Behind the Hands That Kill

  “If they kill him,” she repeated, “promise me you’ll let me die—promise me!” I couldn’t tell then whether or not she was coherent.

  Then the door burst open, and Izel stood in the doorway like Death in a short skirt, tall and dark and lethal. And I learned before she dragged me out, kicking and screaming, why no one ever stood up in that room at night—Izel was always watching from her room in the house next door, for walking shadows to move along the walls.

  But that night, as Izel tormented me about my mother’s death, and how I belonged to her then, all I could think about was Huevito. And I never saw her again.

  Izabel

  Present day…

  Until now.

  I stare at Naeva blankly; words have abandoned me; I can feel my heart beating in my ears. I raise both arms, gun still clutched in the right hand, and I rest them on the top of my head. I hold them there, the gun pointed at the ceiling; I shake my head, trying to sort out what’s happening: why she’s here, how she’s here. My God, she’s Victor’s sister; she was in Javier’s compound—with me. What could that possibly mean?

  I can’t…

  It’s too much. I don’t know where to begin with any of this. My mind is racing. I feel dizzy. Finally, my arms come back down. And I just look at her. And out of the hundred or so questions I want to ask, I settle with, “Why did they call you Huevito?”

  Naeva smiles softly.

  “Carmen thought I looked like a little egg,” she says. “The nickname stuck.”

  Overcome with unwanted emotion, I step forward and wrap my arms around her small frame. She returns the affection, holding onto me with more strength than she appears to possess.

  “I can’t believe you’re still alive,” I say, pulling away; I cup her elbows in my hands and look her over. “I…well I thought Izel killed you—she even said she did.”

  Naeva shakes her head. “There were times I wished she had,” she says, dejectedly.

  “But I never saw you again after the night we met.” I hug her one more time, just relieved to know that she’s OK. “I was there for nine years.”

  Although my and Naeva’s relationship never went beyond that night, our conversations never went further than the desperate, incoherent things she said to me as she lay beaten on that floor, the mark she left on my mind and my heart was heavy. It was the same with all of the girls in the compound who I grew to love as my sisters. All we had were each other. And a bond formed in such trying times can never be broken.

  Naeva takes up her blouse from the chair and slips it back on, closing the buttons from top to bottom.

  I set the gun on the coffee table and sit back down next to it.

  “I know you have a lot of questions,” she begins, “about me, and what happened to me in that place, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know, but in time—I want to know all about you, too.” She sits on the chair again. She’s no longer smiling, nor does she seem interested in catching up, or telling me her sad story. She’s in desperate need of something else, something far more important; the enormity of it encompasses her.

  “All I care about right now,” she goes on, “is going back to Mexico. I don’t care what I have to do; I don’t care about the risks, or what it’ll cost”—she takes a deep breath; her eyes lock on mine—“Sarai, I just need to go back—I have to go back. I know you’re going there on an important mission of your own, but I won’t get in your way, and I don’t expect, nor want you to feel like you have to babysit me. All I’m asking for is your company and expertise. You know how to get in where I need to go; you know people…” She hesitates, and looks at the floor briefly; I sense a bit of embarrassment, and disappointment. “I’m not who The Order wanted me to be. No amount of training, or brainwashing, ever made me as good as my brothers. But you…Sarai, I know you can help me. Just get me there and I’ll do the rest.”

  I think on it, looking down at my legs.

  “Naeva,” I say, raising my head, “I…why would you want to go back there? And why with me? If you’re working for The Order, I imagine you can find much easier—safer—ways to go to Mexico.”

  “And you could do the same,” she responds quickly.

  I blink, surprised by how much she knows.

  “How’d you—?”

  “How’d I know?” she asks. “You just told me yourself. By saying I can find easier, safer ways in, you’re basically telling me the way you’re getting in is anything but easy or safe.” She points at the window overlooking the front yard. “And I’m assuming that man that’s been parked out on the street the past hour is your ride?” She puts up her hands, palms facing me. “Hey, I don’t know for sure, but I’m guessing coyote. Or at least the guy who’s going to take you to one.”

  Yeah, this one is very smart; she’ll need that level of intellect if she doesn’t have anything else to depend on.

  I don’t answer her about Ray—I don’t fully trust her yet. I believe she’s telling me the truth about everything. But I’ve made one too many mistakes trusting what I believe is my heart, too soon, and I don’t intend to make another one.

  I get up from the coffee table—gun in my hand—and begin to pace. I don’t look at her directly, but I keep her in my sights.

  “But why don’t you go an easier way?” I probe. “Going with me could get you killed—I could die.”

  “Because I can’t make it that easy for The Order to track me,” she answers. “They know all of my aliases—they’re who set them up for me, right down to the social security numbers and the fake lives each of my identities supposedly led. I use a passport, or a credit card, and they’ll know exactly where I’m at. I can’t take that risk.”

  I contemplate a moment longer.

  “OK, so then what happens when you just disappear?” I ask, and I look right at her now so I can read her eyes when she answers.

  She sighs. “You don’t have to worry about that,” she assures me. “At least not yet. I’ve been given a leave of absence, if that’s what you want to call it. Since Brant Morrison’s death, I’ve just been floating around—they don’t know what to do with me. Brant was my partner and my teacher; I never worked with anyone else. And I was never good enough to work alone.”

  I know that feeling all too well.

  “What exactly do you do for The Order then?” I ask.

  “I’m a spy,” she answers right away. “I’ve never even killed anyone; seen a lot of people die, but thankfully, never by my hands.”

  “So they just—I don’t understand. Leave of absence?”

  It just seems odd. I wouldn’t expect an organization like The Order having perks such as leave of absences and sick days and such.

  “I was told to take some time off,” she begins. “Go on a vacation—whatever I want. They said they’d be in touch when, or if, they need me later.” She looks troubled all of a sudden; her hands become unsteady on her lap. “The ‘if’ worries me, Sarai.”

  “Why?”

  I step up closer, and crouch in front of her sitting on the chair. I don’t know why, but I don’t see Victor’s sister sitting there; I see Huevito from so long ago.

  A knot moves down the center of her throat. She makes eye contact and says nervously, “I think they’re going to kill me. I meant what I said about being useless to The Order. I may know my way around obtaining useful information for them, but the truth is there are hundreds of operatives who do it better than me. I can’t offer them anything they don’t already have, and in The Order, you’re either valuable or you’re expendable—there’s no such thing as in-between.” She sighs. “I was never cut out for any of this, but Brant insisted I be given a chance. I think if it wasn’t for him, they’d have killed me a long time ago.”

  “He protected you,” I say, more to myself than to Naeva. But why?

  “Yeah,” she says, and then looks off at the wall. “But now he’s dead. And if I don’t get out before they decide my fate, I fear I’m going to end up dead too.”
>
  But why would they wait this long to kill her?

  It’s too risky. This could all be part of Vonnegut’s plan to track down the rest of us. What if they’re using Naeva—without her knowledge of it—to find us? No, that doesn’t make sense, either. Like Victor said, The Order has known where we were for a while; they wouldn’t need Naeva for that. OK, so that still leaves the question: Why would they wait this long to kill her?

  Then she says, “If they don’t kill me soon, they’ll probably use me to get my brothers to give themselves up. I had to report something to The Order about the night Brant died. They already knew that Brant was hot on Victor’s trail, and probably closing in on him; not to mention, they know I’m always with him, so I had to tell them the truth about you and Victor getting away, about Victor killing Brant. They wouldn’t have believed anything else. The only thing I didn’t tell them was that I helped you and Victor.”

  Warily, I cut in and ask, “And what exactly did you tell them about your role in what happened?”

  “I lied, of course,” she says. “I told them that Victor almost killed me too, but that he spared me when I told him I was his sister. I said Victor let me go. And I think that’s the only reason I’m alive right now to tell you any of this.”

  “They want to keep you as a backup,” I say, “in case they need to use you to lure Victor in.”

  “Possibly,” she says. “Only thing I can figure is that since they think Victor spared me, that he might try to save me later because of our blood ties.” She starts to gesture her hands. “But Sarai, I don’t know if any of this is true. It’s all speculation. And believe me when I say I’ve been worried maybe they followed me here, even though I took every precaution before coming.” She shakes her head. “I have a lot of fears, and just as many theories, but the only thing I know about any of this that is concrete, is that everything I’ve told you is true. I know you don’t have any reason to believe me—I wouldn’t believe me, either—but this is all I have.” She lowers her head again, and folds her hands gently on her lap. “All I care about is getting to Mexico. Vonnegut, The Order, my life hanging in the balance—I don’t care about any of that.” A sadness suddenly fills her features. “And I love my brothers, but not even they are as important to me as me getting to Mexico.”

  “You still haven’t told me, Naeva—why Mexico?”

  When she raises her head this time, there are tears trapped in her eyes. “Leo Moreno,” she says, and her lips begin to quiver. And just like that time long ago when she cried out for the life of this man, I can’t escape the feelings of pain and heartache she infects me with.

  I swallow, and I place my free hand on her wrist. I want to say something to her, to comfort her, though I don’t know what to say. But I do know that believe I her. The heart never lies, whether it’s telling you something you want to know or not—the heart is incapable of deceit. Sometimes, I admit, I get my mind and heart mixed up, but in times like this, when you feel the truth deep in your core, you know that it can only be your heart talking.

  Taking her hand, I place my gun into it and close her fingers around the cold steel. She sniffles and raises her head slowly. She looks down at the gun in her hand, then back up at me; her pale, rosy features perplexed.

  I glance at the gun. “Here’s your chance,” I offer. “If that’s why you’re here, you can do what you came here to do. I won’t stop you.”

  Her eyebrows drawing inward, Naeva begins to shake her head, slowly at first, until realization fully dawns on her and then she shakes it more rapidly. “No,” she rejects the opportunity, and shoves the gun back into my hand, practically pushing me away with it. “That’s not why I’m here—please, you have to believe me.”

  Either she’s the best actress in the world, or she’s telling the truth. And since she’s clearly not Charlize Theron…

  “I do believe you, Naeva,” I say, and then I stand and reach out my hand to her. “But it’s not because I believe you, or because I feel the pain you feel for this Leo, that I’m…choosing to let you go with me.”

  Her face lights up just enough to show how relieved she is by my decision, and then she stands, gripping my hand.

  “Then why?” she asks. “I thought it’d be harder to convince you than this. Honestly, I didn’t think you’d say yes at all. I’m grateful, Sarai, but why are you going to help me?”

  “Because you saved my life in Venezuela,” I answer. “And because you and every other girl I spent even two minutes with in that compound in Mexico, are and always have been very important to me.” I take her into another tight hug, and as I stand here with her in my arms, I learn something about myself. Or, rather I remember something that I’d forgotten slowly over time since I escaped Mexico. Those girls are another part of me; I shared something with them that I could never share or feel even with Victor. And I’ll do whatever I can to help any one of them for as long as I live.

  Of course, these aren’t my only reasons for helping Naeva. The plot has thickened, so to speak; and Naeva is an unexpected, and very welcoming piece of a complex puzzle that I intend to put together all on my own. The very fact that Victor’s own flesh and blood sister was in the same compound that I was in, is an intriguing mystery in itself. Coincidence? Not even close—too significant to be a mere coincidence. And there’s more. So much more. The mystery surrounding Brant Morrison: his blatant jealousy and hatred for Victor, and his protectiveness of Naeva; why The Order wants Victor and Niklas brought in alive; why The Order wants me brought in alive; why I’m worth so much. My head is spinning with the possibilities!

  I will get to the bottom of this. Everything is soon to come full circle. And that inevitable end will begin where things began—in Mexico; back into the heart of the nightmare that was my life.

  “Are you sure about this, Naeva?” I gently grip her upper arms in my hands, anticipation seizing me now more than ever. “I meant what I said—you could die. And as much as I want to help you, I don’t want that on my conscience.”

  Naeva smiles softly. She reaches up and touches my face.

  “If I don’t go, Sarai…I’ll die anyway. I have to find him. If it’s the last thing I ever do, I have to find him.”

  We embrace each other tightly.

  Naeva Brun. The long-lost kid sister of none other than the man I love. Standing in my living room on the eve of the most important mission of my life. It’s one of those moments when you look back on your plans, your hopes and dreams, and realize that nothing ever happens the way you envision it; something odd or extraordinary, the one thing you never could’ve imagined, is thrown into the wheel in the most unexpected of moments. And it either helps to turn it, or it stops it in its tracks. Naeva, I believe, is very much turning that wheel—I feel it. I know it.

  And even still, when I look at her, I can’t for the life of me see her as Victor’s sister. She’s Huevito, the girl who Izel nearly beat to death eleven years ago, a girl who I was not so unlike once upon a time, and I still feel as though I’m peering into a mirror when I look at her.

  “What was that?” Naeva asks suddenly, pulling out of our hug.

  I pretend not to have heard anything.

  But then the voice gets louder, carrying through the vent in the floor.

  “Did you hear that?” she asks; she squints her eyes in concentration, and gazes off in the direction of the muffled voice.

  Then she looks at me, seeking answers.

  I wasn’t going to tell her—or anyone for that matter—but since I trust her enough to take her to Mexico with me, I may as well let her in on this dark project, too.

  I sigh and say with the wave of my hand, “Come with me and I’ll show you,” and she follows down the hallway.

  Izabel

  Pushing up on my toes, I reach above for the key hidden over the basement door. “I left the front door unlocked about twelve hours ago,” I say, sliding the key into the knob, “and someone almost wanted me bad enough.”

 
“Oh?” Naeva cocks an eyebrow, watching me with intense curiosity.

  I open the door and reach out to flip the light switch on the wall; light floods the carpeted steps leading down into the basement. The voice becomes louder. “I need to take a piss, you fucking bitch!”

  Naeva stops on the second step and just looks at me, her face all twisted up with confusion and concern.

  I jerk my head back casually. “It’s all right,” I tell her, insisting she continue to follow. “He may’ve worked the gag out of his mouth, but there’s no way he’s getting out of the ropes.”

  “Who is it?” Naeva whispers, still immobile on the second step.

  I take her by the hand and lead her down the last ten steps, and we make our way into the basement.

  Naeva’s eyes widen, and she gasps quietly. “My God,” she says, her hand loosely covering her mouth, “it’s Apollo Stone.”

  Apollo is bound to an old wheelchair; ropes are tied around his arms and wrists and the chair’s frame; his legs and ankles to the folding leg rests. His feet are bare and the only clothing he wears are his form-fitting boxer briefs. He has muscle-defined runner’s legs, and a physique like the God Apollo himself. But this Apollo, being tied to a dusty wheelchair in nothing but his underwear and colorful language, isn’t doing his divine namesake any justice.

  “Come on, girl,” Apollo insists, with the backward tilt of his head, “I gotta piss. Get me a soda bottle or somethin’. Don’t even have to untie my hands—you can hold it for me.” His mouth turns up on one side.

  Naeva can barely take her eyes off him.

  “Why—how is he here?” she asks, without looking at me.

  Apollo snorts.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he says, looking Naeva over with comical disappointment. And relief. “This is who you brought to keep an eye on me while you’re in wetback country?” He throws his head back and laughs.

  I ignore him.