“I promised a young man today that I would check something important out,” he said aloud as he strolled into his cramped living room to locate the house laptop. His wife heard her adorable husband babbling to an unseen guest in the other room, evoking a giggle from her.
“Javier, just let me have some mother’s milk and I’ll get right to your weird little story, my friend.” The police captain’s thick fingers made quick work of his shirt buttons and soon after he sank onto the couch, wine glass aloft. A mediocre gut was released from his prim posture, dressed in a white vest that divided his uniform shirt. With a glorious sigh, he took pause to find himself, sipping at the sweet wine before opening the lid of the laptop.
By the third glass he had downloaded several PDFs on the subject of Santeria. Although he was tipsy, the wine did not blunt the officer’s deductive powers at all. In fact, the alcohol loosened up his rigid logic a bit and allowed him to color outside the lines of the picture. His eyes raced across the countless lines of information as he mumbled the words that stood out to him.
“Afro-Cuban in origins . . . okay . . . little different from Voodoo,” he muttered in the unhealthy light of the screen.
His wife shook her head, amazed at his disobedience.
“How many have you had, Pedro?” she asked. “Dinner is almost ready.”
But he was deeply engrossed, whispering to himself about the religion, trying to find a connection between its practices and a shrink brainwashing a woman into becoming a witch. It sounded even more preposterous when he said it out loud, but his wife didn’t look as cynical as he had thought she would.
“Interesting,” she said, looking impressed with his efforts.
“Deals with the saints of Catholicism, right?” He took a sip of wine and kept reading over two different sites open on four tabs.
She sat down, wringing the dishcloth between her hands as she looked up in thought.
“I think so, but there is a twist, I think. Why are you . . .? Pedro, was there another homicide like the one in Madrid that time?” she sighed.
“Nope. Well, yes, but not like you think.” He carried on reading aloud. “Uses a similar system, but slaves were forced to observe Catholic saints instead of their own . . . Orichá . . .” Sanchez got stuck on the word. Clicking on one of the other pages he found something to elucidate. “Orichá. Here we go. These are the semi-divine beings, venerated as saints, which is where the name Santería originates from.”
“Sounds exactly like Voodoo to me,” she scoffed. “It just comes from another part of the world and has other names for the spirits they use.”
He looked at his wife. “Are you sure?”
“Sí. I don’t know Santería that well, but I know Voodoo from my theology seminars.” She shrugged indifferently. “What you’re reading sounds like a sister-religion. Both use spirits to communicate with their god, each with their own aspects.”
Nodding, he perused another tab’s information and read it under his breath. “They replaced the names of the beings they worship with the Catholic saints as not to be discovered practicing their own religion.” Sanchez shook his head. “It seems freedom is a lot of work. Not being free to worship your own god takes a lot of energy. People should leave other people alone and let them have their own gods and cultures, you know?” he said loud enough for her to hear him in the kitchen.
From there she answered, “Says a descendant of the Spanish Inquisition.” He heard her laughing at the irony. “Our ancestors explored so many lands and forced many of those very tribes into forced religion. How awful that Spain is known for such organized barbarism.”
Sanchez felt insulted. The tone of his voice conveyed his disapproval. “Well, I wasn’t there. I didn’t do those things. Their sins are not mine, no matter what the faith says.”
“Oh, relax,” she smiled. “Don’t get riled up over something that doesn’t even pertain to you. You’re looking into something for a friend, no?”
“Oh shit, yes!” he snapped out of his contemplative state. “I am supposed to find out if they have witchdoctors.”
“What?” she asked.
“This man wished me to believe that a well-known and respected psychiatrist or psychologist,” he waved away the confusion of the terms, “from Sagunto has been turning his sister into a witch. He says that he thinks this doctor was inducing trances in his sister by hypnosis and allowing spirits to possess her. Ghastly, don’t you think?”
She looked taken aback where she stood. “It is ghastly! My God, are such things still the norm these days? Scary to think that they still try that stuff here and now.”
“That is what I thought,” he replied, feeling way too relaxed to care that he was slurring his words a bit. “But you know, darling, you know . . . I don’t know why, because it doesn’t make sense, but I almost believe this young man. Something in my gut says that he is onto something.”
“Well, keep looking,” she suggested. “Truth be told, I’m curious myself now.”
He entered more keywords in the search bar, trying to type soberly. “And stop drinking so much!” she hollered from the kitchen, as if she could read his mind. He was about to give her a dismissive wave in the solitude of the living room, when he stumbled across a page that offered Santería terminology. The neat columns compelled him to scan the alien looking words and odd spellings for something useful. Suddenly his eyes grew wide. His discovery was so spot-on that he almost smashed the foot of the glass when he slammed it down.
“Caballo? Cab-ba-cabballo? Caballo!” he stammered. “Lira! Lira! I found something that could stretch to Javier’s claim!” he exclaimed as she rushed in. He held up a hand to announce what he was reading. “They call them caballo!”
“Horse?” she asked, looking perplexed. “Why horse?”
“Listen, listen,” he said, “During a trance, people are possessed by these Orichá, to communicate, they say.” He looked up suspiciously. “But possession is not always for words, hey? Sometimes they are . . . .”
“For deeds,” she completed his theory. “So you think this could be true?”
“I do now. Look, I think this type of mumbo-jumbo is all horseshit, excuse the pun. But this, if he could induce trances in this woman, she could very well have been controlled and forced to commit that murder,” he declared.
“Alright, I get what you’re saying, Pedro, but how do you prove that in a court of law? And how do you think it will look if a renowned police captain comes out with witchcraft as a motive for the murder?” his wife reminded him carefully. “You will lose your goddamn job if you say things like that in your report, not to mention what the public and the media will do with your reputation.”
“I know, I know,” he moaned, grabbing at the empty glass with a look of abject defeat. “Unless I get proof from the horse’s mouth,” he said mysteriously.
“Darling, seriously, enough with the wordplay now,” she said. “You can’t get proof of witchcraft from a medical professional, and if it’s true that he can do these things, what if he gets to you?”
“He will not,” the well-quenched Sanchez professed. “I won’t let him know that I’m onto him. As head investigator and agent of the law, he is obligated to give me all records pertaining to his treatment of Madalina Mantara, Lira. And I will have another psychologist have a look at the hypnosis sessions so that they can tell me if anything was done unethically.”
“Just be careful,” she warned. “Witchcraft is just nefarious psycho-sex, and very easy to fall prey to without even knowing it.”
“Psycho-sex?” he asked, amused. His educated wife lifted her eyebrow, cradled his face snugly in her palms, and whispered, “The mindfuck.”
10
Bad News
Dr. Nina Gould felt her chest burn, but she did not relent. The torment was almost unbearable and her lungs begged for respite by the time she reached Taylor’s Brae, but she couldn’t stop now. They were almost on her heel and she could never allow them to
get to her, even if it killed her. Nina’s dark tresses rebelled against their elastic restraints and jabbed at her brow as perspiration inflamed her eyes. The inclines impaired her speed greatly, but she persisted on will alone for fear of their attack.
“Oh my God,” she huffed so heavily that she thought her heart would burst. “Why did I leave my house tonight? Why the hell didn’t I listen to my gut feeling?” Finally Nina turned the corner, opting to take the way past Argyll Square to get into Albany Street.
She could hear their voices now, taunting her, catching up quicker than she could flee. In the distance a glimmer of hope presented itself. The sight of the police station gave her renewed strength to make it there before disaster struck. Nina moaned out loud with every step she took to get away, but her knees were buckling dangerously.
Don’t fall! her inner voice wailed in panic. Don’t fall, or you will rue it! Don’t let these ingrates get you! Think of Sam. Think of Purdue and Paddy. They will have to hear about what happened to you through some hospital or worse, morgue!
“Get her!” a man shouted from behind Nina, a few feet from gaining on her. She kept her eye on the nearing sanctuary of the police station, but her lungs could not take another breath.
So, were all those those Marlboro’s worth it? that bitchy voice of reason hounded her. Not now. Really, she countered, sucking up air like a drowning cat. How do you get yourself into these situations?
Her muscular shape evaded the pack behind her as she found her second wind, psychologically forcing herself to sprint it out to make it to the cop shop before they could get to her. Nina’s eyes stung, blurring her vision, but a tall shape appeared and descended from the front steps onto the pavement where she was running for her life.
“Mayor Tomlin!” she mouthed, but breath eluded her. Behind her the men cussed and slowed down as the mayor received the petite historian into his grasp. Nina went limp as he put the towel around her, but she stayed on her feet. One by one, the rest of the pack caught up to her, each getting a towel from the other officials.
“Jaysus, Nina,” panted the man who chased her, “did you have jet fuel in your oatmeal this morning?” The sixty-four-year-old barrister bent over next to her. Nina smiled, but she couldn’t speak yet. She’d been smoking for too many years to recover quickly from something this strenuous. All around her the runners of the informal monthly Snail Trail race, promoted by the local Frail Care Society and St. Ignatius Council for the Elderly, gathered. They looked like heaving towel pimples on the straight, even road.
“Well done, Dr. Gould,” Mavis huffed. She was a seventy-year-old retired schoolteacher, living in Oban since 1984, who enjoyed Nina’s adventures on historical excursions that she read about in high profile newspapers every now and then. “You bested us this time.”
“Thanks Mavis,” Nina answered happily, feeling a charge of laughter build up. They treated her like a champion for outrunning them, people just about twice her age! But she enjoyed the company of the elderly, and the after parties at the pub were always a great night out. The historian accepted a few more pats on the back from the very people who should be proud of themselves for even keeping up to her instead.
“H-hey, hey, Nina? Got a fag?” Harry, a sixty-nine-year-old smoker like herself, asked.
“No, Harry,” she frowned. “Christ, give your lungs time to un-implode, will ya?”
“I know,” he shrugged, “but I would kill for one right now.”
Nina slipped the towel from her shoulders as she stood up straight. She pat Harry on the back, “I know, sir, I know. If I had one on me, we’d be sharing it.”
“You are a terrible example, Dr. Gould,” the mayor chuckled.
Burying her hand in her side, she took a cocky stance and raised her eyebrow at him. “You should be grateful that I even came out tonight, Mayor. I had a date with too much YouTube and a bottle of ale, but I made the effort of gracing you with my presence and beating the snot out of these pensioners, so . . . .”
He laughed and shook his head. “That you did. I retract my criticism. Will you join us for a post athletic tipple at the pub, then?”
“Aye, but I cannot stay long. I have a dissertation due to submit to the Cultural Sciences Institution in Glasgow in two days and I am two weeks behind on my research as it is,” she explained, wiping her sweat-drenched hair with the towel.
“That’s good enough!” Mavis approved from the other side. “We’re going to McGallow’s Sports Bar this time, dear. Will you walk with me?”
“Of course,” Nina smiled. “If you excuse the delightful odor of sweat exuding from my skin.
The old lady raised her own arms and pulled up her nose. “Not above these grottos, my dear. I won’t smell a thing off you.”
Nina snickered and grabbed Mavis by the arm. “Come on then, let’s go. We’re not getting any younger.”
After several drinks, Nina noticed that the clock had already paced too quickly for her quota tonight, and she began to gather her things to leave for home. Outside it had begun to rain and the night was chilly, contrary to the interior of the sports bar. Nina enjoyed her last whisky, just relaxing in the roasty ambience of the establishment. She was not one for sports bars. In fact, she was not one for sports, period. But most of the football oafs had gone home and her friends from the old age home had done the same, long before the clouds had gathered over the town.
One for the road. We both know you’re not going to do an ounce of work tonight. You’re too pissed.’
She tested her perception by stepping down from the chair, but her balance held steady. Appeased by her abilities, she ordered another last whisky. Nope, her inner voice retorted, just too pissed to work. Otherwise I’m just fine.
On each of the four walls of the medium-sized sports bar a mounted flat screen monitor echoed the same visuals from the chosen channel of the hour. Most of the patrons were busy shouting out conversations over the loud sound of the channel advertisements and unnecessary ‘Coming Ups’ and nursing their drinks as the end of the shift drew nearer.
Like a swarm of alcoholic insects, those still left in the bar hastily ordered enough to last them in case of last call. The bartender could see that the sport on the screen was not really appreciated, so he switched the channel to News Action 24. The usual slots came up every few minutes. Corrupt presidents, scandalous celebrities and war coverage infested the LED squares that made the walls come to life, but Nina couldn’t care any less. She looked forward to a wonderful long hot bath and a slumber true to proper inebriation to prepare her for the hellish soreness the morning would no doubt bring.
Nina looked back to the bartender in passing, but her eye caught something on the television screen that filled her with alarm and horror. Although she was not positive that what she saw on the news was actually what she thought it was, a tether of terrible apprehension wrapped itself around her stomach as she squinted to see. A female reporter was standing aboard a fishing boat of sorts, looking solemn, gesturing toward the dark sea behind her.
“Um, excuse me, Milton,” she stammered slightly under the finger of the whisky, “can you turn that up real quick?”
“Sure,” the bartender said. But when the sound came on, she wished she had never asked to hear better. The reporter’s babbling came and went through the blur of Nina’s impaired state of mind, but she heard the name David Purdue. Behind the reporter was a heinous scene of scattered debris floating in the ocean, large fragments of white fiberglass were dancing in the tide with pieces of propeller and panels painted in orange. Her fears were confirmed when she heard Purdue’s name again, in confirmation that he was presumed dead.
“Oh Jesus,” she moaned, her heart fluttering in pain like a skinless butterfly. “Please don’t let this be true.”
The reporter continued: The Spanish Coast Guard has confirmed that the billionaire’s yacht was registered a few days ago, and charter details filed at Melilla indicate that Mr. Purdue was on vacation.
; “Yeah right,” Nina mumbled her disagreement. “Purdue does not take vacations.”
Nina’s reddening eyes took notice of as much detail as she could gather in the background of the news report, as the reporter added another blow she was not ready for.
According to the air traffic authorities at the Málaga-Costa del Sol airport, the helicopter that collided with Purdue’s yacht carried only two people, the pilot and a journalist, who was on his way to join the crew on board the yacht.
“Sam?” Nina shrieked weakly, unable to process the horror in the condition she was in. She hated herself for being drunk. Even while intoxicated, Nina felt the frustration of her retarded reactions keeping her from properly assessing the news. “Not Sam. Oh please God, not Sam too!”
We have confirmation that the pilot’s body has been recovered, but the other occupant has not yet been found. The identity of the deceased man will be made public as soon as his next of kin has been notified. This is Clare Winslow for News Action 24, off the coast of Málaga, Spain.
“Miss, are you alright?” a man asked from somewhere. His voice came from all around Nina, as if he were sitting in a giant empty tin. She felt that she was losing her senses as the culmination of alcohol and shock took her down. The bartender and his staff rushed to her aid, while two locals caught the collapsing beauty. Quickly they gathered her up.
“I know her,” Milton said. “I’ll take her home.”
“You will do no such thing!” his supervisor protested. “Anything can happen to her and then you will be held liable. No, no. You take her to the hospital right now. They can get her home after they’ve checked her out. Let’s not take any chances, lads.”
“Aye, you’re right,” Milton agreed, lifting Nina effortlessly to carry her to the car. “Willy, you go with him,” the supervisor ordered one of the locals. Willy nodded. He took the historian’s gym bag, towel, and handbag, and trailed the bartender into the rain, the bartender covering her only with his coat.
The Inca Prophecy Page 6