The Jaguar

by A. T. Grant

  Laura had reached her room elated, but also suddenly exhausted, and had barely troubled the bathroom before crawling under the sheets of her bed and hugging at a pillow. Sleep did not come. She had too much on her mind, the bed was too firm and the air-conditioning hummed at a most penetrating pitch. Eventually she had risen to turn it off, but then the room had grown hot and airless. Rising from the sweat of half-slumber for a second time, she had felt her way to a wardrobe, flung on a robe and gone to see what lay beyond her patio doors. There, in a small, pot-lined courtyard shared with four other rooms, she had found the hot-tub. There were no lights from the other rooms and the far end of the courtyard opened only onto greenery. Laura had tiptoed across the wooden flooring to the welcoming pool. It sprung automatically into bubbling life as she approached, like some volcanic relic of the origins of life erupting from the coloured earth.

  The remainder of Laura’s day had gone well, but now a large volume of information vied to be processed through her short-term memory. Her drive from the airport with the remaining family had been unexpectedly high-spirited and entertaining. Darryl, the father, had talked incessantly about previous family holidays to Spain, admitting they had never been out of Europe before. The children, Hannah, twelve, and Lloyd, thirteen, fought over a sombrero then nearly caused the bus to crash by spinning it like a frisbee towards the driver. They had squealed with excitement at the sight of each passing waterpark or dolphinarium, and had been full of questions about activities they might do. Jackie, the mother, held a tiny video camera to the fading light. The quietest of the four, she had smiled apologetically as Laura’s interrogation had continued.

  The hotel had looked vast and spectacular to Laura under artificial light. Oversized facsimiles of Mayan totems and vast tapestries of traditional scenes dressed the circular expanse of the main reception area. Laura had busied herself with the formalities of arrival then sat alongside Dana with a map showing the location of each guest and all the facilities she would need to navigate. Dana’s presence had been instantly reassuring. Laura imagined her to be some ten years older than herself. She was calm and elegant, with an easy, confident and authoritative manner. Reflecting back, from the comfort of her pool, Laura imagined herself in Dana’s position in a few years’ time. It was an appealing image, bolstering Laura’s perception that she had made the right decision.

  Dinner had proved equally positive. Although most were too tired to fully appreciate the fine dining, they were also beyond anything other than acquiescence to every arrangement put to them by Marcus. Tomorrow would be a rest day. Monday would see them on a day visit to a nearby beachside Mayan temple. Tuesday and Wednesday would bring a gentle introduction to the jungle and the chance to climb a particularly large ancient edifice. After that they would transfer to a more exclusive boutique hotel further down the coast, before heading into heavily protected wilderness for their main adventure. Conversation around the table had been limited to the usual pleasantries. There was no sign of tension and the Tanners had been smiling and communicative.

  The only glitch had proved to be the making of the meal. David had gone to explore the grounds before claiming his room, and had proceeded to get lost, having walked too far along the beach. A long additional ramble and several erroneous restaurants later he had finally burst upon their party, chaperoned by the maître d’, who was protesting at the inappropriate nature of David’s crumbled hoodie and sand-covered trainers. Marcus, alerted by Laura, had risen to placate the waiter and to put an arm around a flustered David, who recovered his equanimity quickly at the sight of the group. Once halfway through the first glass of wine, his embarrassment had been superseded by an animated monologue.

  David described how his walk had taken an unexpected turn. He had rounded a wooden beach shelter set on a slight promontory. In the dark and dimpled sand beyond lay a shoulder bag full of clothing. David had swept it up and marched on beside the surf, intent on handing it in as lost property. Turning to observe his footprints, already obliterated in places by the waves, he became aware of distant calls. A naked couple were running through the gloom, the man shouting “stop” with a thick German accent. By the time David’s blustered apologies had placated the pair and they resumed their night swimming, a security guard had appeared. It took the officer several minutes to conclude that David was harmless, a process slowed by David’s failure to lift his Spanish beyond a few inappropriate pleasantries.

  Laura smiled at the memory, and playfully blew bubbles across the surface of the tub. Her eyes rose to meet those of the stray cat that had leapt up into the courtyard and now stared warily at her through the steam. It lowered its head but held her gaze, its dark eyes searching for any threat. Laura felt suddenly self-conscious, but in a manner almost sexual. She was aware of the bubbles coursing between her thighs and of a snatched irregularity to her breathing. She closed her eyes and slipped entirely under the water. The face of a man by a train floated through a deep pool of imagination. She held her breath and let her thoughts be consumed by the noise of bubbles breaking around her ears. Then there was another face: the calm, wise face of a woman wearing a beaded head-dress, whose smile seemed to be the source of the warmth around her. Laura felt her eyes closing. She snuggled into maternal arms, her mind consumed by the memory of her scent, too tired to fight the lack of oxygen. At the last moment of consciousness, she pushed her way back to the surface. The cat was gone.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rochas Blancas

  The Liberty Diner was an expanse of corrugated aluminium on the edge of Rochas Blancas. It looked more like an oversize trailer than a restaurant. It gave off a dull metallic gleam in the cold winter sunshine. Its surface was tarnished by the oil and diesel emitted by an endless succession of trucks, shuttling between rural estancias and the railway station stockyards.

  Luis climbed down from his SUV, followed by a number of younger men in tracksuits, each with a precautionary hand thrust deep into a jacket pocket. He stroked his beard contemplatively and assessed the safety of the situation. Across the expanse of a cracked concrete car park there was only one other vehicle, a battered white pick-up truck that Luis recognised. He gestured to two men to check either side of the diner then strode forward purposefully, pushing through the swinging double doors and into the blare of an old-fashioned Jukebox.

  Halfway down a long row of red and cream vinyl seating, Luis spotted Gennaro’s broad back. He was squeezed into a booth with three others. Luis waited until the waitress disappeared through a swing door into the kitchen then hailed a greeting. Gennaro made no attempt to turn in his seat, but raised a hand to gesture Luis forward and barked at his colleagues to leave.

  “Hello, Luis. How is Don Paulo?” His voice was the usual incongruous mix of gravel and phlegm.

  “Busy.” Luis smiled warmly, instantly comforted by Gennaro’s presence. He was unflappable and unquestioningly loyal. Luis’ father would often remind him that this former street urchin, whom Paulo had saved from a savage beating in prison forty years before, was a valued member of the family.

  “He’s been making arrangements for Alfredo’s return,” Luis continued, “trying to liaise with Barrio Fuerte - I’ve not been able to contact Marcelo - putting an end to the factory strike, and hiring extra muscle. When he thinks of Felipe he gets angry and then he gets tired. I’m here to help the old man rest more easily.”

  “It was Xterra who killed Felipe,” Gennaro stated, stirring vigorously at his coffee. “We didn’t have much trouble finding that out. We paid the assistant Governor a home visit. We sat in the lounge - nice new sofas paid for with our money - and talked about sport and why he had failed to protect your uncle. You should have seen him sweat. You would have been proud of me, Luis. I was very polite; very restrained, although I wanted to rip his head off. I even drank a cup of herbal tea.”

  “What did he tell us?”

  “That an Xterra symbol writt
en in Felipe’s blood was found on the floor beside his body. He thinks that Xterra must have offered the Governor something big: not just cash, maybe a state government post, or an early retirement plan that couldn’t be refused. Still he would have needed the backing of someone higher up the food chain.”

  “State Police?”

  “Probably - they’re bound to be scared of Xterra.”

  “You know, Luis,” Gennaro leaned across the table and put one of his thick paws on Luis’ arm, “they cut off Felipe’s head. It was kicked around like a football then smashed to pieces. I’m so sorry to have to tell you that.”

  Luis’ attention was drawn fortuitously to the window, distracting him just enough that he didn’t break down. A truck was swinging into the car park and his men were using their guns to wave it back onto the freeway. It swung wildly towards the road - tilting so far it almost tipped over - ploughed through bins and across a sidewalk and disappeared beyond a thick cloud of diesel. The anger Luis had felt when he learned of Felipe’s death had returned and with it an unfamiliar thirst for revenge. He thought about his wife, Alex, their house and their dogs back home in Texas and they felt now strangely distant, more the dream of a life than the reality he had so carefully crafted. He would send Alex away. Even El Paso would be too dangerous soon. They would start again in Phoenix or Vegas and he would leave all this behind. Luis met Gennaro’s enquiring gaze.

  “Now we will act. I want the other vehicles here in thirty minutes.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “We’re going to make a prison call.”

  Gennaro grinned. “Just like the old days. Your father will approve.”

  Luis smiled too. He was beginning to enjoy himself. “Contact our people at the jail - guards and inmates. Let them know we are on our way. I want to drive straight through the service entrance. Where is the Governor?”

  “He’s been living in a house in the compound ever since the attack. He is being guarded by local police, but I don’t think they are heavily armed. He doesn’t have family here and his deputy thinks he’s already sent his things away.”

  “Then we’ll give him a leaving present: something to influence his career. When I’ve finished with him he’s going to have plenty of explaining to do to the authorities, and to Xterra.”

  A short while later a line of white pick-up trucks roared off towards Rochas Blancas. Luis sat at the back of one, exhilarated both by the sting of winter air on his cheeks and by the proximity of the mission. He could feel his scar throbbing and for once was glad it was there. Surrounded by hooded men and dark automatic weapons, he stared at the line of quiet suburban homes flashing incongruously past. As the vehicles slowed for a stop-light someone shouted “police ahead”. For an instant the traffic officer lazing next to his motorbike looked as though he might draw his pistol. Instead, he froze: hands and face falling limp. The convoy swung left against a red light and sped up a long low hill towards the prison complex. Luis could see the white walls rising beyond the furthest homes. An old lady, walking her dog, flashed by and a child balancing on a garden slide. The child turned and waved. Already the mother was moving anxiously towards it.

  A squad car sat across the main entrance to the jail. Luis could just make out the heads of two hunched figures sheltering behind it. Another officer jogged down the station steps, fastening his heavily padded gun-belt. At a shout from a colleague, he swivelled in the road. As the convoy bore down on him, he leapt back onto the stairs. Several automatic weapons opened up at once, their owners spraying bullets over the heads of the officers and into the prison walls. Luis picked up his own rifle. The way it slotted into the contours of his body reminded him of Felipe. It was he who had taught Luis and later Alfredo how to shoot, during hunting trips in the hills beyond Chihuahua. He disengaged the safety mechanism and felt the thrill of power recoiling into his shoulder.

  There was no return fire. Luis was flung against the side of his truck as it swerved to parallel the prison wall. “That should keep them quiet,” he whispered to himself. Guards waited by the open gates of the service entrance, as the assailants drove through. A couple of prisoners shuffled nervously in their shadows. The raiding party came to a halt in the small car park on the edge of the main prison compound. Figures leapt from their vehicles and turned to face the careless clutter of prison blocks beyond.

  Luis, Gennaro and several others crossed the yard and into the main block. Luis walked as nonchalantly as possible, fingers entwined behind his back. The gunfire had drawn many faces to tiny windows. He could hear an excited clatter of metal on metal. As a heavy side door to the building ground open, the clatter grew to a din. The group processed along the ground floor to the main stairway. More guards stood nervously amongst scattered groups of prisoners. Open doors displayed a crowded mass of girlie posters, sporting paraphernalia and other personal junk. Here and there a cell remained closed. At the top of the main stairway Luis turned. The group fanned out along the balcony on either side of him, and the hall below fell silent.

  “Bring me the Governor,” he demanded theatrically “and the men who disrespected the remains of my uncle.”

  His subject appeared at the far end of the hall, straight-backed, suited, and searching for Luis’ gaze as he strode warily forward and up the steps. Three bound prisoners were carried, struggling, from a cell, manhandled upward in the Governor’s wake, and displayed against the railings. Luis addressed his crowd again, his slow, deep voice filling the long chamber.

  “We are not Xterra. We do not kill just because we can. We do not need to kill in vengeance, but we demand loyalty and we demand respect.” He paused to scan the many faces turned toward him. “Those who abused the body of my uncle will now be punished. So will your Director, who chose to let Xterra into this building and to abuse the trust we had placed in him. All will live, but only so that they remember this day.”

  Gennaro grabbed the Governor roughly by the collar and marched him up behind the three selected prisoners, each now doubled over the railings. Some of the men had shouldered their weapons and were filming the scene on cell-phone cameras.

  “Push them over,” Gennaro growled at him.

  The Governor stiffened. Each prisoner either craned his neck to see if he would comply, or stared at the drop to the concrete floor below. For a moment nothing else happened. Gennaro drew a pair of pliers slowly from an inside jacket pocket, took hold of the Governor’s left hand and forced his little finger between its jaws. He stared fixedly at Luis.

  Luis waited a few moments then nodded, reluctantly. The Governor’s finger hung for a second by a remaining flap of skin then fell to the floor. Gennaro’s curse was the only sound, as blood splattered across his shoes.

  Luis quietly reinforced Gennaro’s request. “Lift them over.”

  The Governor remained rooted to the spot. He was trembling visibly, apparently unaware of his injury.

  Gennaro took his time selecting a second finger. It fell, to the sound of a low moan. The Governor sank to his knees, cradling his hand in his lap. Finally, he raised his good arm towards the suspended feet of the first prisoner and pushed weakly upwards. The man rotated around the railing and boomeranged through the air, landing half on his heels and half on his crumbling pelvis. A high-pitched scream was consumed by pain and nausea. Again the Governor pushed and again a man cartwheeled through the air and bounced off the edge of a dining table before landing, shoulder first, on the painted concrete floor. His head whipped forward with a sickening thud and his crumpled form lay still.

  The Governor was hugging himself tightly and crying, a camera thrust into his face. He pleaded to God, but only his echo answered. Gennaro kicked him towards the final prisoner, but he rolled onto his side and lay rigid on the grating.

  “That’s enough,” Luis commanded. A gunman looked at him enquiringly then used the butt of his rifle to whip the legs
of the remaining inmate upwards. For a moment the man managed to stop himself, gripping the rail between his elbows. He cast a desperate glance at Luis as he felt his balance go, spinning to the floor below and drawing himself soundlessly into a foetal position.

  “Remember Felipe, remember Las Contadonas,” Luis bellowed. “Soon everyone on the Internet will see how we deal with those who betray us. Soon all will witness the crimes of this man.” He gestured towards the now prostrate Governor. “Go back to your cells and remember who it is that keeps you safe.”

  Bullets sprayed into the ceiling. A flurry of plaster meandered slowly downwards, like ash from a wildfire, the herald of mountain snow, or time entwining and beginning to implode.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tulum

  Mulac Hunapu gazed upon an azure sea. He was not in a good mood. Sat on the porch of the small, square lookout post, he tried to concentrate upon the long canoe that was negotiating the narrow gap in the outer reef. His view was partly obscured by an ocean fret, which had yet to be burned off by the rapidly climbing sun. To his right his two colleagues stood twenty paces away, at the far end of their patrol, framed by the massive white wall that marked the town’s outer defences. The previous evening had not gone well. For the first time since his family’s arrival in the port of Tulum, a priest had honoured them with a visit. It was a chance to show off his new wife and the house he had built for his family. The priesthood had approved his appointment as a city guard and assigned the site for his home. It was his first opportunity in nearly twenty years of working for the Kingdom of Coba to settle for more than a few weeks in one place. His parents had tended a small garden farm in the jungle, but now were too old. This move was even more important for them.