“I will find out whatever you need to know,” Lola babbled, rocking back and forth and staring at him in horror. She was no longer watching the pistol, but him, and Milla could understand why. His face was terrifying in its stillness, with only his eyes alive, glittering with rage. She could feel the force of his anger in the coiled strength of his body, hear it in the almost inaudible softness of his tone. He wasn’t a man who lost control in his anger; he gained it to an even greater degree.
“You will do that anyway, señora. So I think there must be something else.”
“No, no,” Lola moaned. “Please, señor. I will do anything you ask.”
He tilted his head as if considering. “I don’t know what I want, yet. I’ll think about it and let you know.”
“Anything,” she said again, half weeping. “I swear.”
“Remember this,” he said, “and remember that I don’t like it when anyone harms my friends.”
“I will, señor! I will!”
Diaz all but dragged Milla out of the room, and hustled her down the alley. She grabbed his belt again, hooking her fingers in it in a death grip, and pressed her other hand to her stinging throat. Warm blood wet her fingers, dripped through them. He glanced over his shoulder at her, his gaze going to her neck. “We need to get that cut cleaned and bandaged. It isn’t deep, but it’s making a mess of your dress. Keep your hand over it.”
The truck was right where they’d left it, with the sullen man standing guard. He straightened when he saw them coming, and his expression changed to alarm when he noticed the blood on Milla’s neck and dress, as if he might somehow be found at fault for whatever had happened. Diaz handed over the folded hundred dollars, then fished out his keys and unlocked the door. He lifted her in, nodded to the man, and went around to the driver’s side.
“We’ll go to Wal-Mart,” he said. “I can pick up something for you to wear as well as an antibiotic and bandages.”
The Wal-Mart was on Avenue Ejército Nacional. She sat with her fingers pressed to the cut on her throat as he worked their way out of the slum. “What exactly did you do to her hand?” she asked. He’d moved so fast she wasn’t certain, plus she’d been a tad distracted; had he crushed it with a quick, hard squeeze?
Diaz glanced at her. “I broke her right thumb. It’ll be a while before she can hold a knife again.”
Milla shivered, sharply aware all over again of the kind of man he was.
“I had to,” he said briefly, and she understood. Fear was his greatest ally. Fear was what made people talk to him when they wouldn’t talk to anyone else. Fear gave him an edge, an opening; it was a weapon in itself. And to earn that fear, he had to be willing to back it up with action.
“She’ll run,” she said.
“Maybe. But I’ll find her if she does, and she knows it.”
They reached the Wal-Mart, and she sat in the truck with the motor running and the air-conditioning on—and the doors locked—while he went in to buy what he needed. He returned in no more than ten minutes, proving that the shoppers inside had taken one look at him and realized he belonged at the front of the checkout line. At least he’d removed the thigh holster before he went in, she thought, or there would have been wholesale panic.
He had a bottle of water, a package of gauze pads, a tube of antibiotic salve, first-aid tape, some butterfly bandages, and a cheap skirt and blouse. She started to say she’d just put the blouse on over her dress to cover the bloodstains; then she looked down and realized the blood had dripped on her skirt, too.
He drove into the parking lot behind the store, away from the crowd of shoppers, and parked the truck facing away from the lot to give them as much privacy as possible. She started to tear open the package of gauze, but he took everything from her and said, “Just sit still.”
He wet one of the gauze pads and put it over the cut, then took her hand and pressed it there. “Hold that.” She did, pressing firmly to staunch the bleeding that had slowed but not completely stopped. He wet several more of the pads and began wiping her neck and chest, washing away the dried blood. His fingers dipped impersonally down the front of her dress, down to the edge of her bra.
“Okay, now let me see,” he said, taking her hand away from the cut. He peeled back the gauze pad and grunted with satisfaction. “It isn’t bad. You don’t need any stitches, but I bought some butterfly bandages just to be on the safe side.”
He applied the antibiotic salve, then a couple of butterfly bandages to hold the edges of the cut together. Then he taped a gauze pad over the butterflies to further protect the cut. When he was finished, he said, “Use the rest of these pads to wash your hands and arms before you change clothes.”
She complied, glad to get the blood off of her, but she said, “I don’t need to change clothes; I can go home like this.”
“You’re going to cross the border in bloody clothes? I don’t think so. And we’re going to get something to eat before we cross back over.”
She was so frazzled she’d forgotten about the border crossing. She finished cleaning her arms, then took the skirt and blouse out of the bag and tore off the price tags. “Turn your back.”
He gave a low laugh and got out of the truck, standing with his back to the window. She sat for a moment, blinking in astonishment. Had he actually laughed? He’d said he did, but she hadn’t really believed him, and now she’d heard it for herself.