Tropic of Darkness

by Tony Richards

  “To make love with a ghost?” The doctor shrugged. “I’m not quite sure, to tell the truth. Except I doubt it’s possible for a mortal to survive such an encounter. The coldness of the spirit world would overtake their bodies, and its lack of reason would destroy their minds. I wouldn’t be surprised if many of them wound up taking their own lives.”

  At which, the chilliest shot hit Jack. A very recent memory. Pierre Melville, looking sick, with his skin freezing cold. Pierre Melville, talking crazy, staring off at things that only he could see. Finding it hard to grasp reality. Had he, somehow, gotten mixed up in this business too?

  My God, could there be something real about this? Jack’s fingers kept knotting round each other till the knuckles had turned white.

  “I’m still here,” he pointed out, trying desperately to hold on to something sane. “Not cold or crazy yet.”

  “Of course. But then, you pushed her away. And that must have taken a great deal of strength.”

  “I’m safe, then?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Torres said. “A being of this kind will not give up so easily. In fact, it might be your very strength that is attracting her to you.”

  “She’ll try again?”

  The doctor nodded.

  * * *

  Jack was struggling furiously to untangle the mess that his thoughts had become. Never in his life had he known anything like this. Part of his mind, in fact, kept rebelling against it. But he knew that he had to keep that part down.

  “And . . . is there any way of stopping her?” he asked.

  Torres dipped his chin. “I doubt that. The best thing you can do is to avoid the twins. Much of their power derives from the land itself—that is the way it is with Santería. So my opinion is, it would be best if you left Cuba at once.”

  Jack waited while Luis explained about the passport, and the doctor turned that problem over, trying to think of some solution.

  “Then you must not sleep a wink until this problem is resolved,” he finally decided. “I believe that she can only reach you—at the moment—by way of your dreams. So have none.”

  “Isn’t there something else that you can do?”

  Torres gave another brisk shake of his head. “The graves of the DeFlores twins are covered up with sacrifices and, apparently, they’ve been no use. I honestly feel for you, Señor Gilliard. But also, I fear for the rest of us too.”

  Jack peered at him harder.

  “The sisters’ intention is to return to this world, obviously. It says so in the book. But if they succeed in merging with a living being, if they open up a doorway between our world and their own . . . ?” And for the first time, he faltered. “If that happens . . . who can say exactly what it might eventually lead to? Nothing good.”

  He reached into a drawer in his desk.

  “I’m going to give you some powerful amphetamines. They should keep you going until you are able to leave. Modern medicine has its uses, even in circumstances such as these.”

  His eyes took on a hardened sheen Jack had not seen till now.

  “But I have to be quite honest, Señor Gilliard. The sooner that you do leave, then the happier I’ll be.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-THREE

  Under Isadora’s guidance, Dolores prepared herself for the night to come in one of the house’s numerous bedchambers.

  She took a crepe-covered red velvet dress out of a closet redolent of mothballs and put it on. The color had faded and there was a stain along one arm. Heaven only knew what she must look like.

  Then a concealed drawer slid open in a paneled wall. It was full of delicate old jewelry, the precious metals tarnished. The hazel-eyed phantom chose for her a diamond-crusted choker and two emerald rings, and then ushered her over to a mirror with swift, urgent motions of her sharp-tipped hands.

  “Come! See how you look!”

  Dolores looked utterly absurd. Like some ridiculously expensive scarecrow. She dropped her gaze, trying to pretend that none of this was happening.

  But five minutes later, she was picking her way through the gardens again, heading for the road to hitch a ride off into town.

  * * *

  Carlos Esposito felt a sullen weariness descend on him as he walked back into the Karibe.

  He immediately picked out a few faces in the audience he’d seen the previous evening, and found himself wondering what pleasure people got from such mindless repetition. It was not his idea of a good way to spend one’s time. He’d far rather be at his local cantina with his friends. A cold beer, a good cigar, and a game of checkers—those were the only kinds of luxuries a man required on a night like this.

  The band struck up as he moved along the edges of the crowd. And the same suspicion grew on him as yesterday, that he was simply wasting his time.

  Neither the Frenchman nor his Yanqui friend were present. He wondered if they’d found out that Gilliard’s passport had been taken yet. But other than their absence, he could see nothing different about the place.

  There it was, then. Pointless. He had best be going home.

  He was turning to the exit when . . . something wavered in the corner of his vision. Something red.

  Carlos looked round sharply, trying to see what it was. And could not.

  His eyes narrowed, puzzled.

  There it was again. An uneven crimson blur on the edges of his vision. But when he tried to look at it directly, he found that he could not. It seemed to be there one moment, gone the next.

  The weirdest feeling had begun to overtake him. A strange disorientation. He steadied himself, setting a hand against a pillar, wondering what had happened.

  And immediately noticed something else that was pretty odd.

  At the rear of the auditorium, a handsome young black man was standing with his back against a wall. He was tall, and sharply dressed down to his tiepin and his golden cufflinks. Looked like some kind of hustler to Carlos’s practiced eye. And he was—as of this moment—completely alone.

  But the fellow was smiling and nodding, his gaze fixed on the empty air directly ahead of him. Like there was someone there. Like somebody was talking to him.

  His lips began to move as Carlos watched, his hands making accompanying gestures.

  Carlos peered hard at the vacant space the man was staring into.

  And sucked in a breath.

  * * *

  He had been rewarded with another fleeting glimpse of that red blur. Except that this time it had not been in the corner of his eye.

  Present for the briefest instant. Gone as quickly. But he’d looked at it directly this time.

  His heart thumping in his chest, Carlos began to edge in closer, wondering what in God’s name he had just seen. A dreamy expression had come over the younger man’s features, his mouth curved up in a huge grin and his eyes sparkling. Almost like he’d fallen under someone’s spell.

  A fellow enchanted by nothing, though. By empty air.

  Carlos glowered furiously, concentrating on the spot where the blur had been. And was rewarded for his effort. It appeared again, although extremely faint. It kept trying to fade away, evade him. But he focused harder still, pinning his attention on it.

  Old stories from childhood started filling up his thoughts, but there had to be a more rational explanation. Had to be some sense to this. His palms were slick with sweat, his breath coming unevenly.

  As the redness took on shape, he began to see it was a dress. The wearer’s back was to him and her head was wrapped in a mantilla, so he could not see her face. But why in heaven’s name had he not been able to make her out properly before?

  Something else peculiar was happening. His head kept trying to turn away. He had to make an actual physical effort to keep looking at the woman. And the longer that he managed it, the more his body trembled.

 
It was as if some strange force was trying to make him look elsewhere. And a silent voice seemed to be whispering in his head, telling him to ignore this, just forget it, walk away.

  He would not. Carlos clenched his fists.

  The woman moved. A small and simple gesture. She reached out, touched the young man’s sleeve with almost a birdlike delicacy. Carlos’s temples furrowed again.

  The revealed hand was gnarled and ugly. It was the hand of a hag, of a crone.

  The old-fashioned manner in which she was dressed only pressed that notion home. And when he thought of her ability to shield herself from view . . .

  Was this woman, somehow, affecting the eyes and minds, altering the perceptions, of an entire nightclub full of people? Carlos stepped behind another pillar, watching her more closely.

  The lace-enfolded head was nodding. The young man seemed to be asking her something. Then, he offered her his arm. The wizened hand took hold of it and Carlos felt a quiver of disgust run through him.

  The bizarre couple turned away in the direction of the foyer. And he got his first glimpse of the woman’s face.

  It was pinched and withered, crabbed and aged, exactly as he’d expected. Yet there was an unforeseen expression captured in her eyes.

  No pleasure there. No triumph. Instead—sadness, bitterness. And something else. Defeat?

  He had no idea why. Nor did he much care.

  No one seemed to notice the pair as they went toward the exit. The doorman stared idly into space as they passed by. The young man opened the door himself, ushering his partner through.

  A terrible fear had gripped Carlos, deep in the pit of his stomach.

  But he ignored it and followed them.

  * * *

  Someone else finally noticed the ill-matched pair. A cabdriver, who started up his engine as they emerged from the Club Karibe and reached across to open his back door.

  Carlos ran to his own car and set off after them, catching up easily enough. They were heading back to the center of town.

  The night air gusted through his window. His police radio was chattering to itself. He thought of picking up the handset, calling in for help. But what exactly could he tell them?

  Be on the lookout for a woman in a taxicab. She’s wearing a red dress and, by the way, she is invisible.

  Whatever lay ahead, he’d have to deal with it alone.

  The cab kept on in the direction of the Old Town for a while. Then it veered off to the left. It was heading for the bay, Carlos could see. And within a few more minutes, they were both inside the tunnel.

  He kept his distance from the jiggling red taillights, hoping he would not be spotted. But he almost lost the cab when he finally emerged. It had left the blacktop and was trundling away along a far narrower road, leaving a dust trail in its wake.

  Following the edge of the bay and heading away from the more built-up areas.

  Carlos trailed it for a short while more before he realized it was heading straight for the DeFlores mansion.

  It slowed as it approached the railings. Drew up to a halt.

  Carlos squinted at the silhouettes inside the taxi, and then turned his attention on the house itself.

  His superstitious fears about the place came back, redoubled. He had never been as close as this. The waters beyond it churned the moon’s glow into something like a vapor, so the house’s walls seemed to be rising from a mist.

  He could hear the rushing of the waves, but no other sounds. No night birds called. The trees in the garden seemed unnaturally still.

  There was a metallic click, the cab door coming open and the couple getting out. Carlos could see the woman perfectly clearly by this time. And again, the question came. Why was that?

  Taking the young man’s hand, she began leading him in through the garden. Carlos watched them go, uncertain what to do. Was this anything to do with him at all?

  The couple disappeared into the foliage. Carlos eased his own door open, slipped his pistol from beside his ankle, transferring the weapon to his pocket. Then, ducking low, he went across the open ground.

  He reached the gate. Hunkered down, the gnarled moon-shadows of the trees enfolding him. Wiped a hand across his brow, and then continued on.

  His route took him around to where the old house faced the bay. And one window in particular caught his attention.

  It was boarded up like the rest, but one of its planks seemed to have been loosened and was hanging at an angle. So he moved up to it carefully and tried to peer inside.

  Sheer blackness returned his gaze. He took out his lighter, flicked it on, and put it to the opening.

  And what it revealed was quite astonishing.

  He still couldn’t see far into the room, but could make out the edge of a table, the outlines of chairs. The place seemed fully furnished, despite the fact that the house had lain abandoned for two centuries. And, even more peculiar still, every wooden surface threw his glow back with a luster. Everything had been kept clean.

  He imagined he could guess by whom.

  Carlos pushed his hand further in and moved the jiggling flame around. The gold frame of a painting winked at him. Once again, there was no dust.

  The lighter’s metal case was getting pretty hot by this stage. He withdrew it, clicked it off.

  Stood extremely still a moment, thinking he had just heard something.

  Yes, he was sure he could make out sounds. A faint bumping noise, followed by a gasp. It seemed to be coming from deeper in the building.

  A short while later, a different noise reached his ears. He couldn’t be quite certain, but it might be someone crying, hurt.

  His gun came out of his pocket, his professional nature taking hold. Carlos grabbed the loose board, tugged it free. Did the same with the next. The third one would not give, so he smashed at it with his heel.

  He flicked the lighter on again, once he had climbed through. A door appeared ahead of him. He yanked it open.

  Carlos paused long enough to let his eyes adjust, then went on up.

  He reached the second-story landing and drew to another halt. He’d spotted a new glow along a corridor to his right.

  A rectangle of ochre, seeping from an open door.

  He edged toward it, keeping his back to the wall. And was near enough to see partly inside before much longer. Carlos frowned.

  He could make out neither the man nor the woman, but could see shelves lined with earthenware jars. And in between them, guttering black candles. What kind of games were being played in here?

  He moved a little further along, as quietly as he could.

  The young man from the Karibe now drifted into sight.

  He was standing with his back to Carlos, naked from the waist down, with only his shirttails preserving his modesty. Perfectly stock-still.

  Then as Carlos watched, he bent over and yanked his pants back up. The way he moved seemed rigid and robotic and not normal in the least.

  Carlos took another quiet sidestep as the weeping crone came into view.

  If he’d thought her unattractive when he’d first caught sight of her, it was nothing compared with this. Her shoulders were heaving as she sobbed. She looked utterly hideous, her features crumpled like solidified lava.

  She was sitting on the bare floor, the hem of her dress pushed up around her thighs. The mantilla she’d been wearing was spread out behind her on the boards. There were no rips in her clothing, nor any signs of injury that Carlos could make out. And it was she who had brought the man here, not the other way around. So why was she even crying?

  He must have stepped a little closer to the door unconsciously or made some other kind of noise, because the woman suddenly looked up. Her weeping ceased immediately. Her gaze sharpened, taking in his gun. Then she clawed her skirt back over her bare legs.

  Oddly, th
e young man remained with his back to him, completely motionless. This kept on getting more and more bizarre.

  “Who are you?” the woman blurted. “What are you doing here?”

  Carlos leveled his gun at her chest. “I’m a cop. And I might ask you the same question. What is going on here? And what’s wrong with him?”

  He pointed, since the man still hadn’t turned.

  The crone stared at him evenly, her chin tipping to one side. He wasn’t sure she’d even heard his questions.

  Then she spoke.

  “They will not let you go,” she murmured.

  They? What nonsense was this that she was talking? He, the crone and the hustler were the only people in this mansion, so far as he knew. There was no one else, unless . . .

  “Who?” he barked out. “Who won’t let me go?”

  The moment that had left his lips, his instincts started jangling. There seemed to be someone behind him.

  The temperature around him appeared to have dropped. He wanted to look around, but his neck had gone completely rigid.

  And so he kept on staring at the woman on the floor, whose expression had transformed to one of gentle pity.

  “Who?” she echoed. Then she glanced off past his shoulder. “Why, them, of course.”

  And Carlos turned.

  So still they were, the pair. Like the rest of the world was revolving around them, and they were its static hub.

  Those eyes of theirs. Not the tiniest blink. Not so much as a tremble from those long, fine lashes.

  He knew exactly who they were, like anyone would who’d grown up in Havana.

  Memories came back to him, the voices of his parents and his grandparents and aunts.

  “Behave yourself!”

  When he had been a child and been caught doing something wrong, they’d used the old legends to scare him. And his was not the only family. It was the local equivalent of the boogeyman.

  “Behave, Carlito, or the twins will get you!”

  His hands started to tremble. His whole body did. And the palm holding the gun became so slick he almost dropped it. How could this be? Was it he who had gone crazy?