Angels of Maradona

by Glen Carter

  The floor erupted beneath Doyle’s feet. He was suddenly weightless, in a world without gravity as he collided with the ceiling. His head struck with a crack that shuddered through his body. Falling now. A lifeless sack striking the floor. A sulphur breath was punched from his lungs and consciousness dissolved to the prologue of a dreamless night where light and sound did not exist.

  Doyle had no idea how long he was out. His eyes opened to complete darkness. The air tasted thickly of dust as well as gaseous vapours that seemed on the verge of combustion. Instinctively he shuddered at the new terror. Jack coughed through a blockage in his throat, reached weakly to his head where he felt something warm and wet. No pain. Yet. His face was pressed against something cold, something that might have been cement or stone. Human sounds began to reach him. Moaning. A cacophony of life’s final seconds. Doyle commanded movement but felt none. He surrendered to a paralysis that he prayed was the imperative of his mind, and not his body.

  Eyes closed as if upon sleep. Thunder rolled across an imaginary darkening landscape. Shutters slammed on the rogue winds of a perfect storm. Not yet. Jesus, not yet. Kait…

  It was his last conscious thought.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Doyle came awake as blank as a starless sky, a canvas that depicted nothing but his thickening confusion. Time was indefinable, with no discernable difference between days and decades. He was prone and tightly wrapped, bringing him warmth and comfort. There were the sterile odours of a hospital room, the feel of soft bandages, a mélange of heedless voices, a two-fingered jab into the vein that throbbed in his neck. Cold hard fingers.

  Desperate now to open his eyes, he could not. Someone had glued them shut. Something was being strapped around his arm, squeezing, pumping. The airy swish of a bellows. The pressure faded in a long mechanical sigh. More muffled voices. He tried to talk, but the words were stillborn inside his chest. When he was finally able to open his eyes, pry them free of swollen skin, an apparition spoke to him.

  “Buenos dias,” it said. Fuzzy and bobbing. The smiley face on a party balloon. Coming closer. “I’m Doctor Estrada. How are you feeling?”

  Without his patient’s response, Estrada swept a tiny light across Doyle’s eyes. “Momento,” he said, stretching an eyelid until it hurt. Jack grunted his discomfort and a couple of silent seconds later the light winked away.

  “Good news,” Estrada reported. “Your reflexes are healthy. But we’ll need another CAT scan to confirm that there is no brain damage.” He patted Jack’s arm. “You’ll live.” Estrada then handed his clipboard to the nurse next to him. “Analgesico?”

  “Si, doctor,” she replied.

  Everything was hazy, like the world was layered with petroleum jelly. Everything in soft focus, undefined. The doctor was thin. The nurse had long dark hair. The room contained one bed. Sunshine through light-coloured curtains. That was it. Jack’s head hurt. He brought his tongue forward between slippery lips, tasted an ointment of some kind and swallowed. His hand moved weakly at his side. He wanted to say something.

  It took a full minute before Estrada understood. He lowered his face. “More painkiller?”

  “Kaitlin.” It was all Jack could say, the name trailing off on the ghost of a breath. Nothing. Silence. Like he’d just shouted an obscenity in church. Jack knew then. He had survived. Kaitlin hadn’t.

  He didn’t open his eyes again for a full day, swirled in and out of consciousness. Demerol brought him silky comfort, and when reality shouldered forward he simply summoned a nurse and rolled over to signal his need for more dope. Two days later, when Jack awakened, a man was standing in his room. He said he was from the American embassy in Bogotá. His name was Braxton. Neil or Norman, Jack wasn’t sure which. He was a tall man with an angular face and closely cropped military hair. He seemed out of sorts in a dull grey suit even though it fit like a uniform. He looked at Jack – a general without his armies.

  Braxton asked Jack how he was feeling and stood at the foot of his bed as emotionless as a lobotomy patient. He dropped a large envelope near Jack’s feet. “E-mails,” he said, and then walked stiffly to the window. Jack looked past him, to the heat waves rising from terra cotta rooftops, the silver and glass highrises spiking into blue sky. “Thanks,” he whispered hoarsely.

  “No worries,” Braxton replied. He poured a glass of water and held it out. Jack took it and maneuvered it carefully to his lips. “Your boss, Walter Carmichael, will be arriving tonight,” Braxton said matter-offactly. “He’ll be taking you home and making whatever arrangements need to be made.”

  Jack already knew that, and he wasn’t looking forward to Carmichael’s arrival. One of his producers was missing and they feared the worst. He’d make sure Jack was fine and then – in punishment for his insubordination – he’s strip the flesh from his bones. A velvet cushion covered in thorns.

  Jack couldn’t figure out what Braxton wanted – exactly. Any low level embassy staffer could have dropped off the e-mails, so Jack guessed Braxton was CIA – Station Bogotá, or maybe DEA. One thing for sure, he didn’t appear the type for small talk. Jack watched him for a moment, and then asked the question he was hoping Braxton could answer. “What about the woman I was with?”

  Braxton turned his back. “You remember a couple of years ago… that night club bombing? Three hundred and thirty pounds of explosives. Ka-boom. Thirty-three people dead.” Braxton’s bedside manner was as bleak as his suit.

  Jack remembered the attack and wondered where Braxton was headed.

  After a moment Braxton continued, turning to stare at Jack’s face.

  “Never found half the victims.”

  “I remember,” Jack said. “So?”

  “We figure Café Umbria was a much bigger load. Four hundred pounds, maybe more.” Braxton stopped a second to let that sink in. “They haven’t found all the bodies yet. The ones we did find are so badly–” Braxton stopped. “We don’t know yet whether we can separate the DNA from the woodwork.”

  “Jesus,” Jack muttered to himself.

  “Yeah. Jesus is right.” Braxton folded his arms, continued. “The Colombians should be really good at this stuff by now, but they’re still rank amateurs. We offer our help and they take it. But what’s the point really?”

  Jack shut his eyes while Braxton returned to his place at the window. For a full minute neither of them spoke. Jack looked to see whether Braxton had disappeared out the window.

  A nurse poked her head in the door to check on her patient. Braxton smiled and said something in Spanish. The nurse walked in and poured two pills into Jack’s hand which he promptly swallowed.

  “The justice minister walked in shortly before it happened,” Jack croaked. “I remember that.”

  “He’s dead, along with his wife and kid,” Braxton replied, waiting for the nurse to leave. “Amillo should never have been there in the first place, but he’s…was a stubborn sonofabitch. He brought his family. Can you believe that? The man was out to prove he wouldn’t be intimidated and in the process they all get wiped out.” Braxton looked over his shoulder. “You’re a sonofabitch too, Doyle, a lucky one. Lucky you sat where you did, right next to a thick load-bearing cement wall. It’s the only thing still standing by the way.”

  “Yeah. Lucky me,” Jack said quietly. “Who’s taking credit for the bombing?”

  Braxton turned to face him. Arms straight against his sides. “No one yet, and that’s the problem. There are so many players here it’s impossible to tell. We know why. Amillo was the biggest target in Colombia. We warned him – he blew us off.” Braxton shook his head. “The who? We don’t know yet. But it’s an easy guess.” The CIA man walked closer to Jack’s bed and looked down at him. Hard eyes, a shade of green like the fungus Jack once found in the bilge of his sailboat. “The most likely culprit is FARC,” Braxton said. “Revolutionary Armed Forces of–”

  “I know who they are,” Jack interrupted.

  “Right,” Braxton said. “Anyway, Amillo w
as on our side. He was spearheading support for the extradition treaty and right now, as you now, the White House is chomping at the bit for that little bit of paperwork.”

  “And spearheading his credentials for a run at the presidency,” Jack added.

  “It was looking that way,” Braxton said. “Too bad for him and too bad for us.” Braxton wandered over to a vase of flowers on a table at the foot of Jack’s bed, studied one of the blooms like it was some kind of alien creature. “Coming here was a bad idea, Doyle. Embassy staff are being sent home. Christ, even the DEA is evacuating non-essential personnel. It’s not a real safe place to be right now.”

  Jack shook his head. “I took precautions.”

  Braxton chuckled. “What they’re saying back home is you’re a renegade who takes chances.”

  “Who’re they?”

  “Some of your friends,” Braxton replied. “You’re big news. They were talking about you on CNN last night. One of those panel discussions where the reporters get to say what they really think. They really think you’re a junkie for the bang-bang. Afghanistan, Sri Lanka, Iraq. I know the feeling. Been there. Done that too. Usually in the company of soldiers with guns and stuff to make sure everyone comes home.”

  Doyle cringed. “You’re saying I fucked up.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Braxton replied. “They did.”

  Doyle looked away.

  “Anyway, sorry about your producer. Too bad she won’t be going home.”

  The condolence washed over him, a wave tugging at his lifeless body. He wanted this guy to leave now.

  “She was Colombian?” Braxton moved closer and sat down. Rigid in his chair like an interrogator. Creases in his pants sharp enough to cut bread.

  “Born here,” Jack replied without looking at him.

  “Some homecoming,” Braxton continued, like he hadn’t heard him. The CIA spook reached inside his jacket to adjust the Glock nine mil Jack was certain was holstered there. “But the good news is you’ll survive,” he said.

  “Great news.” Jack felt woozy. His tongue a sponge. The painkiller was kicking in and he wanted Braxton to leave.

  It didn’t take long for Braxton to get the message. He told Jack the FBI would want to interview him and that he was to get out of Colombia as quickly as he could. Braxton looked down at him. “Listen to me on that, Doyle,” he said. “Leave and don’t come back.”

  For a moment Jack was sure there were two Braxtons. Strong stuff, he thought, as the CIA man walked out of the room.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  He had called her Angelica. A name that might have implied sweetness and light beneath gossamer wings, a spiritual being or Renaissance messenger. She couldn’t say whether she was any of these things, but Angelica was what the old man had called her, so that must have been her name. She quietly repeated it, allowed it to roll across her tongue to taste it for familiarity. Though she found none in Angelica.

  It was the only word he had spoken when she shuffled into the room, barefoot on floorboards that were split and cracked, worn with what appeared to be decades of dirt.

  Angelica was not a name for the dispassionate, or uncaring. She knew little else, but she was sure of that. She had no idea who he was, but for the moment he didn’t appear to mean her any harm. There wasn’t much she did know, except for what she saw.

  He was small, a life-sized knobby wooden sculpture in an old checkered shirt and colourless pants, clutching a straw hat with his large brown fingers. His feet were covered with ratty leather sandals, his toes a collection of bony spurs, their nails black from injury or neglect. The old man had shoulder-length silver hair that was tied back tightly, revealing a bald crown the colour of mocha. He looked at her with eyes that were black as tar, sunken beneath thick bony brows. Ravens perched in the shadow of a rocky ledge. Those eyes followed her as she stepped into the room.

  “Angelica,” he repeated with the hint of a smile.

  She shuffled farther into the room until dizziness forced her to a chair beside a large stone fireplace.

  Angelica.

  A rhythmic throbbing at the back of her skull clawed its way forward and blurred her vision. She rubbed her head, waited for the pain to settle. She had awakened wearing a simple cotton dress with swirls of red and yellow. Odd and ill-fitting. She had no recollection of it, no memory of dressing in it. She looked at the old man, her face a question.

  He dropped his stare to the dusty floor, redness blooming in his sunken cheeks, muttering quietly. Angelica wondered how she’d gotten dressed. And about the man.

  She locked arms across her breasts and shivered even though the room was stifling. It wasn’t much of a house – just a shack really. There was a plain door, with a small open hole where the door knob should have been. A piece of rope kept the door shut. Two small windows revealed little beyond the hewn wooden walls. She heard dogs barking outside in the distance.

  He continued to stare at her, casually loosing a dark glob that landed with a thud in a bucket next to his feet.

  Angelica averted her eyes.

  There were other rooms, a couple of closed doors that might have been a bathroom and another bedroom. The kitchen was a mess with heaps of soiled dishes and the detritus of half-eaten meals. A cracked enamel stove had one burner. A huge porcelain bowl served as a sink, and assorted bottles containing unidentifiable substances were lined up like ragged soldiers in a lost war. Angelica covered her nose as if just becoming aware of the stench. Too many smells to identify, the heaviest being an indescribable rot.

  Her arms and hands were covered in dirt and soot and lined with fine rivulets of dried blood. She became aware of a dull ache in her legs and carefully she drew the thin fabric of her dress above her knees, revealing tiny scabbed scratches.

  The old man thrust balled fists into the air. His eyes flared as he barked.

  Angelica struggled to understand. She struggled to find her voice. “Who are you?” she finally whispered, sampling the sound that came out of her. “Where am I?”

  The old man cocked his head, eyes narrowing in a face that gave nothing away in his intentions.

  Angelica showed him her hands, motioned towards her badly bruised legs. “Did you do this?”

  The old man’s expression flashed with mortification. “iDios mio! iDios mio. No, senora. No!” Gnarled fingers cleaved the air in front of his heavily lined face. “No, senora.” His breathing quickened and the old man tightened his grip on the straw hat, like it might sprout wings and abandon him. “No, senora. iDios mio.”

  “iDios mio,” Angelica repeated to herself. She understood. How was that possible? She rubbed at the pain in her head, moaned in exasperation. How was it she knew simple Spanish, but had no idea who she was, or where? She wiped at tears that seemed to be bleeding from her throbbing head and realized for the first time since walking into the room that her mind was utterly blank. Nothing. Simply vacant. Her hands shook as she rubbed the point on her skull where the pain seemed to be digging in. Thinking made it hurt more. Blackness filled her mind, a void as deep as space. Angelica looked to the old man, saw pity forming in his face. The tears rolled down her cheeks, falling to the floor where they created tiny impact craters in the dust.

  It might have been the horrible headache playing tricks with her ears. She wasn’t sure. But she thought she heard a voice in the other room. A muffled cry, weak and plaintive behind the closed door. The voice called out again. A name…Kaitlin. But it had no meaning to Angelica.

  Angelica was going to faint. Whatever it was the old man had brewed for her was making her feel a lot better, but lightheaded. When Angelica stood she’d had to steady herself against the chair.

  “Take it slow, little one,” the old man said to her in Spanish. “Finish your tea. It’ll make you well again.” He’d said nothing when the voice called out from behind the closed door. Just got up to prepare his concoction.

  “I’d better sit,” she whispered, feeling slightly foolish as she collapsed
into the chair. It took a moment before the lightheadedness went away. Angelica looked at the steaming cup suspiciously as she brought it to her lips and swallowed again.

  Even though he was busy with something in the kitchen, Angelica saw the old man was keeping a watch on the closed door. Worry etched across his face. Angelica wanted him to sit, to explain things. At least to tell her his name. The better she felt, the more urgent it became, the more she needed to know. Who am I? Where do I belong? How did I get here? She was vacant, unable to recognize the house or the old man who was wiping brown gnarled hands with a dirty dishcloth. He walked to his chair and sat down again, gave her an understanding smile. “We’re not used to having company,” he said. “You were a surprise to us. A very nice surprise, I might add. How are you feeling?”

  Angelica stared into her cup and replied in Spanish, “Whatever you gave me seems to be working.”

  “It’s an old recipe,” he offered.

  Angelica nodded. It was crazy to be talking about the tea. “Who am I?” The old man leaned forward as concentration furrowed his brow. He waited a moment before speaking. “The explosion,” he said, pausing. “So many were killed. You were spared.”

  Angelica had no idea what he was talking about. Explosion? So many killed? What did he mean?

  The old man sat back in his chair without taking his eyes off her. “Truly an angel,” he said softly, “like your name.”

  Angelica’s headache had disappeared, though the lightheaded feeling was coming back. She decided she’d had enough of his cure. “Where am I?” she asked, trying to keep panic from her voice.

  “You don’t know,” the old man said. A statement. “Of course – no.”