Caribbean Fire

by Rick Murcer

  He wondered if she was thinking of regaining some of her youth by stretching him out on one of those altars and giving his heart to that Mayan goddess.

  He smiled. Not that bad of an idea, if it worked.

  “I’m coming you old bat. These damn knees don’t work so good, you know that. And we should be waiting for the guide. They told us not to wander off.”

  “Don’t care about no guide. I paid my money, and I can go wherever I want. And I hear that all of the time from you. I got arthritis too, you old coot, and I ain’t dragging myself as bad as you. And by the God who made us, I told you to stop drinking last night. You can’t handle it anymore. It makes you pee too much, and those farts are worse than anything coming from the damn dog. I can still smell ’em.”

  Waving his boney hand, he looked down, took another unsteady step on the archaic, uneven stone path leading to the back of the site, and stopped in frustration.

  “Just go, Gloria. I’ll get there, and be careful of them green and blue iguanas. Some get as big as lions and can eat you whole, I hear.”

  His wife of fifty years stopped and bent his way, pulling at her straw sun hat, an unsure look on her round face.

  She was still a bit of looker, if you asked him. Those green eyes looked the same as when they got married. Her hair was still pretty much auburn, with a little help from Lady Clairol, but it worked for her. If she’d only stop talking.

  “Are you messing with me, Harrison Markus Sleep? As big as lions?”

  “Just telling you what I read. Maybe they was talking about those Komodo dragon lizards. I get mixed up sometimes.”

  “Look over there,” he said, pointing about fifty feet toward the lush jungle.

  A three-foot iguana stood like a statue, the morning sun reflecting from its teal skin.

  She looked then put her hands on her hips, and gave him that infamous evil eye of hers. “Big as a lion? Hell, we got cats bigger than that in Georgia.”

  “Told you I might be wrong about that, but—”

  “Never mind. You’re just losing it, Harry. I’m going back there. It’s about a quarter mile on that dirt trail over there, according to the map. See you when you get there.”

  With that, Gloria hurried, if one could call her lopsided gait hurrying, and then vanished around the thick line of palm and cebia trees.

  He had to give her credit for determination, if nothing else.

  Taking his time, Harry glanced down frequently to ensure a protruding stone or a hidden crack didn’t send him on his ass, or worse, his hip. Everyone his age knew how things could go if you broke a hip.

  Reaching the sandy, level-footed trail, he picked up the pace. He just might catch her before she stole some rock or remnant of a hand print that would send them both deep into the Mexican jail system. Sometimes, she didn’t think the rules pertained to her, and God knew he was getting too old to have a boyfriend. A foreigner at that.

  A few more steps and Harry felt like he was in top gear. He’d catch her in no time. He took another deep breath, walking faster.

  The air was full of that undefinable island aroma. A mixture of ocean and jungle flowers that even an old geezer like himself could still smell. One more thing to help define the Caribbean travel life Gloria, and he supposed himself, was hooked on. He had to admit, once they got on the ship, this cruising thing was a pretty good way to go. It was a great way to see places like th—.

  “AHHHHHHHH.”

  The blood-curdling scream stopped him in his tracks. He clutched his chest as his heart skipped a beat.

  In the next moment, his feet began to move at a pace he thought he’d abandoned years ago. Realization that the scream belonged to his wife caused Harry to forget any physical ailment. Pure adrenaline coursed through his body at the thought of something happening to her. She was an old biddy from time to time, but she was his old biddy.

  A second scream, closer than the first, told him he was almost there. He reached the end of the tree line, banked right, and saw her some thirty yards ahead. Gloria was standing in front of an old, uneven stone structure staring down at what looked like an archaic elevated platform with steps leading from two sides. He recognized it from some of the pictures he’d seen online. It was the altar where the Mayan priests had supposedly performed their religious human sacrifices.

  He slowed down, shaking his head, breathing harder than his doctor would approve. She must have had a close encounter with an iguana or some other critter.

  “Damn Gloria. You ’bout gave me a heart attack. I should leave you—”

  If his wife had heard him, she gave no indication. She was still staring at that particular section of the ruins, mumbling. He got a few feet closer and heard what she was saying.

  “. . . help us, Jesus. Help us, Jesus,” she repeated softly.

  His uneasiness came back.

  “What is wrong with you, woman?”

  She raised her arm and pointed.

  Harry glanced at whatever was mesmerizing his wife.

  He wished he hadn’t.

  The body of the man was stretched out the full length of the jagged altar—his heart obviously torn from his chest. But that wasn’t all.

  Harry swallowed hard. He’d been in ’Nam and wasn’t squeamish by nature. But this wasn’t the sixties, and he wasn’t in some dumbass Asian war that had gone too far.

  Several sections of the man’s flesh had been torn away by sharp teeth, obviously feasted upon by the local scavengers, leaving pale bone and graying muscle on display. The one eye he still possessed had turned a pale blue, but nevertheless seemed to beg Harry and Gloria for help. Worst of all was the atrocious idea of what terrible things one human was capable of doing to another.

  Grasping his wife’s hand, Harry Sleep began to cry.

  CHAPTER-6

  Behavioral Analysis Unit Supervisor Josh Corner watched as his last, and best, candidate exited his office, her limp more noticeable than when she’d entered. He supposed that sitting for long periods might cause her injury to freeze or stiffen up. At the age of thirty-two and in good shape, it had to be an injury. At least that was his best guess. He was pushing thirty-seven, and his bones were creaking just a bit more than a few years ago, but he could still move without a limp. Manny would be proud of his powers of deduction.

  Josh opened Belle Simmons’s file again. She had been born and raised on the rough side of Columbus, Ohio, attended the University of Michigan on a full academic scholarship, graduated with honors, then received her master’s in abnormal psychology and a doctorate in forensic biology at Michigan State University. She’d worked in the Metropolitan Police Department in Washington, DC, for five years and had begun to build two reputations: one as a brilliant investigator, the other as quirky. Both worked for him.

  First she had worked in the crime scene investigative unit, then as a detective specializing in biological and psychological profiling involving special crimes. Her insight, according to her two supervisors, was instrumental in solving far above the normal percentage of cases.

  Her answer to his last question was still bounding around in his mind as he closed her file.

  “Miss Simmons,” he’d said.

  “Call me Belle, Agent Corner,” she’d answered, grinning.

  “Okay, Belle it is. What makes you the best fit for this job?”

  Belle had stared at him, tilted her head, and then entertained a slow smile. Her actions somewhat reminded him of Manny when he was sorting things out. Another plus.

  “Something I learned growing up as a young black girl in the less affluent side of Columbus was to assess a situation as quickly as possible. More than once, my well-being, and perhaps my life, depended on learning and applying that skill. Let me use that learned ability here. The BAU doesn’t need another profiler like Manny Williams. There aren’t many out there like him anyway.”

  She’d leaned over his desk, her dark eyes sparkling. It was impossible not to see Whitney Houston in that expression
.

  “What the BAU does need is someone to complement him and the rest of the staff. I’ve read the bios and researched Sophie Lee, Alex Downs, Dean Mikus, Manny—as if anyone in the business needed a refresher course regarding what he’s about—and you. You all have your strengths and weaknesses, as do I, but the thing is, if you allow it, I can help make your group a better team. A stronger entity. I’ve been places, literally and figuratively, that you all haven’t. Besides those facts, I’m a great shot, adore old Motown music, love staying up until all hours of the night, and am a practicing gourmet cook.”

  As she spoke, Josh heard the words, but he also heard something deeper—a genuine desire to participate, contribute, and learn. Honesty and humility with a dash of confidence was an impressive combination.

  “Great answer,” had been his response.

  “I know.” Belle had grinned, confident.

  It had been all he could do to not smile or laugh out loud. The woman was better than good at reading people.

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  Then she’d left.

  Sipping his second cup of coffee, he leaned back in his leather chair. “She just might be what the doctor ordered,” he said under his breath.

  Adding a new BAU member to replace Chloe Williams had been a tough sell, but the new assistant director, Beth Watson, saw the value in adding to the team. Josh was thankful she’d come around. Budgets were still tight, but she had made it happen.

  He told Manny about his plans to add another profiler, and he’d shared it with the group—they all thought it was a great idea. More input meant faster crime-solving. No ego about infringing on someone’s space or upsetting the chemistry of the current team. Just yeah, it will be good for everyone. Belle was right. Men like Manny were few and far between. Not just the profiler that bordered on Sherlock Holmes-esque from time to time, but who he was on the inside. He continued to teach Josh about life, and Josh was pretty sure Manny knew it.

  Leaving his coffee on the desk, Josh put on his dark-blue suit jacket and headed toward the personnel department on the fifth floor. He thought about the perfect time to call Belle. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow. He hit the elevator button, shaking his head. Giving Belle one more day to think he was still trying to make the right decision was akin to attempting to fool Manny. She knew she was the one. So did Josh.

  Having a full, six-member crew for the BAU would be a welcome draw of resources. It was like being back in the saddle again.

  Chalk one up for his team, and him.

  One hour later, Josh pushed through his office door. Under his arm was a full background check and report confirming his decision regarding Annabelle Sasha Simmons. Nothing in her personal or professional life could be much better in terms of keeping her life clean and uncluttered. Hell, her credit report was better than almost any he’d reviewed. She did purchase a ton of books for her Amazon Kindle, but excessive reading wasn’t a flaw. If so, he would have fired Manny and Dean long ago.

  The wisp of nostalgia made an unexpected prod as he sat at his desk and glanced at the blinking message button on his landline. He used to read fifty books a year. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat down with a good thriller or something supernatural and got lost in it. Josh promised himself that he’d indulge soon. Maybe even tonight, after the boys and his very pregnant wife were down for the count.

  A glass of wine, the dog at his feet, and a good book might make the rest of the world go away for a while.

  “This could be really good, Corner,” he said out loud.

  A brief ripple of excitement coursed through his body as possibility evolved into sure-fire intent. He’d use his tablet, download the proper app, and get to it right after he tucked in the boys.

  Taking a pen out of his pocket, he hit the play button on his phone. Cell phones were wonderful, but after a couple of breaches in the security system, the Bureau had decided to reduce the availability of cell phone numbers to only a few organizations outside of the FBI. The vast majority of law enforcement agencies around the country and the rest of the world were on a need-to-know basis. They were still using the old-fashioned way to contact the FBI: an answering machine.

  “Special Agent Corner. My name is Investigator Eduardo Munoz. I work for the Mexican Ministerial Federal Police.”

  Josh’s ears perked up as the investigator’s near-perfect English greeting demanded his attention.

  The FBI usually only received calls from Mexico’s Federal Police when their problem had to do with serious drug cartel issues spilling over into the U.S.

  “This has nothing to do with the usual cartel inquiries. Please bear with me as I explain. I received a call from the Cozumel director of police. They have . . . an issue, and I’m hoping your BAU can offer some insight. Please return my call at the number listed on your machine. Thank you.”

  Glancing at the phone’s blue digital display, Josh wrote down the number, stopped the next message, and made the call.

  After one ring, Investigator Munoz picked up. “Thank you for returning my call, Special Agent Corner.”

  “No problem. I don’t get calls every day from other countries asking for help, especially Mexico. What can I do for you?”

  “I like it that you get directly to the point, señor. My longtime friend is director of police in Cozumel. Do you know of Cozumel?”

  “I know that it’s a great vacation spot, and it beats the hell out of most of the U.S. during the winter months. But I’ve not been there.”

  “You’re right on the weather, and the beaches are wonderful. I spent six years in Chicago getting my education and training. I’ve experienced the difference. I prefer the warmth of Mexico.”

  “I understand that,” said Josh.

  Munoz continued. “Cozumel is a sleepy island that deals mostly with tourists and cruise ships. Our crimes are mostly pickpockets, a few local muggings. Too much tequila and some traffic issues are part of it. And while the cartels are moving north, the Yucatan has not had to deal with them much.”

  Munoz grew silent, and Josh heard him exhale. “The reason I’m calling is that we now have three unusual murders in the span of three days. We also have three other local citizens missing. We’ve done our work and are sure this spree killing has nothing to do with drug trafficking or territories, at least to this point.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Josh.

  “Yes. We have grown very accustomed to those crime scenes. These killings are not in that manner. In fact, I’d say they are, in many ways, more disturbing.”

  Switching the phone to his left hand, Josh pulled a pen out of his shirt and began to write. He didn’t care for where this conversation was going, but curiosity forced him to ask the next question.

  “I understand how tied up the Federal Police are with cartel and drug issues, but why us? Certainly you have profilers and investigators that can step in and give a hand.”

  “I’m it, Agent Corner. I’m all our government saw fit to dispatch to Cozumel. You’re right. Mexico—as does your country, unfortunately—has its share of angry young men who are prone to spree-killing and mass-murder tendencies. Not counting any developing serial killers we don’t yet know about.”

  Munoz released a breath. “As of this moment, we have six such crimes. Four in Mexico City alone. Mexico has one hundred twenty million people, Agent Corner, and we simply don’t have enough investigators to handle them all. Twenty-one million in Mexico City’s area alone. You can guess where our resources are sent.”

  “I can. What is it you would like us to do?” asked Josh, poised to write.

  “I would like help with profiling this killer. I have my own ideas. But someone like your staff member, Agent Williams, would be of great value.”

  “And you just happen to know that he’s on Cozumel at this very moment, yes?” said Josh.

  “It is true. We check all foreign visitors when we begin our investigations. It is a routine p
rocedure that you know very well. Imagine my surprise when I saw his name on our list of visitors.”

  “He’s on his honeymoon, Mister Munoz. I can’t ask him to do this, especially given his workaholic inclinations. He won’t be able to stop with just a profile.”

  “I understand. All we require is his input. Then we’ll leave him to his vacation. You have my word.”

  Josh let the last sentence hang in the air. Munoz’s word didn’t concern him. Josh had promised Chloe that the world could get by without the Guardian of the Universe for a few days. In fact, he’d given the whole BAU a chance to get away, and now this?

  Munoz interrupted his thoughts. “Agent. I feel you wrestling with this decision, and I respect that. But please consider that two or three hours of Agent Williams’s time may save lives. We will make sure his stay is unmolested and without concern after this. I believe it a fair trade. After all, is that not the reason we’re in the profession of police work?”

  Releasing a sigh of his own, Josh found it difficult to disagree with his Mexican counterpart. He knew he’d have to give Manny the choice. If his friend found out that someone needed help stopping a killer, no matter the circumstance, and Josh hadn’t told him . . . well, talk about a shit list. Besides, Manny had taught him well. Living was a gift. Their fight was against those who steal that gift. Even if it got in the way of the personal life they enjoyed so little.

  Josh understood that.

  “I’ll send him a text with your number. It’ll be his call entirely.”

  “That is all I can ask, and thank you, Agent Corner.”

  Hanging up the phone, Josh shook his head. He might as well call and have his gravestone prepared. Chloe was going to put him in the ground. Or make him wish he were dead.

  He’d do what he said, but he’d wait until the morning. The least he could do was give Manny and Chloe a night before he sent him Munoz’s info. The morning would simply have to be soon enough.