As Abraham made a right onto Río Turbio street, his face flushed with anger.
Driving, something that would often help him clear his mind and outrun his worries, was souring his mood further. By the time they'd driven past the poorly lit town square twice in less than an hour, he could no longer stand the texture of his white polyester shirt plastered with sweat against his chest. Even though he'd floored the gas pedal since turning on the ignition, and the car windows were down, the night air had done little to lessen the suffocating heat.
Born and raised in San Isidro, he was more than used to this sauna-like weather. That wasn't what bothered him. Not really. What troubled him was Ismael. Despite the hellish temperature, in spite of the tragedy he'd lived through tonight, there was not a drop of sweat on the priest's forehead nor a trickle of fear on his face.
He's quiet as a cavern, Abraham thought, remembering his unpleasant experience at the Guácharo Cave National Park more than a decade ago.
The priest hadn't said a word since Abe had picked him up at the police station an hour ago, but when he finally spoke, Abraham quickly realized he would have preferred his friend to remain silent all night long.
"Abe, who is the Mime King?"
Right after hearing the question, the chief of police gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white and, without letting the speedometer needle drop a millimeter, made a sharp U-turn. The crunch of gravel startled a barking dog in a nearby alley.
"Dammit! That's it, Ismael. We are leaving."
"Abraham, where are you taking me?"
The priest's voice was dull but hostile.
"Maybe the bishop was right. Maybe you should stay with the nuns."
For the first time since they had gotten into the car, Ismael looked at him and said, "No. He isn't. Let's go home."
"Why? So you can make my wife cry again?" Abraham took his eyes off the road to glance at him. "Yeah. She called me. Told me all about your little pep talk. You are unbelievable, you know that? After what we've been through... I mean. Fuck!" He blew out a breath. "You had to die to bring us together again, man, and this is how you behave after a miracle?"
They drove in silence for a while.
"Perhaps I haven't been the ideal guest these past few days," the priest admitted.
"You think?" A smile of disbelief crossed his lips. "We are supposed to be a family, man. When you woke up, I thought it was an act of God, but... Come on, Ismael! I don't know what to do with you anymore."
Complaining was not something that came easily to Abe. His parents had raised him to be a man, and men didn't whine. Regardless of his beliefs, nothing in his upbringing had prepared him for Ismael's behavior since they left the hospital.
Weeks ago, Abraham had prayed every night for Ismael to come out of his coma. He had dreamed of having his old friend back home, the same guy who told dad jokes and used to smoke an occasional cigar with him while watching Sunday afternoon baseball games. A friend who always supported me whenever an asshole threw shit at my fan. He was sure his compa's recovery would be hard, but worth it; an ordeal they would endure together, like they'd done so many times before, only to come out stronger afterward.
Now, however, Abe feared Ismael wasn't even the same person. The priest looked and sounded just like before, but it wasn't him.
I'm starting to believe something else returned from the dead wearing his skin.
Since Abraham had been devoting his every waking hour to hunting down the Skulls, it had taken him days to notice what Marta had been warning him about from the start: Ismael's behavior was rather odd.
"That weird smile of his is locked in place, and he doesn't seem to sleep at all." Those were Marta's words. If he were to believe his wife, and there was no reason not to, come nightfall, the priest would sit still on the edge of the bed, lights off, grinning his crazy grin until sunlight filtered through the curtains.
The few times Ismael had spoken to them, he'd said the strangest things ('If you could coil your body and pleasure yourself orally, would you swallow your own cum?') and, when either Abe or Marta had tried to start a conversation with him, he'd grow bored with them in seconds and walk away, leaving them alone in mid-sentence.
More than once during lunch, after a single bite, he'd spit out his food right there and then, leaving the table and throwing whatever was on his plate in the trash can, claiming he wouldn't waste his hunger on bland crap.
What had happened to that Ismael who'd cried on his shoulder when he found out about Marcelo's suicide? Where was the friend with whom he had shared laughs watching Radio Rochela on those tedious Monday nights of years past?
"Abraham, you don't understand," said the priest.
"Then help me understand."
"To do that, you'd have to die first."
"You can't talk crazy and expect me to let you stay under my roof!" Abe hit the steering wheel. "You're driving Marta insane, and she's had enough with everything else we've gone through."
"You pretend this has to do with her." The priest gave him a cold, calculating look. "But I only had to ask about the Mime King once before you decided to hand me over to the bishop." A pause. "Why? What do the Skulls want with me? Is it because of them that you wanted me to stay with you? To protect me?" He fixed his glasses on his nose. "Or perhaps to use me as bait?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Did you know the Skulls had been vandalizing the church for weeks before the fire?"
"You are being paranoid, Ismael."
"Am I?"
"Yes."
"You are hiding something."
"No, I am not."
"Tell me the truth! Why are the Skulls obsessed with me?"
"They are not. It's not a personal vendetta! They are not just targeting you."
"Not just me, then. Are they after someone else?"
The priest's expression revealed that they were both thinking the same thing: Abraham had let on too much.
"That's... classified."
"Bullshit."
Stunned at being so bluntly called on his bluff, Abraham clenched his teeth to prevent any more information from slipping through.
"I'm not at liberty to share that information."
"Desperation will break your shackles, compadre."
"Ismael, for God's sake! Who talks like that? Do you even hear yourself?"
They both remained silent for a few more blocks.
"I got a calling," the priest admitted. "It's clear what I must do, and it won't happen while trapped in this déjà vu. I have to leave San Isidro."
"Right!" said Abraham. "You can't stay. That's why I'll drive you to the nuns. They will look after you."
"They won't let me go unless I answer their question."
"Wait. What? Who is 'they'? Who are you talking about? The Skulls?"
"Besides, you cannot take me to the Daughters. Don't you understand the bishop hates us because of our sins?" His glasses flickered as they passed a streetlight. "And after what happened tonight gets on tomorrow's front pages, he'll make sure drugs run through my veins like a river. I'll be a zombie."
"They won't do that." Abe ran a hand over his balding head, his voice lacking certainty as the car slowed down. "They are God-fearing people."
"You said we are family," Ismael reminded him. "If you do this, you might as well point your gun at me and squeeze the trigger."
"Don't be dramatic."
"You cannot do this."
"What I can't do is leave you alone." Abraham sighed in defeat. "Sometimes we have to swallow our pride and ask for help, even if it means dealing with an egomaniac in a cassock like Bishop López."
"Pull over, or I'll jump out."
"No, you won't."
"Fine."
A second later, in one swift movement, Ismael opened the door and jumped out of the moving Malibu. His body hit the pavement hard and rolled down the street.
Dear God!
Abraham stomped on the brake. The wheels gave off a foul smell of burning rubber as the car skidded to a halt.
"You okay?" Abraham asked without thinking, running towards the priest.
Ismael straightened his broken glasses and got up, holding his right side. He had a bloody scratch on his left elbow, and his ripped pants were stained with puddle water. Other than those wounds, he seemed unscathed; something Abe found miraculous.
"Never take my word in vain," said the priest.
Abraham frowned. The disbelief on his face was turning into rage.
"Are you insane?"
"No," he replied. "Saner than ever, and that's the problem."
"Good God, man!" Abe raised his arms. "You almost died of a heart attack, and now you're giving me one. Is that what you want?"
"No."
"Okay, what do you want?"
"Freedom."
"What the hell does that mean?" Abraham clenched his jaw. "No. You know what? Don't tell me."
A part of him still hoped the doctors were wrong, that Marta had lied to him, that his instincts were off. His compadre was indeed better, at least physically. But now, after these antics, the only choice left was to commit him to a mental institution—something Abe would have to hide from the priest for as long as possible.
There's no doubt he will put lives at risk if he suspects me. I have to calm him down first, Abe realized. Do whatever it takes to reassure him.
Before he picked Ismael up earlier that night, Abraham had already called the bishop and agreed that someone would come to fetch Ismael the next day.
I must hold on until he's in more capable hands than mine.
Abraham gaped at his friend for a while, and then returned to his car, looked for a cell phone in the glove compartment (the same one he'd given to certain police officers in special situations) and hung it about Ismael's neck.
"Perhaps you misunderstand what a calling is."
"First, that's a terrible joke." Abe tightened the woven nylon strap that secured the device around the priest's collar. Had that quip been proof his friend was still in there somewhere? "Second, if you want to stay with us, you'll keep this on you at all times. Remove it, stick your head outside the bedroom window, and I'll know. Do anything to it over the next twenty-four hours and..."
"You will know. Got it. I'm grounded."
"I'm doing this for your own good. Now, let's go home."
"Thanks, compadre." Ismael's smile sent a chill ripping through Abraham. "You won't regret this."