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Mexican Hospice
by D.I. Telbat
Rick had always considered himself a lucky guy . . . until now. Maybe God was trying to get his attention.
The doctor's words rang in Rick Murphy's ears as he sat in his parked car. He looked at the pamphlet the doctor had given him after telling Rick he had less than six months to live. The pamphlet was no more encouraging than the doctor was. The most despairing words—"inoperable tumor," and "hospice services"—seemed to jump out at him. The paper slipped out of Rick's fingers and fell to the floor as he shuddered. It wasn't possible. He was healthy. There'd been no sign of the illness. His muscled, six-foot frame was in perfect condition. At thirty-five, his thick, brown hair didn't even have a hint of gray.
Thinking about his ex-girlfriend, Sam, he knew she'd want to nurse him until he slipped away. But he didn't want that; he hated pity. In fact, Sam was the only one who would pity him. Over the last few years, Rick had become the most obnoxious and ruthless bank manager. He'd repossessed over fifty homes from hard-working families. Dozens had been forced to the streets while they had begged for Rick's mercy. Rick had pursued the foreclosures aggressively, even ferociously. His victims would see his current demise as reaping what he had sown. Now that Rick was actually reflecting upon his life, he agreed with them more than they knew.
Taking a deep breath, he started the car. There seemed to be only one thing for him to do: decide how he wanted to die. For the first time, he really considered the life he'd wasted so greedily. There was little honor or compassion in his memories of himself.
Driving home in a daze, Rick wondered when or if the tears would flow. He suspected that his tear ducts were unable to produce moisture—it had been so long since he'd wept. Parking his car in the garage, he picked up the newspaper from the lawn of his townhouse and gazed at the front page. Not that he cared about the news this day. It was a just a practiced routine.
The briefcase slipped from Rick's fingers as his whole body tingled. The man's face in the cover story—it was his face! No, it was someone else, he realized, but certainly an amazing likeness. Rick was mesmerized as he browsed the article.
Francis Earl, a missionary to Chiapas, Mexico, had been arrested and was scheduled for execution in three weeks. The southern Mexican state disliked outsiders influencing their citizens, though Francis Earl had brought only the Good News, education, and medical aid to the people of Chiapas.
Picking up his briefcase, Rick went inside and spread the newspaper out on the kitchen table. Already, he'd broken routine, which was rare. Normally, he was pouring himself a brandy by now. Rick couldn't help but study Francis Earl's facial features—tan, broad-chinned, brown eyes. The missionary was a couple years older than Rick, but the similarities were uncanny.
Going into his home office, Rick scanned the bookshelves for a paperback he hadn't touched since college. There it was—his old Spanish dictionary. Flipping through a few pages, he wondered if he could recall enough Spanish for a visit to Chiapas.
Tucking the dictionary under his arm, he returned to the kitchen to examine the news article again. This was no accident, he decided. On the very day he was diagnosed with cancer, he was seeing his twin!
Rick licked his lips as the gears of his mind began working on a strategy. Hospice programs worked for some people, but Rick didn't want to go that way. He was independent to a fault. Then and there, he decided he was going to Chiapas. And he would leave this world in better form than when he'd lived in it.
Throughout the following week, Rick spent much of his time shutting down his life of pomp and financial gain. He was a wealthy man who could've retired at his young age, but his greed for more had held him mesmerized by the almighty dollar. It meant nothing to him, now.
Few asked questions since he had no friends or family, so he was able to leave work with little notice. Rick filed paperwork for a visa and passport, then bought a round-trip ticket to Chiapas.
The next week, Rick researched the Mexican state in depth on the internet. He studied the people, civil authority, and city life. In the evenings, he consumed himself with refreshing his Spanish. Like everything he set his sharp mind to, he made quick progress.
Two days before his flight, Rick made one final stop: a costume shop. Using a photograph of a Chiapas police officer in fatigues, Rick picked out a uniform with a close shade of green, and then purchased eyebrow and mustache pieces.
Back home, he packed and repacked his bags. He was leaving so much behind . . . At that thought, he had to laugh. Well, he couldn't take it with him to the grave. All the things that had once mattered so much, for the first time, they no longer meant anything to him. The only thing that mattered now was Francis Earl.
The day finally arrived. Rick Murphy flew out of Bakersfield, California, to Guadalajara, then into Chiapas. Once on the ground with his baggage, he entered a grimy airport bathroom and used a small mirror to apply his mustache and bushy eyebrows. Mentally, he reviewed his second language, since he was a Spaniard now. With a little hair dye, he looked the part.
Leaving the airport, Rick rented a vehicle for two weeks, and then drove to a villa he'd rented for one month for only $300 US dollars. It came with a plump housekeeper and two barefoot children.
After setting himself up at the villa, Rick drove to the city jail. Parking a block down the street from the police headquarters, he watched the entrance for two hours. He listened to the local radio as he waited and observed the building. Finally, the news reporter said Francis Earl's name. Turning up the volume, Rick tried to catch every word. Francis Earl's last appeal had been hastily denied. The missionary was to be executed on schedule in two days. Rick took a deep breath. This was it. He'd come too far to turn back now.
The following day, Rick returned to the prison and watched the gated entrance again, paying special attention to the process at shift change. Outside, security was minimal. The jail guards seemed to know each other. No one flashed their identifications. That worked well for Rick, since he hadn't taken time to fabricate a new identity. He would have to rely on his uniform to get him inside the front gate.
Rick watched the jail until sundown, and then returned to the villa. Slowly, he dressed in the green police uniform from the costume store. It wasn't a perfect match, but it was close enough. Getting into the jail was all about attitude; he'd intimidated enough borrowers at his bank to know. In a mirror, he practiced his coldest glare.
Adjusting his disguise a few times, he then sat down at a desk in the master bedroom and began to write a letter addressed to Francis Earl. For three weeks, Rick had been drafting this letter in his head. It was the only testament he was leaving behind. He wrote into the night, though careful to watch the time. Only Francis Earl would know what had happened in the end.
In the letter, Rick detailed his own life and habits to the missionary. Then, he advised Francis to use the second half of Rick's round-trip ticket and fly back to California, then he told the man where his money was kept and in which accounts. Finally, in closing, Rick told Francis that he hoped he would use the things God had given Rick better than Rick himself had.
An hour before sunrise, Rick drove to the prison, parking a block away. Briskly, he marched to the gated entrance just minutes before the night shift switched to the day shift. A bored-looking man in a booth looked Rick up and down.
"I'm here to interrogate your prisoner, Francis Earl," Rick said in perfect Spanish. He dropped a wrinkled copy of a judge's order from the local courthouse—fabricated, though complete with the state seal. "Shall I go to him, or will you bring him to me?"
The guard gestured at the jail's door.
"They will tell you. Go."
Rick walked through the front gate and winced at the odor of humanity and filth that reached his nostrils. He fought the urge to cover his nose as he stalked to a desk where two yawning administrators sat in swivel chairs.
"I am to interrogate Francis Earl, the prisoner, at t
his cursed hour," Rick fumed, as he tossed the forged order onto the desk in front of the nearest guard. "I thought we were done with him. He is about to be executed, yes?"
Both guards glanced at the paperwork, and then studied Rick. Rick hoped he could pass for a Spaniard, since he was too big for a Mexican.
"Wait for the next shift," the nearest guard stated, and he handed the paper back to Rick. "We don't deal with the prisoners."
"Don't brush me off!" Rick said with a scowl. "You think I want to sit here for the next hour? This place stinks! Is that you or the filth you keep locked up here? Tell me where the prisoner is. I'll go to him myself!"
"These prisoners will kill you," the other guard jeered. "Are you certain you want to go in there alone?"
Rick reached over the desk and snatched up a ring of keys.
"I'll be back in five minutes."
The two guards laughed at Rick as he marched away to a steel door. He tried two keys before he found the right one. Checking his watch, he saw it was nearly shift change. There wasn't much time. Swinging the steel door inward, he stepped into a long cellblock. The odor of filth was stronger here.
Slowly, Rick walked down the center of the corridor between cell doors. Over each cell a name was scribbled on a tag. At the fourth one on the right, he stopped. Francis Earl.
Shaking uncontrollably, Rick fumbled to find the right cell key. The prisoners were sleeping still, but if he woke them, it wouldn't be from the rattling keys; it would be from the beating of his heart.
At last, he got the door opened, and then he saw Francis. His shaking stopped. A peace swept over him. He'd made it. Taking a step forward, he quickly stepped back because of the stench inside the cell. Rick fought vomit welling up in his throat. Forcing himself to step into the dimly lit cell, he swung the door closed, though not latched. The shadowy figure sat up on the soiled mattress.
"Francis Earl? Is that you?" Rick tested in English, knowing the missionary was originally from Arkansas. "Are you Francis Earl? Speak!"
"Yes, I am he. Who are you?"
"Listen to me." Rick dug into his pockets. He drew out a battery-powered shaver and knelt in front of Francis. "My name is Rick Murphy. I'm here to get you out of this place, understand? First I need to clean you up and put new clothes on you. You're walking out the front door in six minutes. Hold still and listen carefully . . ."
Rick began to shave Francis' beard and trim his hair, working quickly, knowing that shift change was almost upon them. As he trimmed the back of Francis' shaggy mane, Rick explained his plan. Francis was to walk out of the block, set the jail keys on the guard's desk, then walk out the front door. Rick repeated the villa address several times until Francis had memorized it. A block away was a blue Ford. At the villa, Francis would find the rest of his instructions, including Rick's letter.
Next, Rick pulled Francis to his feet and stripped him of his disease-ridden clothing. The man had lost more weight than Rick had expected, but Francis was healthy enough to play the part.
Tugging off his own uniform, Rick helped Francis into the shirt and pants. Rick drilled Francis as to what he was going to do once he exited the cell. Francis repeated Rick's instructions perfectly as Rick applied the mustache and eyebrow disguise to the missionary's face. The guards would never know what hit them.
Finally, Francis was as ready as he could be. Rick checked his watch.
"It's shift change," he said as he dressed in Francis' prison garb. "Time for you to walk out of here. Don't stop. If they say anything, just tell them you've wasted your time here. They won't bother you otherwise."
"Wait," Francis said in confusion. "What about you? You have to go with me. I'm supposed to be executed tomorrow! What are you doing? My clothes . . ."
"We can't talk now. Go! Every second counts, Francis!"
Rick slapped the keys into Francis' frail hands. Francis' breath came in rapid gasps. He stepped close to Rick and pulled him into a tight embrace.
"If I could stop you, I wouldn't let you do this, Rick."
"It's okay." Rick held him at arm's length. "Just go—or all my planning is wasted. I've explained everything in the letter at the villa."
Francis backed away to the door, and then disappeared into the corridor. An instant later, Rick was locked in the cell. He tensed and put his ear to the door. The next few minutes mattered the most. Hearing voices, he counted the seconds. A door slammed, and then there was silence.
Perfect. Francis was free.
Since the firing squad wasn't due to execute Francis until the following day, at least he could relax for one day. Rick sat down on his new bed. Smiling through tears in the darkness, he flicked a bedbug off his wrist. He looked up at the ceiling where he imagined God was looking down at him. God wasn't demanding that he die this way, Rick knew, even after the selfish life he'd lived. But by dying this way, for the first time, his whole life seemed to mean more.
Rick lay back on his bed. In a way, he felt honored. Not everyone could choose to die so another could live. Maybe he was lucky after all . . . or maybe blessed was a better word.
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