—Weirdous things like what?
“Excessive power consumption for the cable gauge. Underground installations not shown on the plans. Armed people on the construction site. I have it all written down in my notebooks. I’m a technician, Valeria. If something doesn’t add up with the electrical load, I note it down so I don’t get blamed if something burns out.”
“That’s it!” Valeria exclaimed. “Those logs can prove that you were the only one doing the technical work and that you were reporting any anomalies. Where are they?”
Joaquín’s silence was the answer.
“They’re in my house,” he said, his voice lifeless. “In the big toolbox. In the laundry room.”
Valeria cursed under her breath.
—Your house is under surveillance. You can’t go back there.
“I have to go. Without those notebooks, I’m a dead man.” And Camila is left alone.
—Don’t be stupid. If you go near them, they’ll pick you up. That patrol car isn’t there to arrest you, it’s there to hand you over.
—I know my house, Valeria. And I know my neighbors. I can get in through the back, via the rooftops.
—It’s too risky.
“It’s the only option. Listen, Valeria. I’m going tonight. I need you and Óscar to analyze what they have. If I get the logs, where do I meet them?”
There was a long pause.
—No vayas a mi despacho. Ve al estacionamiento del Hospital Universitario, piso tres, zona C. A la medianoche. Si no llegas a las 12:30, asumo que te atraparon.
—Ahí estaré.
—Joaquín… ten cuidado. Esta gente no juega. Ya mataron a tu suegra. Bueno, la dejaron morir, que es lo mismo. No les importas tú ni tu hija.
—Lo sé —dijo Joaquín, y su voz sonó dura, irreconocible para él mismo—. Por eso voy a ir. Porque a mí sí me importan.
Colgó. Sacó la batería del teléfono barato y guardó todo en sus bolsillos.
Regresó al hotel con la comida. Camila seguía viendo la tele, hipnotizada por colores brillantes que contrastaban con la oscuridad de la habitación.
—Aquí está tu sándwich, mija. Come.
Joaquín se sentó frente a ella y la vio comer. Grabó en su memoria cada gesto, cada peca de su cara. Si algo salía mal esa noche, quería que esa fuera su última imagen.
—Cami, voy a tener que salir un ratito en la noche. Cuando te duermas.
La niña dejó el sándwich.
—¿Me vas a dejar sola?
—Solo una hora. Voy a ir rápido y volver. Te voy a dejar encerrada con llave y con la silla en la puerta. Nadie puede entrar. Tienes el teléfono aquí. Si pasa algo, aprietas el número 1 y le marcas a la amiga de papá, Valeria. Ella vendrá por ti.
—No quiero que vayas. Tengo miedo.
Joaquín se acercó y la abrazó. Olía a vainilla y a sudor de niña. Olía a vida.
—Yo también tengo miedo, chaparra. Pero el miedo sirve para estar alertas. Tengo que ir a buscar algo que nos va a ayudar a que nadie nos moleste nunca más. Lo hago por ti. Y por mamá.
La mención de Marisol funcionó, como siempre. Camila asintió, secándose una lágrima con el dorso de la mano.
—Está bien. Pero regresas rápido. Promételo.
—Te lo prometo.
Y él era un hombre de palabra. Aunque últimamente, sus palabras le estaban costando la vida.
Esperó a que cayeran las nueve de la noche. Camila se quedó dormida con la televisión encendida y el volumen bajo. Joaquín revisó sus bolsillos: la llave Stilson seguía en su cinturón, oculta bajo la camiseta que ahora llevaba por fuera. No tenía arma, pero tenía conocimiento.
Salió del hotel como una sombra. La noche de Monterrey era caliente y pesada. Tomó otro taxi y pidió que lo dejara a cinco cuadras de su casa.
Caminó pegado a las paredes, evitando las luces de las farolas. Su barrio, que antes le parecía un refugio de gente trabajadora, ahora se sentía como territorio enemigo. Cada auto estacionado le parecía sospechoso.
Llegó a la calle trasera de su casa. La casa de Doña Chuy, su vecina, tenía una barda baja que daba acceso a los techos. Joaquín trepó con agilidad sorprendente para su cansancio. Se movió sobre las losas de concreto, saltando los tinacos y las líneas de ropa tendida. Los perros ladraron a lo lejos, pero en ese barrio los perros siempre ladraban.
Llegó a su azotea. Se agachó detrás del tanque de gas.
He peered out into the street.
There it was. The Civil Force patrol car, lights off but engine running. Two officers were inside, checking their cell phones. And further on, at the corner, a gray sedan that didn’t belong to any of the neighbors.
They were waiting for him.
Joaquín slipped out into the backyard. He had a window in the laundry room that he always left unlocked because it jammed. He prayed it would stay that way.
He descended the service spiral staircase, holding his breath. The metal creaked under his weight. He froze.
No one came out.
He reached the window. He pushed the aluminum frame. It gave way with a soft creak.
He stepped inside.
The house was dark, but he knew every inch of it. The smell of his home, of fabric softener and the wood of his furniture, hit him with a painful nostalgia.
He groped his way to the metal shelf.
There it was. The red toolbox, dented from years of use.
He opened it carefully so the tools wouldn’t bump into each other.
He moved aside the screwdrivers, the multimeter, the electrical tape.
In the false bottom, under a piece of cardboard, were the notebooks. Five hardcover Scribe notebooks, one for each year.
He pulled them out. They were his safe-conduct. They were proof that he had documented every irregularity: *“October 12, Warehouse 4. Installation of three-phase service connection for undeclared server. Engineer Maldonado orders direct connection without meter. Authorization signature pending.”*
Joaquín tucked the notebooks into his waistband, secured with his belt.
He was about to leave the way he’d come in when he heard a noise.
The front door. Someone was trying to pick the lock. They weren’t forcing it; they were using a key.
Joaquín froze. Maldonado had keys. He had asked for them once “in case there was an emergency with Camila” when Joaquín had to go on a trip.
The door opened.
Heavy footsteps entered the room. It wasn’t one. It was two.
The lights suddenly switched on.
Joaquín crouched behind the washing machine. From his position, he could see through the crack in the half-open laundry room door.
“He’s not here,” said a gruff voice.
“Look carefully. The boss says the phone’s GPS died downtown, but the idiot’s a creature of habit. He’ll come back for clothes or money.”
Joaquín recognized the voice. It was the guy in the cap. The one from San Bernabé. He was in his living room.
—Check the rooms. I’ll check the kitchen.
The footsteps drew nearer. Joaquín gripped the Stilson wrench with both hands. His heart was beating so loudly he was afraid it would be heard in the silence of the house.
The guy in the cap came into the kitchen, which was next to the laundry room. He opened the refrigerator, took out one of Joaquín’s beers, and opened it.
“Damn cheapskate,” he muttered, taking a swig. “He doesn’t even have any ham.”
He approached the laundry room door.
Joaquín stopped breathing.
The man pushed the door open with his foot. The kitchen light illuminated the small space.
Joaquín was pressed against the wall, in the blind spot behind the open door.
The hitman stepped inside, looking toward the washing machine.
“There’s nothing here, just dirty rags,” he shouted towards the room.
He turned to leave.
It was now or never.
Joaquín didn’t think. He acted on the muscle memory honed by years of manual labor, where precision and strength were everything.
He raised the Stilson and delivered a sharp, brutal blow to the base of the intruder’s neck.
The sound was disgusting. Bone against metal.
The guy didn’t even scream. He collapsed like a sack of cement, spilling the foamy beer on the floor.
Joaquín caught him before he hit the ground hard, cushioning his fall. He pulled him inside and gently closed the door.
The man was breathing, but he was unconscious. His eyes were blank.
“What fell?” the other one shouted from the rooms.
Joaquín looked around. He saw the cord of an old extension cord hanging from a hook.
In seconds, he tied the fallen man’s hands and feet. He stuffed a dirty rag in his mouth.
He searched his pockets. He found a 9mm pistol and a cell phone.
He picked up the gun. It weighed more than he’d imagined. He’d never fired one before, but he knew how the safety worked. He took it off.
“Kevin?” the other’s voice drew closer. “What’s up, dude? Answer me.”
Joaquín stood in front of the closed laundry room door. He had the notebooks. He had a gun. And he had an escape route through the window.
But if he fled now, the other man would raise the alarm immediately. The patrol outside would close in.
He had to neutralize the second one.
—Kevin, no way, I’m not playing around.
The doorknob turned.
Joaquín raised the pistol, pointing it at the center of the wood, at chest level. His hand was trembling, but he tightened his grip with the other.
The door burst open.
The second man, a bald, burly fellow, entered with his weapon drawn.
He saw his partner on the floor. He saw Joaquín.
“Stop!” shouted the bald man, raising his weapon.
Time stood still. Joaquín saw the man’s finger tighten on the trigger.
Joaquín didn’t wait. There was no moral thought, only pure survival.
He pulled the trigger.
The noise was deafening in the small room. The retro
The gun struck the man’s right shoulder, spinning him around like a macabre top. The hitman’s weapon flew out, and he fell backward, howling in pain and shock. Blood instantly stained his light-colored shirt.
Joaquín didn’t stay to see the result. The ringing in his ears was deafening.
“Get in! Gunshots were heard!” someone shouted from the street. The patrol car sirens blared, blue and red, painting the backyard walls with flashes of emergency.
Joaquín dropped the gun. He didn’t want it. He wasn’t a killer. He just needed time.
He propelled himself toward the laundry room window. His body, pumped with adrenaline, moved with an agility he didn’t know he possessed. He stepped out into the patio, scraping his elbows against the aluminum frame.
“From the back! Cover the back exit!” he heard an officer shout.
He couldn’t go back up to the rooftop. They’d see him.
He looked around. Doña Chuy’s yard had a fence that bordered a service alley, a narrow passageway filled with trash and debris that the neighbors used to take out the large bins.
He ran toward the fence. He jumped, gripping the edge with his fingernails, and landed on the other side just as his kitchen door was kicked open and the police burst into his house.
It fell onto a garbage bag that cushioned the impact but made a dull thud. He stood still for a second, pressed against the wall, listening.
—Clear kitchen! We have two injured civilians! Call an ambulance!
They hadn’t seen him leave. Yet.
Joaquín got up and ran down the alley, crouching low, blending into the shadows. The notebooks at his waist felt heavy, digging into his skin, reminding him why he was running.
He emerged onto the parallel street, three blocks down. He became one with the night. He took off his white t-shirt, revealing a gray undershirt he wore from construction work. He put on the cap he had stashed in his back pocket.
He walked. He didn’t run. Running would attract attention. He walked quickly, head down, like a worker returning home late.
He needed to get to the University Hospital. But it was on the other side of the city, and he didn’t have a car.
He searched his pockets. He had two hundred pesos left and his old phone.
He saw a Route 23 bus go by. “Cedros – Hospital.”
It was fate, or luck, or maybe Marisol helping him out from wherever she was.
Joaquín flagged it down. The bus screeched to a halt. He got on, paid with trembling coins, and went to the back seat.
He leaned against the cold window. He watched the lights of Monterrey pass by.
He thought about the man he had shot. Had he killed him? The image of the gushing blood wouldn’t leave his mind. “I’m a criminal,” he thought. “Now I really am a criminal.”
But then he touched the notebooks under his clothes.
No. He wasn’t a criminal. He was a father cornered. And if saving Camila meant burning the whole world down, he would light the match himself.
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