Castro Directive

by Mertz, Stephen

  Redington nodded to Elise, and she started the recorder. "I want you to breathe deeply, count to five as you take in a long, slow breath through your nose, then count to five again as you exhale through your mouth."

  Pierce closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. All traces of Redington's gruffness disappeared. His voice was soothing, like the sound of water in a brook, as it directed him to relax his muscles and skin, starting from the top of his head and working down. Slowly the tension drained from his body.

  He was so at ease that he was hovering on the border of sleep when Redington told him to imagine his body expanding like a balloon. "You're getting lighter and lighter, and you're starting to float. It's a pleasant sensation as you float up through the ceiling and above the house. Glide for a moment slowly over the trees and look around. What do you see?"

  He felt light-headed, and envisioned himself looking down on Elise's gabled roof. Beyond it he could see the house across the street where the nosy old lady lived. The sun was low in the sky and the trees and houses were casting long shadows. But it was just his imagination. He was creating it, not really seeing it, so he didn't say anything.

  "Just tell me whatever comes into your head. Some people see images, and for others it's more like thoughts.

  "I see the roofs of the houses."

  "Good. Keep going now, higher and higher until you can see all of Miami and the ocean below you. It's beautiful, isn't it?"

  Pierce nodded.

  "Now you're going even higher. . . . Up, up . . . Past the clouds, away from the earth. You're entering a place that's bright as day and you can see clearly around you. You're on a flat plain that's white and fluffy, and your body is normal again. Your feet sink a little into the soft substance, but you can walk.

  "Look out over the plain. In the distance, there's a blue dome, and you're moving toward it. Tell me when you reach it."

  Pierce imagined himself walking toward a cerulean dome, his feet kicking up the soft powder below them. It was as if he were walking through sparkling, dry snow, but there was no resistance or coolness to the stuff. He saw himself reaching a massive, seamless dome.

  "Okay."

  "Place your hands on the walls, and as you do so a doorway opens for you. Step inside. You're in a foyer with a high ceiling now, and before you is a very special elevator. You can go into it whenever you like. There's nothing to fear in this elevator."

  Oddly, he not only saw the foyer, but aspects of it that Redington hadn't described. The walls were gold colored, and gold pipes like those of an organ hung down over his head. The exterior of the elevator was immense; golden lines curved over the door. It make him think of a gigantic old jukebox, and now the door was opening. He took a breath, let it out, and stepped inside.

  Redington's voice was gentle and soothing as he continued describing the scene. The elevator was large, airy, and well lit. He was comfortable inside it. The door closed and he felt movement.

  He was directed to look above the door, and was told he'd see the number ten. But instead he saw four numbers: 1987.

  "Now as I count backward, you'll see the numbers changing until we reach number one. Then the elevator will stop and you will have returned to the day when you were temporarily stuck in an elevator with Raymond Andrews. Ten . . . nine . . . eight . ."

  He listened to Redington, but the numbers he saw were moving backward faster than Redington's count, and he knew they were years.

  "Seven . . . six . . . What you see will be your own impressions. My words will guide you, but won't alter your perception of any past events. You are in control. Five. four. . . This experience will not only help you overcome your fear about elevators from this time on, but will also help you to clarify your feelings about Raymond. Three. two . . . one."

  Even before Redington reached the last digit, Pierce saw the number 1969 above the elevator and felt a sense of apprehension. The elevator was small and cramped. Like it had always been. It was as if he were waking up and realizing where he was.

  He forced himself to focus on his surroundings. Andrews was standing across from him. He was younger, and his hair was longer. He seemed tense, as if Pierce had just said something he didn't like. "Nicholas, the Colombians are counting on your help. If you don't go back to Santa Marta, you could be in real danger. Things are starting to get rougher, you know."

  "I'll be in danger, but not you, Ray. Right?"

  Andrews grinned and gritted his teeth. "That's right, buddy. It's your neck."

  "Like hell." Pierce took a step forward and slammed his fist into his roommate's mouth. Andrews stumbled back and grabbed his jaw.

  "What do you see?"

  The words seemed to come out of nowhere. He was confused a moment, then realized the voice was Redington's. "I hit him."

  Andrews wiped the blood from his mouth. His lower lip was split, and he was simmering with anger. "You're fucking crazy, Pierce."

  "What's going on now?" Redington asked.

  Andrews suddenly rushed him, grabbed him by the shoulders, and slammed his head against the elevator wall. Pierce slumped to the floor, slipping from consciousness. "And don't think you're getting off that easy. Nobody hits me and gets away with it."

  He heard Andrews's voice, but at the same time he was looking past him to the numbers above the door. "We're moving. The numbers are changing."

  "The elevator is moving?" Redington asked.

  Pierce was confused. "It's not the elevator that's moving. The numbers, they're . . . I can't read them. They're moving too fast."

  "What do the numbers mean to you?" Redington asked. "They're not floors, they're years."

  "Okay. Keep watching them. Tell me when they stop."

  "They're slowing," Pierce said. "I don't know if it's a year. It stopped at one . . . two . . . eight . . . zero."

  "Twelve eighty. The year 1280?"

  For a moment, he didn't speak. When he did, his words were slow, his voice a monotone. "Ray's not here anymore."

  "Where is he?"

  "Don't know. Gone."

  "That's okay. What do you see?"

  "The door's opening." He took a deep breath, exhaled. He knew he was lying on the couch and his eyes were moving rapidly under their closed lids. But at the same time, he felt himself stepping out of the elevator. "I see a forest. Very green. And mountains. There's a trail ahead of me."

  "Where does it lead?"

  Instantly he knew. . . and was there. "To a thatched hut. There's a woman sitting in front of it on the ground, doing something, and a child nearby."

  "What's the woman look like?"

  "She has brown skin, long black hair. She's wearing some sort of loose clothing like a dress. She's fat. . . hmm, maybe pregnant."

  "Who is she?"

  "I don't—she's . . . I think she's my wife."

  "Look down at your feet. What do you see?"

  "I'm wearing leather sandals. My feet are brown."

  "Step away from yourself. You can do that. Look at yourself. What do you see?"

  It was a dream, but not a dream because he was awake. He described a man with thick black hair, high cheekbones, dark eyes. He was muscular, short, brown skinned.

  "What are you wearing?"

  "White cotton pants. Thick, raw cotton. They reach about to the middle of my calves. I'm wearing ,a loose cotton tunic that goes down to the middle of my thighs."

  "What is your name?"

  He thought a moment. "Atlan."

  "Okay, what is the significance of this time for you?" He answered without hesitating. "I have an aim."

  "You mean like a goal, an objective?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay. Go now to the time when you're attempting to achieve that aim. . . . What do you see?"

  "Candles in a cavern. Men are seated in a circle, and I can see myself. I'm lying on my stomach in the center of the circle. But I also see myself floating above everyone."

  "Now what?"

  "The two bodies are toge
ther. My breathing is fast."

  "Are you sick?"

  "No, I am happy. Very happy. I have returned from the underworld. I am alive, and I have it."

  "What do you have?"

  Atlan rolled over on his back, and he was clutching something. He grasped it in his hands, held it up. The eyes of several men around him seemed to grow large in the flickering candlelight. They muttered their approval.

  "The God of Death. I've captured it from the enemy."

  "What does the God of Death look like?"

  "Crystal skull."

  "Is this important?"

  "No one who has tried to get the sacred skull has returned. Now the God of Death will protect us from our enemies."

  "How did you get the skull?"

  "By the changing."

  "What is that?"

  "You take the drink and change so you can travel far and fast."

  "What do you do with the skull?"

  "I take it to the Old One."

  "Who is he?"

  "Man of power. He guides us. He makes the drink."

  "What does the man look like?"

  "Lots of wrinkles. Sharp eyes that watch everything."

  "What else do you know about him?"

  "I don't. . . I'm not supposed to know."

  "It's okay now to know."

  "I think I am more powerful than he is. I have brought back the sacred skull."

  "What else do you know?"

  He thought a moment. "No one can be stronger than him. He will try to kill me."

  "Look closely at his face again. Is he anyone you know in this lifetime?"

  Pierce gazed into the eyes of the old sorcerer who was holding the crystal skull in his hands. Candlelight flickered across his face. He thought of Redington. It didn't fit. Elise, no, they weren't her eyes, either. Then he knew. He could see the two faces melding.

  "Yes. It's Andrews."

  Chapter 26

  A black-lacquered coffin gleamed under the bright lights. The top was open, and people were leaving their seats in the chapel to walk by it. Pierce didn't get up; he wanted to remember Fuego alive. So he sat in the pew, conjuring memories, pulling them out like a magician plucking doves from a top hat.

  Now and then, he glanced around, astonished by the number of people in the chapel. Fuego had seemed like a loner—a man with contacts, but not a congregation of friends. Several wore police uniforms; others paying their last respects looked like underworld types. It was an odd and somehow fitting combination. He spotted Carver and Bellinger across the aisle and nodded as Carver's gaze slid to the side and fixed on him.

  There was also a host of Hispanics, from toddlers to octogenarians. Family members: He recognized several of them, including a couple of Tina's sisters and Tia Juana, who was also Fuego's aunt. She wore a black veil and several strings of red and black beads.

  He glimpsed the figure of a woman dressed in black walking up the aisle. Even from the rear and with her raven hair piled on her head, there was no mistaking Tina's petite figure. She paused at the casket, then returned down the aisle, her eyes glistening with tears. She stared straight ahead until she was a couple of rows in front of him. Her eyes shifted, settled on him. Then she was past him.

  The service began, and the minister murmured the expected aphorisms—that death was a new beginning and not the end, and God in His infinite wisdom had chosen to take Felix Ferraro from his friends and family. Such bland confidence would not be Pierce's lot. Fuego was dead, and he was going to find out who was behind it; that was all he felt. The minister, who most likely didn't know Fuego, was making his death sound like justified homicide: God needed his servant elsewhere.

  That was about par with the reality of his hypnotic regression. It had the mark of a dream, melding recent events and circumstances in his life into an outrageous fantasy. After it was over, he'd told Redington and Elise that he'd found the experience interesting, but didn't know what it meant, except that he had a fertile imagination.

  Redington, naturally, had analyzed it symbolically, suggesting that the cave represented his unconscious mind, and the skull stood for the wisdom and answers he was seeking. "But your search is fettered by the old sorcerer who is symbolic of your feelings about Andrews."

  "But what happened in the elevator?"

  "You were probably so sure that Andrews would retaliate against you for striking him that you blocked out the incident. When you woke up, you didn't remember what had happened."

  "I don't even remember having a sore head, but I must have had at least a lump."

  "Again, you didn't want to know about it."

  Elise's interpretation was somewhat more esoteric—that the regression could be an actual recollection of a past life. Redington's response to that was a shrug.

  "You can call it that if you like." He'd glanced at Pierce. But it's the symbolism—not whether it was or was not an actual past life—that was important. Working for Raymond seemed like it was to your benefit. But the story you told revealed that you know you've been playing right into his hands."

  "But there's another message, too, Nick," Elise had said. "You found you're stronger than he is, and that you can overcome him."

  He wasn't so sure about that. Nothing in the experience had indicated that the Indian, Atlan, had overcome the sorcerer. And he wasn't so sure that Redington hadn't pressed him into identifying the sorcerer as Andrews. Sure, the eyes did seem to match, but wasn't it possible that his subconscious mind had created what he knew Redington and Elise wanted him to see? This morning he'd played the tape, and listened closely. But he was no wiser. He didn't know; he wasn't ready to pass judgment.

  A shrill wail shattered Pierce's ruminations, and he glanced over to see several people pressing around a matronly woman who sat near Tia Juana. Probably Fuego's mother, he thought. She was still weeping softly when, a few minutes later, the minister brought the service to a close.

  Pierce remained seated while a clutch of people surrounding the woman passed by. Suddenly Tia Juana was standing next to him. "Take this, Nicholas. Es para su proteccion." She pressed something into his hand and moved away. As he stood and joined the flow of people filing out of the chapel, he looked down and saw that she'd handed him a tiny white cloth bag that was tied with a red thread at the top. The bag was light and probably filled with dried herbs.

  He dropped it into his coat pocket and looked for Tina. He wanted to tell her how sorry he was about Fuego, but he didn't see her. He'd reached the lobby when he felt a finger poke him in the back. He turned, expecting to see Tina. Instead, he stared at Morris Carver's thick neck. He raised his eyes until he met the detective's stare.

  "I want to talk to you. Outside."

  Pierce nodded and worked his way through the crowd.

  Carver followed him onto the lawn, away from the clusters forming in front of the chapel. Bellinger was close behind him.

  Carver loosened the knot in his tie. He looked hot and uncomfortable in his black suit, while Bellinger seemed as at ease as always in the dark blue one he wore. "Did you know that customs has a file on your boss?"

  "On who?"

  "Andrews."

  "No. I didn't."

  Carver took out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. "It's got some interesting stuff about his past. Apparently, he was a fairly big drug dealer back in his college days."

  He waited a beat, eyeing Pierce intently. "Funny thing, your name is there, too, as an associate."

  "That's bullshit. We were roommates, not associates. I was a college student." Not exactly the full truth, but he was having enough trouble with the present, and wasn't about to launch into ancient history.

  "He's just telling you what's in the file," Bellinger said.

  He looked at Carver, who'd taken a step closer. "If they knew so much about Ray Andrews, why wasn't he ever arrested?"

  "Because, Mr. Pierce, he was working undercover for the feds. Did you know that?"

&nb
sp; Pierce moved back as Carver's face loomed inches from his. He saw Tina standing near the front of the church, watching him. "No I didn't know."

  "Your old roommate played quite a part in the collapse of the Santa Marta pot business. Made it so rough that the business moved from those Colombian mountains to California almost overnight."

  "I don't know anything about it."

  "Now you do," Bellinger said and grinned.

  Pierce shrugged and glanced past the detectives again.

  Tina was no longer in front of the chapel. "So what's that got to do with anything?"

  "That's just a prelude, Mr. Pierce. Tropic Air, your boss's airline, is under investigation for the importation of cocaine in its cargo hold."

  "What else is new? Cocaine has been smuggled aboard every commercial line that flies to South America."

  "Yeah," Carver said, dabbing at his forehead again. "But this time they've found a direct link between Raymond Andrews and a certain corrupt federal prosecutor who happens to be buddies with him."

  "What's this got to do with me?"

  "Just this: The bad guy is Steve Simms. Recognize that name?"

  "What?" Pierce said.

  "Yeah, you can imagine the implications," Bellinger said.

  That, in fact, was exactly what Pierce was doing. "Then I would guess he was the one Loften hired to set up Andrews. A prosecutor, not a cop."

  "Bingo! My guess, too. Loften made a poor choice of partners," Carver said.

  "Sorry, Nick." Bellinger grinned. "It wasn't me. I know you were thinking as much."

  "My mistake. When are they going to make arrests?" Pierce asked.

  "When they think their case is solid, but we're not waiting for customs to move," Carver said. "We've got our own case. We're watching both of them."

  "Can't you arrest them?"

  "Not yet. Only reason I'm telling you about it is that I owe you one for locking you up. I wasn't convinced by Redington's story until we found a teaching assistant in the Sociology Department on the second floor of the building who identified your picture. He was the one you bumped into on the back stairway, and he knew the exact time when he left his office."

  Pierce nodded, relieved, but worried.