La Santisima Read online

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  The crack of the pistol turned into the backfire of a car.

  I woke with a start, conscious of Lucía’s sweating body heavy against mine.

  In the street below, someone cackled and banda music caused the windows to pulse in their frames. A woman screamed and tires squealed. The music faded in the distance.

  I almost lost the dream in the noise, then I remembered Jorge. A block of ice slammed into my chest. No. It was a dream. Only a dream. Jorge wasn’t dead, he couldn’t be. We needed him.

  Lucía hitched a sob. “Oh, Sebastian.” Her fingers clutched my arm and dug furrows across my skin. “Our poor Jorge.”

  “It was just a dream. Jorge isn’t dead.”

  “How did you know I dreamed him dead?” she asked.

  A fine shard of anger sliced my heart. Why did she have to question me? I made an effort to keep my voice low. “I dreamed he broke his ankle and the coyote left him to die in the desert. What did you dream?”

  “I dreamed the same dream as you. You started to put me on the ground, but I whispered to you. I told you to ask her to bring Jorge home and you did.”

  I stared at her, my rage gone, my mouth dry with fear. She was right. Everything she said, I had dreamed, and she couldn’t know these details unless she was there. Now I understood why everything felt so real, right down to Lucía’s fierce breath on my cheek as she whispered to me.

  The icon of La Santa Muerte had turned my hand numb. I flexed my fingers and Lucía gasped when the moonlight illuminated the figure. A smear of blood decorated the saint’s pewter mouth. My hand shook. Lucía snatched the icon away from me.

  I slid out of the bed. Grains of sand cascaded to the floor, my feet dusty with the desert. I looked to my sister. “What did we dream? The past or the future?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Raw hope burned in my chest. If we had dreamed the future, then I might have a chance to save Jorge.

  Down the hall, Mamá’s cell rang, persistent and shrill. Lucía’s head whipped toward the sound and my skin crawled with every ring.

  Mamá finally answered. I tried to distinguish her words through the papery walls. The call seemed to go on forever, the minutes stretched out in silence, interrupted by the staccato burst of my mother’s questions.

  Lucía’s fingers found my wrist and she pulled me close once more. “Say nothing, Sebastian.”

  The light came on. I blinked stupidly at Mamá, who stood in the doorway, her short black hair wild around her face. When she spoke, her voice sounded far away, part of another world, like the city streets below.

  “They found Jorge,” she said. Her eyes darted from one corner of the room to another, never lingering in one place for long. My heart tore to see her like this. She cleared her throat and whispered, “The Border Patrol responded to a shot fired in the desert. A man committed suicide and there was a body in the same wash. It was Jorge. They discovered our phone number in his pocket. They said we are lucky. They said there are many who never come home.” A wan smile preceded her tears. “We are lucky, they say.”

  I wrapped Mamá in my arms while she sobbed. I barely noticed when Ana and Jazmín wandered into the room. Mamá pulled away from me then and took the younger girls out of the room where she could comfort them.

  “Sebastian?” Lucía murmured my name.

  I returned to her side and knelt by her bed. I touched the icon nestled in her palm. I thought of how easy it would be to go to Carlos and work for the narcos. I remembered my promise to Jorge. I had no choice. “You know I must go next.”

  “Give her to me.” She indicated the icon. “Give her to me and we will watch over you. I will dream you every night, Sebastian. I promise.”

  I didn’t hesitate. “Of course, she is yours.” I folded her fingers around the icon. “How will I know when she’s there?”

  “Listen for her. She is the dark sound.” Lucía whispered in my ear. “You will hear her in the lament of the rain.”