J. Redmerski - Behind The Hands That Kill

“Yes, Izabel, I trust you. And I trust in you.”

She pushes up on her toes and kisses me, letting her sweet lips linger on mine for an excruciating moment—I want more but I know I cannot have it. Her fingertips graze my face, and then slowly fall away. My stomach aches, my chest tightens.

“Good,” she says.

She wraps the black scarf around her neck again. And then she walks toward the door.

“Izabel.”

She turns. She looks at me, waiting patiently.

“How is Dina?” I just want Izabel to stay a little longer.

“She’s dead.”

“Oh.” I blink. And then I nod, understanding. I do not have to ask how Dina Gregory died—I know that Izabel did it swiftly so that her mother would not feel any pain.

“I am sorry,” I tell her.

Izabel nods. And she waits, because I am not exactly hiding the fact that I have more to say before she leaves.

I stumble over the words in my mind, wanting to tell her all of them, but not quite knowing how. I glance down at my feet, and then back up at her again. For the last time? That is what it feels like—the last time—and I cannot bear it.

I gather my composure.

Finally I say, “The stars will die before we do, Izabel…”

She smiles.

“I know they will,” she whispers.

After a second, her smile fades, and so does my nerve to finish what else I had intended to say.

“That question you asked me,” Izabel speaks up, “when you came to Dina’s.” She pauses. Looks at the wall. Then back at me. “If you still love me when I return…ask me again.”

And before I have a chance to respond, to tell her that I will always love her, she exits the room. And my life.

The car parked on the street outside my house isn’t Victor’s this time—it belongs to the coyote who I paid to take me across the border. Usually it’s the other way around, and I had to pay a lot more to get into Mexico than an illegal immigrant wanting out. “Your situation is unique,” he had said during our negotiations, parked behind a convenience store at two a.m. yesterday morning. “Why don’t you just use your passport and catch a plane?”

“Because I have to get in this way,” I had said.

He smiled with intrigue, his dark eyes backlit with greed and expectation.

He looked me over. Young, white, American girl with a plan and a purpose. A girl, who clearly by my decision to go dangerously into Mexico by way of a coyote , knew that I not only had bigger balls than him, but also a much bigger bank account.

“Fifteen thousand,” he said, and I knew it was non-negotiable.

But money was the least of my concerns—I went into our negotiations expecting to pay no less than twenty thousand.

“Fifteen for the ride,” I agreed, handing over an envelope stuffed full of cash. “And I’ll also be needing a few other things.”

He cocked a thin brow.

I explained what else I needed, and by the time our meeting was over, he had half of his money up front (twenty-five thousand), and I had a very eager and willing coyote at my disposal.

I close the curtain and slip back into my room. There’s blood on my clothes from an earlier meeting, and I intended to change, but decide against it at the last minute. The blood will only help me to play the part—I just have to make it appear to be mine. No need to pack a bag or grab a toothbrush or anything like that, because kidnapped victims bound for sex slavery compounds don’t have such luxuries; they’re lucky to still be wearing shoes by the time they’re brought through the gates of one of the last places they’ll ever call home.

I swallow a birth control pill, and get to work on braiding a month’s worth of the little pills into the roots of my hair.

A knock echoes lightly through the house. At first, I think it came from the basement, but when I hear it again seconds later, I confirm the source to be at the front door. Maybe it’s the coyote . He told me to call him Ray, but that’s his real name as truthfully as mine is Lydia. I had chosen the name on a whim, thinking a lot about the good friend I lost escaping Mexico the first time. I guess it’s my way of honoring her, of avenging her murder.

Before I go into the living room, I peek out the window of my bedroom and look into the street. Ray’s old beat-up car is gone, and there’s no other vehicle anywhere I can see that wasn’t there before.

The knock sounds again.

I grab my gun from the bed, head down the hallway, crouched low, and take a right into the kitchen instead. Quietly I slip out through the laundry room door, and make my way around the side of the house. Always on high alert, especially while I’m still in the United States, out in the open for Artemis to find me. She is still on the run, as far as I know.

Looking around the corner of the house, I glimpse a woman standing at the front door. The porch light is not on so it’s hard to make out anything more than her being female—the long hair and petit frame easily give away that much.

Pointing the gun at her just five feet away I say, “What do you want?”

The woman’s hands come up slowly, as if she knows I have a gun, and then she turns her head toward me.

“I just want to talk,” she says. “Well, actually I want more than that, but I can assure you I’m not here to hurt you.”

“You couldn’t,” I say with confidence.

She nods, raises her hands higher. “Yeah, I’m fully aware of that.”

I move in closer, feeling the cool, smooth concrete underneath my bare feet; my finger hugs the trigger.

“Turn around,” I demand.

She does exactly as I say, keeps her hands level with her shoulders.

“Now reach out with your right hand,” I instruct, “and open the front door.”

A brief look of surprise flashes over her partially shadowed face. “You left your front door unlocked?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I admit. “I’m not going to live in fear. Someone wants me bad enough, a locked front door isn’t going to stop them. And if they get in by way of that door and catch me off-guard, then I deserve whatever happens to me. Now open the door.”

She cups the knob and turns; the door opens soundlessly; dim light from the living room lamp touches the entrance and the woman, revealing her light brown hair and kind eyes. She’s dressed in a simple pair of khaki-colored slacks, and a short-sleeved white button-up blouse tucked in; her shoes are flat-soled, white, and pointy in the toes. I don’t care about any of this stuff—I was looking for a weapon somewhere amongst it all.

“Where’s your gun?” I ask, still looking her over.

“I don’t have one.”

“A knife?”

She shakes her head.

I gesture my gun at the doorway. “Go inside. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

The woman enters my house, and I follow in closely behind her, closing the front door with my free hand.

“Sit in that chair,” I tell her, glancing at Dina’s flea market wooden chair.

She sits down.

“Put your hands on your knees.”

She puts her hands on her knees.

I sit on the coffee table, facing her, gun still pointed at her. She doesn’t look threatening; she’s smaller and much frailer than me, but I’d never underestimate her because of her size. Or even because she appears to be weaponless. It’s often the ones you least expect capable, who turn out to be the most dangerous.

“Now tell me who you are, and what you want.”

She keeps her focus all on me, but she doesn’t seem afraid—careful and smart, yes, but not afraid.