Skeletons in the Rain

CHAPTER 25 | 23 HOURS AND 50 MINUTES AGO

Ismael headed out the door and followed Ofelia, always keeping at least thirty feet between them, as she'd told him. At no point did they disconnect the call, but they remained silent until they reached their destination several blocks away.

The liquor store near the terminal?

The neon signboard above the store was lifeless. Covered with posters of women in bikinis licking beer cans and aged by black smog stains, the chipped facade looked as dirty as the sidewalk-turned-ashtray in front of it.

Behind the gated porch, the owners of the house had transformed the entrance into a storefront with a few aluminum shelves displaying rum and anisette bottles next to two wide countertop refrigerators with hinged glass doors.

On the wood counter in the middle, there was a small figurine of Saint Michael the Archangel alongside a plastic Chinese lucky cat, and above them, a sign that read: "Smoking Kills."

What are we doing here?

"Come through the back door," said his goddaughter before hanging up.

Ismael circled to the rear of the establishment, the pain still pulsing through his ribs and elbow. The loud barking of a chained Rottweiler welcomed him as he crossed the gate to the backyard. Drool dripped off the beast's fangs as it stood on its hind legs, desperate to attack.

After the hellhound, the next thing the priest noticed was the stink. Even though he hadn't set foot inside the place, it was easy to tell the air was heavy with the rancid stench from the empty beer bottles, piled in plastic Polar cases. It was a struggle to keep himself from burying his nose in the crook of his arm.

"Ofelia?" he asked, walking into the back room where they most likely stored their goods. His eyes had not yet grown accustomed to the gloom when he felt something metallic and hard pressing against his temple, accompanied by the unmistakable hammer click of someone cocking a gun. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, he raised his hands in surrender at gunpoint.

"This was not the plan," the young man holding the pistol complained. It was the same droopy-eyed teenager Ismael had seen last night working there on his way to the terminal.

"Want to make God laugh?" Ofelia turned on the light. "Then tell him your plans." She was still thin and bony, but not as scrawny as she'd been as a child. "Put the gun down, Jeremías. I don't trust your good judgment when you are sober, much less when you're coked out of orbit."

Jeremías wiped off a trickle of blood coming out of his beaked nose and did as she told him.

Ismael frowned as some pieces of the puzzle fell into place in his mind. "You two were the Skulls who threatened me at the sacristy."

"We are legion," Ofelia said, pulling her inky hair into a ponytail.

The priest peered about the room. Amidst the towers of blue beer cases and piles of cigarette and candy boxes, there was a table cluttered with black clothes, three skull masks, and four ammo stocks. This can't be their hideout. Perhaps they meet— Jeremías pushed him before he could finish studying his surroundings.

"What happened to you? Did someone beat you up, little priest?"

"I jumped out of a moving car."

"Whatever. I don't care. You are taking too long to answer the question." The teenager's pupils were so big they almost engulfed the dirty brown color of his irises completely. "We will force you to—"

"Shut up!" Ofelia shouted. Looking at her pale, delicate features, no one would have thought her voice could be so commanding.

"Fine. I won't ruin the surprise." Dropping the bluster, Jeremías flicked his new Zippo open to heat a metal spoon he'd pulled out from his back pocket. "You'll see. Once Luz gets here—"