Buried (Hiding From Love #3) (8 page)

Most kids think they live under constant rules. Schools, parents, coaches, sports, games—they all have rules. It seems, when you’re ten or twelve, that your life is nothing but rules. At seventeen, I thought being an adult meant I’d finally be out from under the rules. I’d be free to do what I wanted, go where I wanted. Little did I know that, by the time I was eighteen, I’d be living with more rules to follow than I’d had in the rest of my life combined.

Gangs may seem like they’re chaotic, disordered anarchy. They’re anything but. Some of the smartest men I’ve known are the higher-ups—the lieutenants and captains—in gangs. There are rules in gangs. Lots and lots of rules. And when you’re me, the rules are even stricter. From the very first day with the RH, I lived under a complex set of rules designed to get the most use out of me while affording me the protection I needed.

I went from the rules of the RH to the rules of prison, which are even more complex because they involve the rules of the prison administration, the rules of the legal system, the rules of the prison guards, the rules of the prison gangs, the rules of the guy in the laundry who’s a lot fucking bigger than you and doesn’t feel like doing his share of the work. It’s nothing but rules day in and day out. And you’d sure the fuck better learn them fast or you’ll never make it without becoming someone’s old lady or a corpse.

Now, at the halfway house, there are fewer rules, but enough to keep the place from blowing up. The rules about visitors are simple. You can have visitors outside and no more than two at a time. I’ve stayed inside the last couple of days to make sure that Beth can’t ambush me again. I feel certain that David is done with me, but Beth is another issue. She’s persistent as fuck, and I’m worried that she won’t give up without me doing something I’ll despise myself for afterwards.

That’s why, when the house manager knocks on the door to my room and tells me I have a visitor out front, my gut clenches at the same time my heart speeds up and my palms start sweating. God, I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to send her away, and I don’t want to hurt her. The mere thought of it is killing me inside.

“Who is it?” I ask through my door.

“Your priest,” the manager answers.

I’m not sure if he’s being sarcastic or not, but I hear his feet retreating, so I know I have to handle this myself.

I stand up, run a hand through my hair, and try to get my head on straight. I have to be firm with her. Just tell her in no uncertain terms that she can’t come back, that I don’t want her help. No matter how much of a lie it is, I have to tell it. After all, I’ve told far worse lies in my life. Lies to save me, lies to save my mother, lies to make other people suffer.

A couple of minutes later, I open the front door and stop dead. It’s not Beth standing there waiting for me, but Father Jorge, parish priest for Our Lady of Assumption and paid employee of the RH.

I swallow and step out onto the front porch, tilting my chin at him. “Father,” I say in my best RH tone. “Long time no see.”

He smiles, and it reminds me of a snake about to strike. “Juan. My son, it’s good to see you. You look well.”

I briefly clasp his offered hand and follow him to the chairs on the porch he motions to. We each take a seat, and he leans forward, elbows on knees, and looks at me from under his bushy brows.

“How are you, Juan? Are things here going well?” he asks.

“Yeah,
1
Padre
. Everything’s good. Just serving my last few weeks until I’m done here.” I don’t elaborate on what being done means next, but I hope he’ll assume I’m referring to returning to the RH.

“A lot of people are waiting for you, Juan,” he tells me with that same smarmy smile on his face. “Your
hermanos
are anxious to hear from you. They’re wondering why you haven’t been in touch?”

My heart races for a moment before it settles back down. I’m too good at this game to get caught up by Father Jorge. Stupid bastard.

“I still got the cuff,
Padre
. I figured there’s not much point in calling until it’s off. Besides, I want to come see everyone in person, you know? As soon as the cuff’s off, I can get over to the old neighborhood, bring everyone some gifts. I’m just laying low now so I don’t draw no attention to anything. It’s better safe than sorry.”

He nods. “It’s good to hear you’re thinking about when you can see your
hermanos
again. I know they’ll like that. You’ve got a few more weeks until it’s off,
2
verdad
?”

“Yeah, that’s right.” Fuck, they’ve been watching closer than I thought.

“Well, I’ll be back to help you celebrate, son. But until then, your friends sent this.” He hands me a small envelope. “They do searches here?” he asks quietly as he nonchalantly glances around.

“No, man. Not without cause.”

“Good.” He looks at me with a new hardness in his eyes. “Don’t give cause, no?”

“Yeah,
Padre
. Whatever you say.”

1
Padre = father, either your actual father or a priest

2
Verdad = true

D
AVID
makes me so mad I could spit nails.

“What do you mean I don’t understand and there’s nothing more we can do?” I rail as we drive back to my house after we’ve visited Juan.

“Exactly what I said. He’s up against stuff that you don’t get, Beth. It’s more complicated than just getting him a job and an apartment or something.”

“So explain it to me. I’m not stupid, in case you hadn’t noticed.” I huff out an angry breath and look out the car window so I won’t have to face my asinine brother.

David rubs his chin, exasperation spreading across his handsome face. He grips the steering wheel of his Volvo C70 until his knuckles turn white. “The RH will come after him,” he finally says, his voice low and sad.

“What do you mean? Like they’ll force him to come back to them?”

“Exactly.”

I turn, my eyes wide, and stare at him, the low-lying buildings of central Austin blurring on either side of the car as we drive. His eyes are covered by Aviators, but I have a strong feeling that, if I could see them, they’d be misted over.

“I’ve heard it’s not easy to leave a gang, but that’s when you’re still living in the neighborhood, right? Still trying to hang out at the same places? I mean, if he’s in a different town, doesn’t call anyone from his past, it’s not like they’re going to hunt him down in Laredo or whatever.” I squint at David, looking for confirmation of my rationality.

“No. Actually, they
will
hunt him down. At least that’s what he says. He also says that, because of it, he’ll be forced to take jobs off the books and move around a lot. Not really conducive to achievements or friends and family.” David turns the car onto my street and pulls over in front of my duplex.

He turns the engine off and shifts to face me. “Look, I get why you asked me to come. He
is
the same guy underneath it all. I could feel it too. I don’t think he’d ever hurt you, and I don’t think he hurt that little girl. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s in a situation we can’t fix for him. This is major shit. Organized crime. Guys who kill for a living. This is way beyond what we can help with.”

I digest what he’s said for a moment. I’m trying to be reasonable—I really am—but there’s a place in my heart, this soft spot far deep inside, that hurts every time I look at Juan, and it won’t be reasonable. It just won’t, and it seems to be in control of most of what I think, feel, and do. But I’m smart enough to know that I can’t explain this to my big brother in a way he’d ever understand. Best to let David think I’ve given up. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

“Okay,” I answer quietly. “I understand what you’re saying. I hate it, but I understand it.”

“I’m really sorry,
1
hermanita
.” He leans over and gives me a kiss on the forehead. “It’s tearing me up too, but sometimes people can’t be saved. Juan’s one of those people.”

I nod.

“I’ll always wish I could have figured out what the hell made him do it though,” he mutters almost to himself rather than me.

“Made him do what?”

“Join the RH. I asked him today. I told him he’d had a home with Mom and Dad as long as he wanted and that he was never in danger of being deported right then anyway. He just kept up the same old song and dance—he couldn’t risk the deportation. But you know, I finally asked him how being in Mexico with his mom was worse than being here in
prison
.”

“What did he say?” I ask, trying not to look too interested even though warning bells are going off in my head.

“He didn’t answer. Just thanked me for coming and went inside.” David pauses, watching a little boy across the street riding his Big Wheel. “That’s the part I’ll never understand though. Why would
Huntsville
be better than Mexico?”

Somehow I know that David has finally asked the million-dollar question. And I’m going to get it answered even if it kills me.

The papers are endless. Even with only the most basic social worker’s access to public records, I’m able to pull hundreds of documents dealing with Juan’s arrest and conviction. And regretfully, I’ve learned it all by heart. I know that, at six thirty-two on a Friday night, five years previous, a dark Cadillac Escalade traveled down the 700 block of James Street in Austin, where seven-year-old Amanda Johnson was playing in the front yard of her mother’s house. She was standing, holding one of her Barbie dolls, and talking to the puppy her Uncle Felix had brought her as a gift the day before.

Her uncle and two other men were outside drinking, leaning against a Lincoln Continental parked in the yard near her.

Neighbors who were outside reported seeing the Escalade slow down as it approached the house. Then, before the men in the front yard had a chance to react, the rear window of the Escalade rolled down and the barrel of an AK-47 extended. Shots rang out as Amanda’s uncle ran for the house, diving through the front door while bullets sprayed the yard, injuring one of the other men. The Escalade came to a complete stop as the occupants fired a round at the front windows of the house. The men in the yard had produced their own guns by that point and were returning fire. Autopsies showed that the bullet that killed the child came from the AK-47, however—not one of the Glocks used by the men on the property.