Chapter 5
Erick Aviles raced home and locked his bike behind the porch. He bounded up the row-frame’s stairs, two at a time, and into his family’s tiny second-floor apartment. His father sat at the kitchen table, still in his white dress shirt—the one he wore to funerals. His mother stood at the stove, heating up a plate of rice and beans.
“Papi!” the boy cried. “Two men kidnapped Lissette!”
Edgar Aviles pressed his meaty hands on the kitchen table and rose. “Where, mijo? Where did you see this?”
“In the old cemetery,” Erick huffed out. “One of them choked me. When I opened my eyes, they were driving away.”
Erick’s father eased the teenager into one of the kitchen chairs. His mother brought him a glass of water. He downed it in one gulp.
“Take a deep breath,” his father urged. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from the boy’s forehead. “When did this happen? Just now?”
“Maybe half an hour ago. I tried to chase them on my bicycle. But I wasn’t fast enough.”
His father tucked his handkerchief away and pulled out his cell phone. “We must call the police.”
“Papi—one of the men who took her was an ICE agent.”
His father’s hand tightened on the phone. The only sound in the kitchen was the ticking of the big wall clock with an image of Jesus’s hands clasped in prayer on the dial.
“ICE?” his father whispered. “Are you sure?”
“He was wearing a jacket with a big white I, C, and E stitched across the back.”
Erick’s parents traded glances. No one spoke for a long moment.
“We still have to call the police,” said his father.
“You want to call the police? Against ICE?” asked his mother. “How will that help her? It will only hurt you.”
His father sank down in a chair next to Erick. “Mijo,” he asked. “Were both men wearing ICE jackets?”
“Only one,” the boy replied. “The one who choked me. The other had tattoos all over his arms. He looked like a mara.”
Mara. The word sent a new and different kind of terror across his parents’ faces. Mara. Mara Salvatrucha. MS-13. Gangsters.
“What did they want?” his mother asked.
“I don’t know,” said Erick. “I couldn’t hear. I think they were looking for money. The mara slapped Lissette. That’s when I called out.” Tears came to the teenager’s eyes. He was embarrassed he couldn’t stop. “It’s all my fault for calling out!”
“No, mijo.” His father said softly. Something in his dark eyes retreated. Erick had seen that look before, when Noah had to have something painful done to him in the hospital. His father couldn’t bear to see someone he loved suffer. “The fault is mine. All mine.“ He pulled out his cell phone. “We have to call the police. This isn’t right.”
Erick’s mother clasped a hand over his phone. “If you call the police, then what? These people could still hurt Lissette. And the police will just turn you over.”
“We don’t have a choice.”
“We do,” she insisted. “Maras want money. That’s what they always want. We give it to them, the police never have to get involved.”
His father pressed a knuckle to his lips—a habit he had when he was nervous. “I don’t know—”
“Mi vida, please.” Tears streamed down the butterfly-shaped rash across her cheeks. Tonight, her lupus looked particularly angry. “You are the glue that holds our family together. I need you. The children need you.”
“Okay.” A deep sigh expelled from his chest, like a beach ball deflating. “We wait.”
* * *
The phone didn’t ring right away. It took an hour. By the time it did, they were all nervous wrecks, huddled on the couch listening to every noise from the apartments above and below them. Televisions. Babies’ cries. Slamming doors. Cars tearing up the street. Commuter trains rattling the windows in back.
The call lasted less than a minute. Erick heard only his father’s panicked voice, not the voice on the other end.
“I want to speak to Lissette,” his father demanded. “I will pay you whatever I can. Just please, don’t hurt her.”
The caller didn’t put Lissette on the line. He didn’t ask for money either. He wanted something else.
A phone.
“Lissette’s phone?” Erick asked his father afterward.
“No. Someone else’s.” His father bounced a look from Erick to his mother. “Did she ever mention a special phone to either of you?”
Both of them shook their heads. “Why can’t he ask Lissette?” his mother demanded.
“Maybe she won’t tell him.”
“Then maybe we shouldn’t either,” she said.
His father sank onto the couch. He looked defeated. His broad shoulders sagged. His knuckle pressed hard against his lips.
“He said they’re watching our house. Watching to see if we go to the police.” His father shot a glance at the two bedrooms where Noah and Flor were sleeping. “He said if we don’t find the phone and turn it over, they’ll hurt Lissette. Then they’ll come after us. All of us—even Flor and Noah.” His father’s voice cracked. “Maria—he knew their names.”
Until that moment, Erick thought the worst that could befall his family had already happened.
He had no idea how much worse things could get.