At the bottom of the page were several smeared droplets of dried blood; and underneath that, rendered in a shaky hand, a short paragraph in Spanish that Mook could not understand. He managed to find a crew member to translate the Spanish into English. The sailor silently read the note over; and with a sardonic half-smirk he translated it out loud.
“Man in letter saying that blood is from nephew named Simeon. He say that nephew was traitor who inform to government where is the camp of Choj Tsaj. He decide to make nephew write last English letter to you because it is justice. With great sadness he personally shoot nephew in head for bringing shame on the house of Elnorio. He say sometimes love is not enough to stop consequence of dishonor.”
Ixchel stood mournfully on deck, swaying in the movement of the waves, as the man handed Mook back his letter, pocketed a cash tip, and went back to his duties. She watched Mook’s face cloud over, where-upon she dropped to her knees and handed Mook a photo. She tenderly applied astringent to his facial wounds as he looked at the picture.
Jesus Christ, he marveled; the fucking monkey is actually smiling.