“That was not very kind.” He smiled weakly in an attempt to determine their modus operandi. The brunette chuckled like a disturbed four-year-old while the redhead simply pinned him with her perfectly painted eyes. Above her head each numerical halo bore closer to the sixth floor, to where he had a sickening feeling he was to disembark with them.
“We are not very kind people, tesoro,” she said, standing so close to Stephen that he could smell the rouge on her cheekbones. “But if you give us what we want, we might be kinder than you think.”
He stammered, “Really? How kind?” It was not the most suave uttering he’d ever thought up, but as long as he kept making small talk, he hoped to buy time to strategize. Thus far, the women had done him no harm and presented no threat. For all he knew, they may very well have been two mischievous stewardesses playing a sexy prank on him, luring him off to an abandoned floor under renovation for a bit of midday rock ‘n roll. But Stephen knew a bad gut feeling when he had one, and this one was a doozy.
The lift’s chime sliced through his ears as the sixth floor was announced. Apprehension gripped the pilot so fiercely that he never noticed the redhead’s hand in his pocket, fumbling for his cell phone. “Give it to me,” she growled softly in his ear as the doors slid open. He expected to be grabbed by Mafia thugs or apprehended by uniformed brutes, but he saw only the solitary watercolor painting on the opposite wall with no one about.
“Oh, I’ll give it to you, alright,” he replied as the brunette stepped out ahead of them. The hallway looked like a common office area, but vacant in the immediate vicinity, so Stephen took his chance. With all his force he head-butted the redhead as she took hold of his phone. To his surprise, no sound escaped her and her stagger hardly won distance between them.
“What the fu . . .?” he whispered in shock.
The redhead seized the pilot by his collar and gave him a head-butt of her own. She planted her skull so hard on the bridge of his nose that he yelped like a puppy when she connected with him. Blackness covered his eyes momentarily, and moments later he awoke to the women dragging him through an office door and unceremoniously dropping him on the floor.
“This is him.”
Stephen heard the familiar rasp of his feminine attacker, but he could hardly open his eyes. Pain filled his head. His brain was on fire and the wetness of his nosebleed had now become a horrid stickiness that trickled onto his open lips. “This is the pilot that is taking another passenger to the yacht of David Purdue.”
“Although, I suppose he is in no condition to fly now,” the young brunette mentioned indifferently. She nudged at him with the toe of her immaculately polished black shoe as if she were testing the sturdiness of a rock path. “Look at him! They will know he was interrogated now.”
“This is his phone,” the redhead said. “We didn’t want him to accidentally call for help until we’d concluded our business with him, you understand.”
“I understand,” a man’s voice answered. He sounded British, finally explaining why Stephen was hearing the women speak English and not Italian. “I am sure I can use this.”
Stephen forced open his eyes after the devastating counter-attack he’d received from the Italian Eva Braun, but all he could see was her thighs. She was standing so close to him that he could not help but think about how it would normally turn him on to look up a woman’s skirt, bar this instance. Stephen’s watering eyes sought the proximity of the redhead for the presence of others, but he could only see the brunette sitting on the desk while the British man was speaking from the other side of the desk.
“We have two choices,” the man said matter-of-factly. His voice reminded Stephen of Michael Cane, both in tone and dialect, and that was how he pictured him. “We can kill him and send one of you as a replacement pilot, which would awaken suspicion in the passenger, or we can send him in and hope that he will not speak of his ordeal.”
“I say we kill him,” the brunette said. “Maria hasn’t piloted a Long Ranger in years. It should be an adventure. Besides, did you see the passenger? Dark, wild, tall. Who knows what he looks like under that big trench coat!”
“Calm your hormones, Isabella,” Maria snapped. “Sleeping with targets and pawns is so primitive. Don’t you have any pride?”
Isabella’s dark eyes gleamed. “Do not question the pride of women like me. You might be a frigid old cow, but I can’t let that handsome passenger go to waste.” Her eyes shot passionately to the painfully well-groomed man in the high back chair, beckoning for his approval like a child asking for ice cream. She whined, “Oh, please, let’s get rid of this one,” referring to Stephen. “I really want to go on an adventure with the dark stranger.”
“I thought you didn’t like men to go to waste, Isabella,” the cool Brit said, giving Stephen some hope in the decision he was quietly eavesdropping on. She didn’t miss a beat, though, and promptly answered, “We won’t waste this one. We can use him as shark bait.”
6
Theory and Practice
Solar Eclipse Imminent: 40%
“Her husband repeatedly cheated on her. Why wouldn’t she have left him? Not just that, but the beast was, shall we say, not against lifting his hands to women. Besides, he always claimed that she was insane because he could not understand her.”
“Of course he would think her mad. She did stab him once, remember? And let us not forget the time that she poured boiling water on him. Oi, perpello!”
“Because he was going to hit her! Jesus! You call yourself a professional, yet you seem to be incapable of putting acts into context!” Javier seethed suddenly. He did not mind that his sister’s psychologist could think that madness and violence ran in their family.
His sister had been missing since a brutal murder had taken place in a motel room in Sagunto, and he was being questioned by police. Madalina’s psychologist had run into him while he was waiting to be interviewed by the sergeant and the captain of the local precinct. In the sweltering Spanish heat the distraught young man lamented his sister’s disappearance, one he would have seen coming if it hadn’t been for his naïve trust.
The corridors were cold; not a soothing cold that alleviated the discomfort of the season, but cold in their indifference and judgment. Javier’s heart was ridden by guilt, but it was a secret he would not reveal to betray his sister. From what he had gathered thus far, the police had no knowledge of the child Madalina had been so obsessed with. He found it extremely odd, but he dared not ask for fear of sealing Madalina’s fate, not only as a murderess, but also as a child abductor. For now, while he was waiting to be grilled by the authorities, he was already receiving the treatment from Dr. Sabian.
“It’s no use to project your inadequacies onto me, Javier,” Dr. Sabian shrugged. “Clearly your defensive manner proves that you can’t see the fault in your sister’s behavior. Make no mistake, my friend, I do find it morally admirable. But in this case, where her mental health is regressing and causing harm to her and everyone around her . . . .”
“Oh, just shut up,” Javier snapped. “You shrinks think you know madness because you read about cases in text books and folders held by asylums. You all make me sick. If anything, you are the one who failed. You are the one who is inadequate! Had your treatment even been worth the empty mantras you spew out, had it actually possessed some validity to it, my sister wouldn’t have been even remotely as volatile.”
“Healing people like your sister is not a magic trick, Javier,” Dr. Sabian stated arrogantly, denying the young man even the courtesy of looking him in the eye. The old Spaniard in the awkward suit lifted his black-framed glasses off his nose and pulled out his handkerchief to clean the lenses. “But you think because you are a psych student at that seedy night college—one I would not even send my dog to for house training—you can criticize my methods.”
He replaced his glasses and stared Javier down like a hated foe and his mock sympathetic tone was scratching at the young man’s innards. “I see projection
is your favorite prognosis because you simply do not have the experience to recognize actual insanity, however mild, when it presents.”
Javier denied his innate sense of reasoning and his placidity as the emotional pain of losing his sister ignited the short fuse in his brain. The tether had begun slipping from the moment he first saw the crowd gathering in the street below that night. He whirled in his seat, his face in a tremor of fury, and he made sure that Dr. Sabian heard every word that he forced through clenched teeth.
“You might have years of experience, doctor, but so does the devil. Do not think that I do not know what kind of voodoo you imposed on my sister while she was in your care, you fucking freak. I know what you did. I don’t know why you made her into . . . into . . . that,” his voice quivered, “but I think you were paid by Paulo and his family to destroy her fragile self-esteem so that the courts would deem her insane.” Javier was livid, which only tugged at his sore heart even more, but it had to be said. He had kept it inside for so long in order to not insult or upset Madalina, and now that she was absent, he had free rein to say his piece. In addition to it all, Javier found the psychologist’s habit of randomly exclaiming nonsense extremely vexing.
“Is that what you believe?” the psychologist retorted. “Is that your professional opinion as a novice or is that just the ridiculous extent of your delusions, boy? Be careful of the accusations you spit around, and more so, those whom you accuse.”
“Javier Mantara?” a sharp, strong voice called through the doorway of an office next to the wooden chairs where Javier and Dr. Sabian were having their bout. A small-framed officer peeked around the corner of the office door.
“Sí, Señor?” Javier replied, jolting up to an erect stance reminiscent of his late father’s military parenting.
“You can come in,” the officer told Javier. With a look of raw malice, Madalina’s brother passed the psychologist, who rose from his chair and casually walked off down the polished hallway floor.
“Please, sit down,” the officer said, as he closed the door. He gave the uneasy young man a long scrutinizing stare before he moved away from the door to sit down across from the desk. “I see some tension between you and Dr. Sabian. Mind telling me what that’s about?”
Javier drew in a deep breath and released it in increments before answering. “May I ask why he is here?”
“You may not,” the captain replied, “but I will tell you anyway, since you look very worried about his presence here. After I saw the security camera footage of your sister leaving the motel where the murder occurred, I naturally summoned her psychologist. He was listed on the particulars of our suspect that were uncovered during the initial investigation. We identified her and contacted him. He agreed to furnish us with her records.”
“Of course he did. I thought there was some confidentiality clause about shrinks,” Javier mumbled wearily, wiping his sandy eyes.
“This is a homicide investigation, Señor Mantara,” the police captain reminded him. “All parties involved are under lawful obligation to divulge all relevant information regarding the suspect.”
“I have already told you everything. Look at my statement. It’s all there. Please, let me see if I can find her without interference, sir,” Javier implored. “I know how she thinks. I used to know her as well as I knew myself.”
“Knew,” the officer scoffed. “And now? I bet you don’t know her as well as you thought, eh?” The captain felt sorry for Javier, but he was bound by the law, and his opinion, his agreement that the young man should look for his sister, meant nothing in this regard.
“Even though she has changed slightly, sir, you have to understand that I am still the one person who knows her best,” Javier defended, clasping his hands nervously on the desk. “I am sure Dr. Sabian would never tell you this about my sister, but her marriage was an exercise in emotional abuse that turned to physical abuse . . . .”
“I was told, yes,” the captain cut him short.
“Well then, it is only natural that she would have done things to defend herself eventually, right?” Madalina’s brother reasoned. “I mean, during the divorce proceedings alone, my sister was subjected to such wicked treatment that I thought she was going to kill herself. Please, Capt. Sanchez, you have to understand that her husband used Dr. Sabian not only to make my her look unstable enough to have her committed, but also to corrupt her through the ruse of psychiatric therapy.”
The police captain raised an eyebrow and shifted closer to the edge of the desk in interest. “My, my, that is an accusation I had not heard before.”
Javier felt so helpless against the ignorance and sarcasm of the authorities, yet he knew that throwing a tantrum would be the worst move right now. It would not only prove the doctor’s point about Javier, but it would support Paulo’s claims that Madalina’s mental problems were inherent. He tried again. “I know this sounds like desperate ravings, sir, but I am a cogent and intelligent man. Also, I am a psychology student, and I know manipulation when I see it. Dr. Sabian is not what he seems. Of that I am sure.”
“Do you have proof?” the officer asked quickly.
Javier sighed and sank back in his chair. He shook his head, “No, sir. All I know is that she gradually grew worse after Sabian began treating her for depression and the emotional abuse Paulo had inflicted on her.”
“You say the doctor corrupted her,” Capt. Sanchez said, giving Javier the benefit of the doubt. “Why do you say this? You make this claim with much confidence, my friend. Off the record, what is your real problem with this man?”
Javier appreciated the officer’s willingness to hear him out, but he still didn’t trust the gesture. He feared that it was a trap, or that perhaps it was just another reason to ridicule him. “You would never believe me if I told you my theory, but I am grateful for your audience.”
“Javier, try me,” Capt. Sanchez challenged. “None of what you say will go on the record for this brief discussion, alright? I am not playing you, my boy. You can trust me.”
Javier knew he had to tell someone eventually. He reckoned that telling the officer would not amount to anything except, at worse, hearsay. If the officer turned out to be genuine, Javier would have an ally, at least to a mild degree. Reluctantly, the psych student said, “What do you know of obscure religions? Or,” he re-formulated, “maybe not obscure, but what do you know of the less known religions?”
“Are you saying she was brainwashed? Are you insinuating that Dr. Sabian is some kind of cult member?” the police captain asked, but Javier immediately started waving his hand profusely, negating the guess.
“No, no, that is not what I’m playing at, sir,” he explained. “You are right in one respect, though, that I think she was brainwashed, but not in the way you think at all.”
“Then what? What religions are you referring to?” Capt. Sanchez pushed.
“Wait, you’re charging ahead of what I’m trying to say,” Javier said hastily. He looked at the officer with urgency, but paused to allow the man to pay attention to what he was about to say. “I believe that Dr. Sabian is an Oloricha, a Santero, and that he used his modern mental profession to influence my sister in some nefarious manner through every session she thought was therapy.”
The police captain sat astonished at the first clout of information that slammed his logic like a granite battering ram. “A what?”
“Santero,” Javier repeated, waiting for the first retort, but the captain’s silence implied that he was ready for more, as long as it came in small amounts. “It’s a kind of priest or initiate of an old slave religion. Long story short, I believe that Sabian influenced Madalina into something she is not, sir.”
“And what would that be?” Capt. Sanchez asked evenly.
Javier had no idea how to answer, but he tried. “I don’t know if there is a name for it, sir, but I believe he was using hypnosis to instill psychosis into her psyche, which ultimately turned her into something . . . ,” he paused again, unab
le to sound sane, until he just came out and said it, “ . . . I believe he turned my sister into a bruja, sir.”
7
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cleave”
Bored beyond tears, Sam huffed, chewing on the end of his Biro. Before him, on his lap, his empty notepad awaited his wisdom, which would come in elegant scribbling only pharmacists could decipher. Something itched in Sam. Something probed to be put to ink, yet he had absolutely no idea what it was that the barren paper wanted from him.
The plastic of the cheap pen squished between his teeth as he tried to write a suitable opening segment for the cover he was going to do on Purdue’s find. Even though the discovery was still off the record until Purdue’s lawyers confirmed that he could claim it, Sam thought it would be a good time to start working, as he had no doubt Purdue’s claim would be approved. He knew that Purdue could practically convince any authority to let him have his way, either by charm or with money. Sam had faith in the insanely wealthy explorer to get what he wanted, legitimately or otherwise.
It made him smile to himself, how Purdue could always just summon him without expecting any protest. Sam found it amusing to what level of willing servitude he was willing to acquiesce to when it concerned the white haired billionaire, but it was not because of the generous checks he wrote Sam for the effort. No, it was the adventure that always awaited, the exotic places Sam saw and experienced even though his life was usually at stake sooner than later.
A sharp toothache snapped Sam out of his contemplation.
“Ow, Christ,” he mumbled, puling the pen out of his mouth to soothe the tooth with the tip of his tongue. He had inadvertently chewed harder, subliminally frustrated at the tardiness of the pilot’s return. Impatiently he shifted in his seat, casting a rapid gaze across the room to scrutinize those present. Nobody resembled the pilot who had left the hall almost an hour ago, which just annoyed the weary journalist even more.
The Inca Prophecy Page 4