The worst of the storm had definitely moved on. I could still hear the rain falling against the corrugated iron roof, but it was no longer a full-on assault; more a steady drizzle. Come dawn I was hoping it would have ceased altogether, but even if it didn’t, the canals should be navigable. And this was where it would boil down to the boatman’s character. Was he the type of guy who would wake up bright and early to come get us? Or would he sleep in, go about his morning chores, fill his belly, and come get us when the moment suited him? I wanted to believe the former option, of course, but if I was being honest with myself, which I was, the latter option seemed more plausible. After all, he didn’t know us, he didn’t owe us. He warned us about going to the island. He might think leaving us stranded here for a while was a suitable punishment, a lesson learned.

A lesson learned.

Right. And what was that lesson?

Don’t go snooping around creepy islands?

Don’t trespass on private property?

This got me thinking about our reception when we returned to Xochimilco. One thing people couldn’t get enough of was seeing the high and mighty fall, and Mexicans were no different. Jesus might not be a famous politician, or athlete, or movie star. But he ran one of the country’s premiere breweries. He was a bigshot in his own right. Moreover, he was young and handsome, key ingredients for juicy scandal. Throw into the pot an island infested with dolls and supposedly haunted by the ghost of a little girl and you had nationwide headlines.

Would Jesus be convicted?

I wasn’t sure. I knew he was guilty, but would a judge reach the same conclusion? After all, Jesus would surround himself with the best lawyers. He would have numerous connections to lean on. Not to mention the crime scene was a mess. We’d tramped through Nitro’s blood, moved his body, handled the murder weapon.

And you’re forgetting about Miguel and Lucinda and Mr. Peeping Tom. How did they all fit into this? Did I still believe the Peeping Tom was Solano? But if not him, who?

Nationwide headlines? This was going to be the story of the fucking year.

And to my chagrin I was going to be right in the center of all it.

3

4:24 a.m.

Nitro’s missing eyes. Black, empty orbits in his bloodied face. I couldn’t rid myself of the macabre image. Almost as bad was the thought of Solano sitting out there, nothing but a wall separating him from us, bent over Nitro’s face, cutting, sawing, pulling.

4

4:35 a.m.