Behind the Hands That Kill

“All I care about right now,” she goes on, “is going back to Mexico. I don’t care what I have to do; I don’t care about the risks, or what it’ll cost”—she takes a deep breath; her eyes lock on mine—“Sarai, I just need to go back—I have to go back. I know you’re going there on an important mission of your own, but I won’t get in your way, and I don’t expect, nor want you to feel like you have to babysit me. All I’m asking for is your company and expertise. You know how to get in where I need to go; you know people…” She hesitates, and looks at the floor briefly; I sense a bit of embarrassment, and disappointment. “I’m not who The Order wanted me to be. No amount of training, or brainwashing, ever made me as good as my brothers. But you…Sarai, I know you can help me. Just get me there and I’ll do the rest.”

I think on it, looking down at my legs.

“Naeva,” I say, raising my head, “I…why would you want to go back there? And why with me? If you’re working for The Order, I imagine you can find much easier—safer—ways to go to Mexico.”

“And you could do the same,” she responds quickly.

I blink, surprised by how much she knows.

“How’d you—?”

“How’d I know?” she asks. “You just told me yourself. By saying I can find easier, safer ways in, you’re basically telling me the way you’re getting in is anything but easy or safe.” She points at the window overlooking the front yard. “And I’m assuming that man that’s been parked out on the street the past hour is your ride?” She puts up her hands, palms facing me. “Hey, I don’t know for sure, but I’m guessing coyote. Or at least the guy who’s going to take you to one.”

Yeah, this one is very smart; she’ll need that level of intellect if she doesn’t have anything else to depend on.

I don’t answer her about Ray—I don’t fully trust her yet. I believe she’s telling me the truth about everything. But I’ve made one too many mistakes trusting what I believe is my heart, too soon, and I don’t intend to make another one.

I get up from the coffee table—gun in my hand—and begin to pace. I don’t look at her directly, but I keep her in my sights.

“But why don’t you go an easier way?” I probe. “Going with me could get you killed—I could die.”

“Because I can’t make it that easy for The Order to track me,” she answers. “They know all of my aliases—they’re who set them up for me, right down to the social security numbers and the fake lives each of my identities supposedly led. I use a passport, or a credit card, and they’ll know exactly where I’m at. I can’t take that risk.”

I contemplate a moment longer.

“OK, so then what happens when you just disappear?” I ask, and I look right at her now so I can read her eyes when she answers.

She sighs. “You don’t have to worry about that,” she assures me. “At least not yet. I’ve been given a leave of absence, if that’s what you want to call it. Since Brant Morrison’s death, I’ve just been floating around—they don’t know what to do with me. Brant was my partner and my teacher; I never worked with anyone else. And I was never good enough to work alone.”

I know that feeling all too well.

“What exactly do you do for The Order then?” I ask.

“I’m a spy,” she answers right away. “I’ve never even killed anyone; seen a lot of people die, but thankfully, never by my hands.”

“So they just—I don’t understand. Leave of absence?”

It just seems odd. I wouldn’t expect an organization like The Order having perks such as leave of absences and sick days and such.

“I was told to take some time off,” she begins. “Go on a vacation—whatever I want. They said they’d be in touch when, or if, they need me later.” She looks troubled all of a sudden; her hands become unsteady on her lap. “The ‘if’ worries me, Sarai.”

“Why?”

I step up closer, and crouch in front of her sitting on the chair. I don’t know why, but I don’t see Victor’s sister sitting there; I see Huevito from so long ago.

A knot moves down the center of her throat. She makes eye contact and says nervously, “I think they’re going to kill me. I meant what I said about being useless to The Order. I may know my way around obtaining useful information for them, but the truth is there are hundreds of operatives who do it better than me. I can’t offer them anything they don’t already have, and in The Order, you’re either valuable or you’re expendable—there’s no such thing as in-between.” She sighs. “I was never cut out for any of this, but Brant insisted I be given a chance. I think if it wasn’t for him, they’d have killed me a long time ago.”

“He protected you,” I say, more to myself than to Naeva. But why?

“Yeah,” she says, and then looks off at the wall. “But now he’s dead. And if I don’t get out before they decide my fate, I fear I’m going to end up dead too.”

But why would they wait this long to kill her?

It’s too risky. This could all be part of Vonnegut’s plan to track down the rest of us. What if they’re using Naeva—without her knowledge of it—to find us? No, that doesn’t make sense, either. Like Victor said, The Order has known where we were for a while; they wouldn’t need Naeva for that. OK, so that still leaves the question: Why would they wait this long to kill her?