Prism - By Rachel Moschell Page 0,59
groaned and sank back onto the pillow on his back, black hair sticking up wildly in all directions. He scrubbed both fists across his eyes, then swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up to look at her.
“Hey,” he said grimly.
Feeling the awkwardness, Wara didn’t respond. After the emotional encounter of last night, she didn’t know what to say. If his story were true, it made more sense how he could actually believe God would support killing a man like Franco Salazar. But the truth was, Wara still didn’t feel as if she could trust Alejo Martir at all. He could change personalities in an instant, one minute serious and morose, the next charming and convincing, seemingly able to manipulate anyone into doing what he wanted. She wasn’t about to trust his story about Salazar until she had talked with the Martirs and confirmed some facts. Wara threw off the covers and headed for the bathroom in Alexis’ wrinkled sweat pants and wombat shirt.
When she came out of the bathroom, he was waiting, pacing by the window, staring down at the alley outside. “Could you come over to the other room?” he asked. “We really need to talk about some stuff.”
“Ok.” Wara shrugged. She felt a little better than yesterday, after a quick shower. Soaking off the dried blood had hurt a lot, and she had washed her face without looking in the mirror, afraid of what she would see. Alejo had got her some ibuprofen, but she still felt like some foreign object was lodged on her face, twice the size of her own nose. At least the throbbing had died down.
Fighting the depression, Wara trudged after Alejo to the hall and the Martirs’ door. It was cracked open, and Alejo pushed the deadbolt into place after they slipped inside.
“Dad.” Alejo’s voice sounded unnatural saying the word. “Can you come here for a second? I need to run this by you.”
Pablo Martir looked as if he hadn’t slept a wink all night and he was staring out the window at the mountains. “Alright,” he said, and he and his son moved to one of the beds in the corner, each cautiously sitting down at the furthest extremes possible and beginning a hushed, strained conversation.
Wara plopped down on a bed next to Nazaret and Noly at the other side of the room. The kids were huddled on the beds, munching half-heartedly on cheesy empanada pastries and sipping chocolate milk from flimsy plastic cups. The thought of food made Wara want to gag. “Have you heard any more news?” she asked Nazaret’s mom.
She was terrified they might have heard more news. As long as there was no news, there was still hope.
Noly yawned and covered her mouth with one hand. “No,” she said, and Wara closed her eyes in relief. “I made a call really early—from the street, of course. Alejandro says no cell phones. The Bennesons from your mission say they still haven’t identified the body of any foreigners. So far, the confirmed dead are a government guy from Cochabamba and three of his staff: two women and one man.”
She was so glad they hadn’t found Noah. Dead. But a pang came along with it, because those people who died had been on the bus with her. Shed seen them whispering and laughing as they got on the bus. When Noah decided to get on his knees in the aisle and give her the ring, the people in the back had clapped. She searched for the right words, and finally said, “I made Alejo tell me why he did what he did. He was trying to kill the man who used to be mayor of Quillacollo. He said that you guys used to know him.”
“Ah.” Noly’s eyes grew sad, and she glanced over at Nazaret. “Franco Salazar?”
“Yeah,” Wara nodded, snatching a watermelon bubble gum from the bedside table and popping it in her mouth. Her body seemed to float inches above the bed, and she felt a desperate need for the sugar. “Alejo said that Franco Salazar was involved in all kinds of horrible stuff. And that he killed a friend of his from when they were little—Ruben.”
Nazaret’s face went pale. “I just heard last night. I mean, I remember when little Ruben died, but I didn’t know…”
“She didn’t know anything about Salazar possibly being involved,” Noly murmured. “That part of our history is a painful memory that marked our lives forever. The kids were so young