They’re killing us.
They are killing us.
Jack’s hands shook, and the shaking spread to his chest. His entire body trembled, like a reed in strong wind.
Jack glanced at the guard, who was watching with sleepy, lizard eyes.
Jack picked up the Mr. Clean, and sprayed the disinfectant into his hand. He smelled it, and drew the strong smell deep, trying to blot out the awful stink trapped in the little bathroom. He pumped the sprayer to fog the tub and the walls and the air, and breathed deep so the chemicals scoured his nose. He wiped everything down with the towels. He sprinkled the Comet like blue snow, and wet it with more Mr. Clean, and sopped up the blood and piss and Mr. Clean to make the towels awful and foul. He wanted them soaked with death, and so disgusting Miguel would refuse to touch them and order Jack to load them into the washer.
In the utility room.
With the door to the garage.
Jack rubbed and wiped until the tub was clean, then scooped up the bloody, piss-soaked, shit-stained towels, and turned to the guard.
“It’s clean. Samuel said I should bring the towels to Miguel.”
The guard, who had heard Samuel Rojas say that very thing, shrugged toward the kitchen, and let Jack pass.
Jack said, “Gracias.”
He carried the last remains of Mr. Chun in his arms like an overfed baby. Each step brought him closer to the kitchen, and Miguel and Kris, but he felt dizzy and separate from his body.
THEY ARE KILLING US.
He suddenly understood the crack Rojas made when he said Jack better hope his mother hadn’t spent all her money. They had killed Mr. Chun because his family couldn’t or wouldn’t pay. This is how all of them would die. One by one, the money would stop, and they would bleed to death in the tub.
Jack and Krista had to leave. Today. Now. Immediately. So Jack had to make it happen. He was frantic for a plan, but if he returned to their room for the knife, the guard might not let him out. He wanted to tell Kwan, and enlist Kwan as an ally, but Kwan was in the room, which led to the same problem. Once Jack returned to the room, he might not be able to get out again while Krista was in the kitchen.
Jack let a few towels fall, buying himself time to think. He had to do this now, alone, without the knife. Okay, fine. Suck it up, and get it done. Think!
Miguel had a key if the door to the garage was locked. Miguel was bigger and tougher, but he was also lazy and stupid, and turned his back to Jack all the time. A heavy frying pan might make a good weapon, or the big cans of tomatoes Krista put in the soup. Those cans had to weigh a couple of pounds.
Jack could get Miguel into the utility room easy enough by pretending something was wrong with the washer. If Jack could grab the pan or one of the big cans, he only needed to get behind Miguel for a second. He would do whatever he needed to do to open the door.
Jack was so scared his eyes watered. He blinked hard, and gathered the sopping towels in his arms, and continued toward the kitchen.
Miguel usually parked his fat ass in a folding chair at the mouth of the kitchen in the entry. This is where he slept, only now the chair was empty.
Jack hoped this meant Miguel was in the utility room or in the garage, which would be the best of all possible worlds, so he quickened his pace.
His heart pounded and his pulse rushed in his ears as he crossed the entry into the kitchen, gearing up for the battle to come-
But Miguel wasn’t in the kitchen, and nothing was as Jack expected.
Medina stood over Krissy, and Krissy was on the floor. Her hands were up to protect herself. Blood smeared on her face.
Jack’s world shrank to fuzzy red tunnels filled with roaring static. He saw Krista down with Medina above her, then Medina saw Jack, and his lips peeled away to show the horrible jagged teeth.
Jack floated through falling blood-stained towels as he charged forward without doubt or hesitation.
26
Marisol was in the kitchen when Krista arrived with Miguel. The skinny guard Krista called the Praying Mantis was slouched against the counter, but he slinked into the living room as soon as Miguel arrived.
Miguel toed a cardboard box filled with canned goods and plastic bags on the floor by the fridge.
“Beans and rice. Make the red kidneys. Got two five-pound bags in there. I got bay leaves and chili peppers. See in there? That’ll make’m good.”
Marisol looked in the box, but Krista didn’t care. She took their largest pot from the stove to the sink, and turned on the tap to fill it.
Marisol brought the bags of beans and rice to the counter, then got their second pot and utensils, and waited her turn at the tap. One big pot for the beans, the other to cook the rice.
Miguel went into the entry, plopped into his chair, and unfolded a car magazine.
Krista glanced at him to make sure he wasn’t watching. Krista wasn’t tall, but she looked down at her small friend as she whispered.
“I didn’t think he could read.”
“He can’t. He sees only the pictures.”
They shared a brief smile, then concentrated on filling the pots. Krista liked Marisol. She was a tiny girl from Ecuador, with cousins who lived in Anaheim. She had traveled almost two months up through the length of Mexico to reach the United States. Her dream was to work as a maid for a rich lady in Beverly Hills, and walk the lady’s white poodles every day.
Marisol nudged her.
“How you doing on your side?”
Marisol lived in the other room with the other group of prisoners, many of whom were from Central America. Krista checked on Miguel again before she answered.
“Not so good. They’re hurting people.”
“Our side, too. If they don’t get the money, they make people cry. This girl from Chile-”
Marisol glanced at Miguel, and lowered her voice even more.
“The one with the teeth touched her down there. Her mama was on the phone, and he did these things with his fingers. He told her mama what he was doing.”
Krista didn’t speak again until they had carried the first pot to the stove, and were filling the second pot. The beans had to be washed, so she dumped the beans into the pot and raked her fingers through the water to wash them.
The information Marisol shared made Krista’s hair prickle, and she flashed on the pliers and the way Medina had looked at her, and wanted to scream. Instead, she tried to offer something encouraging.
“A man on our side went home today. They made him scream. We all heard him, but his family must have paid. They sent him home.”
Marisol’s eyes widened to saucers.
“They let him go?”
“A few minutes ago. He’s on his way now.”
Marisol slowly shook her head.
“No, Krista. No. They don’t let us go.”
“He’s gone. Rojas told us.”
Marisol faced her, and the girl’s voice was urgent.
“They don’t let us go. They just keep taking the money. There is never enough money. If our families don’t find us, we must escape. Do you not know this?”
Krista was wondering how to respond when the door in the utility room opened. Miguel immediately jumped to his feet as Medina came in from the garage. His hands and forearms were smeared with something greasy, and his shirt was blotchy and stained.
Miguel simpered like a Chihuahua.
“You need me to do anything?”
Medina ignored him, and slowly unbuttoned his shirt. He looked Marisol up and down, then raked his gaze over Krista. He peeled out of his shirt like a snake sheds a skin, and dropped it to the floor.
He stared at Krista, but spoke to Marisol.
“Wash this. Make the water hot, and use bleach.”
Marisol scurried to pick up the shirt, and took it into the utility room.
Krista heard faint voices, a car door, and an engine starting in the garage. Then the garage door rattled as it lifted.