Fausto seized a clump of Solomon’s hair and hoisted him back to his feet. Next he set the sharp edge of the machete’s blade against Solomon’s meaty throat.
“I explain now how I gut a pig,” Fausto said. “Again, my English, I’m sorry. But my machete speak a different language. One I think you all understand.”
Terror flooded Solomon’s eyes. His breathing turned shallow and he began to make strangled noises from deep in his throat as his whole body shook.
Hilary’s attention vacillated between poor Solomon and the boy she loved. “Please, Andy, answer me,” she said.
The man with angry eyes, the one she’d heard Fausto call El Mata Padres-Father Killer-leaned over and bathed her face with his hot and sour breath.
“Quiet and listen,” he said.
From the stage, Fausto continued with his demonstration. “First,” he said, “you must put the pig on its back.”
With a sweep of his leg, Fausto knocked Solomon off his feet. Solomon hit the stage floor and let out a cry of complete surprise. He opened his mouth to gasp for air, flopping about like a fish tossed on a dock. Annoyed, Fausto stepped on Solomon’s chest to hold him still, but his writhing continued. David and Rafa lowered their heads. They could not bear to watch. But Pixie fixed his gaze on Fausto. If Fausto’s men took notice, they would have seen something change inside the smallest member of The Shire. Hatred now-not fear.
“With the pig on the ground,” Fausto said, “you clean off the hair using a knife.” Fausto directed his attention to Solomon. “Now don’t move, piggy, or you will get hurt.” Fausto pulled up Solomon’s shirt and exposed a fleshy midsection dimpled with fat. Efren pinned Solomon’s arms over his head. Working slowly, Fausto scraped the blade of the machete against Solomon’s stomach, using a long stroke in a languid, fluid motion. There was no blood. Fausto applied no real pressure, but the machete produced the same scraping sound a shaving razor makes as it glides over the skin.
Solomon began to whimper. “I want my mom,” he said in a strangled voice. “I want my mom.”
Fausto ignored him. “When that is done, you hang the piggy upside down.” He motioned for Efren and Armando to hoist Solomon up.
Solomon might have weighed 225 pounds, but those two lifted him as if he were filled with feathers. They had an equally easy time flipping him upside down to hold him by his legs. Solomon’s face turned beet red as blood flooded his brain. Strands of hair gently kissed the stage floor like the bristles of a broom. Coins and gum wrappers tumbled out of his pants pockets, and Solomon’s shirt fell down to cover part of his face.
Solomon’s whimpers turned to sobs. “Please let me go,” he begged. “Please let me go.” Each word blended into the next, in one long and desperate plea.
Fausto stood to the side, not wanting to block the view of those in the audience. He turned his attention back to Solomon and set the machete blade between the boy’s trembling legs.
“Don’t kick too much, young one,” Fausto warned in a soft voice, which grew louder as he again addressed his audience. “Next you cut the ass-how do you say, el ano-ah, yes, the anus. You make a big hole here to rip out the insides. And this you tie off with string.”
During the grisly demonstration, Andy appeared dazed and had almost no reaction to anything taking place. He rolled his head forward and yanked it back like he was trying to stay awake. Forward. Back. Repeat.
With growing alarm, Hilary put her fingers under Andy’s chin and turned his head to face her. His clammy skin felt slick and unpleasantly cool to the touch. His eyes held a vacant and empty stare.
“I’ll get my homework done,” Andy muttered to himself. “Just stop bugging me, Dad.”
“Andy, you’re not at home. You’re here at school,” Hilary whispered. “You’ve got to tell me where your backpack is. What room did they bring you to?”
He needed the glucagon injection, not food. Hilary was certain of it.
“Darkness,” Andy mumbled. “Darkness.”
Hilary let go and Andy’s head flopped down until his chin rested on his chest. This time, when Andy tried to lift his head, he lacked strength. So he closed his eyes and rested.
“Don’t go to sleep, Andy,” Hilary pleaded. “Stay awake. Tell me which room.”
Hilary thought maybe she could talk Fausto into giving her Andy’s backpack. Perhaps use the same tactic Andy had used before. If Andy had the key, he could not die. It was that simple. But it was increasingly clear to Hilary that nobody had the key. If that was true, the one bit of leverage they had would be gone, and soon they all would be dead.
Hilary looked right and saw tears streaming down David’s face. While Rafa hid his face in his hands, his body convulsed, and it was obvious his tears were falling as well. But Hilary had other concerns that trumped poor Solomon’s torture, a need far more pressing.
“You’ve got to help him,” Hilary cried out. “He needs his medicine or he’ll die.”
Fausto stopped his demonstration and redirected his smoldering gaze onto Hilary. He pointed his machete at Andy as if it were an extension of his hand. “That one, I believe, does not have the key,” he said. “He is your leader. I know all about leaders. They are not selfish. They sacrifice for the good. If he had the key, he would have given it to us. So now he’s expendable. And if you interrupt me again, hija, you become expendable, too.
“Listen to me, all. Your time here is running very, very short. Is it clear? Because what I’m doing to this pig now, I do for real on each of you. You will feel it all. Every bit of pain I can make happen. And I will take my time. Now, where were we?” Fausto put the tip of the blade against Solomon’s belly. “Yes,” he said. “You have to cut the belly and chest.” Fausto traveled the tip of the blade from Solomon’s navel up to his throat. He kept his eyes on David and Rafa the entire time. “You must be careful not to puncture the intestines, but once the little piggy is opened up, you pull all the muck out into a bucket.”
Fausto raised the machete over his head like an executioner. Solomon saw this and squirmed to get away, but Efren and Armando held him in place. Generating incredible force, Fausto brought the blade down toward Solomon’s head.
David rose to his feet and screamed, “Nooooo!” The timbre of his voice shook the room. But instead of flesh and bone, the tip of Fausto’s blade sank harmlessly into the floor inches from Solomon’s ear. David bowed his head and again sobbed.
Rafa stood and pointed at David. “He’s got it! He has the key!”
Hilary let her attention drift from Andy to David; if this were true, it changed everything.
“No, I don’t,” David said. David’s shirt was untucked, tie dangling, but he pushed back his long hair as if trying to look more dignified.
“You do! You do!” Rafa insisted. “Give it to them now. I don’t want to die. Just do it, David.”
At last, a smile crested on Fausto’s face. “Bring them both to me,” he said, pointing to the teen boys.
El Mata Padres and Tornado rose from their seats and came around to escort Rafa and David onto the stage. The boys went willingly, heads bowed, like death row inmates en route to the gas chamber, each resigned to his fate. One guard remained at the door-the thin one Andy called Whippet-while the rest of them came onstage.
Hilary took notice. The odds of sneaking out of the auditorium to go on a hunting expedition had greatly improved. Still, she did not know where to go looking.
Andy muttered the word “darkness” over and over to himself. The word came out slurred. Hilary thought maybe he’d said “parkness” or “markness.” Neither word meant anything. And yet it was important because Andy kept repeating it.