No buses left San Isidro after dusk.
Once the clock struck midnight, nothing but a few jitneys remained available for those willing to risk their lives on the road at night. It was a risk not because the chances of being robbed or kidnapped verged almost on certainty during the wee hours of the morning, but because, these unsanctioned jitney drivers were infamous for slamming the gas pedal to the floor no matter if it was day or night.
Ismael checked his wristwatch, startled to see it was so late. His encounter with Marta had slowed him down, but he didn't want to spend another minute in this town.
"I'll take my chances," he said to himself, aware that the odds were stacked against him. If the bishop found out about his behavior at the Pérezes, or that Ismael was planning on skipping town, he would make his life a living hell. And then there were the Skulls; the priest suspected they still had plans for him, but he didn't want to stick around to find out why they had tortured him.
At least the passenger terminal was not far now. Even before catching a glimpse of it, he could smell the stench of stale urine growing stronger with each step. Ismael picked up the pace. The streets were asleep and deserted, which suited him perfectly. No one except a transvestite prostitute wearing a miniskirt, the droopy-eyed clerk at the El Silencio liquor store, and a ragged cat with glowing pupils had seen him so far, and none of them seemed to have paid much attention to him either way.
Once at the station (if three dirty platforms and a small cluster of tin kiosks around a crude, single-story building could be called that), the priest found a single jitney parked near the bend. Its driver, a scruffy little gocho, leaned back on the hood of the car, smoking a cigarette; close to him, a homeless man, whose face was slashed by wrinkles, lied on old flattened cardboard boxes, cuddling his anise bottle like a treasure.
"How quaint," the priest whispered to himself.
To his right, by the entrance, inside a Plexiglas cubicle lit by a flickering light bulb, a young woman in charge of selling tickets watched a B-Horror movie on a portable black-and-white TV.
Ismael approached her and knocked on the acrylic glass to pay for the Departure Tax. Without that fucking piece of paper, not even an unsanctioned driver would take him anywhere. The reasoning behind this still remained a mystery to him.
"How long does it take to print a stupid ticket?" the priest said, meeting her vacant eyes. "Could you hurry up?"
She took forever to complete the transaction, however.
She's as stoned as a promiscuous woman in the Old Testament, he thought, giving her a black look. Once he had the ticket in his hands, the priest got in the back seat of the beat-up jitney—one of those 70s Cadillacs that resembles a hearse—without saying a word.
Before leaning against the window of the passenger's door to speak to Ismael, the driver finished the last few drags of his smoke and threw the cigarette butt at two stray dogs screwing on the street.
"Father, do you believe in miracles? Because that what we'll need to hit the road tonight."
"Get in the car."
"I never put the engine in gear unless there's an ass on every seat." The driver looked around. "Do you see any other passengers?"
The priest didn't reply.
"Listen, nobody is here. Not even me!" the driver joked. "In my mind, I'm already home."
"Miracles are not my thing, but do I believe in our Founding Fathers." Ismael took out a thick wad of bills he'd stolen from Abraham. "What about you? Do you believe in this?"
The driver arched his eyebrows and whistled, impressed.
"Well, I'm feeling very patriotic now."
Right after the man started the car, he turned on a CD player embedded in a dashboard covered with religious prints. Ismael reached over from the back seat and turned off the device.
"Not a vallenatos fan, huh?"
"Can't hear the voice."
"What?"
The priest tapped his forehead with his index finger. "The voice in here. I thought it was God whispering in the wind, but I was wrong."
The driver stiffened, obviously uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken. "Right..."
"I live for the things people refuse to say out loud," Ismael explained. "I won't settle for less. This..." He looked at his hand. "We are but flesh. Pleasure is the only God, my friend."
Dumbstruck, the driver stared at him in the rear-view mirror.
"Not a fan of vallenatos, then."
"Shut up and get me out of here."
The driver must have needed the money badly because he limited himself to a complaint grumbled under his breath and then drove up the curve to the highway in silence. With no traffic in sight, the long road out of town seemed shorter. At least it did for a moment.
About four blocks from the terminal, the man switched from gas to break at a green light. "Fuck me," he muttered, clenching the steering wheel.
A dark figure stood before the car; his features hidden behind a skull mask. He was pointing at a gun at them.