secrets.”

  “So . . . what, then? It was all evil?”

  He shook his head as it all finally came into focus. “No. No. You see, God was in the love between us, Gabriella. Not in the sinful wanting but in the loving denying.”

  She tilted her head sideways, as if against the weight of her thoughts. “It’s why I said I was going to leave the church and go somewhere else.”

  “And why I did not stop you. We both knew, you see, that it could never be. That sin was calling to us but we did not really want to answer it.”

  “How do you know that?”

  He smiled at her. “Because if we did, we would’ve.”

  “Instead,” she said, putting a hand out to touch his knee, “I saw in you a good man who could only be less because of me.”

  “And I saw in you a good woman who could only be more without me.”

  “So, you’re saying . . .”

  “That God works for the good in all things, Gabriella. I have seen it too many times in my life to deny it. That was the pain we both felt: God working within us to curb the path we were on, the one we both thought we wanted, until this happened.” He waved his hand at the water around the island and the sky overhead. “Until the process was interrupted, in that car accident, by fate or chance, perhaps by the devil himself.”

  “So that I could come here and forever be trapped in wanting you.”

  “And I could remain behind, barred in the prison of a misguided passion for you, because that is how the enemy works.” Father Soltera looked out into the woods and added. “By paralysis of the soul, through whatever means necessary.”

  Father Soltera knew now that he was the bridge home for Gabriella.

  He had to get her home.

  But as he looked out over the water and back to shore, he could feel the darkness there. Waiting. The enemy wasn’t done with them yet.

  Not by a long shot.

  On the yard, as Hector sat alone at one of the benches, The Smiling Midget paid him another visit. Sauntering up across the dirt-patched grass in black jeans, black boots and a white t-shirt, he smiled and asked, Are you having fun yet?

  Hector looked around nervously. Knowing full well that no one else could see The Smiling Midget, he spoke under his breath. “We aren’t doing this again.”

  What? You mean like before, when you were in that junior league prison, when I still had to protect your sorry-ass life from getting killed?

  “Whatever,” Hector mumbled.

  How much more do you think you’re going to need me here, Hector? I mean . . . this place is the big leagues. Sorry, but I don’t see you making it to the end of the month here without ending up dead. Maybe in the showers, maybe in the cafeteria. Whichever. They gonna waste your ass, and you know it.

  Rubbing his chin Hector gave The Smiling Midget a hard look. “Yeah? And why’s that, smartass?”

  C’mon, Hectorino. We both know why. You’re too soft. Always have been. Curled up in bed whining about your mommy one moment, then pining over Marisol the next. All the while clinging to your books and stories, as if they could ever do anything to save you.

  “Pfft! What do you know about any of it, man?”

  I know that you snapped like a twig when you heard Marisol was getting it from another man. I know that much. And after all those days and nights we spent together in the last place? I know that you know full well your books can’t do shit to stop a bullet or a knife. Ain’t no bullets here, buddy boy . . . but there are plenty of knives. And they’ll be coming for you. Trust. And when they do? You’re gonna need me.

  “No. Never again. Relying on you was the worst mistake of my life.”

  Oh, really? Think about that for a sec. How did things go the last time you turned your back on me, Hector?

  “They went—”

  They went to shit. Bennie, Chico, Burro . . . Marisol and David. All if it went to hell in a handbasket. You remember that. But it can get good again. As long as you remember why you’re here. I mean . . . really, here, Hector. Not the fairytale reason why the other side wants you here, because that ain’t gonna happen.

  “Look, just ’cause you—”

  Someone suddenly shouted at Hector. “Inmate 7558! Get your ass up!”

  The Smiling Midget disappeared immediately.

  Hector looked up to see a tall guard towering over him, the name “Clark” stitched on his uniform shirt. “I said to get your ass up.”

  “Where we headed?” Hector asked as he complied.

  Clark seemed stiff, almost nervous. “You’ll see.”

  This in turn made Hector nervous. As he was being escorted through the yard, he felt the eyes of the other prisoners’ turning to watch him, trying to size him up or figure out what he’d done to get yanked from the yard. Once he and Clark reached the large metal door of the cell block, Hector hesitated. “Hey man . . .”

  Clark pulled out his baton. “No, no, no. You don’t dictate the stroll, my man, you hear?”

  “Okay! Shit. Chill,” Hector replied with a frustrated shrug. Clark pointed his baton at the door and Hec
tor opened it and walked through.

  Clark followed, guiding Hector past an office and down a few hallways until they reached a set of double metal doors that led to an outside patio on the other side of the building. Clark motioned again with his baton. “You got a visit set up on the other side. Good luck.”

  As Hector pushed open the doors, he held his breath, not sure what to expect or how to react. Instead, when he saw who was waiting for him, he smiled. It was Curtis, who evidently seeing Hector’s face morph into relief, laughed out loud. “¿Qué onda, güey? You shit your pants or what?”

  Hector laughed, suppressing his emotions at finally seeing a friendly face. “Nada, jefe! ¿Qué onda?”

  Seated at a small circular table with attached bench seats, the kind you usually saw at parks, Curtis looked good, but older. Hector saw it mostly in his eyes, which seemed wrinkled with weariness. His head was shaved and the dragon tattoo on his neck had been embellished on the inside. It was larger now, with red stripes. It was the only colored tattoo he had. The rest, nearly a dozen on his arms alone, were all black stencil on his brown skin, with one that matched one of Hector’s, the letters “FSV” within a number four: Fresno Street Vatos forever.

  Lanky but muscular, he stood confidently and walked over to Hector, where they engaged in the ritual of their gang’s five-part handshake before they hugged. When they separated, Curtis nodded at Clark, who nodded back. “You got ten minutes.”

  “Got it,” Curtis replied. Clark disappeared back through the double doors and they were left alone. “C’mon, homie. Come sit down real quick.”

  Hector did as he was asked, taking a seat opposite his gang’s leader. The same leader that he’d been sent here to kill by the same forces of evil that infested this place, and the very same leader that The Gray Man had sent him here to save. It was a whole ’nother level of being screwed.

  “How you adjusting?”

  “I been better.”