The Wrong Hostage

17

ALL SAINTS SCHOOL

SUNDAY, 11:30 A.M.

CARLOS CALDERON KNOCKED AT Lane’s door and went in without waiting for an invitation. The two guards watching Lane didn’t stir from their comfy position propped against a shady side of the cottage. Nothing moved but their dark eyes and the sweat sliding down their cheeks.

Lane was sprawled half dressed on his bed, watching flies walk across the ceiling.

Calderon went to the kitchen, saw the empty orange juice carton, and replaced it with the fresh one he’d brought. A plate of cold tacos and beans sat in the refrigerator next to the juice. It didn’t look like Lane had been hungry.

Empty-handed, Calderon went back to the bedroom and roughly hauled Lane into a sitting position.

“Have you heard from your father?” Calderon asked.

“…uh?”

Calderon gave Lane an open-handed slap. “Your father. Have you heard from him?”

Lane blinked. His eyes almost focused. “No phone.”

“The office has a phone. Did he call you?”

Lane’s head lolled and his eyes started to close.

A sharp smack across his face focused him again.

“Dunno,” Lane said. “Don’…tell me…shit.”

Calderon shook Lane hard enough to make his hair lift. Then he buried one hand in Lane’s hair and twisted hard, dragging the boy’s face close to his.

“Listen to me, pendejo,” Calderon said. “I’m not as patient as Hector. If you hear anything from anybody about your father, you tell me immediately or I’ll cut your throat and send your head home to your mother. Hector’s nephews can have the rest of you. You understand?”

All Lane’s fuzzed mind understood was that Calderon really wanted news about Ted Franklin. The rest was a nightmare of funhouse mirrors, sharp pain forgotten in the instant it was felt, and echoes without meaning.

“Unnerstan.”

Calderon shoved Lane away so hard that the boy’s head thumped against the wall. Lane groaned and slumped onto the bed again. Calderon strode out of the cottage.

The guards were still outside, still sweating.

So was Calderon.