The parts of America he’d seen so far didn’t match up with anything in his head. All the movies and television series he’d seen…where were they? There were no neon lights. No skyscrapers. No streets buzzing with a constant stream of traffic.

So far, America looked a whole lot like Michoacán.

Angel limped across the parking lot, heading for the gas station. He had a few crumpled dollar bills in his pocket. Don Zachary had never searched him, and he’d managed to keep those bills from the coyote every time the man decided to search him and Marco. Frequently, those searches had turned into something more. Strong hands grasping roughly at his genitals.

He’d never fought back. The coyote had made it clear what would happen to Marco if he did.

Marco had tried to help him of course. But he couldn’t handle pain, that kid. One backhanded slap was all it had taken for him to cower in the corner of whatever shack or barn they’d taken refuge in for the night.

His brother’s whimpers had made the coyote’s attentions seem that much worse. That much crueler. That much more explicit.

At least he’d gotten his due. Having your throat ripped out by a dog couldn’t be a pleasant way to die.

He’d had thoughts of violent revenge in his mind all the way from Camargo to the Rio Grande. He’d planned on drowning the coyote as soon as they’d made it across.

Now, his thoughts had turned to Don Zachary.

They both deserved what was coming to them. That was the difference between those evil men and the man in the barn. Eleodora’s father.

Heat stained his cheeks, and for a moment he stopped walking.

What he’d done could never be forgiven. Not by himself, not by her. He’d signed a deal with the Devil himself that day. His soul was forever stained with that man’s pain and humiliation.

And he’d been just as surprised as Don Zachary when he discovered he didn’t like it. Hurting people. Defiling them.

Maybe it wasn’t in his nature.

Maybe he never would have drowned that coyote.

Maybe he’d never have brought himself to kill Zachary.

Because, while something inside him craved revenge of the most brutal kind, his mind seemed unable to bring about the physical act.

He was close to the gas station now.

Although whoever had washed his jeans had managed to get most of the blood out, there was still a ragged bullet hole through the leg. He kept his bandaged hand dangling casually in front of it as he stepped inside the gas station.

The clerk behind the register gave him a lazy wave, and didn’t stand. Angel gave him a curt nod and moved down the aisles.

He didn’t actually want to buy something, but he had to get up the nerve to go and speak to the attendant. He stopped at the sweet aisle and stared at the rows of brightly colored candies. A red packet drew his eyes, so he grabbed it and took it to the register.

The man turned in his chair, scanned the packet of sweets, and held out his hand.

“How much?” Angel asked, taking out the three bills in his pocket.

The guy rolled his eyes. “Dollar fifty.”

Angel handed him all three the notes. The man glanced down at them, lifted an eyebrow, and handed one of the notes back to Angel. Then he slammed the rest closed in the drawer and handed Angel a coin.

“This—” Angel pointed through the window at the pay phone standing a few feet away, close to the side of the road “—will work in there?”

The guy frowned at him. “That thing? Hasn’t worked in years.”

Angel’s shoulders slumped. “Gracias,” he murmured.

A bell jangled merrily when he let himself out. The sun had just peeked out from the horizon as he hobbled back to the motel. He saw movement in what must have been the motel’s reception room—a shadow thrown against the window blinds.

Was someone inside? He changed direction, wincing at a jarring pain from his leg. As he drew near, someone opened the window from inside, and he heard a muttered, “Fucking stoner. Swear I’m going to fire his ass.”

When he knocked on the door, no one answered.

“Hello?” he called. “Hello?”

Fingers wedged open one of the strips of the blind. A weary face peered out at him, frowned, and disappeared.

The door opened a crack, catching on a chain. “What?”

“I use phone?” he asked, and pressed his last remaining note against the door jamb.

Red-veined eyes darted to the note, then it was tugged away and the door closed in his face.

“Hello?” Something approaching anger bubbled up inside him. He raised his fist, about to slam it into the door when the door opened again.

“You be quick,” the man said as he pointed to the phone on the elbow-high counter. He slunk around it, sat in a creaking chair, and began chewing on a long piece of candy as he watched Angel limp across the room. “What happened to your leg?”

It smelled of stale marijuana and unwashed skin inside the room. Angel glanced at the man behind the counter and gave an uneasy shrug. “Dog bite.”

“Yeah?” The man didn’t seem that interested anymore. There was a small television set somewhere behind the counter. Muted voices and canned laughter drifted to Angel as he turned the phone to face him.

“Uh…operator?” Angel asked the guy.

He looked up with another deep frown. “The what?”

“I need number.”

“You wanna phone someone and you ain’t got their number?” The man laughed, stuck a hand in his armpit and went back to watching the small television set.

“Please. It important.”

“Man, use the phone book then.” The guy got off his seat and slapped down a massive book beside the phone. His chair squeaked as he thumped back in it. Then he leaned forward and turned up the television’s volume. A new stick of candy went into his mouth.

Angel opened the book on a random page. Alphabetical. He went all the way to the ‘W’. He checked through each name until it went to ‘X’.

“I don’t see it,” Angel said.

The man ignored him.

“Por—” Angel cut off. “Please. There is no Zachary West in this book.”

The man’s eyes flashed to him. “Whaddya say?” He turned the television off, giving Angel a slow once-over. “Who you trying to call?”

“Mr. Zachary West.” Angel watched the guy watching him. Then he tapped the book with his bandaged hand. “But he not in here.”

“Well,” the motel manager said in a slow drawl. “Luckily for you, son, I happen to know a few numbers off the top of my head.”

Angel frowned at him. “You know Senor West?”

“Sure I do. He’s kinda famous around here.”

Angel shrugged. “You have number?”

“I’ll do you one better,” the guy said, and fumbled around on the reception counter for a few seconds. “I’ll even call him for you myself.”

A cellphone appeared on the counter. The manager pressed a few buttons then held it to his ear. He gave Angel a wide smile, and then began speaking in rapid English, too fast for Angel to catch more than a few words.

“…Mexican…asking…Zachary’s number.”

The guy bit off a piece of candy and chewed thoughtfully while he listened to whatever the person on the other line was saying. Angel watched silently.

“…speak…renting…night duty…keep…eye…”

Angel frowned. Then he reached for the cellphone. The guy put up a finger, and hesitantly said, “Yeah, hey, listen. Guy wants…put him on.”

The man handed Angel the phone with another wide smile.

The device was warm when Angel put it to his ear. “Beunos dias,” Angel said into the phone. “May I talk to—”

“Who is this?” asked the person on the other end of the line in fluent Spanish.

Angel didn’t recognize the voice at all. He hesitated for a second. But he’d made his decision last night already. “Angel.”

“And what makes you think you can just call and speak to Don Zachary, Angel?”

“He has my brother,” Angel said. He swallowed, and willed the pit in his stomach to disappear. “And I have Eleodora Rivera.”