Chapter 62
Isla de San Alejo
The Lesser Antilles
He had slept like the dead, dreamless and void.
He didn’t realize he’d been asleep until he became vaguely aware of consciousness, his mind still on the edge of oblivion. But the fact he was aware that he was aware woke him up a bit more, driving his reluctant mind toward the rippling surface of lucidity.
He didn’t want to make that journey, and kept his eyes tightly shut hoping he could fall back into the peaceful abyss of nothingness.
But such was not his fate. His chest ached as if struck by a sledgehammer, the dull pain shallowing his breaths and fueling the raging headache inside of his skull.
A nearby machine issued gentle puffing sounds, and a soft electronic beep tapped out a simple rhythm. He focused on the beep and noticed that, as he did so, it increased in tempo.
“I think he’s waking up.”
It was an unfamiliar voice speaking. A woman’s voice. In Spanish. But a strange Spanish. An accent. German? Italian?
Even these few thoughts hurt his head.
Where was he?
He opened his eyes with difficulty, his lids fluttering against the bright lights. His vision was blurred. He could hardly see through the gauzy film clouding his eyes.
“Yes, he is awake,” the woman’s voice said.
“It’s a miracle,” another voice said. Also a woman, though younger.
Nurses, he told himself. He lifted heavy hands and rubbed his eyes until his vision cleared. He took a closer look at the two voices. His heart sank.
Nuns.
“Where am I?”
“You’re in the mission hospital on Isla de San Alejo,” the older nun said. “We are the Sisters of Divine Mercy.” Like the other nun, she wore a nurse’s uniform. “You’re fortunate to be alive.”
The younger nun smiled beatifically. “God must have a special purpose for you.”
“How are you called?” the other nurse asked.
The man frowned for a moment, genuinely confused. He wasn’t sure. He’d had many names. What was the last one?
The old nun frowned. “Don’t you know your own name?”
The man looked down at his aching chest. Thick bandages covered the place where it hurt the most. IV and blood bag lines were taped to the backs of his hands. He touched the cannula under his nose as his eyes caught sight of the oxygen regulator puffing away by his bedside.
“You were shot,” the old nurse said, hoping to jar his memory.
“And you lost a lot of blood. A friend brought you here, just in time.”
“It’s a miracle we had your blood type here. Very rare.”
The man noticed the younger nun had a bandage on her forearm, exactly where a blood-draw needle would be placed.
“Gracias,” he whispered hoarsely. He was irreligious, but not an ingrate.
The young nurse blushed as if caught in a sin, her bandage a kind of immodesty.
“Your name?” the older one repeated, as if he were a stupid child. “Do you remember your name?”
He nodded. He remembered now. It all came back. The attack. Olmedo. The tall man in the red bandana.
He knew that man.
He clenched his teeth, raging.
The heart monitor alarmed as his blood pressure surged.
The young nurse’s eyes widened. “What’s happening to him?”
The old nun grabbed a hypodermic needle, filled it with sedative, and fed it into his IV tube.
Moments later, the man’s eyes got heavy. He felt the darkness falling over his mind like a heavy blanket, fading his headache. His eyes closed against his will. He heard a distant voice, almost like an echo.
“What is your name?” the old nun asked.
He saw the man’s face again. He hated him. The woman’s voice was fading.
“Your name? Tell me your name.”
He whispered his name. The last one he’d used. Not his real name. Never his real name.
“V…Var…Vargas.”
“Your first name, my son?”
He didn’t answer.
His mind searched for the name of the man in the red bandana. He clutched to his image like a drowning sailor at sea clinging to a piece of drifting flotsam, hoping for rescue. Hoping for his name.
But still Vargas couldn’t find it. He held on for as long as he could until his mind finally let go, swallowed by the fathomless dark.