by Dancer, Jack
When the graveside ceremony had come to an end, and people were leaving, the coffin remained on its lowering device. I suppose it's some sort of graveyard courtesy to wait until everyone departs before completing the actual burial for the departed. Backhoes and shovels were nowhere to be seen until everyone had said their good-byes and left.
I overheard the young men in the group mention Claude’s Bar, so I figured I'd tag along at a distance. Maybe I could learn a little more about Paulo and what got these fellows riled up. Maybe I could find out exactly who the guy with the camera is. Maybe even get the photos back. Maybe learn something about Doctor Libica. I had a lot of maybes.
I was curious why the good doctor hadn't bothered to turn up at the funeral, but I suspected I might know the answer to that one. She's probably home with the movers making a fast exit.
***
The Raven.
At first, the photos confused her because she didn't recognize the images, but then she did and reeled backward as if punched in the stomach by an invisible fist. They took her breath away. She stumbled like a drunk over to the washbasin nearly tumbling into the blood pooling over the satiated floor drain. She hung to the washbasin like a life preserver.
The images shot through her heart like a thirty-ought-six. She couldn't understand it. Was it yesterday, or was it the day before, that Tiber had called to report the two Americans were indeed staying at the Fira Palace? That he and Drusus had the hotel under surveillance and were confident they will soon have the Americans?
The Americans, she thought, the two sex-crazed Americans from the train. They did this. No, she thought again. Not them, they're too soft, but someone looking out for them did.
With a scream that nearly caused the two creatures to throw off their shackles and run out of the room, she exploded at the thought of it all. She stomped her way back across the blood-slicked floor snatching the scalpel from the instrument table and flung the mirror across the room, and into the tiled wall where it shattered into a million bloody shards. She stepped between the two girls and with one Bruce Lee roundhouse and two compassionate swipes along the way - though it wasn't her intention to be compassionate - Elena and Sophia were no more.
Sure it was impulsive; she thought. And yeah, she'd end up kicking herself later for not keeping the Imp reigned in, but she knew too the rush is when he's out. And the rush is what it's all about. If not, then what is there?
It's only when the adrenalin backs off, and buyer's remorse sets in, that it becomes a problem. And with the girls here, the problem begins manifesting at the sight of their heads dropping into prayer, chins to chests, and the final, all enduring acts of supplication.
That's what's unfair. They didn't go there on their own; I put them there, and it's only because I failed to sever the last strands of flesh that their heads aren't rolling into the drain, she thinks.
The annoying heart-rate monitors are now droning flat lines, but the Crazy Serbian Butcher's Dance is still rocking on, and it would appear the Raven is too the way her body is shaking from the rage burning through her like molten quicksilver. She loses it, throws the scalpel to the floor and pitches herself onto the two corpses pummeling them with her fists.
Okay, it was an emotional response, impulsive, yes, but it's all she could do until she gets her hands on the Americans. And the ticket, don't forget the ticket, she pauses to remind herself before resuming her flailing at what remains of the corpses.
"They're going to pay for this abomination to Tiber and Drusus," she screams.
Elena and Sofia weren't the only witnesses to the other's torture and ultimate demise. It's just that the others were as inhuman and cold-blooded as the event itself and the evil little woman who got such an orgasmic bang from the whole affair. Video cameras were recording everything - everything except the face of the Raven.
When darkness fell eerie sentinels stood guard over the walled compound centered on the thirty-five-acre estate ninety-seven kilometers southwest of Perpignan in the higher elevations of the Pyrenees, overlooking the minuscule enclave of Llivia.
The Raven wanted to cover the lampposts, which stood in measured order along the wall surrounding the compound, with the empty head sacks of her victims. She'd like to have had the entire perimeter illuminated with the silhouettes of ever slackening and blackening faces reminiscent of Edvard Munch's, The Scream, only multiplied. And that would've probably been fine back in the day when the Visigoth ruled Catalonia, but, not today. The little people in the village would get upset.
Until she captured the two Americans, she'd have to be satisfied with Elena and Sofia sharing the honor of book-ending the main gate as tribute to her flair as an artist.
During daylight, ravens as black as death would pick their way across the crowns of Elena and Sofia, some extracting strands of hair to weave with the string and straw and other bits and pieces of scavenged materials they'd gather for building nests elsewhere. Others might simply tease up a perfectly suitable bouffant and nest in place, creating a kind of living hat for the dead head.
As far as the Raven was concerned, the flaying and ultimate sacrifices of Elena and Sofia and all the other Spanish Prisoners, she hadn't returned, for that matter, was a meager tribute to the methods employed by the Visigoth, but it was at least something.
Today though, the Raven rules - albeit from Catalonia's underbelly, but still, she rules. And soon she'll be ruling over the underbelly of a united and independent Catalonia, one encompassing all the original and rightful geography, anchored by its two largest cities, Barcelona to the south and Perpignan in the North. This is as it's always been. Well, as it was until 1659 when the traitor King Philip IV of Spain acquiesced Northern Catalonia to Louis X1V in Traité des Pyrénées (Treaty of the Pyrenees).
The Raven's quest is to set things straight and push forward to reunite all of Catalonia into an independent and recognized state in the European Union, with whatever means at her disposal. She believes it's her destiny, not to mention in her best interest since she controls the largest scamming operations throughout the region. Plus, it'll be a stick in the eye for Pello Azaura and his Basque separatists who only grudgingly cooperate with the Raven's organization to maintain the image of a united front fighting for independence and freedom; though she knows in truth Azaura's more interested in hijacking her businesses than in cooperating. At least with Elena being Azaura's niece there's a little payback. Sophia was an unintended collateral casualty, the lagniappe.
***
As it turns out, Claude's Bar is only a ten-minute walk from Cathedral Basilica of Saint John the Baptist, in the Place de Republique. A wine bar serving wines of the Roussillon as well as a local rose wine and with a pretty good selection of tapas.
The four young men I'd overhead at the cemetery were still carrying on their heated conversation around a table at the back of the bar. They were speaking the same tongue as the priest at Cathedral Basilica of Saint John the Baptist, neither French nor Spanish. Catalan I figured. They were too caught up in conversation to notice me ambling up to the bar. Two empty carafes stood at their table.
The bartender handed me the tapas menu and recommended the local rose. I ordered the chorizo with mushrooms and the marinated peppers and took him up on a glass of the rose. I also ordered two more carafes for the table in the back.
When they were delivered, the bartender pointed in my direction. All four of the occupants looked over, and I raised my glass to them. They smiled and nodded then dropped into a huddle for a moment before one walks over. And it’s not the cameraman from the train.
“Merci de Monsieur de vin,” he says.
“My pleasure,” I returned in English.
“American?” he asks already knowing.
“Yes.”
“And you came from the funeral of Paulo?”
“Yes.”
“He was a friend of yours?”
“Well, not exactly. I was on the train when he suffered a cardiac arrest and
collapsed.”
“So, you came to Perpignan to attend the funeral of a perfect stranger, Monsieur?”
“I guess you could say that. Yes, I wanted to pay my respects. It was in my compartment where he collapsed.”
“Your compartment? Why was Paulo in your compartment Monsieur?” he asks surprised and suspicious.
“It wasn't on purpose; I can assure you. I believe he must have simply been passing by when his heart seized, and he stumbled through the nearest door. It was extremely unsettling for both my traveling companion and me, a horrible thing to witness. My companion is still so shaken she couldn't make it to the funeral, so I came for the both of us. I wanted to offer my condolences to the family but, after seeing them, I decided it might be more upsetting to them than helpful. I feel very badly for his family. Who would've expected someone so young to have a heart attack? It's just not natural. Heart attacks are for old people, not the young. That's what makes it all so troubling.
"I take it Paulo was a friend of yours. Was he a close friend?”
“Paulo was my cousi, Señor.”
“I'm very sorry for your loss . . .” I say searching for his name.
“My name is Enric, Enric Marti.”
“My pleasure Enric, I'm Tucker Blue,” I say extending my hand. We shake.
“Señor Blue, it would be our honor to have you join me and my friends at our table.”
“Thank you Enric, but I don't want to intrude. I didn't know Paulo personally. I just happened to see you fellows at the services and wanted to offer my condolences with a round of wine.”
“Monsieur Blue, my friends and I are of the opinion Paulo was, in fact, murdered. We would be very grateful if you could shed some light on exactly what took place that day.”
I'm stunned, "Really? You think it wasn't a heart attack?”
“Please, would you join us?”
“Okay, but I just ordered tapas.”
Enric spoke to the bartender. "Aleix, portar les tapes a la nostra taula,” then turning back to me, he says, "He'll bring them to the table. Please, come join us.”
Enric escorted me to the table and introduced me to his friends in English: Cesc Porra and Guillem Quintana, two friends of Paulo's. The third man, my suspected cameraman - though strangely, he's still wearing sunglasses - was Rakim Marti a cousin of Paulo and Enric and from the wince Rakim made I figured it was delayed recognition. Must be the clothes.
I waited for him to make the first move, but he didn't and neither did I. We shook hands all around.
Enric gave a brief synopsis to the others on who I was and how I was connected to Paulo, and no one gave up even the slightest surprise, and that surprised me at first, but then I realized if Rakim was the guy on the train taking photos he's already told them all about me, all about Monica too, everything no doubt.
I'm at a disadvantage here and there're things I need to know too. Like: Who are these guys exactly? And why hasn't Rakim said anything to me - that he'd seen me on the train? I especially wanted to know what he'd done or was planning to do with the photos he'd taken. I wanted to know why they think Paulo was murdered and what they knew about this Doctor Libica and the two colleagues she had with her - her sons for Christ's sake. I wondered if they knew she was secretly the Raven, and I wondered if Rakim had any idea he's probably a walking dead man having those photos of her. But wait. Didn't the little doctor order her men to retrieve those photos? Yes, she did. I know she did. Is that why he's wearing sunglasses? Do I detect what might be some bruising behind them?
I wanted to know all these things, but most of all I wanted to know if I'd just made a very big mistake even being here.
Enric broke the silence. "Tell us Señor Blue, what exactly transpired on the train to Perpignan that day?”
I gave them the vanilla version, leaving out of course, the naked part. I figured they'd probably heard all about that from Rakim already, made no mention of the lottery ticket of course and avoided anything suggesting we were avoiding the authorities. Neither did I mention that Rakim was on the train taking photos thinking that'd be a keeper for later. Nothing about the crazy time in Libica's compartment afterwards either. Otherwise, I told 'em everything.
Guillem speaks up. "Señor Blue, could you tell us a bit more about the woman, the little doctor you said performed CPR on Paulo? What was her name?”
“She said her name was Drusilla Libica, that she's a doctor, and she lives in Perpignan.”
This elicited a round of comments, in Catalan naturally, so the stranger at the table wouldn't understand.
“And the two minions as you called them?” Cesc asks.
“Never got their names. The doctor called them her colleagues or associates, something like that."
“Would you describe this Doctor Libica for us, Señor Blue, si us plau?” Enric asks.
“Well, let's see. Sixties, maybe late sixties, short, probably five feet . . .”
“Ella té cinc peus? Ella és un puto monstre!” exclaimed Cesc getting a good round of laughs from everyone except of course dumfounded me.
“Cinc peus d'alçada,” Enric clarified to Cesc. Then turning to me, "He says with five feet, she must be a fucking monster.”
I gave it a chuckle too and continued.
“She had very black hair which to me says, dye job for anyone at her age."
“Cabells tenyits,” Enric quickly says to the group, pointing to his own hair.
I nod and go on. "That's about it. She wasn't an unattractive woman,” I add. "Oh, and another thing, she had a hell of a temper. At one point, she called down the conductor like an errant kid. Froze him in his tracks.”
That made Rakim break into a smile and to the group he laughingly translated, "Va dir que ella té un temperament molt dolent, que fins i tot va espantar el conductor, (He said she has a very bad temper, even freaked out the driver),” evoking even more laughter from the group.
“And the minions,” Guillem asks, "Can you describe them?”
“Mid-to-late-twenties. Looked like they could be brothers, twins even - tall, dark handsome. Not unlike you fellows.”
“Sementals com nosaltres (Stallions like us),” Enric translated with a smile looking around the group. Glasses were raised all around in agreement.
“I'd like to ask all of you something if it's okay,” I say.
“Please, go ahead, Mister Blue,” says Enric.
“A moment ago, you told me you and your friends were of the opinion Paulo was murdered, that he didn't die of a heart attack, and I just wanted to say I saw the whole thing, and it sure looked like a heart attack to me. Even the doctor said it was a heart attack. What makes you think it wasn't?”
“Señor Blue, I did not say Paulo did not suffer a heart attack. I merely said we were of the opinion he was murdered. It's possible a heart attack was induced.”
“Okay, but why do you think that?” I ask. The question brought looks all around.
“Mister Blue,” asks Rakim for the first time, "what is it that makes you think this Libica woman is an actual medical doctor at all?”
His question catches me off guard though it had crossed our minds.
“Well, I suppose I don't know for sure she's a doctor. She claimed to be. She certainly appeared to know what she was doing with the whole CPR thing. I mean, she jumped right in and took charge while everyone else just stood there not knowing what to do. I thought she handled it very professionally, but honestly, I don't know if she was a doctor or not. I didn't ask to see her license, but then, come to think of it, Rakim, neither did you." That stirred the pot a bit.
I continue, "Look fellows, don't take this the wrong way but just who the hell are you guys, really? I'm only asking because I need to know what side you're on. Since this incident with Paulo on the train, we've had two women in our party turn up missing and two suspicious characters stalking our hotel. So, before I go any further here, I need to know. Are you, the good guys or the bad guys?”
They shot l
ooks all around then Rakim stepped up and extracted a billfold, unfolded it and laid it on the table in front of me, a very official-looking ID card and badge stared back. The others followed suit.
“Holy shit. Okay, you're the good guys then.”
“Mister Blue,” says Rakim, "we are part of a special task force, formed through the cooperation of Spain and France. Our objective is to identify, locate, and arrest Doctor Drusilla Libica and any of her associates. Doctor Libica heads up a criminal enterprise operating major scams throughout the world, including Spanish Prisoner, lottery scams, Nigerian letter scams, and many others. She's also believed to be the leader of an underground guerrilla movement for Catalan Independence, a secessionist group, the Terra Lliure II. It is known they have guerrilla soldiers active throughout the Pyrenees.”
"But, they're mostly just a gang of criminals running guns and drugs,” adds Guillem.
Rakim continues, "We believe Doctor Libica is the person known as the Raven. But, the Raven is a ghost. We've never been able to positively identify her. We've had no photos of the Raven, at least none until the train incident involving Paulo. We also believe the two minions, as you call them, are her sons, Tiber and Drusus. We do know what they look like.
“If Drusilla Libica is, in fact, the Raven, and we are ninety-five percent sure she is, the photos I took of your train compartment are the only ones that exist of her. Paulo Marti was not only our friend and cousi; he was also part of our team and at the time of the train incident, he was our bait to capture the Raven."
"How do you mean, bait?” I had my suspicions.
"I am sorry, but I cannot reveal that information to you,” he says.