25

ESCOBAR HAD TIRED of Hacienda Nápoles, or believed for security reasons that it was time to move to another of his many residences, or had simply arbitrarily decided to change locations. At any rate, in the week since the deaths of Osorio and Snake-eyes, preparations were made to leave Nápoles.

It was no simple matter. Household staff, a landscaping crew, and security personnel had to stay at Nápoles. The property had an airstrip, which would remain in use for outgoing shipments of cocaine and incoming ones of cash. Even with those people remaining behind, a small army would move. Trucks were loaded with personal possessions, equipment, and men. A separate convoy of vehicles carried cash and weapons, and the sicarios required to keep those safe. Finally, Escobar and his family had to be transported, in multiple vehicles, with their personal belongings.

In the midst of the bustle, Escobar found Aguilar supervising the loading of a truck. “Tata wants you to drive her and Juan Pablo,” he said.

“Okay.”

“I know you’ll drive carefully.”

“Of course.”

“She trusts you. Likes you.”

“She’s a great lady. You’re a lucky man.”

“I know it,” Escobar said. “She’s more than I deserve.”

Aguilar didn’t know how to respond to that, so he left it alone. Escobar added, “There’s something else I need for you to do.”

“Anything, Patrón.”

“I need to know that she’s faithful.”

“I’m sure she is.”

“So am I. But still, it’s in my nature to be suspicious. I don’t have reason to think she’s not, but I need to know. I want you to find out. Subtly, of course. Don’t let her know that I told you to ask her, or anything like that. Just bring it up somehow, and try to draw her out.”

“I’ll try.”

“If I thought she was sleeping with anyone else… I don’t know what I would do. With her, I mean. I know what I would do to the man.”

Aguilar had the impression that it would be painful indeed, and memorable for whatever brief length of time the man might live.

But he also had the impression that Escobar might indeed suspect that Tata was sleeping with someone—and that the “someone” in question was him. This wasn’t just a request for information, it was a warning.

“I’m sure she would never be unfaithful, Don Pablo,” he said. “She loves you; that much I know for certain. She told me so.”

“And I love her,” Escobar said. The unspoken context was clear—although he loved Tata, he’d had many other lovers since they’d been married. Tata wasn’t like that, Aguilar believed, but he didn’t know how to convince Escobar of it. People often projected their worst qualities on those around them, and Escobar was a master.

“I’ll bring it up casually,” he promised. “She’ll never know you were asking.”

“Good,” Escobar said. “And take care of her and my son.”

“Always.”

* * *

Once again, Tata sat up front, next to him. Juan Pablo was sleepy, and stretched out in the back seat. Aguilar was glad he wouldn’t hear the conversation, but he couldn’t think of a good way to introduce the topic. He made a couple of half-hearted attempts, then gave up. He would tell Escobar that she had sworn eternal fidelity and she was living up to that vow. Escobar would never ask her about a conversation he’d insisted had to be subtle and never traced back to him.

Almost as if she could read his mind, or found his silence uncomfortable, she raised a subject of her own. “I know you lost your wife,” she said. “I’m so sorry for that. What about the rest of your family? Tell me about them.”

“There’s not much to tell. My mother fixes people’s clothing. She made my clothing, when I was little, but she never thought she was good enough to make things for anyone outside the family. But if someone had a tear, or needed a patch or some pants made a little longer, anything like that she could do and nobody would ever know it had been mended. Sometimes she sold lottery tickets, too, for extra money, but not anymore. My father is a cobbler. He can practically rebuild a pair of shoes. I guess they both fix things that people need but that wear out or can be damaged, and they do it more cheaply than buying new things. I never thought about it that way before.”

“They sound like good, hardworking people.”

“They are. They were good to me.”

“Mine were like that, too. Simple, good people.”

“Do you see them much?” Aguilar asked.

“My father’s gone. My mother, sometimes. My father never approved of Pablo, but my mother was willing to let me make my own decisions. How about you? Do you see yours?”

He hadn’t, for ages. Since Luisa’s funeral, and his father’s comments there. He sent money and gifts, but without including a letter or a message of any kind. “Not often,” he said.

“You should. After we get settled in at the ranch. It’s not so far from Medellín. Ask Pablo for a few days off so you can visit them. Or I can ask him for you.”

Aguilar worried about what Escobar might think if his wife asked for time off on his behalf. “No, that’s okay. Thank you. I’ll ask him, but you don’t need to trouble yourself.”

“It’s no trouble, Jose.”

“It’s better if I ask myself, though. I will, I swear.”

“All right. I’ll give you two days, after we’re moved in. If you haven’t by then, I’ll ask him myself.”

“I will,” he said again. Sicarios were often hesitant to ask Don Pablo for special favors, he had noticed. He had also seen Tata take it upon herself, as if she knew she could get away with things the men couldn’t. But Escobar had confessed his suspicions to Aguilar, and he didn’t want to do anything to direct those suspicions toward him.

“Two days. That’s all.”

* * *

Settling in was as large an effort as moving out had been. Escobar had properties all over the country, some little more than hideouts he could escape to at a moment’s notice, if the law or professional enemies came after him. But when he was planning to stay for a while, with his family and most of his organization, it was like moving an army. The trucks needed to be unloaded, a place found for everybody and everything.

This ranch was in the hills above Medellín. The property was considerably smaller than Nápoles, with only a few houses and a big barn on it. Most of it was open pasture, on which long-horned cattle grazed. The air smelled like cows, morning, noon, and night.

Aguilar wasn’t sure he wanted to see his parents. But he had promised Tata. And after a couple of days of smelling cattle, he was ready for a change. He asked Escobar for permission—he’d already assured the man that Tata was absolutely faithful to him—and Escobar told him to go.

So he drove down the hill and into the city. His old neighborhood hadn’t changed, that he could see. It still smelled of sewage and the paper mill. The same small shops lined the main street, with the same small houses on the streets behind that. He even saw old Pedro, the drunk, sitting on his usual bench outside the butcher shop. He couldn’t say for sure if Pedro had ever been off that bench, or if perhaps he was glued to it.

Nothing had changed, and that remained true even as he approached his parents’ home. The trees along the street were green and full, the houses that had flowers blooming in front were the ones that always did, and the houses that looked like they should be torn down had somehow managed to stay upright, but in no better condition.

His parents’ house was in between; neither of them had time or energy to plant and care for flowers, but the house was solid. It needed paint—it had been blue once, now faded to a pale gray—but structurally it was sound. Aguilar’s father did most of the work on the house himself. It was, he said from time to time, much like fixing shoes, only on a bigger scale. The principle was the same: keep the wearer warm and dry and keep the weather out.

Aguilar parked and sat in the car for a few minutes. He had a suitcase in back, in case he stayed for a few days, but he didn’t think he wanted to take it in at first. No one had invited him. He didn’t even know if they were home, or if they had plans. Except that they were always home, and outside of working they never seemed to have plans. He had no reason to believe that anything inside the house had changed any more than the exterior had. Anyway, it was almost six; his mother would be preparing dinner and his father would be complaining about the wait.

Finally, he told himself to stop delaying. They were his parents, they’d be glad to see him. They would welcome him, probably want to serve him a big dinner, and would want him to stay for as long as he could. No sense putting it off.

He got out of the car, leaving the suitcase in the trunk for now, and walked up to the front door. It was locked, so he knocked on it. After a little while, he heard muttering on the other side, then it opened and his father stood there. The man had changed; he looked older, his cheeks sunken in, his hair grayer and sparser on his head. He had a streak of boot polish on his nose and cheek.

“Hello, Papa,” Aguilar said.

“Oh, it’s you.” His father turned to shout inside. “Sofia, it’s the boy!”

He looked at Aguilar, without expression or another word, until she came to the door. “Get out of the way, Gilbert,” she said. “Let me see my son.”

“Hello, Mama.”

She brushed past her husband with her arms out, and drew Aguilar into them. She smelled of the chili peppers she had probably spent much of the morning roasting, and she was soft and warm. “It’s so good to see you!” she said. “You’ve been away so long!”

“It’s good to see you, Mama,” Aguilar said. “You too, Papa.”

“You might as well come inside,” his father said. “Dinner’s late as it is.”

“I can take you out someplace,” Aguilar offered.

“Nonsense,” his mother said. “There’s plenty. And Gilbert is wrong, it’s not late, because you weren’t here yet. It’ll be ready in no time.”

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

“Then you might have called first, or not come right at dinnertime.”

His mother punched her husband’s arm, hard. “Gilbert! This is our only son! He’s a grown man, a serious man. A police officer. Treat him with respect.” Still gripping Aguilar, she led him inside the house and kicked the door closed.

“I’m not with the police anymore,” he said. He followed his mother down the narrow hallway and into the small kitchen. It smelled like home.

“With that gangster, then?” his father asked. “Do you read the Diario? Did you hear the editor, Osorio, was murdered by those thugs?”

Aguilar didn’t want to lie to his parents. But he didn’t want to tell them the truth. When his father mentioned the killing, he remembered his last glimpse of Snake-eyes, bleeding out in the street but still alive, his gaze locked on Aguilar’s, beseeching. Could he have been helped? Maybe. But the mercenaries’ rounds had torn through his back and out his chest; severe organ damage was a certainty. It would have taken an immediate medical response to have any hope of saving him, and with the mercenaries still gunning for them, that was impossible.

Osorio’s death wasn’t his concern. He’d known when he called out Don Pablo that he was taking his life in his hands. Snake-eyes had known that, too, but he’d just been doing a job. Osorio had been a glory-seeker, trying to inflate his own position by tying himself to the cartel.

“Osorio had plenty of enemies,” Aguilar said. “He’s been making them his entire career. You can’t blame Don Pablo for that.”

“I do. Who else would have attacked him in such a way? Seven innocent bystanders were also killed, in the street and the nearby buildings, in addition to Osorio and his bodyguards.”

Aguilar hadn’t heard about that. Oscar had warned them about what he called “collateral damage.” They’d dismissed his concerns. Escobar wanted Osorio gone; anyone else who got hurt was just in the way. He sat at the little kitchen table, shrugged.

“Their bad luck, I guess.”

“So Luisa’s death, that was also just bad luck?”

Was it? Montoya and the others had attacked the restaurant to eliminate an enemy of Escobar’s. Aguilar had taken her death very personally indeed, and Montoya had paid the ultimate price for it.

In the end, though, Luisa was also collateral damage.

“I guess, in a way.”

“Can we talk about something less sad?” Aguilar’s mother asked. “Thank you for all the gifts you’ve been sending. Your father gripes, but he enjoys watching the big color television.”

“It’s a good set,” Aguilar’s father admitted, eyes downcast. Aguilar saw some of the gifts he’d sent in the kitchen: a brand-new coffee maker, an expensive blender, a set of pans.

“How are you eating, Jose? You look like you’ve gained weight.”

“I’m eating well, Mama. It’s not your cooking, but it’s good, and there’s always plenty.”

“Of course there is,” his father said. “Escobar likes to pretend he’s a man of the people, but he always makes sure he has the most of everything.”

“He is a man of the people. He’s been very generous. You can see it all over Medellín.”

“Sure, if there are news cameras in the area. Charity is charity if it’s done quietly. If it’s done in the press, it’s publicity.”

“I guess there’s nothing I can say about him that you won’t complain about, Papa.”

“Since I thought we raised an honest man, that’s true.”

Aguilar turned away from the bitter disappointment in the man’s eyes.

His mother rescued the moment by bringing plates of bandeja paisa to the table. The aroma yanked Aguilar back to his childhood, and after grace—he crossed himself and spoke the words, though he hadn’t been to Mass in months and thought God had turned His back on him—he happily dug in.

During dinner, conversation was minimal. His mother brought him up to date on neighbors and relatives, and made a couple of pointed references to the eligible daughter of a family friend. Aguilar had no interest in her; he remembered her as silly, flighty, and dumb, so he made sure not to express any interest. He was able to avoid speaking much by keeping his mouth full. He noticed his father’s disapproving glances, though, and the way his mother’s gaze drifted back and forth between the two men, as if ready to intervene at any time.

After the meal, Aguilar helped his mother with the dishes, then said, “Well, I need to get back.”

“You can’t stay? Even for the night?”

“The master whistles,” his father said. “The dog must obey.”

Aguilar resisted the impulse to turn and look at his father. The man still sat at the table, arms folded over his chest, a dour expression on his face. “I’m sorry, Mama. I have too much work to do. It’s a busy time.”

“Do whatever’s best,” she said. “Just take care of yourself. Make sure you’re eating right and getting enough sleep and going to Mass.”

“I am,” Aguilar lied.

“I wish you could stay for the night.”

“Me too.” Another lie.

His father muttered a few words in parting, and then Aguilar was out the door. Relief washed over him like a summer breeze on a hot day.

He had grown up with those people, in that house. Why didn’t he feel like he belonged there? He had felt like a visitor from another planet, who had nothing in common with the residents of this one.

It had been claustrophobic in there. The rooms had been tiny, close. Underlying the odor of his mother’s cooking had been the stench of his family’s failures. They’d never done anything with their lives. His father still fixed shoes for other people, and wore the stains of polish on his face like some kind of badge of honor. His mother repaired clothing. They’d lived in the same house for all their married years, raised one son, and they would probably die there without having accomplished anything to be remembered for.

He was glad he hadn’t taken his suitcase inside. Spending a night there would have driven him mad. He might have had to kill himself, if his father hadn’t killed him first.

He started the car and headed for the ranch, without looking back.