Ghost Radio (13 page)

One night, during
an electrical storm out in the deserts of northern Mexico, Joaquin died and came back.

It sounded like something out of a B movie or maybe even a horror bestseller. But the Mexican feds weren't impressed by these apparent wonders. Even though Joaquin was carried out of the radio station unconscious and seriously injured, reeking of burned leather, they still handcuffed his right wrist to the stretcher. Just in case.

Despite the sporadic protests of a doctor or two, they kept him handcuffed either to the bed or the plumbing for most of the time between his arrival in intensive care and his assignment to a private room.

 

The weekend before, Irineo Pantoja had attended the funerals of two of his officers. He knew he was fighting a losing battle. He had neither the resources nor the guts to go up against the drug cartels that were using his city as a hub to channel their merchandise to U.S. cities. Pantoja had risen to the rank of police chief only through a lack of other candidates. One by one, all the bravest, most competent policemen, the ones least likely to take bribes, had been murdered. Pantoja narrowly escaped several attempts himself. He'd gotten used to saying good-bye to his face in the mirror every morning because he knew he might never see it again.

When, at 1:40
A.M.
, they informed him that someone had taken over the university radio station, he jumped out of bed. It's a sign, he thought. A patrol car picked him up a few minutes later, and he rushed off to spearhead the operation. The report he was handed said that the people
responsible for seizing the station were rock musicians, “probably gringos,” who were “just screwing around.” That information didn't register. Pantoja had a totally different interpretation: this was a bluff orchestrated by his enemies in order to humiliate him. It wasn't just about breaking and entering. It wasn't a teenage prank. It was evil forces taking over the city.

The police chief saw this as an opportunity, maybe his last, to show the drug lords that they couldn't use the city as their playground. He decided not to wait, not to negotiate. His subordinates were surprised, but no one objected when the order came:

“Shoot to kill; these are extremely dangerous criminals. Have the paramedics ready and waiting,”

No one believed him, but most of the agents went in ready for a fight anyway. Paradoxically, instead of bullets they were met by an explosion, caused by the same short circuit that had electrocuted Gabriel and Joaquin.

Hours later, Pantoja made a statement to the press. He claimed that the survivor, whose name and identity were unknown, was an international hit man; he confirmed that this man had been hired by the Pacific cartel, and that invading the station was part of a conspiracy to take control of the broadcast media. No further explanation was ever provided.

The press didn't question his absurd logic. It was a good story, so they ran with it.

When Joaquin opened
his eyes in the hospital, he expected Gabriel to appear at any moment, burned, in bad shape, but alive. He imagined Gabriel smiling and tossing off some jokes about “escaping another one.” Gabriel was dead, of course. Joaquin knew this. But he couldn't shake the feeling of an impending reunion.

He'd known it from the moment the surge blew him off the ground in the radio station. However, they hadn't
officially
informed him. And he clung to this, hoping against hope that someone would come in to announce that Gabriel wasn't dead after all. He knew it was a pointless fantasy, but it was the only thing that kept him going.

When he'd first come to, he'd discovered he was mute. With his hands bandaged, he couldn't write either. This set off an attack of hysteria, and several orderlies had to hold him down and administer a strong sedative. This confirmed the generalized fear around the hospital that he was a violent killer.

Joaquin didn't know what condition his hands were in, or whether he'd even be able to use them again. He knew it was possible to lose extremities from an electric shock; he'd once heard of someone losing an arm; he imagined the worst. Often, the doctors spoke freely around him, as if he couldn't understand them. One said there was “no doubt his fucking vocal cords are scarred.”

Joaquin desperately tried to shout, to scream, but it only irritated his throat, sending him into violent coughing fits while the indifferent doctors horsed around and made obscene jokes, and the two attending nurses howled with laughter. In his confusion, Joaquin found himself joining in
their amusement. If he ever got out of there, he thought, Scarred Vocal Cords would be a good name for a band.

One day, Pantoja paid Joaquin a visit. He had spent most of the morning straining against his handcuffs, reopening the abrasions on his wrist in the process. Two officers accompanied Pantoja. They wanted to know what Joaquin's name was, where he lived, and where his accomplices were hiding out. They demanded that he confess.

“Better do it now. The longer you wait, the more it's gonna hurt,” one of the cops said with a smile.

Pantoja kept silent, staring at Joaquin. Joaquin wondered what he might be thinking. He couldn't tell. Pantoja's eyes were too blank and cold. They stared past him…through him. And he stood stock-still, waiting, as his subordinate continued questioning. Then, finally…

“Give me a minute alone with the suspect,” Pantoja calmly told the two officers.

After they left, Joaquin noticed a hint of animation entering Pantoja's eyes.

“Who
are
you?” he asked.

Joaquin tried to return the icy stare.

“I asked you a question,” Pantoja told him.

Joaquin didn't blink. Two could play this game, he told himself as he tried to inject some hostility into his expression. He knew his eyes didn't match Pantoja's steely weapons, but hoped he could make up for that with a mute passivity.

Pantoja held his gaze for several seconds, then turned and left the room.

Joaquin sighed, reveling in this small victory. But then the crushing strangeness of his situation pressed in on him. Here he was, injured, in pain, and accused of being part of a drug cartel. All he wanted to do was grieve for Gabriel, but circumstances wouldn't let him. He had a new battle to fight. But maybe Gabriel would like it that way. He'd never been one for maudlin displays. This situation would be a new entry in his Polaroid diary.
Joaquin the master criminal
. For a moment this thought
made him feel alive again. Gabriel's joking, irreverent soul felt very near.

Joaquin sighed again. This time not with relief or satisfaction, but at the enormity of his emotions.

He wished he had someone to talk to.

But, unlike his last hospital stay, this time Joaquin found no friendliness or complicity among the hospital staff. Most of them avoided him. The nurses who brought him his food didn't say a single word. They left the tray and scurried out as if they feared he hosted some horrible contagion. At times, feigning sleep, he heard them whispering that the cops had said that he was a notorious, sadistic drug trafficker, the kind who cut off people's heads and murdered whole families with hammers and hacksaws. One nurse even worried aloud about a squad of hit men armed with AK-47s storming the hospital, guns blazing, kicking down doors, tossing grenades, and killing doctors in order to free their boss. He even heard rumors that hospital officials had requested security backup from the city, the state, and federal government.

Joaquin wasn't sure what was going to happen, but he knew that the most important thing was to protect his identity. For the time being, they referred to Gabriel as “The Rat,” a known local thug, and gloated over his death; they hadn't picked a name for Joaquin yet. However, it was clear they were using him as a scapegoat, and he was in no condition to defend himself. All he could look forward to was a long stay in a high-security prison, unless things changed drastically and the authorities recognized they'd made a mistake.

After two weeks in the hospital, Joaquin was able to walk and talk again. However, he was very careful not to show any sign of his progress. He thought it gave him a small advantage. Of course he was still gravely injured, weak, and fragile, but he was already planning his escape. He'd considered several options; all were equally dangerous, unrealistic, and, lamentably, more inspired by Houdini than by reality. He thought maybe he could disguise himself as a doctor and walk right out the main door, or even rappel out the window using a rope made of knotted sheets.

He tried to keep track of those moments when he wasn't under the
intense gaze of the guards, as well as when he wasn't handcuffed or tied down. The time he spent in the bathroom seemed like the best option. Every chance he got, he tested how much they'd let him get away with while he was alone. Unfortunately, it wasn't much. On the contrary, every day there were more and more guards, and lately, elite cops complete with bulletproof vests, helmets, machine guns, their faces hidden by ski masks.

One morning, while eating breakfast, he heard an explosion in the hallway. At first, he thought it must be demolition or remodeling. Then another, louder explosion, sounded closer to his room. Shouts and gunfire followed. And then more explosions.

Through the door, Joaquin heard howls, orders, and cries for help, some of it filtered through the beep and crackle of walkie-talkies. Instinctively, he launched himself from the bed, but the handcuffs stopped him, leaving him dangling off the edge…the cuffs cutting into his wrists. As he struggled to pull himself back onto the bed, the sounds of battle moved closer.

They were horrific noises. Primordial animal sounds. Not clean or easy like an action movie, but jumbled and desperate and ugly. They told him two things. One: Outside his room, people were fighting for their lives. And two: They were headed his way.

As he dragged himself back onto the bed, he tried to assess the situation. Who were these people? Why were they fighting? But his mind wouldn't work. The sounds in the hallway pushed away rational thought, replaced it with the desire for survival. He screamed and pulled at his restraints. But it was hopeless. He wasn't Houdini. There was no way out. Finally, he just lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes, resigned to his fate.

For some moments he stayed like that, letting his mind drift away. Then he heard the door smashing open. He turned and lifted his lids slightly, and saw a man with a machine gun head his way.

Joaquin squeezed his eyes shut. He heard the sound of boots moving across the floor toward him, and then a voice saying:

“We've come for you.”

He thought he recognized the voice, but he couldn't be sure about anything. He was so terrified that he didn't dare look the stranger in the face. He kept his eyes firmly shut. He heard the jangle of keys in the man's hand, and seconds later was released from his handcuffs.

“Open your eyes, you moron, and get up,” the visitor demanded.

Joaquin complied, but wouldn't look directly at his rescuer. A backpack landed at his feet.

“Get dressed.”

Confused, and so dizzy that he could barely stand, Joaquin pulled some pants and a shirt from the bag. He immediately recognized them. They were Gabriel's. As he was putting on the shirt, carefully because of the bandages, the door flew open again. Three police officers burst in, pointing their weapons in all directions. Joaquin threw himself on the ground, covering his face with both hands. The cops shouted out confused orders.

“Freeze!”

“Hands in the air!”

“Down on the floor! Now!”

Through his fingers, Joaquin saw each officer cover one flank as they moved step-by-step into the room, fingers on triggers. Then the guns turned on Joaquin.

“Where's the guy who released you?”

Joaquin had no idea where his mysterious rescuer had gone, but he was certain that he couldn't have gone far. Just then, Pantoja came in, accompanied by another agent.

The officers moved aside to let him through. All he said was “Where is he?”

Joaquin raised his head a little, trying to get a look at the chief of police as he drew closer. He felt a kick in the ribs.

“Don't move, asshole!” one of the cops hissed.

That's when Joaquin heard the first shot. Then the officer who'd kicked him collapsed, a jet of blood spurting from his neck. The other
cops ran for cover, some of them firing randomly; one accidentally shoved Pantoja in his desperate attempt to find a hiding place. The chief of police fell on his back and, as he tried to get to his feet, took a bullet in the shoulder. The cacophony of bullets and screams was deafening. One officer was shot in the face, another in the leg. Joaquin dragged himself under the bed. From this vantage point, he saw another officer slammed against the wall by a bullet. With a grimace of pain and despair, he slid slowly to the ground, leaving a smear of blood. He twitched a few times and stopped moving. With no one left standing, the shooter reappeared.

“You better get out from under there, or the mice are gonna get you,” he said.

But Joaquin was paralyzed. From under the bed, he couldn't see anything but the shooter's legs, heading for Pantoja. The chief of police was gasping for air, pressing down on his wound with one hand, trying to stop the bleeding. Joaquin could clearly see his face; the expression in his eyes changed quickly, from pain, to rage, to terror.

“Yes, Irineo. It won't hurt for very much longer. You knew—you knew from the start how this day would end. This morning, in front of the mirror, you were finally right. Isn't that a bitch, knowing when it's all gonna end?”

Joaquin thought he recognized Gabriel's voice, but he was too scared to trust his senses.

The shooter aimed at Pantoja's forehead and fired one, two, three times. Joaquin couldn't watch. He closed his eyes and waited. Just then a hand grabbed his shoulder.

“We've got to go now,” the killer said.

Joaquin's eyes were still squeezed shut. When he opened them, he deliberately looked the other way. This was partly to show his unexpected rescuer that he hadn't seen his face, and therefore couldn't finger him if they caught him again, but it was also because he was frightened to look in the eyes of the man who could inflict so much violence, who sounded like Gabriel. He could never have imagined that this fear, which seemed so irrational at the time, would eventually become such a familiar feeling.

As he walked beside the gunman, Joaquin repeated words to himself like a mantra—“Gabriel didn't kill people, Gabriel wasn't part of a cartel, Gabriel is dead”—as if this way, he could ground his thoughts. The idea of escaping from a hospital with the help of a killer was already shocking enough without adding a heap of metaphysical concerns.

The shooter pulled Joaquin through the hallways. Chaos enveloped them; through the smoke and shouting, sirens could be heard. Joaquin wasn't in any condition to go anywhere, and he felt vertigo, pain, and nausea with each step. His vision tunneled. He was blacking out. He couldn't understand why no one was trying to stop them. Moments later, he felt sunlight.

They were outside, walking on the pavement. His rescuer shoved him into a Chevy Suburban, waiting on the curb with the motor running. He said something to the driver, closed the door, and the vehicle took off. In the rearview mirror, Joaquin watched the shooter's back as he walked tranquilly away. No one followed him.

Exhausted, all he could say was:

“Wake me up when we get there.”

He didn't have the slightest idea where they were going.