The Devil's bounty

Thirty-five

Turning away from the windows that looked over the swimming pool, Hector walked out of the room and down the corridor to the kitchen where he fixed the girl something to eat. He put it all on a tray and walked it down to the room.

At the door, he set the tray on the floor, unlocked the door and stepped inside. She was where he had left her. She eyed him with a mixture of fear and relief. Fear of what he would do. Relief at not having been abandoned. He didn’t speak to her. It was better that way. He might still have to kill her and he felt badly enough for her without getting to know her more than he had.

People on the outside might laugh at that, but it was true. He was a killer many times over. On more than one occasion his hands and arms, all the way up to his elbows, had been immersed in blood. He was an executioner. A sicario. But he still felt pain, and grief, and sympathy, and fear, and every emotion that others did.

He propped the door open with a case of beer, one of many stacked in the narrow corridor outside the room, brought the tray in and set it down next to her. There was bread and eggs, juice and coffee. An American breakfast. Bland but filling. ‘The coffee is hot,’ he said to her. ‘But don’t get any ideas about throwing it at me. I am used to pain.’

She didn’t react but she seemed to take in what he was saying. He took the keys from his pocket and released her from the restraints. He retreated to the door as she ate. She had an appetite, which was good.

As she finished her coffee, she looked up at him. ‘Why are you keeping me here? If it’s money, my parents do okay but they don’t have millions or anything.’

So young, he thought. So naive.

He motioned for her to sit back so he could put the manacles on again. She did as she was told. As he knelt next to her, he sensed that someone else was in the room with them. Not a person. Something much bigger than they were. Bigger than the boss.

Later, he would reflect that he didn’t think it was God, or the Virgin, or Santa Muerte, because what washed over him was beyond a thought: it was something far more powerful. His face was close to hers and for a split second he thought he might throw himself on the floor and weep for what he was doing. But the core of him, which allowed him to function, reared up again, pulling him back from what was surely an abyss. The feeling didn’t abate entirely but it retreated, like the tide.

‘Don’t tell anyone your family is poor, okay?’ he whispered. ‘If you have no money, they won’t keep you alive.’

He was so close that he could see flecks of green in her blue eyes.

She nodded.

He stood up, took the tray, walked out and locked the door behind him. His hands were shaking so hard that the coffee cup rattled in its saucer. He needed a drink. Needed it bad.