Sanchez returned with the kit and he, with the assistance of Angela, went about tending to the wounded Ayala. The hole punched through the floorboard of the raft had torn wide open when they'd struck a rock. If Hatch hadn't fallen when she did, they would've been sitting ducks.
Ayala had the weak smile of a dying man on his face and limited words to accompany it. Time was of the essence and he needed to get to the hospital, the same one Sanchez had walked the pregnant mother and her young daughter to. The pale horse of the devil's servant would be used to ferry them the rest of the way. The white Lincoln Town Car had been parked behind the shade provided by a cluster of trees.
Before sending the dead man downriver, Hatch searched him to find in his pockets only one thing of interest. It was folded into fourths and nestled above El Vibora’s no longer beating heart.
The rattle on his wrist jingled one last time as she lifted his arm to retrieve a folded piece of paper found in his pocket. Finding the paper's content curious, she gave it to somebody who might be capable of translating it.
Hatch handed the folded paper to Ayala, ready to be shifted to the awaiting chariot. Tears mixed with river water on his face as he looked down at the image.
Ayala's face screwed up into a question he sought the words to ask.
"I don't know what it means. But it was in his breast pocket. Above his heart."
Ayala's eyes traced the contours of the lines in front of him before giving his opinion. "She's alive."
The piece of paper blew life into the fading light in Ayala's eyes. It was as if he was never shot, as if the bullet had never passed from the back end of his shoulder to his chest. It was as if the holes, both in his shoulder and in his heart, were miraculously healed by the picture and the image held in his hand.
The folded piece of paper held a colorful image of a lily blooming in springtime with the last droplet of morning's dew dangling at the edge of its light purple petals.
Ayala took a picture from his own pocket. He held it in his other hand. Ayala brought the photograph to his lips. He kissed it and then cast it into the water, before it was swallowed, just as the dead man and his hat had been.
He took and re-folded the girl's drawing and put it in his pocket, replacing the photograph that had just occupied that space. Before Hatch could ask, Ayala offered, "I'm trading an old memory for a new one. I'm trading dark for light."
A team effort took Ayala to the Lincoln. Goodbyes were exchanged, in that very particular way when friends know they will likely never see each other again.
Just before Sanchez sped away with the wounded Peacock Man, Ayala passed along his final words to Hatch.
"Try it sometime." He tapped a shaky hand on the breast pocket containing Maria's drawing. "Trading light memories for dark ones. If nothing else, take a moment each day to appreciate its end in those last threads of light. Take stock in the completion of the day's end in knowing that tomorrow's is yours to make."
And with that, Arturo Sanchez, a warrior born of the most horrific beginnings who eventually found peace, carted off Miguel Ayala, the Peacock Man of Nogales, who proved he could fly, if only for a few feet, to save two girls from a fate worse than death.
It had been a good day. Hatch had one more stop until she saw its end and the promise kept in doing so. With the teen close behind, she stood on the bank of the river.
Hatch's gripped the frayed knots of the rope and began to cross.
Forty-Three
Hatch sat on the other side of the Rio Grande, the warmth of the sun in her face. The sun’s grip loosened its hold on the day as the last fingers of magenta touched the coming night sky.
Hatch enjoyed the shade of a tree as fire flicked her face, formed in flickering wisps of red and orange from the sleeping teen's hair being blown wild by the wind. The dry heat of the fading day stole the remaining moisture from Hatch's mouth as she gently caressed the teen while they waited not-so-patiently for the arrival of Sanchez' contact on the other side. He said his name was Ben, and that he could be trusted. Hatch had seen the demonstration of Arturo Sanchez’ code tattooed under the anchor of his former team.
Fuerza, Espíritu, Sabiduría. Strength, Spirit, Wisdom.
The man had demonstrated to Hatch all those qualities and more in their brief but intense time together. She took his word as his bond and waited.
As the teen slept the sleep of a thousand lifetimes, Hatch took a moment to reflect. She shifted positions as subtly as possible, so as not to wake Angela. Hatch looked up the river to the bend where the rocky whitewater shredded the raft. She looked out on the rock named The Devil's Hand. From her position across the river, it no longer looked like one giant rock. Instead, the gap where Hatch had made her final stand against the devil, divided the two boulders. A tall cypress rose from behind. Beyond its treetop and barely visible amidst the dying embers of sunlight, the orange-colored sun-glass-wearing walrus, mascot of the cartel-run Solarus Juice Company could be seen.
Looking at it another way, maybe in the way somebody like Miguel Ayala or his companion Ernesto Cruz would, Hatch adjusted her lens. And this is what she saw when she blinked them open.
A massive cypress split a massive boulder in two, sending the troll high into the air where his tormented cries could no longer be heard.
In that rare moment of peace, Hatch understood the story Ayala had told her. Hatch was ready to tell her version. There was a little girl and boy in Colorado who desperately needed to hear it. Hatch pictured her niece, Daphne, and her nephew, Jake.
Tornadoes of dust chased a dark colored SUV as it pulled to a stop. Hatch's hand was on the Glock under her thigh.
A tall muscular man wearing dark jeans and a denim shirt of lighter blue stepped from the driver's door. "Daphne?"
"See any other half-dead people under a tree matching our description?"
"Not today." He laughed.
Angela hardly woke during her transport from Hatch's lap to the backseat of the Tahoe. Hatch climbed into the passenger seat. Nothing was said as they drove off. The details had already been arranged through Miguel and Sanchez' contact. Ben was to take Angela to a specified location outside of Austin, where her parents were already traveling to after receiving word their daughter had been found.
Hatch would not be there for any of that. She would part ways in Austin and set off to close a door that had been open for way too long. Its salty California breeze held answers to a question only one person could answer.
"Got a paper and pencil?" Hatch asked.
"Check the glove box. Should be a couple napkins and a pen if that works?"
Hatch spread the napkin on her thigh and uncapped the pen. Her letter began like this:
Have I ever told you the one about the seed and the boulder?
Forty-Four
The Very Thought of You by Nat King Cole played on the radio, just above the rattle of Ayala's yellow Nissan, as they watched the cafe from a block away. Ayala wore his favorite Hawaiian shirt for today's occasion. He'd retired it four months ago when a bullet tore through it. The yellow of the pineapples were a little darker on that side, but he figured, you can't appreciate the light without a little bit of the dark.
Other than the music and the air conditioning at full blast, neither men spoke as they watched the front of the cafe where Hector Fuentes was finishing up a midday meal.