Freedom. Christopher’s flight for freedom has arrived. Freedom runs through him like an electrical current. Each morning his eyes snap open and his heart thunders in his chest. Nothing can contain the adrenalin pouring through his veins, firing his muscles. La Luna’s suffocating grip has changed him. In a fever of anticipation he lives on borrowed time with El Jefe’s return. Each night he wonders if he’ll be dragged into the jungle for a slow death before he can organize events in his favor.
On the surface he pretends to be relaxed. He offers help where needed at work. He practices martial arts because they have all come to expect this behavior. In reality he’s living a double life. The strain cracks his composure.
Occasionally he catches Checo’s eyes on him, watching, gazing speculatively. Does he know? Does he suspect I’m planning escape? He misses his beautiful Juanita. Their future never had a chance once her father decided to outrun Olivia. Time will have to work its healing. First he must escape. Return to his family. The memory of Juanita’s brightness will carry him home.
• • •
Christopher discovers El Jefe and Checo nose to nose just outside the inmate kitchen. Christopher has only seen Checo’s jaguar once since his beating, El Jefe’s shoulders swollen with the fighting stance of a bull, both are surrounded with a grainy red streaked aura of combat. Black bolts attached to the dispute arc the distance between the two men. Why would El Jefe be by the prisoner’s kitchen?
Grabbing his whip El Jefe transforms the yelling match into a fight. He is forestalled by Checo’s long reach. Wrenching the braided handle away Checo crashes his arm upward breaking El Jefe’s grip. The length of leather lashes out. Ave Bonita screams violently swooping over Checo’s shoulder. Her beak, claws and wingspan add to the confusion.
The whip in his control Checo strikes out. His fury focused in this one moment. The ribbon of leather crashes over El Jefe’s face and shoulder. Checo yanks the leather toward him transforming it into a cutting blade ripping El Jefe’s clothes tearing his face, carving his shoulder and biting into muscle. Christopher is horrified to see the whip has cut all the way to the bone. The white of El Jefe’s collar bone is clearly visible. He roars head down for a charge, infuriated.
Christopher shoves his way between the two men. Turning to face Checo, he pries his fingers off the grip of the whip handle. Speaking in a calm but urgent voice Christopher talks Checo down from his fury. If Checo cannot contain himself, if he cannot pull in his anger and function within the realm of the prison authority, under the jurisdiction of the guards, he will die. Before sunset.
Dislodging the whip Christopher turns, sandwiched between the two men. He hand hands the leather stick back to El Jefe. Now he can see the corner of El Jefe’s mouth has been carved away. Christopher stoically watches deep red liquid pool in the crevice of El Jefe’s mouth and leak down his chin. A scar will cover the wound, his mouth forever altered. He’ll need stiches for his lip and collarbone.
The men march away in opposite directions. Christopher worries if the guards come for Checo in the middle of the night they may decide to take me as well. Just for the efficiency of killing two in the time it takes to kill one. Islas Tres Marias has become too small for those two. Death is stalking Checo and he doesn’t seem to care.
Christopher doesn’t know what to do. Checo is closed off. I’ll have to make my move soon. Before we are both dragged into the jungle and left to disintegrate on the bone pile.
Checo’s head throbs. In the foggy distance he can hear the distressed chatter of Ave Bonita. He tries to open his eyes. They are stuck shut with clotting blood. He raises his hand to brush free his eyelids. While he can feel his brain transmit the message to his muscles, his hand does not arrive at his face.
His brain sent the correct message. Something wrong, he does a mental scan. My body stands upright. What’s going on here? Am I encased in concrete? He cannot remember what happened, having difficulty thinking clearly. How did he get in this predicament? Fueled by his panic one blood encrusted eye pops open. He hears laughter behind him but he can’t turn his head. The realization slowly dawns on him. He is buried up to his neck in sand. He yells. “Stop the joke!”
He screams, “HELPPPP, HELLLPPPP.”
A terrible dread turns his insides liquid. Checo’s clouded brain clears enough to identify the man’s laughter. Yes, he knows this laughter. His fears confirmed when the crack and boom of a whip lashes his head and the man speaks the final words Checo will hear, “Adios amigo.”
The tide inches forward with each surge. Checo screams and screams. No one hears over the incoming surf.
When Checo doesn’t show up for dinner inmates feel uneasy. A vibrant figure in prison life, his physical strength radiates confidence and inspires admiration. Even the guards admire Checo. Some secretly cheered when Checo gained control of El Jefe’s whip.
As night falls, rumors spread fast. Checo does not arrive for lights out. By morning he is still missing. Prisoners grow silent. In the quiet a menace swells. The guards announce Checo went swimming. He is assumed drowned, accidental drowning.
Inmates know El Jefe stalks Checo. Who else would have masterminded his disappearance? The prison grapevine confirms the rumor. Ave Bonita has been observed following El Jefe in his jeep. She swoops and squawks, aiming for the eyes, over and over. A sight repeated throughout the island racing along the prison rumor mill.
Christopher searches for Checo on the back side of the island. He goes to the salt pits and then the boneyard they discovered together. He finds no sign of Checo or foul play.
He walks the agave fields but finds nothing. He explores the lower, easily accessible cliffs and some of the higher west facing cliffs.
Unsettled he goes to the cliff above the dock where he and Juanita sat. He sits waiting for a sign. Anxiety unrelenting, skittering across his synaptic nerve endings and the chasm of what he knows and doesn’t know about Checo’s disappearance.
As the tide pulls out he notices a group of seagulls huddled around what looks like a beach ball.
Christopher hurries down to investigate.
As he approaches the smell keeps him away. Checo’s head swollen with salt water, seagulls have eaten the most delicate tissues, the eyes. Christopher turns and vomits. He wretches and gags until his insides litter the sand around him. Every drop of bile excavated he stands with resolution. Saying a brief prayer for Checo’s spirit he turns away and walks purposefully to his cave.
He has already calculated the Vargas boat returns tonight for a fishing run tomorrow. Christopher has counted the cycle of their fishing pattern for the last months even before the devastation of Hurricane Olivia.
He finds Fat Luis lounging in his jeep just outside the administration gates in front of the church. Blood singing through his veins, heart rate accelerating Christopher approaches Luis with the bottle of Champagne.
“Hey Luis, look what I found. I came across it looking for my chickens. It’s yours. I don’t drink Champagne.”
Taking the gift the obese man ogles the bottle. His fingers leave a greasy trail across the glass.
Watching him Christopher wonders did you watch Checo die?
Luis looks speculatively at him. “What do you want Christopher?”
“Nothing,” he shrugs, “nothing but maybe some fresh barbequed fish. Check with El Jefe and see if we should buy more fish?”
Fat Luis drools and carefully wipes away the spittle pooled at the corners of his mouth. “Good idea. I miss fresh fish myself.”
Disgusted Christopher thinks you can’t make this stuff up. The line cast. The hook set when later in the afternoon Fat Luis tells Christopher to be ready the next morning for a fish run. Christopher spends the rest of the afternoon digging barbeque pits. He strategically places them parallel to the beach.
Mid-morning the next day Fat Luis and Christopher speed across a flat sea towards the Vargas fishing boat. Vargas looks up at the approaching launch. “Mijo, our easy money is back. Prepare to tie up.”
Leon adjusts his hat, removes his sunglasses stowing them in his shirt pocket. The launch, drifting, collides gently against the rubber dock bumpers. Christopher jumps forward to assist in tying the lines. He vaults aboard the fishing boat. After a quick greeting, his back to Fat Luis, he presses a thick wad of dineros into Vargas’s hand. Quietly he says, “There is more to come. Let’s go below and look at your catch. I will explain.”
Fat Luis pops open a soda. He leans back in the Captain’s chair and puts up his swollen feet. He leaves the conversations and selection of fish up to Christopher.
Vargas senior mops his head with a large bandana grateful for a moment in the cool shad below the deck. He’s tense, uncertain, yet knowing the contents of the conversation to come. He has never fully recovered from the devastating news that the man he shot, his only crime was that of a brother protecting a sister.
In a very personal way he will never fully trust the judicial system again. When it comes to his boat and justice he will come to his own decisions, a new and uncomfortable responsibility. He fears his decisions will be challenged today by Christopher.
Tossing open the hatch, exposing the catch, he looks at Christopher. He slaps him on the back. “What is this dinero?”
“Two thousand pesos,” says Christopher, “the first half of your payment. Smuggle me to Mazatlan. Tonight I will swim to you here.” He hopes it will be enough.
The silence stretches.
Vargas shakes his head. “I am a fool.”
Grabbing Christopher’s bicep, squeezing, he says, “I’ll help you. Providing I don’t see anyone chasing you,” he qualifies.
“You’re a good man Christopher. I’ve watched you over these months. I don’t know what mischief brought you, to Islas Tres Marias. But I’ll help you get free of her grip.”
They briefly sketch out a plan.
Vargas turns and speaks loudly, “Okay, three tuna and ten Dorado today.”
They need Fat Luis to think it is business as usual. Together they climb to the deck. After loading the last fish Christopher swings himself over the railing landing lightly on the launch. Reaching his hand toward Fat Luis, Vargas takes his money. Luis steers the launch back toward the dock.
The reality of his escape buzzes through Christopher like a high frequency whine. He tightens his hands into fists biting down on his lip. Backing away from Fat Luis he crouches by the fish hoping to be invisible. Swiveling his head Luis shields his eyes. “What’s the matter with you gringo? You look like a girl guarding her dolls.” Fat Luis takes a long pull on his soda. “How old are you?”
“Nineteen. I’m nineteen.”
“What did you do? Steal? Drugs?”
Gathering his strength, centering his attention, Christopher pulls himself into the moment glaring on the tuna. He worries he’ll hyper-ventilate. He prays not to do something unthinking and stupid that will reveal his plan. He grips the railing. Leaning in toward Luis he yells. “I didn’t steal. When I turned eighteen I brought my Chevy that I’d spent years… Years!” His outrage has brought him to hyper-ventilate. Just the moment he was seeking to avoid. Seething, he screams, “My Dad and I spent four years restoring the Chevy! That tuck and roll upholstery, that skunk, stole my car!”
Fat Luis laughs and his belly heaves and jiggles. Orange soda spills down his pants and still he laughs. “What are you talking about gringo? A skunk stole your car and you were sent to Islas Tres Marias?”
Fuming. Still squeezing the railing his knuckles white with the strain Christopher screams, “YES!” Out of the corner of his eye the blue dragonfly skirts the edges of his vision. Surrounded by a flash of high frequency blue Christopher staggers. Leaning over, placing his hands on his knees he takes a deep inhale. “Have you ever seen my arrest paperwork? Have you ever seen a list of charges, trial or sentencing? No. You have not because they do not exist.”
Luis still laughing says, “Gringo, you’d do better to stick with cooking fish instead making crazy accusations.” Slowing the boat as they approach the dock Luis slaps his knee. Choking on his laughter he says, “As far as I know tuck and roll upholstery shops do not employ skunks. Certainly not skunks that drive.” He is wheezing with glee. His own joke provokes his merriment.
“Hilarious,” says Christopher on an exhale. Shaking with outrage he climbs up the ladder with the bow line. Luis tosses him the stern line. After tying up Christopher stoops to pick up fish with the launch gaffs. I cannot afford to have another outburst. I’ll take Luis fish when I deliver El Jefe’s. Eating will distract him.
Cleaning and gutting the fish, haunted by the specter of Checo’s grisly head. Checo’s spirit enters the clearing. He comes to complain, the jaguar at his side, Ave Bonita trailing behind. He says the usual words. “You kiss the smelly behind of the fat man and make more work for me.”
With Checo’s ghost looming he must find a way to behave as he would any other day of a fish run. He slices up trays of tuna for a late lunch at the hacienda and another tray for Fat Luis. Delivering these appetizers he returns to prepare barbeque.
Sparkling and followed by her swan Juanita’s spirit arrives. She smiles, “goals, acts, Beneficence.” Together the words become a chant. It begins to circle through him, a song, and a prayer. “Goals, acts, Beneficence” their cadence is more than a rhythm. “Goals, acts, Beneficence;” they are way of life.
Fileting the fish, slicing carefully along the midline, he cuts away the debris. “Goals, acts, Beneficence,” three words condensed mean so much more. Today he prepares fish, an act of disguise in preparation to realize his goal, escape from Islas Tres Marias. Beneficence is his choice. Beneficence will guide, direct and protect him in the actions required to realize his goal, escape. Goals, acts, Beneficence, chanting the words make him feel closer to Juanita, closer to success. Tonight he will be swimming into deep waters. He will be swimming for his life and freedom.
First he must get through this day giving no hints of his plan. Filleted fish soak in a plastic tub filled with coconut milk, chilies and banana. He adds coconut meat. Flies swarm. The flies were not blown away in the hurricane, he thinks. It’s infuriating the flies are still here and Juanita gone.
“I am the Divine Transmuting Flame. I carry the Cosmic Balance. You are mine, Redemption’s Warrior.” Goals, acts, Beneficence. His hands prepare the fish. His heart sings; goals, acts, Beneficence.
At twilight Christopher knocks on Fat Luis’s door with a tray of barbeque fish. He has already delivered the fish for El Jefe’s party. Fat Luis looks at him. His lip curls with scorn. “What are you doing Marcos? Are you kissing ass to be made lead man?” He leers at Christopher, “Do you want Checo’s old job?
Christopher drops his head and swallows hard against a surge of anger. Looking up, forcing a smile he says, “I guess we’ll see in the morning. Have a good night.”
Immersed in wave after wave of power Christopher walks away. Clean, clear, like star shine, beneficence rushes over him, thru him. His energetic body is huge, a gigantic buffer extending past the town and into the surrounding semi-tropical jungle. Is this Beneficence helping, preparing me for escape?
While waterproofing his money jars he’s visited by Daniel whose only crime protecting his sister from a sexual predator. After images linger of Daniel huddled in the corner of the garage wearing rags. This is the Daniel who was driven to claim his final dignity, attempting escape from La Luna in broad daylight.
Checo’s face swollen with empty eye sockets, Checo’s offense was leadership in a time of need. He did such a good job restoring order after the hurricane that his success embarrassed El Jefe. A charismatic personality, Checo was known to exaggerate. Embellishments served him. They provided entertainment, enhanced his reputation or made a story more fascinating. Checo’s face bloated with sea water, Christopher will never forget. Crushed by sadness, a lump so large he cannot swallow, lodged in his throat. While power pulses, synchronized with his heart-beat, redemption’s power the glue holding him together. Redemption’s white hot anger remembers. Today Daniel and Checo, the women raped on the beach and countless others whose stories he doesn’t know the details, they are not forgotten. Bowing his head he prays his escape will free others. He doesn’t know how this might work. He only feels a driving need.
Twilight streaks horizontally through the trees. Green leaves surrounded in gold. He buries the jars temporarily next to the fire pit. Stinking of fish and sweat he dives into the surf. Tonight guards will expect him to babysit the fish smoker down by the beach. Hungry for the delicacy they will not seek him out until morning. Al he has left to do, wait for night to fall.
• • •
Christopher moves through the brush gathering his hidden supplies. Earlier he had waterproofed his money jars. Digging them out of the sand he loads them in an inner tube along with a bag of fresh clothes. Sitting at the water’s edge he ties the inner tube to his waist. Soundlessly, sinking up to his neck, Christopher begins to swim. The moon casts her light on gentle swells marking a sparkling path to the Vargas boat.
Salt water buoys the inner tube behind him. Christopher loses himself in the moment. He does not notice he’s embodying his personal authority or that stroke to stroke, breath to breath, he is swimming for justice and freedom. He does not seek a paper bound bureaucratic justice. He swims for a burning white-hot justice. As he swims he does not make the journey alone, or only for himself. He swims for Daniel. Daniel was chewed up and spit out by the terrors of prison life. As he swims, Christopher honors Daniel’s spirit and his desperate attempt to escape. He also swims for the memory of Checo. A good man punished for leadership. Checo, with his never healing cigar burn, the price he paid for being a strong man in a time of need. Christopher swims for Juanita. He swims for their life if not for Hurricane Olivia. He honors her memory by succeeding. The first day he saw her and the sparkles brightening the air around her: I’ve heard people talk instant love before. For the first time Christopher understands a love born in an instant. I loved her the first time I saw her and her swan. Juanita’s beauty fills him as he glides through the moonlit water. For the love they share, for the goals outlined in their last day together, Christopher swims toward his freedom.
As he swims his determination grows. He shifts to the breaststroke moving steadily forward, strong and focused. Pumped with adrenalin he’s not at all tired. Images of his childhood as a mixed race boy navigating the streets of LA, studying martial arts, even his time on La Luna have all prepared him to succeed. Escape. Escaping Islas Tres Marias is redemption.
He swims for liberty, for himself, for love, for Checo and Daniel. He prays as he succeeds their spirits will fly free. His freedom will be their redemption. Freedom is all the redemption we need. With this realization Christopher feels a shift. Words describing this event are superfluous. Within his limited understanding, a flame, the Divine Transmuting Flame, drops into his belly, a steady warmth, and communion. At one with Beneficence; powerful and congruent, creating positive possibilities. The Vargas boat lies ahead. He has not drifted off course. He travels as Redemption’s Warrior accompanied by ghosts of his past. They have led him to safety.
One hundred feet from the boat, a streak of white moves in the water. A shark? The moonlight catches flash after flash of movement and creatures. Dozens are swimming in proximity to the Vargas boat. Desperately he reaches out of the water… wanting to be lifted to safety by human hands. A giant triangle creature swims under him lifting and supporting. As he climbs the ladder boarding the boat, father and son are laughing so hard they are holding their sides. Through their laughter streaked with tears they explain the creatures are harmless and friendly. They watch his confusion with amusement. Eventually he laughs sheepishly, happy to befriend the Manta Ray, not a shark. Vargas grips his arm. “You made it with no one following. Bueno. You have my dinero?
Breathless with freedom, Christopher leans for a moment hands on knees, his head hanging. “I have it for you. Let me go below and put on my clothes. I’ll bring you the money.”
Leon sends Miguel below with him.
He wants to avoid any surprises.
Christopher does not mind their caution. Elated to be free of Islas Tres Maria, dressing quickly, he hands Miguel one of the three jars. “Por su Padre,” he says.
Leon calls down to Christopher, “Stay below. I’ll call when we are all clear.”
Starting the engine, he pulls the boat forward slowly, building power. Fifteen minutes later he taps on the hatch. “Come up.”
Miguel works deftly stowing gear below. Christopher sits behind Leon. They do not speak. They each have a soft drink sitting in a comfortable silence. Christopher thinks, stay in the silence. Do nothing to disrupt the moment. In several hours they will enter Mazatlan’s harbor.