But when it came to the Mexico mission, it never was the possibility of death that I agonized over. It was everything else that, like Izabel said, not only could happen to her, but will happen to her, that put the fear into my heart. Will I be able to look at Izabel the same way I look at her now after she returns? Will her being violated by other men, touched, kissed, even possibly raped, change the way I feel about her, especially with the knowledge of her going into this knowing the risks and the consequences? Yes. And no. Yes, I will be able to look at her the same. And no, whatever happens to her will not change the way I feel about her. I love her too much.
“Izabel,” Gustavsson says with disappointment, “even if you manage to live through this, what happens when someone realizes who you are?” He turns to me now. “From what I understand, you think Vonnegut was one of the wealthy men who purchased girls from Javier Ruiz?”
“That’s a good point,” Woodard says. “If the bounty on Izabel’s head is as much as your sister told you, l-logic tells us that a lot of people know w-what she looks like.”
“No,” Izabel answers, “that’s not necessarily the case where I’m going. It’s not like there’ll be Wanted posters nailed to light poles on every city block in this place. And besides, back to Mexico, back into the belly of the same beast I escaped from, is the last place anyone, whether they’re looking for me or not, would ever expect to find me.”
I step forward. “To answer your question,” I say to Gustavsson, “yes, we have reason to believe that the real Vonnegut was one of those wealthy men that Izabel saw when she was Javier’s prisoner.”
“So that raises a lot of questions,” Gustavsson says, “as to just how much business Vonnegut did with the Ruiz Family.”
I nod. “It does indeed.”
“If it’s true,” Izabel reminds us. “We’re taking what Nora told us on good faith—and I believe her—but whether she was telling the truth or not, in the end, the information could be bad. Only way to know for sure is to go and find out. And that’s what I’m going to do.”
No one says anything for a moment.
“So then this is it,” Gustavsson speaks up; he opens his hands to the room. “We leave this building today, all heading in different directions—it feels so…final.”
“It is temporary,” I correct him.
“Yes,” Izabel says, and glances briefly at me. “And when this is all over, everything will be different.” She looks at me again, for longer this time. “Vonnegut will be dead; The Order will be under Victor’s control; we’ll be able to not only work freely and out in the open, per se, but our very lives will change in unimaginable ways. Freedom. Wealth. Opportunities.” She walks toward me, and she stops right in front of me, tilts her head slightly to one side. “And power,” she says, locking eyes with me, her way of telling me that, of all things, power is what I crave.
I am not sure how I feel about that. Is that what Izabel believes, that I am a man who longs for power? Is that what she thinks of me?
Perhaps she is r—
“Victor?” I hear Gustavsson call, and I blink back into focus. “Is this it then? Is this where we part ways and ride off into the sunset?”
For a second, I feel like I had been daydreaming longer than I thought, but finally I manage a nod. “Yes,” I say. “This is it. For now.”
Gustavsson steps up and offers his hand to me.
I accept it.
“If you need me,” he says, “I’m a call away.”
“Good,” I acknowledge. “The same goes for you, my friend.”
Gustavsson turns to Izabel. He looks at her fondly. And then he takes her into another hug, in which she returns.
“Izabel—”
“No goodbyes,” she interrupts. “And none of that ritualistic ‘be careful’ stuff, either. I’m going to be fine. And I’m coming back.”
He seems to think on her words for a moment, and then he nods.
“If you get into any trouble—”
She presses her hand to his chest, stopping him.
“Go catch your serial killer, Fredrik,” she says, and he smiles.
Gustavsson leaves, and after Woodard’s awkward, but endearing goodbyes, he leaves shortly afterward.
And now it is just the two of us, Izabel and myself, alone in the building we once called headquarters. And, in many ways, home.
Izabel reaches out and touches the side of my stubbly face with her fingertips; she gazes up at me. I want to take her into my arms and never let her go. I feel like I have been deprived of something very important, a moment between us that is long overdue and aching to be felt—reuniting for the first time with the one I love and almost lost. The last time I really held her in my arms was when she and I were in that cage together. Not once since her release from the hospital has she allowed me that important moment. And I feel that even now, standing here alone with her, just days before she sets out for Mexico, I will still be deprived of it.
And I do not understand why.
“Victor,” she says, and I almost cannot look at her because it hurts too much. “Do you have faith in me?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Do you trust me?” Her voice is almost a whisper; the sad, but determined look in her eyes is killing me because it feels like goodbye.
“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.
TWENTY-FIVE
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.