Skeletons in the Rain

CHAPTER 33 | 10 HOURS AGO

Somehow, the room in the Pérezes' patio felt even smaller and more suffocating than before.

In the not too distant past, the possibility of seeing Marcelo again would have meant another shot at redemption for Ismael. But now the dead have come back to drag you to the abyss, the priest told himself, forcing his attention on the evidence in his hands.

"No, not the dead. The undead."

If what he'd read was true, then his previous altar boy was still alive, and he planned to take revenge on him and Abraham.

But why? Why me? What else was I supposed to do when you confessed to murder?

Bit by bit, he kept reading the files stored there.

It seemed the chief of police had done everything in his power to ensure Marcelo ended up in a juvenile detention center in Caracas, as far from Ofelia as possible. However, that was the least disturbing secret there. Although the kid had been found guilty shortly after allegedly murdering his stepfather, these files, the results of Abe's private investigation, proved there were pieces of the puzzle that didn't fit.

There's evidence here that never made it to court, the priest discovered. You knew he was innocent, and rather than revealing the truth, you kept quiet, compadre. No wonder your daughter hates you. Ofelia found out about this. She thinks I betrayed Marcelo by handing him over to the police, while you condemned him with your silence. We locked him in the JDC that drove him to bite his tongue off and choke to death on his own blood.

"And now, as the Mime King, he wants revenge."

Ismael stared at the photographs that showed the king's mask on a corkboard and weighed his options as his bruised ribs kept throbbing. What can I do? Maybe I can ally myself with the enemy of my enemy? Shoot for a stalemate. The bishop had as much to lose as he if things spiraled out of control. The return of 'The Killer Altar Boy,' as the local press had dubbed him, would be a media circus that could destroy the image López had dedicated himself to rebuilding.

Why should it be any different now? When Marcelo killed himself, instead of blaming his absent mother or his abusive stepfather, public opinion turned against us. They said we ignored his 'unmistakable cries for help.'

"The Church is an easy scapegoat," López had complained to Ismael back then. "They will never let us forget this."

The bishop had been right. Since at the time López had been campaigning to aid the street children while also criticizing his parishioners for their indifference, San Isidrians were harder on him than anyone else.

"We are on the same sinking boat, López," the priest thought out loud. "Even if you are not a target on the Skull's list, you won't survive the media shit storm they'll cause."

Maybe, just maybe, if he warned the bishop about Marcelo's imminent attack and forced Abraham to somehow come clean, making all this evidence public, he could prevent the bloodshed Ofelia had threatened him with earlier that day.

If the corpses pile in my way, escaping from San Isidro will be impossible.

The priest picked up the cell phone hanging from his neck and saw a long list of missed calls from Abraham. I'll deal with you later, but first I must convince López, Ismael decided, moving his finger on the screen until he spotted the icon he was searching for and dialed. After having tried so many times to get an incardination in a different diocese, he knew the bishop's telephone number by heart.

"Hello," said a dry voice at the other end of the line.

"It's me."

"How dare you call me?"

"Perhaps you've heard by now about—"

"Shut up!" López shouted. "I never liked you, Ismael, especially after how you handled your altar boy's death."

"That's why I'm calling you."

"But then I understood that I didn't need a reason to loathe a piece of crap." With every word, the bishop spoke louder and faster. "You are done. What happened at the terminal is nothing compared—"

"Listen! Marcelo is alive, and if you don't want to end up on the front page of the newspapers again, you will help me."

"Alive?" A brief, heavy silence came between them. "You are mad."

"Abraham hid evidence that confirms Marcelo's body went missing at the—"

"Two bodies disappeared?" the bishop asked absentmindedly as if thinking out loud.

"What do you mean by two bodies?"

"I've had enough of you and your lies. That boy is dead. I saw his corpse with my own eyes."

"Forget what you think you saw," said the priest. The conversation was going nowhere. "If you want me gone, okay, you win."

"I win? After that damn online video, we've all lost."

"Video?"

"I told the people I sent to get you to come back. The less I have to do with you now, the better, so enjoy whatever time you have left." He remained silent for a few seconds as if waiting for a reaction that didn't come. "I doubt your friend the policeman will let you live to see the sunrise."

"López, wait!"

There was no answer. The call had ended.

Without delay, Ismael googled himself. He was not very skilled with computers and even less with smartphones, but it didn't take him long to find what he was looking for. "You little bitch," he muttered. The video thumbnail alone made him feel a cold, unpleasant sensation in the pit of his stomach.

He pressed play and saw himself arrive at the sacristy where the Skulls waited for him. Then, the video cut to Pedrito walking in after him. This is not how it happened. While the altar boy stood there, shocked, the priest heard his own voice say off-screen, "Stay here, boy. And lock the door behind you!"

Pedrito turned as if to leave the room. They must have recorded this before I arrived at the sacristy. Once more, the camera cut to Ismael. "Do as I say! And not a word to anyone." It made it seem like he was ordering the kid not to move.

"Why do you want the boy to stay?" asked the Mime King in his usual electronic monotone. "Why put him in danger?"

He never said that!

"Do you have any idea who you are messing with?" the Ismael in the video said. "I'm friends with the chief of police."

As the priest said that in a voice-over, the recording showed him struggling with Ofelia until he pinned her down, on the floor, at gunpoint. Ismael was on top of her, the barrel of his gun in the girl's mouth. From the angle the camera had captured, it was impossible to see that his goddaughter had injected him with something, nor was it clear she'd taken the initiative before they'd fucked. In the video, the priest had raped her.

"Abraham, he's in your office!"

Ismael looked up upon hearing Marta's voice. They've found me. He noticed the silhouette of his compadre on the other side of the window. Dammit!

In a single motion, he opened the door and pushed Marta aside. He ran, leaving the patio as fast as he could, only looking over his shoulder once to confirm Abraham was pursuing him, gun in hand.

After about seven blocks, the stinging pain in his left side was so excruciating it forced him to lean against a wall at a corner. Hearing his own loud and irregular breathing, he sank to his knees. A part of him wanted to push forward, hide somewhere, but what kept him from running was not his tired legs but the fear that his heart, banging wildly against his chest, would fail at any second.

Ismael coughed and looked behind him, suppressing the urge to vomit. After a moment of utter silence, he smiled at an empty street.

I lost him.

Before realizing how wrong he was, the blow from a gun butt on the back of his neck brought him to the ground.

Soon after, consciousness slipped away from him.