Savior by Anthony Caplan Page B

know he's dead?
    His body was found this morning dumped on the beach outside of San Jose.
    Anybody else?
    No.
    Ricky let out an audible sigh.
    Was your Dad with him?
    Ricky nodded. And Evelio Duarte.
    Newman checked an open laptop on the seat beside him, scanning through some files.
    Nope. Nothing on Evelio Duarte. We know about your Dad, though. Both of you had transponders placed on you while you were at the hotel. So we know where your Dad is. He's a prisoner of the LSM in their Canadian base.
    What?
    Listen. I'm going to give you an injection of this Midazolam. It's a short term sedative. It's going to knock you out. You can use the sleep. Trust me.
    Ricky objected and tried to resist, but Newman produced a syringe from a briefcase he laid out on the seat on top of the laptop, and then he proceeded to hold Ricky's shoulder while sticking the syringe in his leg right through the pants. In the first few seconds Ricky experienced a pleasant sensation of his anxiety level dropping way down. Then he was out.

Nine —Chagnon
     
    I'm breathing slowly in and out. I'm stringing one breath after another in a prayer chain. I'm thinking hard, focusing my mind on an image of Ricky. My son is fine. He is strong. I know it. Because he is good. And good will always triumph over evil. This is my faith. It is strong. I am strong. But when I hear the train overhead, a chill runs through me.
    Maybe he will come today. Not my son. I'm talking Samael Chagnon. It has been many days and I do not miss him. Even so, the toxins he brings strengthen me. The stink of his words gives me the slightest purchase on life, better than the sheer nothingness of solitary imprisonment. The foulness of his ideas sharpens my mind. It is enough to go on. And worth the pain he brings in his wake. I have a high tolerance for pain, especially when I feel myself sinking closer to death. It is a fine line. This is how I demarcate it, one breath after another. Walking that line. But without that shock of contact with the death force of Chagnon, I am unmoored, floating in this sea of blackness. This is an ultimate sort of pain beyond pain, the despair of a wasted breath, a meaningless life that is not worth pursuing down the rat hole of what my mind is in danger of becoming.
    The train rolls by again, like a corner of the world coming unhinged. My head is bursting with pulsating waves of pain. I hear my name. He's here again. The guard unbolts the door. I try to open my eyes to the light, but the pain is too much. A short, stoutish figure in a hooded sweatshirt, like a medieval monk, silhouetted by the light, walks in. Next to him are the two guards with shaved heads, black shirts and loose fitting pants who accompany him always, unquestioning, muscular loyalty, the cream of the Santos Muertos , barrio warriors from Tegucigalpa to Las Lomas. With nonchalant inattention, as if I were a sack of inert matter, they strap me down, pinning my arms and legs to the rough mat with rubber ligaments.
    Mr. Lyons. Good evening for you, sir.
    His voice is melodious. He is in good spirits. I never know what sets his moods. It is like a cypher of the world, a reverse polarization. I may be reading too much into it.
    I can see you are happy to see me.
    Not at all. My voice is raspy.
    Why are you such an angry man? Have you been hurt?
    That's a silly question. You obviously don't care about my pain.
    The executioner must still be concerned about the prisoner’s well being. After all, we are, how you say, humanitarian.
    That's an insult. Humanity would spit you out in disgust. You have no conception of the word.
    You should perhaps be more careful of your words.
    I will not.
    We will enjoy your silence in the right time. But that is not for you to know. It is like Jesus said. Not even He must know the final hour. But we know yours. Believe that. He laughs, a snarling sort of laugh.
    I don't know why you keep me here. I obviously don't have the information you are after. Why don't you