Stephen Randel - The Chupacabra

“How’re you feeling, Agent Martin?” the doctor asked as he offered Maria one of the cups. “Don’t worry. It’s not from the hospital. I bring in my own coffee.”

“Really sore,” she replied, accepting the coffee with her left hand. The strong aroma of coffee helped to clear her head as she took a sip. “Is he going to be all right?”

“He’ll be fine.” The doctor glanced at the chart at the foot of the bed. “He won’t lose the leg, but he’ll be laid up for some time. No more riding horses for him in the near future.”

“Be sure to stand on the other side of the room when you decide to break the news to him. He won’t like it much.”

“Maybe I’ll have you tell him, then. He wouldn’t stop asking about you when they brought him in. You saved his life, you know,” the doctor said as he checked the I.V. drip bag hanging above Agent Martin’s head. “He’d lost an enormous amount of blood when you got to him. The tourniquet you made was the difference.”

“How long is he going to sleep?” Agent Diaz asked as she took another sip of the hot coffee.

“Probably most of the day. Lean forward, and let me take a look at those stitches in the back of your head,” the doctor said as he placed his hand on her head and tilted it down. “Sorry, but we had to shave a small spot back here to put the stitches in.”

“Good thing I like wearing a hat,” she smiled.

“You should really go and get some rest as well,” the doctor said.

“Thanks, but I’ll stay. I want to be here when he wakes up.”

A few miles outside of El Paso, El Barquero sat patiently in his car. It was parked across the street from a seedy motel just off the highway. Blood from the wound in his side had soaked through the bandages and into the black shirt he was wearing. Ignoring the pain, he waited for someone to pull into the motel. Twenty minutes later, a late-model sedan pulled up and parked in front the motel’s office. A weary salesman got out of his car and walked through the early morning light to the office. A few minutes later, he returned to his car. Using a small pair of binoculars, El Barquero spotted the room key in his hand. Putting his car in gear, he crossed the highway and pulled into the parking lot. Slowly he followed the salesman’s car as it pulled into the back parking lot of the two-story motel.

El Barquero exited his car with his black rucksack and silver briefcase full of money. Following the man, who was pulling a wheeled suitcase and carrying a brown, square leather sample case, he climbed the motel’s outdoor staircase, trailing the man by a few yards. The man removed the room key from his pocket as he approached room number 209. Nervously, the man looked back over his shoulder at the imposing man behind him.

“Can I help you?” the man asked.

“Open the door,” El Barquero said as he brought his hand from behind his back into view. The salesman’s eyes bulged as he saw the menacing black handgun with a silencer attached to the barrel in the large Mexican’s hand.

“Please,” the terrified man said, “you can have my wallet. Just let me keep my samples.”

“Open the door now,” El Barquero’s raspy voice replied. The salesman’s hand shook as he tried to fit the key into the lock on the door, finally getting it to open. “Inside,” El Barquero calmly said to the man. Once they were inside, pointing his gun toward the man, he looked back to make sure the upper walkway and the parking lot were still empty before putting the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the outside door handle and closing and locking the door. Engaging the security chain, he turned and faced the trembling man in front of him. The man was still holding his brown case and roller bag.

“What do you want from me?” the shaking man asked.

“Put down your bags.”

“Please,” the man said has he put his things down, “I’ve got a family.”

“How long is the room rented for?”

“Two…two days.”

“Good,” El Barquero said as he raised his pistol and shot the man twice in the heart. The two faint thumps from the silenced handgun were followed by a thud as the man collapsed to the floor.

El Barquero grimaced from the pain in his side as he dragged the man by his collar to the closet on the opposite side of the bed. He placed the dead man in a seated position in the closet with his belongings, the brown sample case resting in the man’s lap.

Placing his silver case on the bed, El Barquero removed a first aid kit from his rucksack and carried it into the small bathroom. Clicking on the bathroom light, he turned the sink’s hot water faucet on high while he lined up a bottle of alcohol, a container of saline solution, a scalpel, tweezers, and curved suture needles on the tank of the toilet to the side of the sink. When the water from the faucet began to steam, he plugged the drain and filled the basin. Removing his shirt, he unwrapped the bandages from his midsection. His muscular upper body reflected in the bathroom mirror as he examined the wound to his side. Using a washcloth soaked in hot water, he removed the dried blood from around his wounds. Once the caked blood was gone, it was easy to spot the fresh blood leaking from the three small holes in his side where the double-ought buckshot from Agent Diaz’s twelve-gauge had impacted. He knew he was lucky. A few inches farther to his right and he would have received the full impact of the blast.

Turning on the shower, he stripped off the rest of his clothing. Climbing into the shower, he quickly cleaned himself before shutting off the hot spray. Dripping with water, he grabbed a thin, cheap white towel from the rack and dried himself off, staining the towel bloody red in the process. Stepping out of the shower, he admired his nude reflection in the bathroom mirror for a few moments. Then, reaching for one of the bottles on the toilet tank, he doused his whole side in alcohol. El Barquero grimaced at the fire-like pain in his side. Flipping open the plastic lid on the saline container, he squeezed streams of saline into the wounds to flush them out. Next, he took the scalpel and the tweezers and sterilized them with the alcohol. Using one hand to pull the flesh from the edge of the wounds with the tweezers, he used his other hand to slice away small bits of necrotic skin around the buckshot’s entry points with the razor sharp scalpel. After flushing the wounds again with saline, he used the thumb and forefinger of one hand to hold open the wounds while he dug into his side with the tweezers to fish out the heavy buckshot.

The first two pellets were easy to find and retrieve. They clunked heavily against the metal bottom of the trash can beside the sink as he dropped them from the tweezers. The third one took some time, and the wound bled heavily before the pellet finally relented and clunked into the trash can as well. Rinsing the wounds again with alcohol and saline, he clasped one of the pre-threaded stainless steel suture needles tightly with the tweezers. Methodically, he used the curved needles to stitch up the three holes in his side. Cleaning the area one last time, he bound up his midsection again.

El Barquero turned back into the small motel room and pulled a heavy black plastic trash bag from his rucksack. Returning to the bathroom, he stuffed the bloody towel into the bag along with the spent bandages before throwing the sack into the bedroom. Packing up his medical supplies, he straightened and cleaned up the bathroom. After loading two more rounds into his pistol’s clip, he crashed heavily onto the bed. On his back, naked and holding his pistol in one hand, he immediately fell into an exhausted sleep.

Back in the big white house, Kip sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and picking over a pile of scrambled eggs and bacon from a platter in the middle of the table. Bennett sat beside him, reading the newspaper, while under the table, Max lustily gnawed away at a dried pig ear treat. A small television on the kitchen counter relayed the morning’s latest news.