by C. M. Palov
Needing an update, he removed his mobile phone from his cassock pocket. Father Gracián Santos and his cadre of not-so-reformed gang-bangers was Franco’s secret weapon. Not even our Lord and Savior could convert the impenitent thief who was crucified alongside of him, for some men were spawned from an evil seed.
Beyond redemption.
16
India might be a hell hole, but it only took a little baksheesh – bribe money – to buy heaven. Guns. Women. Dope. It was all there for the rupees.
In the last few days, Hector Calzada had bought all three. The pussy and hashish he could have done without, but the gun was absolutely essential. Particularly since Caedmon Aisquith had earlier arrived in Fort Cochin. Although G-Dog had been adamant about exercising restraint – ‘follow but don’t engage’ – Hector was starting to get a bad feeling about the red-headed Englishman.
Leaning against the trunk of a massive banyan tree, he trained his gaze on the pink stucco house situated on the other side of the privacy wall. As he dreamt of all the ways that he could alleviate his boredom, he absently rubbed the stippled gun grip that protruded from his waistband. The best kind of hard-on that a man could have.
Acquiring a gun was never a problem for Hector; the world was bloated with them. His old gang, Los Diablos de Santa Muerte, like most Latino gangs, had gone global with ‘branches’ in all of the major cities in Western Europe. India, however, was a little trickier since there were no Latino gangs on the subcontinent. Yet. But because Indians had a gun obsession – a whole cottage industry having sprung up with illegal backroom factories – he’d actually been able to buy a gun in the bazaar. Like it was some kind of bronze trinket. Granted, it was a piece of Indian shit, but as long it ejected a bullet when he pulled the trigger, Hector would be willing to overlook the inferior design.
Sweltering, he smoothed a hand over his moustache before swiping at several beads of perspiration that trickled down his face. He wiped his clammy palms against his jeans, the sweat causing his right palm to itch. Turning his hand over, he lightly scratched the scarred flesh. His stigmata. He relished the story behind the Chi-Rho cross – ‘In this sign, conquer!’ – the brand reminding him of his heritage: Hector was descended from a long line of warriors that went all the way back to the ancient Aztecs.
Not only had his father and all of his uncles been modern-day warriors, i.e. gang-bangers, their small apartment in Spanish Harlem had been used as a flop house for drug dealers and fugitives. Raised to follow in their footsteps, while Hector was still a young boy his male relatives took him to cock fights, let him smoke weed and even, on occasion, allowed him to play with their guns. They also taught him the rules of the street, the code that they lived by. If a man broke the code, any part of it, justice would be swiftly administered. Also, a real man must avenge all insults. Never turn the other cheek, his father had emphasized when he gave Hector a beautiful switchblade for his thirteenth birthday. Three months later, Hector used the knife to cut off a classmate’s ear, the white boy having called Hector a ‘wetback’.
Because that particular incident had occurred on school grounds, Hector had been subjected to a full battery of exams and psychological testing. No one in his family had the education to understand the densely worded report that ensued. ‘Lack of empathy.’ ‘Violent predisposition.’ ‘Sociopathic tendencies.’ What the hell did it mean? Other than the fact that Hector could no longer attend school, his parents were at a loss. Although they were canny enough to know that the Calzada family had been gravely insulted by the white gringos on the school board.
Unfortunately, Hector’s father was gunned down by a rival gang member before he could avenge the slight.
Having suddenly become the man of the family, not only did Hector take care of the school superintendent, using a stolen .357 Magnum to blow away the fucker while he was walking his dog, but he also took care of his father’s killer.
You don’t mess with a Calzada.
The kills earned Hector a fearsome reputation as a depredador – a predator who, like a shark prowling the ocean deep, would kill anyone who failed to give him the proper respect. When he snuffed out an enemy, he didn’t just kill that one man; he killed his woman, his children, the neighbors and even the family dog.
Pulling a trigger always made Hector feel strong. Potent. Alive. In truth, he never felt more alive than when he took the life of another, as though he’d captured the dead man’s very soul and had made it his own. Something the school board forgot to put in their report.
When he was seventeen years old, Hector had racked up enough kills to have the skeletal Santa Muerte, Saint Death, tattooed on to his chest. The ghoulish image served as a constant reminder that Lady Death ruled the world, a scythe in one hand, a globe in the other. And like the best cocaine money could buy, she gave sweet succor to those who worshipped her.
The Englishman didn’t know it, but he was the walking dead. Once the ransom was delivered, Hector would personally see to it that the red-headed fucker was sacrificed to Santa Muerte.
He grinned, savoring the gory image, imaging how he would slice the other man wide open and remove his still-beating heart from his chest cavity.
Blood lust. There was no feeling like it. Not even a good fuck could compare.
While Saint Death guided Hector during his waking hours, Our Lady of Guadalupe protected him while he slept, la Virgen tattooed on to his back. Although he couldn’t see the beautiful tat, Hector rested easy knowing that the Queen of Heaven kept a vigilant eye. Some might call it conflicted loyalties, but that’s because most people didn’t understand that Santa Muerte and Our Lady were two sides of the same street. That’s why he was able to worship the one and revere the other. Good and evil. The nature of the beast.
Folding his arms over his chest, Hector watched as his homie Roberto Diaz approached on foot. The other man grinned foolishly, flashing a gold-plated front tooth.
Somebody’s been smoking a little too much hashish.
In addition to being Hector’s first cousin, Roberto was an initiated member of Los Diablos de Santa Muerte. Last year, the two of them had run afoul of a tough-talking Diablo crew leader who’d accused them of skimming drugs and extortion money off the top. Big mistake on their part as they’d belatedly discovered. Roberto, who’d been dragged out of his girlfriend’s bed in the middle of the night, had his tongue cut out. Although he’d managed to escape before the crew leader took the knife to his throat.
Fond of his tongue, and all his other body parts, Hector had turned to Father Gracián Santos, begging the priest to give him and Roberto safe sanctuary. G-Dog had initially expressed reservations, worried that they might not have the inner strength to go straight. Desperate, he and Roberto each had a Chi-Rho cross branded on to the palm of their right hand. A badge of fidelity and a show of good faith. And while he was still leery, G-Dog agreed to give them safe haven in upstate New York. Hector owed Father Gracián big time, the man, literally, saving his life.
‘I want you to stay here and watch the Indian bitch while I keep an eye on the Englishman,’ Hector told his cousin.
Roberto grunted his assent; the only form of communication that he was capable of making. It was a language of sorts, and Hector was actually able to understand what various grunts meant. From time to time, he’d even caught himself answering his cousin in like manner.
Nature of the beast.
17
‘Moreover, Constantine’s cross was superimposed with the rallying cry “In hoc signo vinces,”’ Caedmon iterated, pointing to the Chi-Rho cross that he’d drawn on the sheet of blank paper. ‘In this sign you shall conquer.’
Edie rolled down the cab window, beginning to suspect that there was some sort of official regulation banning air conditioning in all Indian taxis. Somewhat revived, she tapped her finger against the monogram of an ‘X’ overlaying a skinny ‘P’. ‘As I recall, chi and rho are the first two letters of the Greek word Kristós.’
Cae
dmon nodded. ‘Which makes the symbol a christogram rather than a true cross. Immediately after the Emperor Constantine had his vision of the Chi-Rho, he ordered his soldiers to affix the symbol on to their battle standards. Said action famously resulted in Constantine’s triumphant victory at the Battle of Milvian Bridge.’
‘And so began a long tradition of Christians slaughtering their enemy in the name of Jesus Christ,’ Edie retorted sarcastically, the subject one that never failed to raise her ire. ‘Having read the New Testament, I am fairly convinced that JC would have been the first to condemn that sort of brutal carnage.’
‘I daresay the Prince of Peace would not have approved.’ Frowning, Caedmon rubbed his eyes with his thumb and middle finger.
Like Caedmon, Edie wondered at the significance of Anala’s abductor being branded with the ancient symbol. The fact that anyone would purposefully mutilate their flesh indicated a cultish devotion. But to what? Or who?
As she pondered the bizarre twist, Edie peered out the window, her attention drawn to the passing streetscape. While many, if not most, of the old colonial buildings were in a sad state of negligent decay, it somehow lent Fort Cochin a decrepit sort of beauty. Rising above the town’s red-tiled rooftops were Islamic minarets, Christian steeples and the gleaming metallic finials of Hindu temples. It bespoke a tolerance that was sadly absent in many of the places she’d recently visited while on assignment for National Geographic.
A lively coastal town, the streets teemed with vehicles of every description, the adjacent pavements jam-packed with tourists, vendors peddling their wares and the occasional farm animal. The latter was taken in stride by the locals. Not to mention their taxi driver who suddenly swerved into the oncoming lane, circumnavigating an emaciated bovine aimlessly wandering in the middle of the road.
‘The Chi-Rho handprint on Anala’s bedroom window reinforces the notion that someone affiliated with the Catholic Church masterminded her abduction,’ Edie remarked.
Caedmon concurred with a nod. ‘And, according to the Chinon transcript, the Roman Catholic Church had been very keen to find the Evangelium Gaspar.’
‘Yeah, seven hundred years ago,’ she countered, pointing out the obvious.
‘No institution survives as long as the Papal See without having a long memory. I suspect that the Evangelium Gaspar contains some damning revelation that contradicts traditional Church teaching. If it was merely a recitation of what’s already contained in the four canonical gospels, Anala’s abductors wouldn’t have gone to such extreme lengths to retrieve it.’
‘Hopefully, the historian at the St. Thomas Seminary can shed some light on the matter.’ As she spoke, a bead of perspiration broke free from her brow and rolled down Edie’s right temple. Opening her basket-weave satchel, she retrieved a paper fan. Glad that she’d had the foresight to toss it in her bag, she unfolded the gilded fan, swishing it back and forth in front of her face.
Their driver, applying the horn with great aplomb, abruptly swerved – this time to the left– bypassing a stalled truck loaded with burlap sacks full of produce. Edie grabbed hold of the hand strap to avoid being hurled on to Caedmon’s lap. In front of her, the dangling glass beads that separated front and rear passenger seats noisily clattered. Having left Fort Cochin, they were now headed southeast on a rural two-lane highway fringed with coconut palms. To the east were the green foothills of the Western Ghats, home to Kerala’s fabled tea plantations, coffee estates and cardamom groves. To the west were the region’s fertile rice paddies.
Realizing that the backs of her calves were stuck to the vinyl upholstery, Edie briefly considered reaching down and unsticking them, but couldn’t summon any enthusiasm for the task. Because they had an appointment at a religious seminary, she’d purposefully worn a plain white dress with a high décolleté. Big mistake – beads of sweat were trickling down her cleavage. The ponderous humidity and high temperature were a debilitating combination, the miasma so thick that she was forced to take small measured breaths. Although her brain knew better, she secretly feared that if she inhaled too deeply, the muggy air might clog her lungs and asphyxiate her.
Having retreated into silence, Caedmon stared pensively at the Chi-Rho symbol that he’d drawn in his journal.
‘You never did say how you and Gita met,’ Edie ventured timorously.
To her surprise, Caedmon’s lips curved into a faint smile – the first in days. ‘“The clouds methought would open, and show riches ready to drop upon me, that when I waked I cried to dream again.”’ Then, just as quickly as it appeared, the smile vanished. ‘We were in the same Oxford thespian troupe,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘I played Caliban to Gita’s Miranda in The Tempest.’
Edie quickly searched her memory bank. ‘Miranda was Prospero’s daughter and Caliban was the freckled monster who tried to rape her, wasn’t he?’
‘Er, yes. But I can assure you that my actual feelings were of a more tender nature, Gita Patel my first love.’ The admission caused two ruddy splotches to instantly materialize on his cheeks. Clearly embarrassed, he turned his head and stared out the window.
Having suspected as much, Edie made no comment. She certainly didn’t begrudge Caedmon the relationship; the boom and blush of love’s first rush was one of life’s more poignant chapters.
‘My father, as you know, was a stern taskmaster,’ he continued in a low voice, his gaze still focused on the rice paddies in the near distance. ‘Gita possessed a gentleness that had been lacking in my youth and . . . she was incredibly empathetic.’ Slowly turning his head from side to side, Caedmon rubbed the back of his neck, giving Edie the distinct impression that speaking about the past was a painful exercise for him. ‘Shamefully, I never questioned why Gita left Oxford so abruptly. When she returned my letters unopened, instead of pursuing the matter, I shrugged it off and blithely traipsed on to the next love. I assumed the relationship was over and that was that. But I should have pressed harder. Should have gone down to London and –’ He broke off abruptly, leaving the thought unfinished.
‘You have no reason to feel guilty,’ Edie told him, sensing that was the root cause of Caedmon’s distress. ‘You didn’t commit any misdeed or transgression.’
His jaw tightened. ‘You can’t absolve me of my sins. I am blameworthy in this tragedy.’
Stymied by Caedmon’s heartfelt conviction, Edie cast her glance downward; she’d had no idea that he felt so culpable. Having unexpectedly stepped on a verbal landmine, she nervously fiddled with her fan. Guilt, like jealousy or mistrust, was one of those emotions that carnivorously gnawed at the inner core.
‘You were a nineteen-year-old kid,’ she pointed out in a renewed attempt to reassure him. ‘Hardly an experienced man of the world. And it’s not as if you knew that Gita was pregnant and then turned your back on her and the baby.’
‘No, that would have been unforgivable. A better man than that, I was merely a despicable coward,’ he rasped in a mocking voice. Folding his arms over his chest, Caedmon leaned his head against the back of the vinyl seat and closed his eyes. Effectively ending the conversation.
The fact that he’d opened up at all was something of a miracle; Caedmon rarely spoke of his past, particularly his childhood. But to be fair, neither did she. Once, early on in the relationship, he’d revealed that his father, Neville, resented the fact that his wife had died in childbirth, wrongly blaming Caedmon. In return, she’d confessed that when her mother Melissa died of a heroin overdose, she’d been forced to spend two years in a sexually abusive foster home. But that’s all that they’d shared with one another, their respective pasts hermetically sealed as an emotional safeguard to protect the living. Edie sometimes worried that they were so well insulated, it might harm their burgeoning relationship.
A few minutes later, the taxi slowed as they approached the congested streets of Kottayam, verdant fields giving way to an urban hustle-bustle. Directly ahead of them, spewing dark plumes of oil-laced carbon monoxide, was a dilapidated re
d bus that had clearly seen better days. Those days being the 1950s from the look of it. Not only were there at least a dozen men ‘riding shotgun’ on the roof, there were four scrawny men clinging precariously to a metal rack mounted on the rear. Presumably installed for that very purpose. No sooner did the bus slow than ‘passengers’ began to disembark by leaping over the side.
‘I don’t know why that reminds me of lemmings jumping off a cliff. Probably because it’s an inherently dangerous activity,’ Edie mused as she watched them.
‘Mmmm . . .’ Clearly uninterested, Caedmon peered in the other direction.
Up ahead, traffic had inexplicably come to a standstill.
‘There’s a festival today,’ their driver said, jutting his chin at the stalled gridlock.
Muttering under his breath, Caedmon glanced at his watch.
Edie, hoping to put the delay to good use, unfolded the tourist map that she’d picked up at their hotel. Trying to determine her eastings from her northings, she caught sight of a red motorbike in the driver’s side mirror.
The skin on the back of her neck instantly prickled.
Craning her head, she peered over her left shoulder at the press of cars, rickshaws and motorbikes idling directly behind their taxi, the red two-wheeler in the middle of a dusty pack about twenty feet back.
‘Is something the matter?’ Caedmon inquired.
‘I just had the strangest feeling that –’ Shaking her head, she snorted self-consciously at her overblown fear. ‘Forget it.’
‘Forget what?’ he pressed, eyes narrowed.
Worried that she was going to sound paranoid, Edie relented and said, ‘I glimpsed a red motorbike that I think I may have seen back in Fort Cochin. But I’m sure it’s probably –’
‘There was a sentry with a red motorbike posted outside of Gita’s house,’ he interjected.