Through the eastern window she could see part of the loggia and the courtyard below. The sun was setting behind her, but she saw the orange glow on the stone columns and the paver tiles and on the facets of the broad-leafed jungle flora. Shot with gold, she thought. Shot. She saw the surprised look on Saturnino’s war-painted face. She saw his pathetic pawing in the cenote as he tried to swim. She saw his blood rising in the clear water and the green dye melting off his hair.
A few hours ago, in her room, she had taken the longest, hottest bath of her life and still she felt filthy and stained and she knew that she had been forced to surrender something she would never get back. He had finally raped her after all. She wondered if she could kill his father also. On the same day, even. Why not? She had proven experience. She had done things here she had never imagined and this made her feel unreal and unpredictable even to herself.
Looking down she could see the sicarios loitering in the courtyard and among the columns of the portico. Things were wrong here. She felt the tension and nerves in the still subtropical air, surely as she had felt them when she marched back here a few hours ago. At first she thought it was because of her escape, or Saturnino’s disappearance. But it wasn’t about either of them, she thought now. Something had happened or might happen. His greatest fear is of being betrayed by his own men. She looked down to the driveway where Heriberto, a rifle slung over his shoulder, stood talking to one of the young gunmen. Just minutes ago, on the way here to the dining room, they had passed two more gunmen in the foyer and one standing midway down a long hallway and another who was likely stationed just out of eyeshot outside the dining room entry. Erin wondered if Armenta was protected by them or surrounded by them.
He sat at the head of the table with Erin on his right but they were far enough apart to be strangers sharing space in a cafeteria. Overhead the ceiling fans turned at low speed, their blades bending the candle flames.
Armenta had shaved and his hair had been cut and styled. He wore an expensive looking black silk suit and a white jacquard shirt with small black hummingbirds flying through the weave. The tailored clothing hid his bulk and the haircut revealed a strong neck and a face of intensity and intelligence. She saw Saturnino’s handsome roughness and she pictured his face on the night he attacked her, coming into view on the window of the Cadillac as it shut on her.
A servant opened a French Pouilly-Fuisse and set the cork before Erin, who knew nothing of French wines but smelled it and nodded and tasted the wine. It was cool and light and it offered pleasure, which collided with her fear for Bradley and her worry over Hood and her anger over the killing she had done.
“I’d drink this whole bottle if I wasn’t pregnant,” she said. “And being held captive by a cartel kingpin. I could use a night of forgetting about all this. Maybe a lifetime.”
“I see the unhappiness on your face.”
“This was one of the worst days of my life. I’ve had several of them since I met you.”
He nodded tersely. “Why did you run? Where were you trying to go?”
“Away, away and away.”
“Mexico can be dangerous.”
She actually laughed.
He glanced down distractedly at the courtyard, then turned his attention back to her. “Father Ciel found his key. He had misplaced it. Apparently. Maybe your escape was one of opportunity and not planning.”
“Either way is just fine with me.”
“Do you hate this place very strongly?”
“I’m going to be a mother soon. I can’t describe to you how genuinely awful it is to be a prisoner here. Can’t you imagine what Anya would have felt like if she were going to give birth to Gustavo and your enemies were holding her thousands of miles from home? Planning to skin her alive? How can you not understand this? Is your heart that small?”
He looked down and away. The waiter set out bowls of ceviche and guacamole and chips, and refreshed the glasses of wine. “I hope not to remove your skin.”
“Saturnino will actually do it. So, no worries for you.”
“I never wanted to skin you, of course.”
She choked down the mouthful of wine and coughed into her napkin. “From the beginning? A bluff?”
“Oh, no bluff. No, no. I kidnapped you for business and to punish an enemy. And because I wanted to meet you. I was a fan. I love musical talent and skill. I intended to skin you only if necessary. But when I met you my perceptions changed. There is more in you than musical talent and skill. There is something that you have and it is only you. I see it. I understand it. My heart sees it. So I want now very much not to skin you although I have given my word and my word is who I am. I want my money. But I want you to write. And go free. And have your child.”
“But you will skin me?”
“I must, if Charlie Bravo fails you.”
“You…Saturnino has done this to other people?”
Armenta raised his eyebrows and cleared his throat softly and continued to look out the window.
“Jesus H. Christ,” she said.
“H?”
“It’s a saying.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning can you just please fly me out of Chetumal tomorrow? Can you let me go home?”
“Impossible.”
“Why is it impossible? You’re the most powerful man in Quintana Roo. Aren’t you?”
He looked at her again, nodded and smiled proudly, then his face fell into a scowl. He unbuttoned his jacket, brought a phone to his ear and listened for a long time.
Erin looked down at the loggia colonnade melting into the darkness. The driveway was a pale swatch through the black of the jungle. The sicarios were just dabs in the background now, difficult to see but not quite invisible. Her mind was alive with images of the day and she wondered if it was possible to unsee the seen or forget the unforgettable.
Finally Armenta said bueno and reclipped the phone to his belt with an apologetic shrug.
“I think you’re lying about Charlie Bravo,” she said. “You’ve misled him. He won’t be here with the money tomorrow because you don’t want him here. Right?”
He shrugged and looked at her, then abandoned his pretense and nodded.
“Or have you killed him?”
“No. He is alive, but not here. He is off course but he has my money.”
“How long do you propose to keep me prisoner?”
“I have given this thought. My wish is to own a collection of songs that you have written and recorded for me. Enough to form a body of work, on compact disc. The recordings will of course be basic vocal tracks and you will accompany yourself on guitar and piano. Let us say, twelve songs in all. It will not be sold. This is not commercialism. It is for me only to possess.”
“Then you’ll fly me home?”
“You have my word.”
“But your word isn’t true. You’ve sent Charlie miles from here, haven’t you? You’ve gone back on your own deal.”
He looked morose at his honor being doubted. “But you are compelled to believe me. Charlie Bravo and his one million dollars are not here. Your weak and fearful husband remains hiding in California, useless to you. These are factual truths. Twelve songs.”
Twelve songs, she thought. Time. Time for the baby inside me to grow. Time for Bradley and Hood. I could write the songs and lay down the vocals in a week. A week! Earn my own freedom.
“You already have one of my songs.”
“But you must record it.”
“Then you mean eleven.”