Skeletons in the Rain

CHAPTER 39 | 22 MINUTES AGO

Shit.

Out of sheer habit, Ismael thanked God his blood-spattered face was already too twisted with pain to show his disheartening shock. His plan had been simple: Let himself get kidnapped so Abraham could track his phone's GPS signal straight to the Skulls' doorstep.

Getting the chief of police to agree to this was easy once it became clear it was his best shot at freeing Ofelia from Marcelo's clutches.

"Save your baby girl, cage those masked animals, and put a bullet through my altar boy's heart, all while I'm in mortal danger," he'd told his compadre earlier that night. "Whether I get out of there handcuffed or in a body bag, you win."

"I don't trust you," Abe said.

"That's smart."

"Why help me?"

"I can't live while Marcelo survives."

What Ismael kept to himself was how if it all went according to plan, the chaos from the Skulls and the police confrontation would present him with the perfect opportunity to vanish.

But things had not gone according to plan.

A second glance at the shattered phone by his knees felt like a cold finger down his spine. He had gambled everything and lost. He was at the mercy of the Mime King.

The rumble of thunder above made the whole structure tremble.

The king's followers stopped shaving their heads and tattooing their faces as some of them brought a video camera on a tripod and placed it before the priest. Soon after, the crackling static on the TVs in the throne changed to a live recording of him.

"Who?" asked the Mime King, using his text-to-speech software.

The question became an echo in the mouths of the Skulls.

"Marcelo," answered Ismael, unable to escape the image of his battered face on each screen in the throne.

"Guilty," declared the Skulls.

The Mime King turned to his followers. "Are we ready?"

"The streaming is live," replied a female Skull member near the workstations, checking her phone.

"Great," the Mime King nodded. "You are sentenced to suffer the same fate as your victim... But with an audience. You'll commit suicide in front of the entire world."

"You want me to kill myself?"

"Weren't you obsessed with grandeur? Thousands will witness your death."

Ismael spat blood.

"Your weakness killed you, Marcelo. Not me."

"A child cries out seeking the help of his mentor, of his father." The Mime King towered over the kneeled priest. "And what does he get? The betrayal of a man blinded by his ego."

"You murdered your—"

"Be quiet!"

Everyone around Ismael placed their fingers on their lips and hushed.

"Countless times Marcelo tried to tell you his stepfather was abusing him," said the king. "Did you ever stop to think about why he suffered skin infections? Why there were bruises on his arms every week? No! You ignored him, and said stupid things like, 'God's timing is perfect.' Your blindness killed him. You betrayed him."

"Judas," said the Skulls in a cascade of whispers.

"Judas," repeated the Mime King as he drew a gun Ismael hadn't noticed until now.

The priest stared at the flawless mask of the man before him and then at the screens showing his own beaten face. The last piece of the puzzle did not click into place. Why did he keep talking about himself in the third person? Did his followers not know he was Marcelo? Had he deceived them? Concealed his own identity and made his former self into a martyr?

Unless...

"Who?" asked Ismael.

"You will shoot yourself in the head."

"Who?" the priest insisted, shouting this time.

"Quiet!" the deacon kicked him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of his lungs. The priest arched his body but never stopped looking at the Mime King.

"Take the gun and pay for your sins," said Gray Skull.

"Who? I'll tell you who Marcelo was," said Ismael. "A freak who thought he was better than others. In his mind, repairing watches made him special. He was sure being an altar boy put him above the children who rejected him." He attempted to stand up, but the men on either side of him forced him to stay on his knees. "Who is hiding behind the mask?"

A hint of doubt crept into the tattooed faces of the several Skulls who didn't need to wear masks anymore.

"Fulfill your destiny." The Mime King's hand trembled as he held the gun.

"The truth is your king is like everyone else. He used to swear he was God's favorite son when, in reality, he was just another bastard. Do you know why he uses an app to speak?" Ismael asked the Skulls. "Because behind that pretty mask still hides the same s-stuttering little M-Ma-Marcelo."

"Enough!" Gray Skull hit the priest in the face.

"The same chubby kid not even his own mother could stand. Why do you think she was so desperate to cling on to Anibal? She needed someone else in her house apart from the weirdo obsessed with Ofelia. Do you realize your 'best friend' was only with you out of pity?"

"Shut up!" said the king.

"Shut up," repeated most of the Skulls, although not all of them.

"Be honest, Marcelo. You liked it, and that's why you said nothing. You tried to be in love with her, but you enjoyed it when your stepfather fucked you."

"Shut up!" the Mime King shouted, but this time anger had overcome the patience needed to use the text-to-speech software.

Ismael smiled, surprised. He'd been wrong about everything.

But this was so much better.

I could recognize that velvety voice anywhere.