The Day of the Moon by Graciela Limón Page B

punishment.
    Flavio sat upright, tense, unmoving. Without realizing it, he had spread his hands palm down on the desk. He was sweating so much that a foggy outline of his fingers was left upon the polished surface when he removed his hands. Putting aside his fear regarding Isadora’s reactions, he reconfirmed his decision. He stood, walked to the closet where he kept cash, and returned with a leather purse in his hands. He handed it to the small man.
    â€œCount it.”
    â€œNo need,
Señor
Betancourt. You have a fine reputation. Please tell me who we are talking about, when you want the assignment taken care of, and by what means.”
    Flavio forced himself to sit down again. He laid out Jerónimo Santiago’s name and description, the place to find him, when and how it should be carried out.
    â€œI don’t want firearms used. It will attract attention.”
    The small round-faced man nodded amiably, a salesman taking an order. When he saw that Don Flavio had finished, he got to his feet without speaking, shook hands with him and walked to the door. Before leaving he glanced back and said, “I understand your hesitation,
Señor
Betancourt. It’s not easy to kill. Believe me, I know.”
    A few days later, the small round-faced man blended in with the shrubs and trees as he waited for Jerónimo Santiago. He wasflanked by two men whose names he did not know. And they, too, did not know his name. They hid from sight in a wooded area. The hired killer had spent several days following El Rarámuri, memorizing his routes, times, habits. He knew that his prey no longer worked for Hacienda Miraflores, but it was not difficult to gather the necessary information. When he was satisfied that he had mastered Jerónimo’s comings and goings, he struck.
    It was mid-day when Jerónimo crouched to drink from a creek. As he cupped water into his hands, he heard something behind him. He turned as two men rushed at him. Jerónimo had expected this from the beginning and, although afraid, he was not surprised. He kicked at one of them and lashed out at the other with his fist. His blows landed on target, giving him enough time to dash through trees that were close by. He ran, but soon the boots he wore began to hold him back. He stopped abruptly, just long enough to yank them off. Barefooted, he gained speed and his pursuers fell back until he could no longer hear them. But he did not let up on his pace, heading up toward the
barranca.
    Jerónimo ran, sure-footed, and the rhythm of his feet increased his energy. His feet blurred over the ground as he picked up speed, outdistancing the attackers. He knew that only another one such as he, one of his brothers, could reach him or keep up with him. He ran, confident, knowing that he would soon be with his people and Isadora.
    Unexpectedly, a man leapt onto the path in front of him, nearly colliding with Jerónimo, but keeping the distance needed to raise his arm. The man brought down his weapon. It happened so suddenly that Jerónimo did not see where the first slash of the machete came from, but it caught him in the right forearm. The force of the blow, intensified by the momentum of his run, sent him reeling backwards. As he was falling back, he had time to see the glint of another blade as it made its way toward him. This one sliced his left thigh, nearly severing his leg. Blinding pain flashed through his body, convulsing it, and Jerónimo quivered, rolling on the dusty clay, his blood mixing with the dirt. Before darkness overcame him,he had time to see a round face. Its spectacles caught the glimmer of the declining sun and its round lips signaled someone to aim for Jerónimo’s throat.
    Years had passed since that day, but the memory still haunted Don Flavio who sat in his chair, scarecely breathing. He stared straight ahead at the watery window as he remembered El Rarámuri’s head, its dead eyeballs glaring at him. The old