Day of the Dead

‘I want to,’ she finally said. ‘It’s just a little hard.’

Daniel extended his hand, rested his palm on her cheek for a moment. ‘Look. We both had a lot to drink. This is all kind of intense. Maybe I should just go.’

This time she did reach out. ‘No. Stay. If you want.’

They tried again. But the energy that had gotten them into bed was gone now, dissipated, and after a few perfunctory thrusts Daniel stopped and mumbled, ‘I’m sorry. I’m really tired.’

‘Don’t apologize.’ She tried to smile. ‘You’ve been great. I haven’t.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

His face was dark above hers, but she thought his expression was kind.

She kissed him, slowly.

‘Mmmm. That was nice,’ he said.

After that they both fell asleep, not spooning but close together, Daniel’s hand resting on the hollow above her hip.

So many noises here. The familiar: unmuffled motorcycle, snatches of music, pounding surf. The unfamiliar: songbirds singing foreign tunes, parrots squawking, the toc-toc cry of geckos.

What woke her?

A muffled thud. A clatter. She blinked her eyes open. Two men, one entering from the balcony, the other crouched over the chair, Daniel’s shorts in his hand, her totebag on the floor by his feet.

‘Hey!’ Daniel flung the sheet off, bolted out of bed.

Now Michelle saw they wore kerchiefs over the lower halves of their faces. The second pulled something from his pocket, something dark that he gripped in his fist. For a moment Daniel froze as the man took two quick strides to him, raised the hand that clutched the black pistol, and smashed it against his temple.

Daniel crumpled, as surely as if he’d been shot.

It happened so quickly that Michelle didn’t scream; instead she gasped and clutched the sheet.

The man with the gun turned to her.

He was close to the bed. She could see that he wore dark clothes, a black T-shirt, jeans, and he took another step toward her. He had on a belt, woven brown and white leather; she could see it clearly in the light that leaked in from the balcony.

The buckle was a gun, and there were letters in the weave. She saw those as he tugged at the tongue of the belt to unbuckle it.

‘¡Pendejo!’ the other man spit, gesturing toward the balcony.

The man with the gun stared at her a moment longer before he turned and followed his companion out the sliding glass door, into the night.

CHAPTER TWO

There was a lot of blood.

Headwounds bleed a lot, Michelle thought vaguely. She’d read that somewhere. Or seen it on television.

It didn’t mean that Daniel was dying.

But by this time the blood had covered one side of his face, was dripping onto the tiled floor, and he was unconscious, moaning now and again. Michelle couldn’t decide what to do next.

Clothes, she thought, I have to put on some clothes. And I have to call someone. And get a towel, for the blood. Which first?

Phone.

She wasn’t sure whom to call or how it worked, so she punched ‘zero’ on the room phone, and finally a woman’s voice answered, asking a question. ‘A sus órdenes,’ Michelle made out.

‘Help … I need help … in Room 452. I need a doctor.’

‘You are having an emergency?’

‘Yes. Someone’s hurt. They came in, and … Please, just send help.’

She grabbed a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, thinking, I’m putting on clothes, and this naked man is bleeding on my floor. I should be doing something for him, but I need to get dressed, don’t I? And it took only a minute or two, and by the time someone pounded on the door, she’d crouched down by Daniel, had covered him with a sheet, was pressing a towel to the bleeding gash on his scalp. No one needed to know she’d gotten dressed first.

Two hotel workers had come, men who handled luggage, patrolled the grounds. Seeing Michelle at the door holding a bloody towel, Daniel lying on the floor behind her, one immediately reached for his walkie-talkie.

The first set of police arrived just before the ambulance did.

‘He’s not my husband,’ Michelle tried to explain. ‘He’s a friend. Un amigo.’ The blood had soaked the towel, had gotten all over her hand, and she wiped her hand on her shorts.

One of the policemen handed her a fresh towel. White, like the uniform he wore, white polo shirt and cargo shorts, black baseball cap.

The other policeman knelt down next to her. ‘Let me help you, señorita,’ he said, taking the towel. ‘You can rest if you like.’

Suddenly she felt dizzy. ‘Thank you,’ she said. Somehow she made it to the bed, her hand reaching blindly for the solidity of the mattress. She sat on the edge of the bed, watched the ambulance attendants arrive and tend to Daniel with a minimum of fuss, bandage his head and lift him onto a gurney.

By now he was conscious, somewhat. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘What … ?’

‘Where are they taking him?’ Michelle asked the policeman.

‘CMQ Hospital. Don’t worry. It’s a good place. He’ll be fine.’

Two more men arrived. ‘Judicial police,’ the patrolman explained. ‘They can take the statement from you.’

The new policemen wore plainclothes. Polo shirt again and khakis on one, a madras plaid and Dockers on the other, ID and badges hung on lanyards.

One of the ambulance attendants asked her a question. It took a couple of times for her to understand.

‘Su nombre,’ she heard. He pointed at Daniel. His name.

‘Daniel.’

‘The family name?’

Of course she didn’t know.