Tropic of Darkness

by Tony Richards

  Childhood’s darkest fantasies had come to life. It seemed incredible.

  He could see through them, like they were smoke. They were smiling gently, their lips drawn up into slender bows. But their eyes belied those smiles. Their sheen was frigid.

  His brain started turning over, clumsily at first. Carlos was wondering if they could actually harm him. They still hadn’t moved.

  In which case . . .

  His gut went hard at the thought of it, but . . .

  There was enough room in the corridor that he might slip right by them. If he pressed himself against the wall, moved carefully enough, he could manage it.

  He turned his body sideways. One step. Two.

  The one nearest him came alive.

  Her hands sprang open like bizarre, pale flowers. Long, sharp nails came into view. And the smile melted from her face like it had never been there.

  Carlos grunted and stared past. The other figure had unfrozen too.

  His head began to reel. He’d brought his gun up, aiming it at the first one’s chest, without even knowing that he’d done it. The revolver thundered suddenly in his grasp. A large cloud of plaster dust exploded from the wall behind her. But the woman’s form did not so much as waver.

  Carlos started yelling at the top of his voice. His finger twitched, emptying the whole chamber. Then, when it was empty, he flung the pistol at the nearest face.

  It rebounded off the wall, and fell to the floorboards with a useless thud.

  There was a breathless hiss off to his side. The other sister had slipped in around to cut him off. This one’s face was changing, her mouth coming open very wide. Her head seemed to become elongated. So did her teeth.

  Her fingers reached across to him. The tip of a nail brushed against his wrist, seeming to pass through it, but so cold that it sent a shock right through his frame.

  Carlos bellowed. Not aware what he was doing any longer, he screwed up his eyes and charged. There was no resistance when he reached the nearest phantom. He simply passed through it, and then went careening down the hall.

  Except he carried something with him. An extraordinary chill that wrapped itself around him, wracking him with agony.

  He stumbled on blindly, bouncing off the walls. Only when he’d reached the landing did he stagger to a halt.

  Everything before him seemed to shiver, blurring, overlapping. He could make out the banisters, but they seemed to be moving further away with each step he took. The lobby below him seemed to rock from side to side. And then began to whirl gently, the floor tiles distorting.

  Carlos tried to take a step down. Lost his footing immediately, and tumbled. He got up, lurching, then half-ran and half-fell the rest of the way.

  He limped across to the huge front door. The sound of waves rushed over him as he struggled outside.

  Carlos fought to get his bearings. Found the path that he had followed and then hobbled back along it.

  He could make out the gateway, and his hopes lifted for just a second.

  But then both sisters slid into view, blocking his escape.

  Turning. Trying to run the other way. Something bright surged up before his muddled gaze. Gleaming water.

  He risked a backward glance. The sisters were closing on him. It occurred to him to charge at them again, but the idea of going through one of those insubstantial forms a second time—no. It terrified him.

  He reached the spot where foliage gave way to shell-encrusted boulders. And then there was nowhere left to go but down.

  The rocks became more slippery the nearer to the waves he got. He was pulling off his jacket when he fell over again. His arms were still trapped in the cloth—he came down hard on his right leg, his knee smashing against a rock.

  Fresh agony blinded him, but he couldn’t give up now. He fought until his hands were free, then managed to kick off his shoes.

  Carlos dragged himself the last few yards, then began paddling out against the current. His right leg was no use, but he powered himself with both his arms and his left leg, as hard as he could.

  After a few minutes, he craned over his shoulder. The rocks had dwindled to tiny specks. He could make out the sagging roof beyond them, like a dollhouse’s from this distance.

  There was no sign of the twins anymore. He scanned the entire shore, couldn’t see them anywhere.

  Perhaps, it occurred to him, they couldn’t leave the grounds. But it would be better not to take such chances. Simply keep on going.

  He was getting tired by the time that he had swum halfway across. Carlos treaded water as best he could, then rolled onto his back.

  One of the sisters was hovering in the air directly above him, staring down.

  Carlos went rigid, and slid under immediately. He floundered and burst back into the moonlight, choking.

  Both the phantoms were above him now. And he could see the stars through them.

  The lips of the hazel-eyed one shifted.

  “You are an extremely stupid man. Yes. Do you not know what we are?”

  The waves around Carlos suddenly diminished. As he watched, the surface of the bay turned oily smooth.

  “We are priestesses of the Way.”

  The other one had begun chanting something softly.

  “And we have it in our power to control the very elements. The winds, the waves, the tides. And we can call to do our bidding every beast that lives on land, and the birds of the air . . . ”

  The chanting stopped, leaving a dead hush in its wake.

  “And the fishes of the sea.”

  Something bumped against his leg. A bulge appeared in the unnaturally flat water. His gaze tracked it with increasing horror as it moved around him. And when he felt a second bump, Carlos sucked in a petrified breath.

  Another bulge made itself apparent. And then a third, out beyond that.

  Carlos stared at them helplessly. A howl of terror started welling up.

  Except that, when the water swirled fiercely around him, it became a piercing shriek.

  The surface started turning black. Both his legs were being shaken.

  The water continued to froth for a while, after he’d been dragged from sight.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Jack Gilliard—ooh boy—playing with the Cuban band, in the club across the square—just as he’d arranged—as he had promised—except—the circumstances weren’t as he’d envisaged them—they were—somewhat altered—

  Yeah. Somewhat.

  LAYDEEZ AN GENNLEMEN! INTRODOOCIN’, FOR YA VERY SPECIAL DEELEKTAYSHUN, THE AMAZIN’, THE INCREDIBLE, DA STOOPENDUS MR. JACK GILLIARD, ON CORNET AND A WHOLE FISTFUL OF UPPERS!

  He’d done this several times in his earlier years, but out of sheer tiredness or for the hell of it, never in conditions such as these.

  Fear had become a very real thing to him in the last few hours, a beast which had made a nest inside him and would not be budged. He could feel it, coiled around his gut. And it lent his playing a harsh quality there’d never been before.

  Strangely accented riffs kept spitting from his lips. Odd chord changes. He could tell that the band weren’t pleased with what he was doing. So he occasionally tried to fall in with them, play more cheerfully and brightly.

  But he couldn’t seem to manage it.

  His gaze swung back and forth across the audience. What exactly was he looking for?

  Luis was at a table in the corner, watching the stage anxiously. And would stay with him for the entire night, Jack knew, a reassuring presence. But the kid could only do so much.

  He found himself wondering when Pierre was getting back. And then he forgot that and kept on playing until the rest of the musicians stopped.

  * * *

  An entire night without sleep. The way at least one night in Old Havana should be
spent.

  Jack and Luis dragged themselves out of the jazz club at gone three in the morning, taped music still blaring behind them as they climbed the stairs. They could have stayed until dawn, but it had become too loud, too hot and close. Jack felt like his head was going to burst.

  The relatively cooler air outside washed over them like a gentle sacrament. He and Luis hung about by the entranceway another minute or so. And then, side by side, they started off along the narrow, shabby, quaint streets, unconcerned where their feet might take them. Simply walking.

  A night walk, in one of the most absorbing, eccentric cities in the world—a city that noticed their passage through it only superficially. Skeletal stray dogs, most of their fur lost to mange, woke as the men passed by, lifting trembling heads to watch them. And a huddled, filthy madman in a doorway noticed Jack’s northern features and started shouting after him.

  “Ah, the invaders are here! They’ll kill us all!”

  Jack was so wound up from the amphetamines that he’d been given, he would have turned around to shout back if Luis hadn’t grabbed his sleeve.

  Mostly it was noises that kept coming at them. A baby’s furious squalling from an open window. And a couple shrieking at each other the next block along. Another few streets down, a tattered blind was drawn, the lights behind it turned down low. A boy and girl were making love, their shadows on the cloth.

  Both men slowed their pace, engrossed.

  “You got a girlfriend, Luis?” Jack asked, once they had passed on.

  “No one special. I’m not ready to settle down yet.”

  “Take the chance when it comes,” Jack told him with genuine feeling. “I’m beginning to wish I had.”

  “Nah.” Luis took a final glance across his shoulder just before they rounded the next corner. “You’re wishing you could be that lucky guy back there, that’s all.”

  About an hour clear of dawn, they heard a violent argument from a street parallel with theirs. Men’s voices, several of them, raised in hoarse, blind anger.

  It was ended with the sharp crack of a pistol, followed by the sound of running feet. Both of them were pretty jumpy after that, until the darkness lifted.

  They wound up gazing at the dawn outside the Hotel Bolívar, on the other side of the Old Town. Watching as the sky phased up through iridescent pastels. Their legs were exhausted, aching. So they went into the hotel’s coffee shop and sat there for a while, enjoying breakfast.

  Until finally, Luis announced, “Sorry, Jack. I have to go.”

  “Sure, that’s fine. You get some sleep.”

  “No, that’s not it exactly. I have an exam today.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

  “It’s no problem. I never sleep much before the damned things anyway. Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

  “Christ, get out of here. And Luis . . . a thousand thanks.”

  The boy nodded, rising.

  “I can be back by five this afternoon.”

  “With any luck, I won’t be here by then.”

  “Then I’ll know you’ve gotten to safety.” Luis clasped his hand with genuine affection. “Take care of yourself, my friend. I’m hoping that you have the very best of luck.”

  * * *

  By eight Jack had decided that, if Pierre Melville hadn’t returned by this time, then he wasn’t coming. And one thought had been bothering him seriously the last couple of hours. Might the Frenchman simply take the cash and leave him in the lurch?

  His fingertips drummed on the tabletop.

  He paid the check, got a map of Havana from the hotel’s concierge, then headed off through the bustling streets in the direction of Pierre’s house.

  It looked deserted when he reached it. But there was a car, a Lada, parked out front, its ashtray overflowing with cigar butts. He was about to ring the doorbell when something stopped him. Merely a nagging instinct, but the big old house seemed to be as quiet as death.

  Jack went around the back again, the same way he’d done the first time he had been here.

  As before, Pierre was seated at the table.

  Both his elbows were on it. He was so bowed over that his chest was practically brushing up against its edge. But—his neck craned back at a peculiar angle—the Frenchman was staring upward, through the glass above Jack’s head.

  He looked like some damned hunchback. And the way that he was dressed. Not only was he fully clothed, but he was wearing a thick bathrobe too, in ninety degree heat.

  Pierre hadn’t even noticed he had company. And when Jack let himself in, the Frenchman remained as motionless as granite.

  Very carefully, Jack reached down, laying a hand on the man’s shoulder. Pierre’s head moved at last, his eyes becoming huge. And he let out a sound that was neither a shout nor a scream. More like someone being choked, entirely hoarse and guttural.

  Next moment, he was leaping from his chair and staggering back, extremely unsteady on his feet. His eyes were fixed on his friend, but there seemed to be no recognition.

  “Pierre? It’s me!”

  The man stopped retreating, and his gaze appeared to focus properly, his eyes losing a little of their glassiness.

  “Ja—Jackie?”

  “Who the hell did you think it was?”

  The Frenchman looked as if he was about to topple. Jack reached out to steady him.

  The man’s robe, he could feel, was warm and damp to the touch. Pierre’s whole face was drenched with sweat, his hair slicked down against his scalp. Jack had lived in these parts long enough for his first thought to be malaria.

  “I thought”—the guy was mumbling—“it was her again.”

  “Her who?”

  Pierre’s expression became doughy. “So beautiful,” he hissed. “And yet so cold.” He put both hands to his chest and stared down at himself. “That’s all she’s left me, Jackie. The cold.”

  “Pierre, listen. We’ve got to get out of here. Whatever’s wrong with you, we can get you a doctor once we’re gone. But we need the money.”

  “Mon—?”

  Jack gave him a shake.

  “The cash that you were going to make in Varadero.”

  The Frenchman blinked, droplets of sweat twinkling on his lashes.

  “I had it in a bag, Jack. Had it when I left the bar. I . . . ”

  He gawked at the floor, as though he was hoping to find it down there.

  “Jesus Christ, that was our way out of here!” Jack yelled. “What in hell have you done with it?”

  The Frenchman simply threw him a saddened, very rumpled look. Then wrapped his hands over his face and started crying like a baby. His legs turned rubbery next moment. And his body went completely limp.

  Jack gritted his teeth, trying to support the man’s dead weight. “Goddamn you.”

  He manhandled Pierre up the stairs. Found his room and dumped him on the mattress. The skin felt cold rather than hot. As a result of bedding ghosts?

  Returning downstairs, Jack tried to think what to do next. The pills were still working their spell on him, his thoughts moving in a high-speed blur. He had some money of his own left, but not enough to buy illegal passage off these shores. What other options were there?

  Maybe Luis could come up with something. Except the kid would not be back again until late this afternoon, and he wasn’t sure what to do till then.

  There was always the chance that Pierre had actually brought the money home, but then forgotten where he’d put it. In another ten minutes, Jack had been through the whole downstairs of the house, with nothing to show for it. His mouth had become dry. That was partly the pills.

  There was a scraping noise from upstairs, and Jack paused.

  It came again, followed by a thud. The Frenchman seemed to have gotten off his bed and was dragging himself across the floor.
There was the hollow groan and rattle of a wooden drawer being pulled open. And an awful premonition started taking over Jack when he heard that.

  He was turning. He was running for the stairs.

  “Pierre!”

  He took them three at a time, his long legs pounding. But he was only halfway up when a gunshot echoed through the dwelling, bringing him to a dead halt.

  Stepping to the bedroom door, like he was bound up in another dream.

  Opening it, to the mingled stench of gun smoke and scorched flesh.

  A fine spattering of crimson on the floor and walls.

  Pierre Melville was lying in a corner of the room, propped against a dresser. And his eyes were very wide, as was his mouth, the barrel of his gun still thrust inside it. Jack stared at him in anguish, remembering how full of life the man had been a bare couple of days ago.

  It was another while before he started pulling himself back together, thinking straight. Jesus Christ, first things first. Had anyone else heard the shot?

  He went to the blinds, eased them apart a few inches. Cursed under his breath. Four little kids were standing down there on the sidewalk, peering at this very window.

  One of them noticed movement, pointed. And then the whole bunch of them turned tail, scurrying across the street and disappearing into an open doorway on the other side.

  A few seconds later, a dumpy, gray-haired woman stepped out on the porch, peered across, then started shouting for somebody to call the police.

  That sealed the deal. It was time to go.

  The wail of a siren was already approaching by the time Jack headed off along a small lane at the back.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The airport staff had been informed of his condition. Doctor Leland Hague discovered, once the flight attendants had helped him to the door, that there were two porters waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, a wheelchair held between them.

  He hated being in the thing. It made him feel quite useless. But it was better, he supposed, than having to hop around like Long John Silver. He was forced to wait in line at immigration, but the pair of men remained with him, hospitable to a fault.