J. Redmerski - Behind The Hands That Kill

Huevito’s eyes opened a little wider, and she looked right at me. But I got the feeling she didn’t even know where she was, that she’d been beaten so severely that she was hallucinating. And when she continued to speak, I became more convinced of that assumption.

“I won’t let them kill you,” she said. “Te amo mucho, Leo. I won’t live without you.” She started to cry, tears tracked through the dirt on her cheeks; her breathing began to labor.

I held her hand more firmly, and I started to cry too. Who was she talking about? I didn’t know, but whoever Leo was, even my heart ached tremendously for him—for both of them.

Huevito closed her eyes, caught her breath once more, and then opened them again. Her lips were so dry and cracked that the skin began to break apart right in front of me; slivers of blood appeared in the tiny slits.

“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.

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.