Jack moaned and thrashed his legs. He was actually trying to fight against this, although he was not certain why.
He managed to break loose, very briefly. He came half awake, merely a fleeting instant’s consciousness.
And then he was slipping helplessly back.
He’d changed again. He was an older man, now. Santiago DeFlores, the plantation owner.
A beard bristled at his chin. And he was dressed, despite the stifling heat, in a long flannel nightgown. The bed he occupied was a four-poster.
He had pince-nez balanced on the bridge of his nose, a quill pen in one hand, and was making entries in a ledger. Camille was off in the woods again, performing some annual ritual, and would not be back till dawn.
When the door eased open, he didn’t take any notice at first. But finally he looked up, to see one of his own daughters standing there. This was Isadora. You could tell that by her eyes.
Jack rolled over. Isadora. He tried to breathe the syllables.
So that was her name.
She was dressed in the filmiest of gowns and, as she stepped in, Santiago realized he could see right through it. He felt his cheeks flush. But to his horror and disgust, he found he could not look away.
She returned his gaze shamelessly. Smiling at him, she walked across. The gown slipped from one of her shoulders, the tip of a breast falling into view.
This was utterly wrong. The foulest of all sins. But her hazel eyes were holding him firmly.
The dream’s scene changed again.
Jack was now Evgeny Eusenovitch, a delegate from Moscow, sitting in the pale moonlight on one of Havana’s eastern beaches. He had thought he was alone here, till a movement in the corner of his eye brought him around. Isadora came to him, leaving no footprints in the sand . . .
Jack grunted, twisted—kept on fighting.
He became Jan Meenders from Rotterdam. As Jan, he felt ill at ease as he got ready for bed in his hotel. He had not enjoyed the show at the Karibe. Perhaps he was too old-fashioned, he mused.
But that one special dancer had so fevered his imagination, filling him with strange desires . . .
And now, she came to him, her breath upon his cheek . . .
Just before she managed to kiss him, Jack pulled back again.
And became a Canadian this time. A guy called Francis Jackson. Why should such a beautiful young woman be interested in a guy like himself? But here she was in his hotel room.
It took all of Jack’s strength to stop it happening.
He managed to make Jackson lift a hand and push her face away. And an expression of dismay filled up her honey-colored eyes.
“Don’t you like me?” she asked, her voice pleading. “Don’t you want me, Jack?”
As she spoke his name, Jack came fully awake, sitting up.
And could feel it immediately, before he even saw it.
There was somebody on the bed with him.
* * *
He gasped and swiveled. And came face-to-face with a weird outline, kneeling on the mattress beside him.
This was no dream. It was really happening.
The same outline as before. Isadora DeFlores, insubstantial as a sea mist. No color to her, save her eyes, which were the palest amber, like a hazelnut shell.
He could barely see the details of her face, her features reduced to vague smudges. But her eyes stared at him coolly. They were studying him—there was no doubt of that.
His body went completely tight. The eyes in front of him narrowed very slightly. Then one smoky hand came up, the fingernails translucent.
Started reaching for him, like a claw trying to grab him.
Jack let out a howl. He finally moved, flailing at it wildly.
And his hand passed through nothingness, simply a biting coldness on that section of the air. When he pulled back, his knuckles were all aching. But at least he’d stopped the figure. It was frozen in midreach.
Those eyes regarded him for a few seconds longer. They were damp and slightly puzzled, like she could not understand why he had chosen to reject her.
Then her lips began to move, quite soundlessly, but tracing out three brief words on the darkened air.
And somehow, he believed he knew what they might be.
“You’re mine, Jack.”
That made him go more rigid than ever. He was pushing back away from her by this time, but with genuine difficulty. He felt sure at first that she would follow him and catch him up.
But then her entire figure vanished.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
Manuel Cruz had found himself unable to sleep properly that night. He’d crept out before his family began to rise and was in his office at the Ministry of Trade before six thirty.
He pushed open his window, gazed out for a while. He loved the city at this time, the way the air was drier, lighter. Off in the direction of the airport, there was a muffled roar as a plane took off. It petered away, and the building became quiet around him.
He fixed himself a coffee and then set to work. So much could be done with no one else around. He ought to make a habit of this once a week at least.
The ink in his pen packed up on him. He was hunting for another when his phone rang, unnervingly loud in the surrounding hush.
Who on earth would call here at this hour?
A foreign accent, North American, came down the line. It seemed an elderly voice and was struggling with basic Spanish, quite appallingly pronounced.
“Bonus dee-ass. Senor Manuel Cruz, poor favor?”
“This is he.”
“Oh, you speak English? Thank God! I’ve had no end of trouble getting through to you.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. But how can I help you, sir?”
“My name is Doctor Leland Hague,” the man said. “I’m a medical practitioner based in Toronto, Canada. And one of my patients is—was—Francis Jackson. He visited your country recently, and I understand you met with him.”
Manuel closed his eyes a short while. What exactly was happening now?
“Yes. And I did hear what happened. I am most terribly sorry.”
“Maybe you can help me, then? I’m trying to shed some fresh light on this matter.”
Manuel sat up straighter. “Please, sir. Please, go on.”
* * *
Carlos Esposito was up and about too, but there was nothing out of the ordinary in that. Early starts and late finishes were part of his routine. His desk was smaller and less tidy than Manuel’s, his office walls buried beneath thumbtacked photographs and press cuttings. But like his brother-in-law, he had a lot of paperwork that needed catching up on. He hated it like hell, but it had to be done.
He had been busy last night. Once he’d left the Karibe, he had gotten on the phone, calling up friends in immigration. Found out where the Frenchman was living. Found out that the Yanqui companion was a fellow called Jack Gilliard, staying at the Hotel Portughese.
And in the space of one brief hour, he had set the wheels in motion that would reveal what they were genuinely up to. They didn’t know it yet, but an invisible net had begun closing in around them.
Enjoy your nightclubs and your whores while you still have the chance, he thought. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow you might face prison, or even a firing squad.
He’d just completed a report when the phone rang and he snatched it up. And it was Manolito, sounding agitated once again.
He listened, his brow furrowing, as Manuel described the doctor’s call.
“What are you suggesting now, brother—an illness? I’m a cop, not a medical man.”
“I know that. But this Doctor Hague is coming to Havana in a few days’ time. I was wondering . . . you have a lot of influence. Could you help things run more smoothly, make sure that he gets his visa in time?�
��
Carlos rolled his eyes. “Okay.”
“Did you find anything at the Karibe last night?”
“Sure, but regarding to a different matter. A pair of foreigners who are acting strangely. In fact, I think that I might go back there again tonight.”
* * *
A building across the way blocked out the sun at first, and so the morning’s light took a while before it found Jack. Almost as if it were hanging back, afraid of what it might reveal.
He was still squatting at the center of his bed as its glow finally touched him, head tucked down, knees pulled to his chest. He’d drawn the bed sheet up around his shoulders and was staring at his clenched fists.
As the yellow light began to warm him, he let his eyes close momentarily. He took in a rattling breath.
His mind began ticking over, gathering a gentle speed. He had, he figured, been in a mild state of shock the last couple of hours. Hardly surprising, considering what he’d been through. But in the clear light of day, he immediately began hunting around for a more rational explanation.
Somebody slipped something in my drink? No. He’d have known it, if he had been doped.
You never really woke up. You just dreamed you were awake.
It was the most plausible answer. But did not convince him as much as it should have. Because the skin of his right hand still felt sensitive and raw where he had touched the thing, the phantom. The sensation was undeniable.
And so dammit, what the hell to do?
Leave, he told himself. Get out of here immediately. Change hotels.
It seemed ridiculous, looked at that way. Running away like a child. But if he remained here this coming night, would he even be able to sleep?
Would he even be capable of shutting his eyelids?
He got up and started dressing, his movements suddenly urgent.
* * *
The desk clerk looked at Jack with surprise when he came down with his bag packed.
“Señor? I thought you were staying with us a while?” He was a pleasant-mannered individual and seemed genuinely concerned. “If there’s any problem—?”
“Something unexpected came up, I’m afraid,” Jack informed him quickly. “If I could have my check, please? And my passport?”
“Yes, of course.”
The fellow tapped at a computer keyboard, setting an old dot matrix printer rattling. He went to a filing cabinet and started hunting through it.
The clerk stopped with a puzzled expression after a while. Glanced at the pigeonhole for the key to Jack’s room. There was a note protruding from it, which he unfolded and read.
“I’m sorry, Señor, but your passport is not here. It’s been withdrawn by the police, for a routine inspection.” The clerk shrugged. “It must have happened last night, when I was not on duty.”
“But I have to leave today.”
Jesus, he couldn’t even check into a new hotel without the thing. All the guy across the desk could do was pull a sympathetic face.
“Do the police often do this?” Jack inquired.
“Well, what it says here . . .” The clerk held out the note for him to see. “It’s just routine.”
But Jack could tell that the man wasn’t really sure.
* * *
A cab dropped Jack off outside Pierre’s house. He went up the path and rang the bell. When he got no reply, he edged his way toward the back of the house.
Pierre Melville was in the kitchen, sitting in his bathrobe at a table. His face was downturned, his hair and beard askew, and there was a coffee mug clasped in one huge fist. He did not even look up when Jack banged on the window.
And when his head did finally lift, Jack could see immediately that there was something wrong.
Pierre’s face was more than simply pale. It was deflated. There were bags under his eyes where none had been before, and his cheeks were drooping. It might simply be a hangover, but Jack didn’t think so. The guy looked genuinely ill.
It was the Frenchman’s eyes that bothered him the most. Despite the fact that he was standing in clear view, they were not fixed on him properly. Rather, they were aimed across his shoulder.
And there was nothing to see off in that direction but empty sky.
Pierre put down his mug and started lifting both hands to his face. They didn’t make it the whole way. Halted in midair, uncertain. Jack could see that they were shaking.
He banged on the window again, more insistently this time. And at last, Pierre’s gaze drifted to him.
The man’s forehead creased, as if he couldn’t tell who he was looking at at first. At last, he got up and unlocked the back door.
“Jackie? What is it?”
Even his voice was quieter than it had been.
“The kings of Cuba are about to be deposed, that’s what. Christ, Pierre, are you sick or something?”
“Me?” The man looked genuinely puzzled. “No. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so good.”
This took Jack completely off balance.
“You don’t look that way.”
He put a palm to the man’s brow, expecting to find a slight fever at the very least. But his hand jerked back immediately.
“You’re freezing!”
This was totally ignored. Pierre’s eyes drifted to the window again, and a smile that was practically seraphic lit up his dull features.
“What’re you doing here anyway, Jack?”
“It turns out I can’t move hotels.” He didn’t bother explaining why he wanted to do that. “And I can’t leave Cuba either.”
“Can’t . . . ?” Incredulity distorted Pierre’s gray face. “Why should you want to leave? Didn’t you have a gig with those musicians?”
“Gig?” Jack felt his jaw drop. “What in hell is wrong with you? The cops have withdrawn my passport! What in God’s name have you gotten me into?”
“It’s such a wonderful place, though. Leave?”
This was getting crazier by the second. And it wasn’t like Pierre was drunk or even going nuts. More like he hadn’t properly aroused himself from sleep yet. Jack grabbed hold of the front of his robe. “Listen to me! I’m willing to bet the law is onto you as well, and that they think I’m involved.”
And finally, the man’s eyebrows drew together and his gaze took on a sharper edge.
“I’ve been so careful though.”
“Like last night, for instance? Walking into that club with a girl on each arm, ordering expensive drinks? And how do you manage to afford all that? Who d’you think these people are? I warned you it would all go sour.”
Pierre glanced out through the window again, unable to pull his gaze away from it entirely.
“I’m not sure. I—”
Jack shook him. “Haven’t you heard a thing I said?”
“Yes, Jack. You’re quite right. It’s just, I’ve a last consignment to unload.”
“To hell with that!”
“Wait a minute. Listen to me, okay? If what you’re saying is true, then we won’t be able to leave by legal means. And getting out of here illegally takes cash.”
“Which you’ve got plenty of. Please tell me that.”
Pierre shrugged. “Sorry, Jackie. I’ve spent almost everything I’ve made so far. Hell, you know me.”
“Damn it!”
Jack let go of him and took a step back, trying to think the whole thing through. “It’s too risky,” he finally said.
“Then suggest another option? Look, the easiest and quickest way out of here is the same way that my stuff gets in: a boat. And the next one’s due tomorrow night.”
“I can’t wait that long!” Jack blurted.
That got him an incredulous stare. “One more night, for chrissakes?” Pierre suddenly blinked, figuring something else out. “Hey, wait a m
inute . . . what made you go looking for your passport in the first place?”
And this time, it was Jack’s turn to look uncomfortable.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
Poor, poor me.
Two centuries had passed, and Isadora DeFlores had still not grown accustomed to the grave that was her daytime home. She was not tied to her old physical form, her crumbled bones, and that was a blessing at least. But she floated just below the coffin lid like oil in a container. At this hour of the morning, the woman was pure essence and completely insubstantial.
An approaching noise from the world above the coffin brought her meandering thoughts to a halt. Three sets of footfalls closed in, stopped for a short while, then drifted off.
Isadora reached out with her senses to find two Brazilian tourists and a guide. She stayed with them for a while as they moved away.
To draw an odor in. To reach out with your fingertips and feel actual sensation through the fine, delicate nerves. How she envied that.
To be free to move around under the fierce eye of the sun once more. That especially. That most of all.
Her thoughts turned to the new man she had found. The tall American, with his curious history, his music, and the rootless solitude with which he lived. He was so different from the types she was used to.
And he’d actually managed to fend her off. The first man who had ever managed that. He had altered the course of the dream, making Francis Jackson push back her approaching face.
She was not sure what it meant, but it seemed to point to some kind of special inner strength. She suspected this might be an exceptional man. Like her in a strange way, on the search for something that had been denied him for too long. Maybe he had pushed her back . . . because he wanted something more than she’d been offering.
Perhaps she had, at long last, found the vessel she was looking for.
She thought she heard a low, unpleasant chuckle from the neighboring grave. Lucia had made her presence known, and it sharpened Isadora’s thoughts. There was something else special about this day. She felt she ought to remember what it was, but it eluded her.
Then she suddenly recalled it. Dolores was thirty this very day. And how could she have forgotten that? Tonight was the night when dearest Dodo would conceive the next one in her line.
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