Ismael headed out the door and followed Ofelia, always keeping at least thirty feet between them, as she'd told him. At no point did they disconnect the call, but they remained silent until they reached their destination several blocks away.
The liquor store near the terminal?
The neon signboard above the store was lifeless. Covered with posters of women in bikinis licking beer cans and aged by black smog stains, the chipped facade looked as dirty as the sidewalk-turned-ashtray in front of it.
Behind the gated porch, the owners of the house had transformed the entrance into a storefront with a few aluminum shelves displaying rum and anisette bottles next to two wide countertop refrigerators with hinged glass doors.
On the wood counter in the middle, there was a small figurine of Saint Michael the Archangel alongside a plastic Chinese lucky cat, and above them, a sign that read: "Smoking Kills."
What are we doing here?
"Come through the back door," said his goddaughter before hanging up.
Ismael circled to the rear of the establishment, the pain still pulsing through his ribs and elbow. The loud barking of a chained Rottweiler welcomed him as he crossed the gate to the backyard. Drool dripped off the beast's fangs as it stood on its hind legs, desperate to attack.
After the hellhound, the next thing the priest noticed was the stink. Even though he hadn't set foot inside the place, it was easy to tell the air was heavy with the rancid stench from the empty beer bottles, piled in plastic Polar cases. It was a struggle to keep himself from burying his nose in the crook of his arm.
"Ofelia?" he asked, walking into the back room where they most likely stored their goods. His eyes had not yet grown accustomed to the gloom when he felt something metallic and hard pressing against his temple, accompanied by the unmistakable hammer click of someone cocking a gun. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, he raised his hands in surrender at gunpoint.
"This was not the plan," the young man holding the pistol complained. It was the same droopy-eyed teenager Ismael had seen last night working there on his way to the terminal.
"Want to make God laugh?" Ofelia turned on the light. "Then tell him your plans." She was still thin and bony, but not as scrawny as she'd been as a child. "Put the gun down, Jeremías. I don't trust your good judgment when you are sober, much less when you're coked out of orbit."
Jeremías wiped off a trickle of blood coming out of his beaked nose and did as she told him.
Ismael frowned as some pieces of the puzzle fell into place in his mind. "You two were the Skulls who threatened me at the sacristy."
"We are legion," Ofelia said, pulling her inky hair into a ponytail.
The priest peered about the room. Amidst the towers of blue beer cases and piles of cigarette and candy boxes, there was a table cluttered with black clothes, three skull masks, and four ammo stocks. This can't be their hideout. Perhaps they meet— Jeremías pushed him before he could finish studying his surroundings.
"What happened to you? Did someone beat you up, little priest?"
"I jumped out of a moving car."
"Whatever. I don't care. You are taking too long to answer the question." The teenager's pupils were so big they almost engulfed the dirty brown color of his irises completely. "We will force you to—"
"Shut up!" Ofelia shouted. Looking at her pale, delicate features, no one would have thought her voice could be so commanding.
"Fine. I won't ruin the surprise." Dropping the bluster, Jeremías flicked his new Zippo open to heat a metal spoon he'd pulled out from his back pocket. "You'll see. Once Luz gets here—"
"Quiet," she said.
"But my sister—"
"Shut the hell up!"
"What's the big deal?" Jeremías clenched his hand into a fist to find the green trace of a vein beneath the skin of his pincushion forearm. "I'm just saying he's a walking corpse."
"That I am," Ismael agreed. "However, here I am, enjoying the only afterlife there is."
"Don't worry, godfather. No one will harm you for now." She turned to Jeremías. "Isn't that right?"
"Yeah. That's what I told him last night."
The young man let out a loud snort, scratched his scaly neck, and lay down on a filthy mattress on the floor. Ismael chuckled after Jeremías injected himself with a generous dose of heroin and left his Glock G19 next to several used syringes.
"What a reliable guy."
"His devotion is what matters," said Ofelia.
The priest smirked. Now that no one was pointing a gun at him, he noticed a small video camera on a tripod to his right. For an instant, he became alarmed. Any further evidence of this mess would be another shackle holding him in place. He stepped closer to it. Unplugged and with no visible blinking lights anywhere, the camcorder seemed to be off.
"Don't touch that, little priest," Jeremías warned him, before slipping away into sleep again. Ismael removed his hand from the device.
"Do you know why you are here, godfather?"
"Time," he replied.
She nodded. "The tick-tock of the clock is against you."
"Chronos is everyone's enemy." He pointed at the kid rolling his eyes and drooling in ecstasy. "Regardless of what you do to hide from him."
"The bishop's minions are on his way," said Ofelia. "And Abraham—"
"Your father."
Her cold gaze pierced him. "I do not have a father."
"You hate him that much?"
"I'll never speak to him again while I'm alive." She waved her hand to dismiss the subject. "But that's irrelevant. His reckoning is coming too. Not today, but soon."
"So I am not the only one you are harassing?"
"Don't flatter yourself. You are but the first of many. We have big plans. There are countless Venezuelans who are long overdue in paying for their sins, and His Majesty will help us collect their debts. That's why we are legion."
"A drug addict and a brat are hardly anything. Abe is sniffing you out—your gang is on a tight deadline too."
"I admit he's getting closer to the king, and that is problematic."
"Great! I'll deal with the bishop myself, and once His Majesty is in a crumbling prison cell with sixty other inmates, I will enjoy my freedom."
"Delusional much? That option was never on the table. You sealed your fate years ago," said Ofelia. "As long as there is one of us free, the rivers of blood won't ever run dry. The driver at the terminal was just another headstone paving our way. Anyone who tries to get you out of San Isidro will end up on the obituary page. However, I'd like to avoid cleaning up that mess."
Ismael raised his eyebrows and whistled. "Why should I care about other people's epitaphs?" he asked. "In fact, your threat hides plenty of opportunities for me."
"Perhaps," Ofelia nodded. "But are you willing to bet your right arm on it? I can't promise that the others will be as merciful to you as I am."
"I thought your king wanted me alive."
"We told you. Alive, yes. Unharmed?" She shrugged, letting her words hang in the air.
'We are not killing you, but we don't need you in one piece either.' That's what Jeremías had told him last night. Their message was clear.
"Shall we speed things up, then?" she insisted.
Ismael paced from left to right, weighing his options. While his instincts to run had returned, the more rational part of him concluded there was some truth to what Ofelia was telling him. Maybe she was the sole reason all of his limbs were still attached to his body. I know what Héctor wants to do with me, but what is the Mime King's plan? Can I make my enemies destroy each other? He needed more information. As long as the mime's identity and machinations remained a mystery, he was at a severe disadvantage. I need answers if I am to live through the day.
"The bishop, the king, Abe... No matter who wins, I lose. What could I gain from 'speeding things up'? Why should I bother playing your game if we already know the final score?"
"Because you love puzzles. And if you don't hurry, you will never find all the pieces."
The priest burst into laughter.
"What is your goal here, kiddo?"
"To help you with the edges."
She showed him a key and Ismael frowned until something clicked in his brain.
"The room under the hawthorn. I was right! Abe is hiding something there about the Mime King, isn't he?"
"Abe's secrets," Ofelia nodded. "The answer to the question."
As soon as the priest made a move to take the key, she pulled it back from his grasp, closing her fist.
"Ah-ah." She wagged her index finger at him. "Quid pro quo, godfather. There's something I need from you."
"That's the wrong expression," Ismael said, looking down at Jeremías. There was saliva all over his sparse beard, and his eyelids twitched in a restless dream. "What you meant to say was, In articulo mortis."
Then the priest saw it in Ofelia's eyes; they both knew what was about to happen. She remembered her Latin all too well.
"It means that those who are about to die..." He paused for a moment. "Speak the truth."
His aching body hurt all at once when he lunged for the pistol next to the mattress.
Ofelia's face turned white. Almost not reacting in time, she pushed him with all her strength and sent him tumbling onto his back. Her fingers brushed the grip of the Glock as the priest, on his knees and forearms, tugged at her leg and pulled her down to his level. She spun her body around as fast as she could and kicked him on the chin.
The blow dazed him, but Ismael fell on her and pinned down her arms. His goddaughter tried to break free. Both of their breathing quickened and grew desperate, turning into gasps, until he plunged his fist into her stomach and grabbed the gun.