Free La Linea by Ann Jaramillo

or another, would have the new number. But Abuelita had no phone.
    â€œTry Don Clemente,” Elena suggested. “Maybe Papá called him with their new number.”
    Don Clemente’s private number was first on the list of important information I’d memorized. “Do not call unless you must,” had been written in his own hand. I nodded and dialed.
    â€œ Hola. Who’s calling?” demanded a familiar voice.
    What was Juanito doing with Don Clemente’s phone? I wanted to hang up right then. I wanted to tell Juanito I knew what he was up to when he lent Elena money. I wanted to tell him to go and screw himself.
    Instead, I just said, “Let me talk to Don Clemente. It’s Miguel.”
    A silence followed. “Juanito, are you there? Are you there?” I asked.
    I thought I heard him chuckle. “What do you want, Miguel? I thought mi tío gave you everything you needed.”
    â€œJust put him on. I need to ask him something.” I wouldn’t give Juanito the satisfaction of knowing what had happened to me, to us.
    â€œWell, you’ll have to ask me now.” Juanito’s voice was calm and cold.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” I asked, but I didn’t want to know the answer.
    Juanito didn’t answer. He let the silence hang on the line.
    â€œDon Clemente is dead,” he finally answered. “A traffic accident. Somehow his Mercedes went off the road up on the mountain. It was tragic, really, a freak sort of thing.” He didn’t sound like he thought it was a tragedy.
    â€œSo, naturally, I’m now in charge of his operation, all of his networks. The coyotes, the polleros, the merchandise—everything. If you want something, you’ll have to ask me. And I’m replacing his people with mine, with those loyal to me.”
    I didn’t answer. I hung the phone on the hook quietly. With this conversation, the road back to San Jacinto was closed. I couldn’t let Elena return by herself. She already owed Juanito money. He might decide that she owed him more than that. We had to go north with no clear plans and no help we could count on.
    I took the money and split it right down the middle—half for Elena, half for me. I couldn’t pretend I was her boss anymore. We bought food and a run-down hotel room for one night.
    Elena sat on the edge of the sagging mattress and carefully sewed her money back into the lining of the bag. I could hide mine on my body. There was at least one good place. But who was I kidding? If someone wanted it, they’d find it, no matter where I stuck it.
    The only thing I had left from the beginning of my trip was Abuelita’s Virgen de Guadalupe medallion. With everything that had happened, I’d forgotten all about it. I took it off and inspected the links in the chain, one by one. A couple of Abuelita’s hairs still clung stubbornly to the necklace, as if part of her refused to be separated from La Virgencita.
    Abuelita believed in La Virgen ’s powers of protection and guidance. I just believed in Abuelita. I checked the clasp and put the medallion back around my neck. It had seemed featherlight before, but now the cool, smooth metal felt solid and weighty against my chest.

CHAPTER 18
    They called it the mata gente, the “people killer.” It was an ordinary freight train that passed through once a day, and it was the one way to get north without paying a peso. It had oil cars, rounded, sleek and shiny, and open hopper cars carrying grain or scrap metal. Ladders ran halfway up the sides of the faded orange, yellow, and brown cargo cars.
    It was simple, they said. As the train slowed, you ran alongside, grabbed one of the ladders, and hopped on.
    Fácil. Everyone told us how easy it was to hop on board the train. And everyone told us about the unlucky ones who didn’t make it. The ones who survived were all over town, broken and abandoned, but still living. They were