Brandon hastily swallowed his mouthful of scrambled eggs and attempted to rise. “Glad to meet you,” he managed.
“No, no, please sit, I insist,” Paige said. The partners pulled out chairs and did so as well. Paige signaled a waitress and shouted across the nearly empty room, “Coffees, Brenda . . . please, dear girl.” Brandon noticed Fuentes wincing at the larger man’s volume.
Paige surveyed Brandon’s plate with scepticism. “You did not have the chef prepare you one of our delicious omelets?” He shook his great head sadly. “That is a shame . . . a great shame. You are really missing out, I assure you.”
“Yes, I’ve heard the food here is good,” Brandon lied, then added, when he saw Paige’s dark face crease in disappointment, “excellent, actually . . . Julia wrote and told me.”
Paige’s smile grew in wattage, then dimmed by degrees as the name of the dead girl floated, ghostlike, between them all. Brandon thought the sallow Fuentes appeared to grow queasy, though whether it was over the conjured name or perhaps from his previous evening’s drinking, he could not know. The coffees appeared at the men’s elbows.
“Oh dear,” Paige intoned. “Yes, that poor girl.” He stirred several spoonfuls of brown sugar dispiritedly into his cup. “We’ve never had anything like that happen here before,” he assured Brandon.
Brandon noticed Fuentes cross himself and whisper, “ Madre de Dios .” When he saw that Brandon was watching him, he smiled in a sickly manner and said in perfect English, “My wife and I pray for her, Mr. Highsmith. We have lit candles in our church for her soul; perhaps it will help.”
“Help?” Brandon asked. “What do you mean?”
Paige looked down on his diminutive partner as if he were contemplating knocking him over. “Suicide,” Fuentes murmured, “it’s a bad thing, is it not . . . the sin of despair?”
“What do you mean?” Brandon repeated a little more loudly. A middle-aged couple several tables over glanced nervously at them and then hastily away again.
“Her soul,” Fuentes continued, oblivious to the heat in Brandon’s voice. “It is lost to God. Was she Catholic?” he inquired gently.
“Drink your coffee and be quiet, man,” Paige calmly commanded Fuentes. “You are upsetting our guest.”
Brandon recalled drops of water, cold and unexpected, splashing his face as the priest blessed the coffin that concealed his lover. “Yes,” he whispered, “she was a Catholic.”
“Well,” Fuentes continued, as unaware of his partner’s disapproval as he was of the depth of Brandon’s feelings, “there are exceptions, of course—insanity . . . an altered state of consciousness . . . the Church understands these things.” He rose unsteadily to his feet and said, “I’ll be back presently. Please continue in my absence.” Brandon watched the disheveled little man shuffle off towards the far end of the restaurant, his pace picking up as he drew near the double doors that concealed the bar.
Brandon turned back to find Paige regarding him solemnly, small beads of sweat dewing his hairline. “Do forgive him,” he said. “He is not a well man and this . . . this business . . . Ms. Catesby, I mean, has upset him very much. It has upset us all, of course; you as well, I suspect.”
“Yes,” Brandon admitted. “Yes, it has.”
“Did you know the young woman well?” Paige asked.
Brandon hesitated, stirring his forgotten eggs with his fork. He hadn’t known her, he thought; hardly at all, he realized now. “Did she seem unhappy here?” he asked in return, evading Paige’s question.
“No, not at all,” Paige boomed once more. “Quite the contrary. She appeared very interested in our resort here . . . our culture, as well . . . very inquisitive. No one could have been more surprised than me.”
Outside, Brandon saw a huge frigate bird lofting in the thermals made by the rapidly heating beach. It hung in the air like a kite over the few sunbathers who languished beneath it, rocking to and fro with the feigned indifference of the predator. “Someone was bothering her at night, Mr. Paige . . . someone kept coming to her door. Were the police told of this?”
“Please call me Claudell,” Paige responded. “Oh yes, of course I heard of her complaint and we did look into it. I had the security guard posted just yards from her door. But it was to no avail. The following morning she complained of someone knocking at her door once again. My man saw nothing.” He let this last piece of news hang between them for a few moments. “He’s a very reliable man . . . Brandon, isn’t it? May I call you Brandon?”
“Yes,” Brandon agreed. “Was there any other way to her door?”
Paige regarded the younger man for a moment. “Brandon, if you look out you will notice that we rake the sand each evening.” He made a sweeping gesture meant to include the entire grounds. “Whenever anyone strays from the walkways they must leave behind their prints . . . yes? My security man placed his chair on the walkway that led to Ms. Catesby’s door and saw nothing. But, even had he fallen asleep, the . . . visitor, shall we say, could not have passed him without stepping into the sands. So you see, unless our culprit is an angel . . . or a ghost, he must have left footprints in his wake.”
“Then what did happen?” Brandon asked hoarsely.
“Why did anything have to happen?” Paige replied, sitting up a little taller. “She did what she did, and I must say, Brandon, that she did us little good in the act. Have you considered that? It is clear to me that you have considerable feeling for the young woman and I am wondering now why you have come here. Can we expect you to be objective about us, Mr. Highsmith? Will we receive a ‘fair shake,’ as you say in the States, with your investors? We had nothing to do with this young woman’s death.”
Fuentes stumbled out from the bar, righted himself, and then set his sights for their table. His walk was more vigorous, his color better. He waved at the two men as if they were a great distance away. “I am coming,” he assured them happily. “Everything is arranged now.”
“Perhaps we could begin your tour now?” Paige offered.
Brandon stood up, suddenly angry. “Security is a concern of our investors, Mr. Paige.”
Fuentes sidled up to Brandon and gripped his elbow, his breath a fog of brandy. “We’d best get underway before the day gets too hot, my friends,” he said. “I have made all arrangements.” He struggled to situate his snap-brim hat on his small head.
Paige stood as well, towering over his two companions, his jet skin glistening in the growing heat of the day. “You two go ahead, I have some business to attend to here, and then I’ll catch up to you.”
Undeterred by his brush-off, Brandon asked, “Can I see Julia’s room?”
Both partners went silent. After a moment, Paige answered, “You already have, young man. It’s the best bungalow on the beach; naturally, when we received word that you were coming, we assigned it to you.” He turned for the kitchen, then added, “Of course, I didn’t know then of your personal involvement—I’ll have your things moved at once.”
“No,” Brandon blurted out, then went on more quietly, “that won’t be necessary.”
Paige gave a shrug, then continued on into the kitchen.
Fuentes, having finally settled his hat, tugged Brandon toward the entrance, the grounds beyond glowing whitely in the late morning sun. “Not to worry, my young friend,” he assured Brandon with a sweep of his arm, “the room has been exorcised. We paid good money for the priest to do it.” He leaned into Brandon and whispered confidentially, “These people are very superstitious, you know.” He waggled his eyebrows at the black waitresses in their colorful head scarves. Several seemed to be laughing at the little man behind their hands. “We can’t allow ghosts around here, you know, or we’d have no one to work the place—they’re more afraid of them than they are of jaguars.” He put a finger to his lips. “Let’s just keep that between ourselves, my friend, shall we?”
Brandon said nothing, as the image of Julia’s displaced soul, tormented and now cast out to wander in this for
eign land, floated before his eyes. But as the two men crossed the threshold, it was burned away like a scrap of paper in the roaring furnace of the sun.
That night the knocking came before he had fallen asleep. There were three loud raps and then silence. He lay in the darkness of the bed, his eyes wide and his heart hammering within him, and could not move. The reverberations of the summons recalled the previous visitation, which he had forgotten. He struggled to rise and look out, but the image earlier that day of Julia’s homeless spirit rose unbidden in his mind’s eye and transfixed him with horror. He had never given any thought to the nature of the soul before this day, and now could not set it aside. What if it was she who summoned him to the door, demanded to be returned to her room? In the stygian darkness of this steaming backwater, anything seemed possible. And though he had traveled thousands of miles to find some evidence of Julia’s passage, he lay in rigid, sweating silence awaiting the next blow to fall.
After what seemed like ages, the howler monkeys began to scream and cry to one another in the near distance, and with that, as if they heralded the return of the natural world, Brandon was released and fell into a deep, troubled sleep.
Even before he opened his eyes, he knew that day was long arrived. The light penetrated the simple cloth curtains of his room and warmed his eyelids. Outside he could clearly hear birds chattering with the news of a fresh day and the tapping that awakened him held no other significance than a polite request for entry. With a groan, Brandon threw back his sheet and placed his feet on the still-cool ceramic tiles of the floor.
“Mr. Highsmith, we missed you at breakfast this morning . . . are you all right? Last night’s fish agreed with you, I hope?” Señor Fuentes’s voice held a note of urgency. “Mr. Highsmith . . . Brandon?”
“Yes,” Brandon answered, inexplicably feeling like a man with a hangover in spite of the fact that he had drunk nothing alcoholic the night before. “I’m fine, Hernando . . . thank you.” He staggered to the door in his underwear and pulled it open; Fuentes almost fell into the room. “Good morning,” Brandon mumbled around his swollen tongue.
“Oh good . . . yes, I can see now that you are well . . . good.” He stood awkwardly at the threshold feeding his hat brim through his fingers. Brandon could smell the brandy that Fuentes seemed to wear like cologne. “Yes, okay . . . so you are well, then.” He appeared genuinely relieved.
Brandon looked past him at the wooden walkway, the meticulously raked and unblemished sand to either side. “I didn’t sleep well,” he admitted. “There were noises.”
“Noises,” Fuentes repeated, glancing around the room uncomfortably. “I see. Perhaps a change of rooms is desirable, no?” He smiled weakly at Brandon while nibbling at a yellowed fingernail.
It suddenly occurred to Brandon that Fuentes, and probably Paige as well, was concerned for him for reasons that had nothing to do with last night’s dinner—they were afraid for what he might learn, and what that might do to their plans for the resort. “No,” Brandon assured Fuentes in what he felt was a calm, resolute voice. “I’m fine here. After all, you and Claudell have assured me that all is well, so why should I be concerned with someone knocking on my door in the middle of the night?”
Fuentes’s veined eyes slid over him and away and he cleared his throat. “Quite so . . . quite right, my friend . . . Claudell runs a tight ship, as they say . . . but, sadly, not all is controllable in this world . . . only the very young believe that.” He studied Brandon’s stubbled face for a moment and appeared to come to a conclusion. “Pests,” he announced almost happily. “Perhaps your problem here is pest-related . . . a rat in the thatching . . . a visitation of monkeys—they can be very inquisitive, you know, and very persistent in their attentions; even a lizard, in my experience, a damned gecko.” He looked hopeful.
Brandon recalled the forceful, insistent knocking of the two previous nights. “I don’t know what you and Paige are playing at, Mr. Fuentes, but someone came to my door last night and the night before, too. The same thing happened to Julia . . . she wrote me about it. All I want to know is what happened to her, what’s going on here.”
Fuentes sputtered almost angrily, “I am not aware that I am playing at anything, Señor Highsmith, but I cannot account for all things in this world; you should know that. I assure you that Claudell and I are not at playing; we have a business to run,” he concluded huffily. He studied Brandon for a moment, then added, “Will you not come out with me, young friend? I had hoped to show you the Mayan temples today; they are quite spectacular, very popular with our guests. It will do you good to get out.”
Brandon thought of Julia’s trip through the mountains, the ghost in the road, and said, “Give me a few moments to get ready. I’ll meet you in the dining room.” Fuentes skipped away, delighted.
Their trip over the mountains was uneventful and they encountered no traffic jams as the result of apparitions. The driver, the same yellowish man who had driven Brandon from Dangriga, admitted to having heard of the haunted curve, but laughed at the tale as proof of the backward, superstitious ways of mountain people. Fuentes woke up long enough to heartily agree, then returned to his snoring.
As they wound their way upwards, the grey clouds that appeared to rise up from the wet carpet of jungle condensed and grew trailing beards. Moments later they showered a thick warm rain on the battered Land Rover and obscured the sheet metal and plywood shacks that clung to the roadside slopes along their way. By the time they reached the ruins, the sky had cleared and the sun beat down with renewed force, as if to reclaim every drop of moisture given.
After parking their vehicle and before ascending the slope to the temples, Fuentes excused himself for a trip to the men’s room. Brandon suspected that he wanted a pull on the flask of brandy that was ill-concealed in the rear pocket of his trousers. He made use of his time to wander through the small army of vendors who had set up their wares near the park entrance. Most of the tables were manned by Indios, Mayan, he assumed, and their wares ran the gamut from ashtrays to necklaces, carved masks to paintings. But even to his untrained eye, most of the objects appeared amateurish and cheaply imitative of their ancestors’ craftsmanship, and he wandered listlessly from stall to stall. The heat and humidity was draining his small reserve of energy and soaking his clothes in sweat.
He turned irritably to scan the area for Fuentes when his eyes alighted on an object carved from some dark wood on one of the makeshift tables. At first, he mistook it for some type of walking stick, then realized it was far too short for such a purpose unless it was designed for a dwarf. He sauntered over to where it was displayed, attempting to appear disinterested. The vendor, a powerfully built young man, had spotted him, however, and gauged his customer from long experience. He seized the very object in question and held it up for Brandon’s inspection, his black eyes sharp and bright with pride. “Forty dollars,” he said by way of greeting. “It is an authentic war club of the Mayan peoples, worth much more.”
Brandon thought it certainly looked authentic in the capable-looking hands that wielded it. Up close, he saw that the shaft was the body of a snake, smoothly scaled and slightly curved, the tail tightly wound to a small knot, presumably to prevent its wielder’s hand from slipping off the end. At the top of the shaft perched not the expected serpent’s head but some creature more birdlike, its beak curved and cruel. When he took it into his hands, the wood felt as hard as an iron bar. He had to force himself not to swing it around like a little boy playing Indian. He paid the forty without dickering and hurried away with his prize. He felt silly walking about with a souvenir war club, but for the first time since his arrival he felt a sense of security.
When Fuentes found him, he blanched slightly, but managed to say, “I hope that you have paid no more than seven dollars for that. . . . Always haggle with the vendors, my friend; it’s in everyone’s best interest.”
Brandon enjoyed the tour of the ancient temples even as he found himself the object of curi
ous stares. Standing at the top of one pyramid, he lofted the club above his head and shook it, warriorlike, at the tiny figure of Fuentes standing in the grassy courtyard far below and laughed. He could not see the older man’s expression, only that Fuentes looked quickly side to side as if scanning for witnesses or a way to escape.
When they returned to the resort, darkness was already creeping out from the jungle and Fuentes made a hasty farewell, pleading his wife’s intolerance for his long hours. Brandon suspected that he was overdue at the bar, as evidenced by the tremor that had started in his mottled hands.
After securing his purchase in his room, Brandon had a quick meal in the perennially empty dining area. The heat of the day was being gently swept away by a breeze off the ocean and when he returned to his bungalow he opened all his windows to allow it in. After a cool shower and after having made a few notes about his observations for Resorts Investments, he lay down on his bed. Within minutes he fell asleep to the soft wash of the waves against the grainy beach, while nearby, he could hear the steady sweep of a worker’s rake being drawn slowly and carefully over the coarse sands in the fading light of the long day.
“Yes,” he cried, sitting straight up in bed, “who’s there?” His voice was swallowed up by the darkness even as the echoes of the knocking still banged about in his skull. Brandon stared at the outline of the wooden door across the room and had no idea whether it was standing open or closed tight. His hand drifted to the hilt of the Mayan club, his fingers caressing the coils of the snake. As if released by its solidity, its violent purpose, he slipped silently from the bed and drifted like smoke towards the door, sloughing his fears like an old skin with each step. As he neared and his eyes adjusted, he was reassured to see that the door was indeed fastened and the war club which he had unconsciously raised to shoulder level was lowered to hang by his side. He eased over to the window in order to peer out onto his porch.
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