The Ford’s speedometer read eighty on a sixty-meter avenue. The chassis vibrated as if the truck were about to fall apart, adding its own groan to the chaos of midday traffic in Monterrey. But Joaquín didn’t care. He only saw patches of color: the gray of the asphalt, the red of the traffic lights he ran when no cars were coming, and the blinding white of fear that clouded his peripheral vision.
Engineer Roberto Maldonado. Your boss.
Joaquín’s mind, trained to follow logical circuits, tried to complete the diagram, but the wires were frayed and sparking. Maldonado was the one who lent him money for Marisol’s initial treatments. Maldonado was the one who gave him paid time off when she died. Maldonado, the man who patted him on the back at the wake, saying, “We’re here for whatever you need, Joaquín. We’re family.”
Family.
The word tasted like bile to him. That deposit of twenty-five thousand pesos wasn’t a settlement. It was the price on his head. Or worse, it was bait to confirm that the account was still active and that he was still under control. If Maldonado was involved with the people from San Bernabé, then they didn’t just know where he lived. They knew his routes. They knew what time he came and went. And, of course, they knew where Camila studied.
The Benito Juárez Elementary School appeared at the end of the street. There was a double line of cars waiting for dismissal. Mothers with umbrellas for the sun, shaved ice vendors, the usual hustle and bustle of one in the afternoon.
Joaquín didn’t wait in line. He drove his truck onto the sidewalk, half a meter from a lamppost, earning honks and curses from a taxi driver. He didn’t turn off the engine.
He ran downstairs. His heavy boots hit the concrete.
“Don Joaquín!” shouted the woman from the cooperative who was coming out with some bags. “You can’t park there!”
Joaquín ignored her. His eyes scanned the crowd of school uniforms. He was looking for the braids. He was looking for the pink backpack.
And then he saw something that stopped his heart.
Near the gate, leaning against a black Jetta with tinted windows, stood a man. He wasn’t the one with the San Bernabé cap. This one was better dressed, in a blue polo shirt and dark sunglasses, but he had the same relaxed posture, like a predator waiting. The man was looking toward the schoolyard, holding a cell phone to his ear.
Joaquín felt time stretching out. Was he one of them? Or was he just a father waiting for his son? Paranoia is a lens that distorts everything, but Joaquín couldn’t afford to doubt.
The bell rang. The tide of children began to flow out.
Joaquín pushed his way through the ladies.
—Excuse me, excuse me…
He saw Camila. She was chatting with a friend, laughing, her innocence intact. That laughter he had sworn to protect.
The man in the Jetta straightened up. He took a step forward, removing his sunglasses.
Joaquín didn’t wait to see what she would do. He ran the last ten meters.
—Camila!
La niña volteó, sorprendida por el grito y por ver a su papá a esa hora, con la cara bañada en sudor y los ojos desorbitados.
—¿Papá?
Joaquín la tomó del brazo, tal vez con demasiada fuerza, porque ella hizo una mueca de dolor.
—Vámonos. Ya.
—Pero papá, me toca guardia de…
—¡Dije que vámonos! —rugió él, jalándola hacia su cuerpo, interponiéndose entre ella y el hombre del Jetta.
Cargó la mochila de la niña en un hombro y prácticamente la arrastró hacia la camioneta. Miró de reojo al hombre del polo azul. El tipo lo observó pasar, frunció el ceño extrañado y luego levantó la mano para saludar a un niño gordito que salía corriendo hacia él.
—¡Papi!
Era un padre. Solo un padre.
Joaquín sintió una oleada de vergüenza, pero no se detuvo. Metió a Camila en el asiento del copiloto, cerró la puerta y subió él.
—Papá, me lastimaste —se quejó Camila, sobandose el brazo. Sus ojos se llenaron de lágrimas—. ¿Qué tienes? ¿Por qué llegaste así?
Joaquín arrancó la camioneta, bajándose de la banqueta con un golpe seco de la suspensión.
—Perdóname, mi amor. Perdóname —dijo, con la voz temblorosa, mirando por el retrovisor cada tres segundos—. Es que… hubo un accidente en la obra. Una fuga de gas. Tenemos que irnos rápido.
—¿Vamos a la casa?
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