He turned the key and the car rumbled to life. “Next town over, where someone can patch you up. We can’t stay here.”
Inés rubbed her free hand against her temple and wiped the blood staining the side of her face. “And after that?”
“North, to Monterrey. Or Mexico City. Anywhere we choose.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why bother coming back?”
“Maybe it’s easier when it’s a team. I never did well on my own, but I knew how to handle an act for two back when my father was still alive. I can teach you the ropes.”
“The ropes of what? Postal scams?”
“Lonely hearts games.”
“As if you had anything to teach, you’re a loser and a liar.”
“I’m a prince fromThe Arabian Nightsand this is your magic carpet.”
“A stolen car.”
“I do what I can on short notice. Next stop, Ithaca, my lady,” he said, with a lightness that almost managed to conceal any apprehension.
“You said Monterrey or Mexico City.”
He smiled, but he was gripping the steering wheel tight, and perspiration beaded his forehead. She wondered if they really would find a physician in the next town, and even if they did, whether they’d be able to help her. She looked behind her and thought about Perla, left alone in the house. But they couldn’t stop to tell anyone what had happened. Perla might be dead or seriously hurt, and the police would pin it on them.
They needed to run away, that was what they must do. Run away and not think about Puerco Ahogado ever again. This was what they’d planned, wasn’t it? Murder and then freedom. Here they were, her twin yearnings.
She pressed her hand against the wound, felt the throbbing pain that seemed to radiate up and down her body.
“You must keep the dog,” she told him. “Whatever happens, keep the dog.”
“Nothing’s going to happen. Someone will patch you up. I’ve seen worse, trust me.”
“Promise me.”
“Yes,” he said.
How quiet and lonesome the town seemed as they sped away from it, as if every single inhabitant had headed indoors and turned their heads away from them. As if it were only Inés and Ulises following a winding road.
They both looked forward as the car drove through a diminishing fog that half concealed lush orchards and rich fields of tobacco. When they were farther ahead, and the fog was but the thinnest of shrouds, the land around them began to look unreal; the moist green hills seemed as if they had been painted with watercolors.
She wondered if he’d really keep the dog, or if he’d leave it behind, abandoned by the side of a highway, and dump her body in a ditch. The blood from the cut at her temple rolled down her face once more and she did not bother to wipe it away this time.
She felt his palm against her free hand, clutching her for a moment, clutching her tight. A sob lodged in her throat, but she bit it back. She stared ahead, through the fear and the pain, feeling the weight of his fingers against her own.
“I don’t even know your real name,” she said.
He spoke.
1946
Epilogue
A strong wind threatened tosnatch away Bartolo’s hat, and he held on to it with one hand while he tried to discern in which direction he needed to go. The city was a web of streets and alleys that defied him, even though his cousin had written down the directions to the chocolatier with neat penmanship. If he didn’t return with a new suit and a box of chocolates for Gertrudis, his mother would have barbed words for him.
