Tortured Spirits

by Gregory Lamberson

  Jorge left the car, closed the door, and exited the garage. The wide door swung shut, and light seeped in through the cracks in the walls.

  Maria stepped out and removed her weapons from the hidden seat compartment. Light glinted off an old Mercedes, a pickup, and a riding lawn mower, and tacked crates obscured tools hanging on the walls. Standing before the wooden shelves covered with paint cans and cleaning chemicals, Maria pulled back the floor mat, exposing the square trapdoor with an iron ring secured to its surface. Setting the rifle down, she seized the ring in both hands and opened the trapdoor, her back straining with effort. She stared down at the iron rungs bolted into the concrete walls of the shaft and a cement floor.

  Very professional.

  Maria climbed halfway down the ladder, the rungs cool to her touch, then picked up her rifle, closed the trapdoor, and descended into murky grayness. Dull light illuminated the tunnel, and when she reached the floor she saw that three caged work lights hung from a yellow cord strung along the low ceiling. She followed the cord, passing a sofa, a cot, a table, and chairs. At the end of the tunnel she glimpsed hinges and the outline of a door, which opened away from her, revealing Jorge and a short priest.

  “Maria Vasquez, meet Father Alejandro.”

  The priest’s features were tanned. Maria guessed he was forty, though he appeared younger.

  “Miss Vasquez.” Alejandro held out his hand.

  Shaking the priest’s hand, Maria felt rough skin. Alejandro did hard work in addition to offering spiritual guidance. “Nice place you’ve got here, Father.”

  “This tunnel was part of the church’s original construction. It was sealed off generations ago. My predecessor reopened it. I’m glad you like it, because you’ll be staying here until we can arrange for you to leave Pavot. In the meantime, please join us.” Alejandro gestured inside the room where he and Jorge stood.

  Maria followed them into a red-carpeted office with two desks and a copy machine.

  Alejandro arranged three chairs so they faced each other, and Maria sat. He opened a small refrigerator. “May I offer you something to drink? We have soda, juice, and beer.”

  “A beer would be great.”

  “Jorge?”

  “The same.”

  Father Alejandro opened three bottles with pirate ships on their labels, served his guests, and sat between them. “You’ve stirred up some excitement; the police and military have doubled their patrols. But your picture hasn’t been broadcast on TV, so the people don’t know what the commotion is about, only that three members of the People for Pavot were killed in Pavot City yesterday.”

  Maria sipped her beer, which tasted damn good. “What about Jake?”

  “Our news organization is a propaganda arm of the government, and our underground press has no access to government matters. We only know that many soldiers were dispatched to an abandoned factory in the neighborhood where our three friends were killed. Shots were fired and the soldiers left. I fear your companion is no more.”

  Jake. Maria’s jaw tightened.

  “We need to get you off this island immediately.”

  “Miriam said she arranged for a boat to transport us tomorrow night.”

  “That will be too late. You’re now an enemy of the state. As long as you’re free, the population will be subjected to Malvado’s ruthless methods. It’s imperative that you leave tonight and that Miriam announces your return to Miami. When Malvado realizes you’ve escaped, life here will return to normal.”

  “How do you propose I leave?”

  “One of the US companies with a factory here bottles the very beer we’re drinking. They have a cargo ship leaving tonight. You’ll be on it.”

  NINETEEN

  Gazing at the ceiling, Jake experienced ecstasy. Mambo Catoute’s candle continued to spew Black Magic smoke into the air for him to breathe. He no longer remembered why he was unable to move his arms and legs, but he regretted being unable to play with himself when he felt so good.

  The door opened, and two soldiers wearing gas masks entered. One walked over to the desk and pinched the candle’s flame.

  No! Jake feared he would never experience such a perfect high again.

  The other soldier stood before Jake, aiming the machine gun at his face. Jake’s heart beat faster. The first soldier joined the one closest to him. They both looked down at him through the bulbous, insect-like goggles of the masks and spoke to each other in Spanish or French. Hell, it could have even been English. It was too muffled for his stoned ears to decipher. The soldier who had extinguished the candle reached down, and Jake tilted his head to see the restraints holding him in place. The soldier unfastened them and they fell away.

  That was nice of him, Jake thought.

  The soldier with the machine gun motioned for Jake to exit the room, but when Jake got off the bed he folded in half and struck the floor. Feeling no pain, he rolled over. The soldiers hauled him to his feet.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  They dragged him out of the room and into the hospital ward, where the open windows let hot air in and black smoke out. Dusk had settled over the palm trees outside the clinic. The soldiers peeled off their gas masks, revealing sweaty features. One was black, the other Hispanic.

  Ramona stood near an empty bed, watching him. As they passed her, she made the sign of the cross.

  Nice lady, he thought.

  The soldiers took him through a door and to a flight of cement stairs. Halfway down, they dumped him on a landing. His face and palms slapped cement, but he felt no pain. One soldier said something he didn’t understand, and the other laughed. They lifted him, pushed open a metal door, and guided him through an empty corridor to a set of glass doors. Two more soldiers guarded the entrance.

  The doors opened, and Jake felt fresh air on his face. An olive green military truck idled in the parking lot. The men dropped the vehicle’s gate, heaved Jake into the back of the truck, and secured shackles around his ankles.

  “Don’t try to climb out,” one of the soldiers said. “The truck will drag your face off.”

  Why would he try to climb out of the truck? He just wanted to enjoy this feeling, which he hoped would last forever. Listening to the truck doors close and the engine rumble, he closed his eyes and felt the vibrating metal.

  Russel gazed out at the night sky from the backseat of his limousine as his chauffeur drove through the security gates of Malvado’s palace. Half a dozen armed soldiers stood at attention, and many others patrolled the grounds.

  During his time on Pavot Island there had been a number of minor attacks on the government: a suicide bomber here, an IED there. In each instance, minor damage had been inflicted, and neither Malvado nor his sons had ever been in real danger. But Russel had developed a keen sense for trouble in nations such as this, and his gut told him trouble was brewing. Although Malvado had ruled the island for three decades, change was in the air, and Russel prided himself on sensing when the wind shifted direction.

  The limo drove up the long driveway, past elaborate gardens of tropical plants, colored rocks, and glowing fountains. Work lights illuminated the grounds and the palace, a hybrid of Versailles and the White House. The central portion of the château, which served as Malvado’s home, stood three stories high; the wings on the left and right, which extended from the main building at forty-five-degree angles, were two stories each. The right wing served as Malvado’s military center, while the left wing served as the parliamentary headquarters.

  The limo stopped at the military wing, and the chauffeur got out and opened the door for him. A staunch believer in rank, Russel did not acknowledge the driver. He crossed the walk and mounted the steps below the enormous Pavot Island flag. Two soldiers wearing red berets saluted him, and he returned the gesture as they opened the doors for him.

  Inside the great hall, two more soldiers offered salutes, and Russel signed in at the admittance counter. Glancing at the other names above his, he saw he was the last to
arrive, which caused a slight pang in his stomach. Punctuality was important to him, and Malvado might take his tardiness as a sign of disrespect. Like other dictators he had known, Malvado demanded respect at all times.

  Nearing another pair of armed soldiers, Russel straightened his tie. When they opened the grand door for him, he did not return their salute because he was too focused on organizing the information in his mind.

  Malvado sat at the head of the thick oval table in a chair that would have resembled a throne had a smaller man sat upon it.

  As usual, his sons, Maxime and Najac, sat at his left hand and his right hand. The brothers made Russel nervous these days. He recognized their hunger for more power and envisioned a scenario in which they assassinated Malvado and fought for the seat of control. Russel did not wish to get caught in a death dance between them, but he would be risking his own life to warn Malvado about the danger they posed.

  Malvado was no fool, and he told his sons he intended to retire one day so they might rule in his place, implying that Maxime, as the elder son, would become president and Najac vice president. Maxime seemed satisfied with this plan but impatient to see it implemented, while Najac remained silent on the matter. Russel had good reason to believe Najac had his eye on the top spot.

  Either way, he trusted neither son and saw no reason to believe they trusted him. Unfortunately, most of his money was tied up in the Pavot Island National Bank, and any effort to move it would arouse Malvado’s suspicion. He had been investing small sums very carefully, creating just enough of a fund to survive if he needed to flee the island but not enough to permit him the lifestyle to which he had become accustomed.

  The usual suspects sat around the table: Mambo Catoute, dressed in an elegant black dress, beside Maxime; General Buteau, who headed the military, beside Najac; and Colonel Solaine, the head of the police, beside him. The alliances were clear to Russel. Did Malvado see them?

  The dictator glared at Russel as he sat beside Mambo Catoute. “Thank you for joining us.”

  Russel felt the eyes of everyone but Mambo Catoute on him. “Forgive me, Your Excellency. I wanted to make sure our prisoner was in no condition to escape.”

  “Do you doubt the competence of our military and police?”

  General Buteau and Colonel Solaine stiffened.

  “Not at all,” Russel said. “But Helman has proven himself difficult before. His actions interfered with the plans of both Nicholas Tower and Seguera.”

  “Mambo Catoute administered the Black Magic, did she not?”

  “Yes.” Russel knew to answer Malvado’s questions directly without any maneuvering.

  “Then he is useless, except to work on my plantations.”

  Russel bowed his head. “So he is, Mr. President.”

  “What I want to know is where this woman is. William, please bring everyone up to speed.”

  Russel faced the others one at a time. “Her name is Maria Vasquez. She’s a police detective from New York City, just like Helman was before he became a private investigator. They were both partners with Edgar Hopkins, another police detective who disappeared last year. Vasquez and Hopkins investigated a series of murders by drug dealers during an epidemic of Black Magic.”

  Malvado shot Mambo Catoute a sharp look. “Where did that Magic come from?”

  “I don’t know,” Mambo Catoute said in a raspy voice that reminded Russel of a snake. “Someone else discovered the secret.”

  “How?”

  “I may be the high priestess here on Pavot, but don’t forget New York City and Miami are crawling with Houngans and Mambos from here and Haiti. The Creoles in Louisiana have their own churches.”

  Malvado turned to General Buteau. “I want the security around my plantations doubled. Tell the guards to shoot any trespassers.”

  Buteau nodded. “Yes, Mr. President. But—”

  “What?”

  “You told me you wanted the Americans taken alive. That’s why my men fired warning shots and rubber bullets until the woman reached the Black Forest.”

  “I do want her alive. I want to know why she and Helman are here. But I won’t risk my crops to satisfy my curiosity.”

  “She killed thirteen of my zonbies,” Mambo Catoute said.

  “You mean my father’s zonbies,” Maxime said.

  Mambo Catoute bowed. “Yes. Forgive my slip of the tongue.”

  Malvado turned to Colonel Solaine. “You’re unusually quiet.”

  Russel watched Solaine summon the courage to speak. He and Buteau often tried to blame each other for their failures. “I’ve circulated the woman’s photos and the drawing to my precincts. My men know what she looks like. But with the public in the dark …”

  Malvado smiled like a shark. “Are you questioning my methods?”

  “No, sir. Of course not.”

  “This woman is a foreigner. She’s been in the country for three days, yet none of you can find her. Someone is helping her. I want to know who.”

  Silence hung heavy in the room.

  “Mambo Catoute, why can’t you use your powers to track her down?”

  Catoute cast a fearful look at Russel, whose stomach tightened. “The hotel suite she shared with Helman was swept clean: carpets, floors, and furniture vacuumed, hairbrushes, clothing, and makeup taken, drains and toilet sanitized. The car they rented was clean, too.”

  “Who cleaned that suite?”

  “The staff did a general cleanup but not the thorough job I found,” Russel said. “Someone went into that room after the cleaner and before me.”

  “Without DNA, there’s nothing I can do,” Catoute said.

  Malvado rose. “Every one of you in this room will share responsibility if this putain escapes. She’s seen my crops and my slaves, and she knows we took Helman into custody. It’s one thing for peasants to go to the United States on a rubber raft; they go there as illegals and tell no one but their own kind about our activities here. It’s another thing entirely if an American policewoman tells the world what she witnessed. Until she’s apprehended or killed, I want Maxime to receive hourly progress reports on what you’re doing to resolve this situation.”

  Like children, they stared at the table while Malvado strode out of the room.

  TWENTY

  Mambo Catoute—born Puri Catoute seventy-one years earlier—made her way into the limo waiting outside the palace. Although she felt safe on the palace grounds, the chauffeur doubled as her bodyguard and drove her the quarter of a mile to the L’église du Serpent Noir. During the short drive, she paid little attention to the fountains and gardens that decorated the grounds.

  The chauffeur parked at the church—the largest on Pavot Island—and got out and opened her door. Sensing the man’s fear as he helped her out of the vehicle, she ignored him. She hobbled forward with the use of a cane, but her legs felt strong, her back firm. She couldn’t complain about her health considering her age. She had made more than one deal with a devil resulting in the finest lifestyle one could hope for on Pavot Island: luxurious living quarters, fine clothes, servants, and power. Catoute had helped Malvado seize control of Pavot, and he had rewarded her with a seat at his table.

  Inside the church, a tall man and a slender woman waited for her near the railing that overlooked the sunken worship hall. Catoute didn’t need to see their features to recognize Issagha, the top Houngan in her court, and Sivelia, Catoute’s granddaughter, whom she was training to one day succeed her. Catoute had known her servants would be waiting for her, anxious to hear any news of Malvado’s inner circle.

  They’re becoming too curious, she thought.

  Issagha wore a black African robe with white patterns, his hair in a slight afro. In his midfifties, he had served Catoute well, never overstepping his position and patiently rising in the ranks. Sivelia, twenty-two, was lithe and sexual, her wide eyes ever observant. Catoute had hoped her daughter, Pharah, would follow in her footsteps, but Pharah had refused to embrace the Church of the Black S
nake, so Catoute had taken her daughter’s daughter under her wing instead.

  “Mambo Catoute,” Issagha said with a slight bow, his voice echoing across the worship hall. An enormous chandelier hung suspended behind him, its candles casting long shadows over the stained glass that covered the windowless walls.

  “Is all well?” Sivelia said as Catoute approached them. She cradled a glass jar in one arm.

  Catoute narrowed one eye, an involuntary action that occurred with greater frequency. “Unexpected trouble. I need to pray for guidance.”

  Sivelia held out the jar, its deep red contents visible in the light. “As you ordered, Grand-mère”.

  Catoute wrapped her gnarled free hand around the jar. “I can always count on you, child.” But could she? As a true child, Sivelia had been loving and obedient and as a new woman had been anxious to please Catoute. Now she seemed only anxious to learn everything Catoute knew. Too fast, too fast.

  “May I pray with you?”

  “Thank you, girl, but no. I must be alone with my thoughts if Kalfu is to help me. I’ll see you both in the morning. Return to your rooms.”

  “As you wish.”

  Issagha bowed again.

  Descending the knotty pine stairs that divided the rows of wooden pews forming a hexagonal pattern, Catoute listened for whispering by her underlings but heard none. They lived in the church, which served as a center for studying vodou and living quarters for the top practitioners of the dark arts on Pavot Island. Between the domed ceiling and the sunken theater, the hall resembled the inside of a sphere. Her footsteps echoed as she reached the glossy wooden floor and passed the pulpit from which she addressed her followers during prayer sessions.

  At the opposite end of the floor, she opened a wide-paneled door and descended a curved stairway to a subterranean level illuminated by conventional lights. Passing her office and the restrooms, she stopped at a black door that she unlocked with a long skeleton key.