Tortured Spirits

by Gregory Lamberson

  Malvado looked Jake over.

  A man that size could break me in two even if I wasn’t helpless in a hospital bed, Jake thought.

  Malvado leaned closer, allowing Jake to discern gray stubble on his shaved head. The man who had ruled his country with an iron fist for three decades looked into Jake’s one good eye and spoke with a deep voice and a heavy accent. “You’re a private investigator, eh? Like Tom Selleck.” His white teeth gleamed.

  Jake tried not to show fear. “Yeah, Magnum, PI, without the mustache.”

  Malvado made a wiping gesture over his face. “Maybe you should grow one and a beard, too.”

  Meaning I should try to cover up my ugly face? Jake remained impassive.

  Malvado scowled and made a dismissive gesture. “William, this man is nothing. Put him to work in the fields.”

  “I was hoping to interrogate him some more.”

  Try it. Jake didn’t know what he would do to Russel, but he relished the opportunity.

  “How will he help harvest my drugs if you cut off his other limbs?” Malvado’s accent became more pronounced as his voice grew louder. “Do as I say.”

  Russel bowed his head. “Of course, Mr. President.”

  Malvado turned and marched away, and Russel followed like an obedient dog. The other two men in the party stood glaring at Jake. They looked almost identical, like younger versions of Malvado, with tight black hair.

  Brothers, Jake thought. His sons. The Uday and Qusay of Pavot Island.

  The two men followed their father.

  Jake stared at the nearest ceiling fan. With no air-conditioning, the fans and windows provided the only relief from the blistering heat.

  Ramona returned with a pan of water and some rags.

  “Your fearless leader is charming,” Jake said.

  Ramona unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a dozen purple bruises where he had been shot with the rubber bullets. She dipped a rag into the water and washed his chest and underarms.

  “You’re afraid to say anything about him, aren’t you?”

  The look in her eyes confirmed his suspicion.

  The light outside turned orange as Ramona finished feeding Jake his dinner: chicken, carrots, and rice.

  “It’s been a long day for you, hasn’t it?” Jake said.

  Ramona wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “I work long days when we have patients, shorter ones when we don’t. I’m sure it’s been much longer for you.”

  “Malvado wants to put me to work in the fields. What does that mean?”

  Ramona’s eyes showed sympathy, but she said nothing.

  “Yesterday right before he was shot dead, a man told me zonbies harvest Malvado’s heroin and cocaine for him.”

  “Do you believe in zonbies?”

  Jake nodded. “We had an epidemic of Black Magic in New York City last year. It did some crazy things to people.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  A door slammed, and two soldiers wearing red berets marched along the ward to Jake.

  “We’re converting him,” one of the soldiers said.

  Jake stared hard at the two men. “I don’t think I like the sound of that.”

  Ramona looked down at him, chart in hand. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. Instead, she unhooked the IV tube from Jake’s arm, swabbed the puncture, and applied a Band-Aid to it. Then she lowered the bed.

  The soldiers stood at opposite ends of the bed and wheeled it away. As they did, Ramona made the sign of the cross, which didn’t ease Jake’s mind.

  The soldiers wheeled him feetfirst to the red door at the opposite end of the ward. The soldier Jake was able to see opened the door, and they brought him into an empty room except for a battered wooden desk. They parked him alongside one wall and exited. Alone, Jake gazed up at a dirty light fixture. The room had no windows.

  How the hell do they intend to convert me? He knew of only one way for a living person to become a zonbie, and a component of the process included a fatal overdose of Black Magic.

  He hoped he had gotten through to Ramona, but he doubted it. She was right: the people on Pavot Island accepted Malvado, Black Magic, and zonbies as part of their daily existence. It was a long shot that the nurse would risk her life to save his. She had family, and Humphrey had said Malvado struck out at his enemies through their families.

  Minutes passed.

  Half an hour?

  The door swung open and Russel stood there. Behind him, a rubber stopper struck the tiled floor again and again.

  A cane, Jake concluded.

  A hunched-over old woman entered the room, her gray hair pulled back beneath a scarf folded into a triangle. Despite the heat, she wore a shawl. Wrinkles like crevices crisscrossed her brown face, and she wore gold hoop earrings, like a gypsy. One of her eyes bulged in its socket, and her pupils seemed to look in different directions.

  She’s a witch, Jake thought. A Mambo.

  Grasping the cane, the woman stopped at the bed and studied Jake. He had no doubt she was evil to her core.

  Leaving the door open, Russel entered the room and stood near Jake. The old woman hobbled over to the desk.

  “This is Mambo Catoute,” Russel said. “She’s the high priestess of the Church of the Black Snake and the most powerful bokor on Pavot Island. When she’s through with you, you’ll wish you’d spent a few more days in my company.”

  Jake struggled against the restraints. “You’re as bad as Malvado and this old witch.”

  “I never said I wasn’t. You’re the one who pretends to be a hero.”

  Jake heard a match being struck, and a moment later dark smoke curled toward the ceiling from before Mambo Catoute. When she stepped away from the desk, Jake saw the wick of a thick black candle burning. His eyes widened at the sight of the smoke.

  Black Magic.

  The old woman cackled, and he noticed she missed several teeth.

  Russel flicked off the light, leaving the candle’s yellow flame glowing.

  Jake sucked in his breath and looked away.

  Russel chuckled. “That won’t do any good. How long can you hold your breath? Not long. This Magic will own you. After a few hours in here, you won’t be able to stop thinking about it, and we’ll be only too happy to provide you with what you need.” He helped Mambo Catoute out of the room and closed the door.

  Sweat formed on Jake’s brow. He clenched his teeth. He had given up cocaine two years ago when Sheryl had found his stash and kicked him out of their apartment. Next he gave up alcohol after Sheryl had left a piece of her soul inside him and then cigarettes. He had started exercising again, gotten himself into shape, felt healthy. Now this …

  It isn’t fair!

  Rocking from side to side, he hoped to knock the bed over. His efforts only exhausted him, forcing him at last to take a deep breath. His mouth and nostrils gulped sweet-smelling air, and in the darkness as his chest swelled, the Magic took immediate effect.

  Jake exhaled a tremulous breath. His jaw slackened. His mind clouded. His heart rate sped up. His senses tingled and awakened. His eyelids fluttered. He inhaled the sweet-smelling smoke again, then smiled and moaned with pleasure. He forgot all about Sheryl and Laurel and Maria and Edgar and Malvado.

  Like magic.

  EIGHTEEN

  Maria desired a long, hot bath but had no time for luxury and settled for a shower instead. The steaming water stung her scratches, blood and mud swirling at her feet. She soaped herself up twice and shampooed and conditioned her hair. The deep gash in her side required stitches. Although she buried her face in her hands, she did not cry again.

  After drying off, she applied disinfectant to her wounds. The scratches were too long and too numerous for that. She wrapped a roll of gauze around her waist until she had used it all up, binding her deepest wound. Pulling on a terry cloth robe, she faced the mirror. Although she looked sane, she doubted she would ever be the same.

  In the kitchen, she sat
at the table. Rosa, the mother, served her a plate of scrambled eggs, which she devoured, and a mug of strong coffee. Celia, the daughter, sat watching her with a dour expression.

  “Merci,” Maria said.

  Rosa joined her with a cup of coffee. “Your clothes are in the dryer. I got most of the blood out of them.”

  A tall man with a thick mustache entered the kitchen and leaned against the sink. Hector wore boots, jeans, and a long johns top with the sleeves rolled up, covered with a light layer of dirt. “Celia, go into the living room.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Do as I say.”

  Pouting, the girl obeyed.

  Maria sipped her coffee. “That’s so good.”

  Hector folded his arms. “As you see, we have a daughter.”

  Rosa cocked her head. “Hector …”

  “It isn’t just us. We have to think of her.”

  “I don’t want to endanger you,” Maria said. “I’ll be on my way as soon as my clothes are dry. I appreciate what you’ve done for me.”

  “We won’t turn you away,” Hector said, “but we have to put you in touch with people who will take you someplace safer.”

  Maria held his stare. “Someone I can trust, I hope.”

  “I called a friend who’s an activist. He knew the man who was killed accompanying you in Pavot City yesterday. He’s coming to help you.”

  You mean he’s coming to get me out of your hair. “Thank you.”

  “What happened to you?” Rosa said.

  “She went where she didn’t belong,” Hector said.

  Maria wanted to challenge him, but she couldn’t be rude after they had taken her in, so she just sipped her coffee.

  Maria sat on the cement steps of the porch, smoking a cigarette and stroking the back of a white cat, when a dusty Subaru Outback pulled into the driveway. She had changed into her clothes.

  A short, balding Hispanic man with a wide mustache got out of the Subaru. He wore a dark green plaid shirt. Crossing the lawn, he spoke in English. “Good afternoon. Are you my tourist?”

  Maria smiled. “Forgive me for being an ugly American, but I think I’ve seen enough of your country.”

  Setting one foot on a step, he leaned on his knee. “Then we’ll have to see about getting you home.” He held out his hand. “Jorge De Jesus.”

  She shook his hand. “Maria Vasquez.”

  “Puerto Rican?”

  “By way of Manhattan. Are you a member of Pavot for the People or the People for Pavot?”

  “Honestly, I forget. I wish to see Le Père liberated from El Miedo and reunited with La Mère. Nothing matters more than freeing Pavot Island from Le Monstre.”

  Maria inhaled smoke and allowed it to seep through her nostrils. “More people on this island need to share your attitude.”

  Jorge glanced at the house. “They’re good people. It’s difficult to live under the thumb of a dictator. Please tell me what happened. I know you met Humphrey at Coucher du Soleil.”

  Maria recounted how Humphrey had been killed outside the restaurant and she and Jake had been separated.

  A tear ran down one side of Jorge’s face. “Forgive me.” He wiped his face on his shirtsleeve.

  “I’m sorry. Hector said you and Humphrey were friends.”

  “A euphemism.” Jorge groaned, then raised his gaze to the sky. “This is not the time for tears.”

  Maria clasped her free hand over his. “There’s never a wrong time to mourn our loved ones.” She stabbed out her cigarette and stood. “I jacked a car and fled the city. A chopper firebombed the highway, driving me into the woods.”

  “We call it La Forêt Noire.”

  “‘The Black Forest.’ How appropriate. Have you ever had the pleasure?”

  Jorge shook his head. “Anyone who goes there remains there. Until now.”

  “A river stocked with piranhas divides the woods. It’s a smoke screen to hide Malvado’s drug crops. Your Black Forest is lousy with zonbies. I saw how those things are made and the Magic.”

  “How did you survive?”

  “I put down more than a dozen of them.”

  “I’ve never heard anyone claim that before.”

  “I’m from New York.”

  Jorge smiled. “I think I like you.”

  “It’s your turn to share. What happened to my partner?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is it likely they killed him?”

  “Oui. If they took him prisoner, they tortured him to death in Pavot City, or they’ll repurpose him.”

  “You mean turn him into a zonbie?”

  Jorge nodded. “I have contacts all over Pavot. I’ve heard nothing about Jake Helman being taken into custody. You have to assume he’s dead.”

  Maria’s eyes watered. “Humphrey joked about being a coward. He was anything but.”

  “I know.” Jorge’s voice cracked. “He was a good man. When Malvado’s officers discover what you’ve done, they’ll turn this island upside down looking for you. We need to get you someplace safe fast, and then we have to send you back to Miami.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

  As Jorge steered the Subaru out of the farmhouse’s driveway, Maria, sitting in the backseat, stared at the woods across the road.

  Zonbie land, she thought.

  “Malvado thinks nothing of killing our people to create slaves,” Jorge said.

  “Is that the only plantation?”

  “There are five that we know of.”

  “Which could mean as many as fifteen hundred zonbies. How long do those things last? He must need a steady supply of scarecrows.”

  “What the jails don’t provide, he gets from the general population. Black Magic is easy to come by in our cities. It’s cheap, and the drug dealers are never arrested—”

  “Because they work for Malvado.”

  “They serve a function for him anyway.” They crested a hill.

  “Get down,” Jorge said, his tone serious.

  Maria glimpsed one police car and one military jeep parked in the middle of the street at the bottom of the hill. Crouching behind the seat, she counted four uniformed figures standing in front of the vehicles.

  “Reach below your seat. There’s a lever there wrapped in fabric that matches the carpet and upholstery.”

  Maria felt along the bottom of the seat. “Got it.”

  “Pull it and take your weight off the seat.”

  Sliding off the seat, she pulled the lever, and the seat cushion popped up. Raising it higher, she gazed down at two rifles, one machine gun, and boxes of ammunition. Without waiting for instructions, she laid her rifle and machete over the other armaments and crawled on top of them, the Walther in her pocket. She had to bend her knees to fit inside the compartment, and the weaponry pressed against her.

  “Before you close the seat, locate the lever from inside.”

  Maria slid her hand along the bottom of the compartment, discovered an opening, and touched the lever. “I have it.”

  “After you put the seat down, raise the lever and hold it inside. No one will see it, and it will be impossible to open the seat from the outside.”

  She lowered the cushion, cutting off the light, and heard the seat lock into place. Pulling the lever inside, she took a deep breath. With the gap for the lever providing the only ventilation, the temperature climbed.

  Maria felt the car slow and stop. She heard Jorge’s muffled voice but could not make out his words over the sound of her own breathing. His tone sounded gentle, easygoing. Two more voices: a man’s and a woman’s. The car stopped vibrating and the front door closed.

  Jorge got out.

  Silence for a moment. The air grew stuffy. The compartment felt like what she imagined the inside of a coffin must be like, only less comfortable.

  The voices grew louder. Weight sank into the seat above her; the upholstery squeaked and springs groaned. The woman spoke to the man, warbling as if underwater. A lo
ud metallic sound followed.

  The hatchback.

  Knocking, banging, hands sliding. Metal scraping against metal. One of the inspectors prodded the vehicle with what must have been the barrel of a gun.

  If they fire at the seat …

  Sweat soaked her body. She couldn’t breathe.

  So fucking hot!

  The hatch closed, then the rear doors, then finally the front door. The engine roared to life. Jorge spoke again and the car eased forward.

  Maria counted to ten and pulled the lever. The seat popped open a crack, and she sucked in fresh air.

  “Raise the seat but don’t sit up yet.”

  With one hand, she lifted the seat higher, and air-conditioning settled over her. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “If they’d found me, they would have killed you.”

  “I don’t want to overstate things, but on Pavot Island we live with that fear every day.”

  “I couldn’t do it.”

  “You’d be surprised how strong the will to survive is. Look what you did last night.”

  He’s right.

  “You can get out now, but you’d better stay flat.”

  Maria climbed out of the compartment, set the seat down, and lay across it. “This is a lot more comfortable than lying on those guns.”

  Twenty minutes later, as the Subaru climbed a mountain road, she peeked out the window and recognized the rain forest stretching below. A short while later, the Church of St. Anthony came into view.

  “Don’t get up yet.”

  Maria felt the car slow down and saw the church as they circled it. After several seconds, they stopped in the shadow of a wide garage.

  Jorge got out, opened one of the gray wooden doors, then got back in and drove the Subaru inside. He removed a flashlight from the glove compartment and set it on the seat beside him, then spoke without turning around. “St. Anthony’s is often under surveillance by Malvado’s secret police. I’m going to get out and close the garage door behind me. When I do, walk over to the wooden shelves against the wall. Pull back the mat and you’ll find a trapdoor. Climb down the ladder and shut the trapdoor. Don’t let it slam. Follow the tunnel until you can go no farther, and wait for me there.”