The rain in San Isidro was often warm like piss.
Even during weekdays, when the passenger terminal buzzed with activity, if the wind howled and the drizzle became a downpour, anyone who could run for shelter would do so without the slightest hesitation. Moreover, since it never took long for the manholes and storm drains to overflow with sewage, those who had yet to leave their homes knew the smart choice was to stay indoors—which is why no one saw Abe's Malibu drift to a halt in front of El Silencio liquor store a little past seven that night.
With the car's engine still roaring, the chief of police pushed the priest out of the vehicle. Ismael rolled on the ground, unable to tell left from right nor the pavement from the gray sky. Pain means you're not dead yet.
Trying to gain his bearings, the sound of a car door slamming made Ismael turn to Abraham, who was approaching him like a raging bull.
"Compadre, please."
Abraham grabbed him by the neck and jerked him up. Their eyes locked in unspoken understanding for several seconds until the police chief sent him flying towards the liquor store. The thunder above them did not drown out the loud clicks of Abe handcuffing Ismael to the gated storefront, leaving him with both arms outstretched as though crucified.
"I should've sent you straight to hell."
"But we are already in hell," said the priest. "Together."
"This ain't it. Not by a long shot. When this is over, I'll take you to the ninth circle of prison myself and lock you up with the best of the worst." He glared down at him. "Are you aware of what they do to a rapist in prison? There's a tag attached to your big toe, buddy. You just don't know it yet."
Ismael gave him a cold, thin smile. "None of us are making it out of here alive."
Abraham grimaced in disgust, walked down to his car and, before driving away, shouted as loud as he could, "He's all yours!"
For a while, the priest remained there, feeling the wet clothes plastered against his skin growing heavier in the downpour. Waves of pain pulsed through his bruised rib cage as he listened to the raindrops pelting the zinc roof above the store entrance. The world before him tilted off its axis for an instant, and his knees almost buckled.
Where are they? As the minutes dragged on, Ismael noticed the mountains that flanked the town were hidden under a thick veil of rain. The place might as well have been cut off from the rest of the world, and there was not a soul in sight, but the threat remained. If anyone else finds me first, our plan will be for naught.
The priest's vision went double and then to black until a flash of lightning lit up the street, revealing he was alone no more. Four figures dressed in black were there, their faces covered by skull masks.
"Well, here I am. If it were the Holiday season, my compadre would have left me wrapped under a Christmas tree as a gift to you." Ismael smirked. "The key to the handcuffs is in my front pocket, by the way."
None of them spoke. It seemed they would stay there forever, surrounding the priest in silence to watch him perish slowly, but then one of them screamed and ran, knife in hand, and stabbed him.
The sudden pain that coursed through Ismael's entire body, from his pierced shoulder to his feet, burst into a shriek of agony in his lips. Although his black shirt concealed the stream of red pouring from the new wound, he was sure the cut was deep.
"Luz, stop!" the nearest hooded man said. "The king wants him alive."
"Only if he answers the question, right?" She twisted the blade inside Ismael's shoulder.
"I know the answer," Ismael hissed. "Take me to him."
Not expecting this, she hesitated. "Maybe I don't care about His Majesty's orders anymore," she whispered to the priest's ear, pulling the knife out of his shoulder and pressing it against his throat. "I watched the video. You killed my brother."
"Who?" Ismael asked.
"Jeremías!" Luz replied.
Ismael remembered the boy from the storage room and relived his last pleading look.
"I didn't kill him, my child. It was natural selection at its finest."
"You let him die to fuck that damn bitch!"
Despite his injuries, a laugh slipped out of Ismael's mouth.
"That is me. The killer by laissez-faire."
"Luz, that's enough. Don't forget that after tonight we'll be a single entity. Your pain will be ours and our peace yours. Revenge is our communion," one of her masked companions insisted before gesturing to the others. There was something about this Skull that made Ismael think of the bishop, but he wasn't sure why. "Remove the handcuffs and make sure he's not packing."
Ismael clenched his jaw. He could not let them pat him down. If they did, the plan he'd hatched with Abraham would be useless. "Luz," he muttered in her ear. Up close, it became obvious that the woman had some kind of mental disability. "The truth is... Jeremías is not dead."
"Say his name again, and I'll cut your tongue off."
"To die, you need to be alive first, and your brother never even existed. He was nobody, except when he was with Ofelia. Jeremías loved her like he never loved you."
She uttered a demented squeal and stuck the sharp blade into the palm of the priest's hand.
"Damn it, Luz!" shouted a Skull that wore gold rings. "Grab her before she kills him."
"He's bleeding a lot."
"The key is in his pocket. He was telling the truth."
"Then get him down and let's go!"
The Skulls put a bag over Ismael's head, unaware this was unnecessary.
He was no longer conscious.