Behind the Hands That Kill

“Go catch your serial killer, Fredrik,” she says, and he smiles.

Gustavsson leaves, and after Woodard’s awkward, but endearing goodbyes, he leaves shortly afterward.

And now it is just the two of us, Izabel and myself, alone in the building we once called headquarters. And, in many ways, home.

Izabel reaches out and touches the side of my stubbly face with her fingertips; she gazes up at me. I want to take her into my arms and never let her go. I feel like I have been deprived of something very important, a moment between us that is long overdue and aching to be felt—reuniting for the first time with the one I love and almost lost. The last time I really held her in my arms was when she and I were in that cage together. Not once since her release from the hospital has she allowed me that important moment. And I feel that even now, standing here alone with her, just days before she sets out for Mexico, I will still be deprived of it.

And I do not understand why.

“Victor,” she says, and I almost cannot look at her because it hurts too much. “Do you have faith in me?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Do you trust me?” Her voice is almost a whisper; the sad, but determined look in her eyes is killing me because it feels like goodbye.

“Yes, Izabel, I trust you. And I trust in you.”

She pushes up on her toes and kisses me, letting her sweet lips linger on mine for an excruciating moment—I want more but I know I cannot have it. Her fingertips graze my face, and then slowly fall away. My stomach aches, my chest tightens.

“Good,” she says.

She wraps the black scarf around her neck again. And then she walks toward the door.

“Izabel.”

She turns. She looks at me, waiting patiently.

“How is Dina?” I just want Izabel to stay a little longer.

“She’s dead.”

“Oh.” I blink. And then I nod, understanding. I do not have to ask how Dina Gregory died—I know that Izabel did it swiftly so that her mother would not feel any pain.

“I am sorry,” I tell her.

Izabel nods. And she waits, because I am not exactly hiding the fact that I have more to say before she leaves.

I stumble over the words in my mind, wanting to tell her all of them, but not quite knowing how. I glance down at my feet, and then back up at her again. For the last time? That is what it feels like—the last time—and I cannot bear it.

I gather my composure.

Finally I say, “The stars will die before we do, Izabel…”

She smiles.

“I know they will,” she whispers.

After a second, her smile fades, and so does my nerve to finish what else I had intended to say.

“That question you asked me,” Izabel speaks up, “when you came to Dina’s.” She pauses. Looks at the wall. Then back at me. “If you still love me when I return…ask me again.”

And before I have a chance to respond, to tell her that I will always love her, she exits the room. And my life.

Izabel

Tucson, Arizona

The car parked on the street outside my house isn’t Victor’s this time—it belongs to the coyote who I paid to take me across the border. Usually it’s the other way around, and I had to pay a lot more to get into Mexico than an illegal immigrant wanting out. “Your situation is unique,” he had said during our negotiations, parked behind a convenience store at two a.m. yesterday morning. “Why don’t you just use your passport and catch a plane?”

“Because I have to get in this way,” I had said.

He smiled with intrigue, his dark eyes backlit with greed and expectation.

He looked me over. Young, white, American girl with a plan and a purpose. A girl, who clearly by my decision to go dangerously into Mexico by way of a coyote, knew that I not only had bigger balls than him, but also a much bigger bank account.

“Fifteen thousand,” he said, and I knew it was non-negotiable.

But money was the least of my concerns—I went into our negotiations expecting to pay no less than twenty thousand.

“Fifteen for the ride,” I agreed, handing over an envelope stuffed full of cash. “And I’ll also be needing a few other things.”

He cocked a thin brow.

I explained what else I needed, and by the time our meeting was over, he had half of his money up front (twenty-five thousand), and I had a very eager and willing coyote at my disposal.

I close the curtain and slip back into my room. There’s blood on my clothes from an earlier meeting, and I intended to change, but decide against it at the last minute. The blood will only help me to play the part—I just have to make it appear to be mine. No need to pack a bag or grab a toothbrush or anything like that, because kidnapped victims bound for sex slavery compounds don’t have such luxuries; they’re lucky to still be wearing shoes by the time they’re brought through the gates of one of the last places they’ll ever call home.

I swallow a birth control pill, and get to work on braiding a month’s worth of the little pills into the roots of my hair.

A knock echoes lightly through the house. At first, I think it came from the basement, but when I hear it again seconds later, I confirm the source to be at the front door. Maybe it’s the coyote. He told me to call him Ray, but that’s his real name as truthfully as mine is Lydia. I had chosen the name on a whim, thinking a lot about the good friend I lost escaping Mexico the first time. I guess it’s my way of honoring her, of avenging her murder.

Before I go into the living room, I peek out the window of my bedroom and look into the street. Ray’s old beat-up car is gone, and there’s no other vehicle anywhere I can see that wasn’t there before.