Day of the Dead - J. A. Jance [27]
Instead, the señora had simply smoothed her skirt under her and sat down on the steps. Rather than stopping her husband, she had sat there, strangely silent, avidly observing everything Señor the Doctor did, smiling her approval, and seemingly deaf to Maria Elena’s screams.
Over time Maria Elena had learned there was a peculiar rhythm to these sessions. The doctor preferred to start the process slowly, gradually escalating the assault and inflicting ever-increasing doses of pain. By the time it ended, he would have brought Maria Elena’s suffering to a howling, wild crescendo—to a point where she begged and pleaded for him to stop, even though he never stopped until he was ready. Sometimes he took pictures. When what he called that day’s “little game” was finally over, Señor the Doctor would force Maria Elena to eat and drink before once again shutting off the light, locking the door, and leaving her alone.
But when the señora came to watch, things were different. For one thing, he never brought the camera along when his wife was there, but the torture was always far worse with the señora watching. At some point in the process, the señora would nod at him. When that happened, he would immediately break off what he was doing. Without a word, he would follow his wife up the stairs, closing and locking the door behind them and leaving Maria Elena alone and sobbing in the dark. Much later, he would return alone to finish what he had begun.
Other times the señora would simply disappear from her place on the stairs. She would leave so quietly that at first neither Maria Elena nor Señor the Doctor would notice. When that happened—when Señor the Doctor realized she was no longer sitting there watching—he would take after Maria Elena with such fierce vengeance that all she could do was will herself to die.
And so, this time when Maria Elena could wait no longer—when she finally opened her eyes, blinking against the harsh glare of light—she saw not the doctor but the señora herself standing alone beside the filthy cot. That in itself was unusual. Never before had the señora come any farther into the room than that spot near the top of the stairs. Maria Elena was sure Señor the Doctor must be there, too, probably standing somewhere just outside Maria Elena’s line of vision.
The señora was strangely dressed. A green stocking cap confined her mane of silver hair. Over the green headgear perched a red-and-blue baseball cap. She wore a sweatshirt over ill-fitting jeans. On her hands was a pair of rubber gloves.
At the very moment Maria Elena noticed the señora’s gloves, she also saw the machete. Seeing the weapon, the girl recognized it for what it had always been—a death-dealing tool. In an instant of clarity, Maria Elena knew that the señora had come not as an appreciative audience to that day’s torture but as the Angel of Death.
Maria Elena watched transfixed as the shiny curved blade rose high in the air above her. When it fell, she made no attempt to dodge away from it or defend herself. Rather than fighting the swiftly falling blade, she welcomed the blow and willed herself to rise up to meet it. Her moment of release was finally at hand.
After countless days of unrelenting horror, death came as a blessing to Maria Elena—an answer to her desperate prayers, the only possible answer.
Seven
At six o’clock in the morning, with the sun barely up, a cold nose brushed Diana’s bare arm. Damsel was ready to go out. Brandon had wanted to install a pet door. Despite the obvious convenience, Diana had rejected the idea. She remembered vividly how, a few years earlier, a troop of white-faced coatimundi had let themselves into one of her neighbors’