Esperanza

by Trish J. MacGregor

  As he slept, Dominica pulled up an imaginary chair and watched him—the REM movements of his eyelids, the constant shifting of his body, the way he ground his teeth. She drifted into him slightly. Brujos weren’t supposed to taste; they had to take. But she had traveled well beyond rules and restrictions. Dominica enjoyed what she tasted in Dan. She appreciated that he could come home from a really bad day, curl up like this and sleep. She liked his connection to Cuban mysticism through his father and grandmother, that his left brain fought it every inch of the way. It was why he made a good agent. Could she love this man? Maybe. She needed to love someone, anyone. It seemed to be her fate and the reason she suffered so deeply when the one she loved was gone. So be it. Love the one you’re with.

  Dan tasted a lot like Ben. But to love him, she could not take him. Another brujo would have to take him and there were no other men in her tribe whom she loved or to whom she was remotely attracted. Could the rules be bent so you could seize the one you loved?

  His cell belted out a Latino song and Dominica rapidly withdrew from him. Dan groaned and rolled over. Groggy, groping around on the nightstand like a drunk, he scooped up the cell, pressed the speaker button. “Hernandez.”

  “It’s Lieutenant Frank Cerlane with the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department. I answered the call Tess Livingston made yesterday about the dead man at her mother’s place.”

  “Right.” Dan sat up in bed, combed his fingers through his disheveled hair, turned on the lamp. “What is it, Lieutenant? What’s going on?”

  “I, uh, understand that you investigated a double homicide last night in Miami Beach.”

  “Yes, that’s right. A model and her photographer, Barbara De—”

  “Yeah, I know who they were, Agent Hernandez. I know who the suspects are. I saw the security video from Club Martinique. And I’m calling to tell you we have one suspect in custody and he’s a complete nutcase, and Tess shot and killed the other man. They apparently broke into the suite where she and her mother and niece were staying.”

  Shit hits the fan, Dominica thought. Here we go.

  Dan swung his legs over the side of the bed, reached for his clothes. “Talk to me, Lieutenant. Give me some details here. I’ve got you on speakerphone so I can get dressed. Talk loudly.”

  The lieutenant’s voice followed Dan around the room as he thrust his legs into jeans, jerked a clean shirt off a hanger, swept up his holster, his gun, and pulled on socks and running shoes. Dan fired back with questions, requested details, and at every step of the way Dominica sensed his worldview stretching to accommodate the details.

  “I tried to get hold of Tess, but her cell either isn’t working or she isn’t answering it. Do you have any other numbers for her?”

  “Let me see what I can do, Frank. I’ll get back to you as soon I have some info.”

  “Thanks, Dan, I appreciate it.”

  Frank and Dan. Down to first names. Dan sat at the edge of his bed and punched out one number, waited, punched out another number, waited some more, and finally got through to someone. Since his cell was no longer on speakerphone and Dominica hadn’t taken him, she could gauge the situation only through what he said.

  “. . . what’re you doing there? . . . I need to talk to her . . . I want to know exactly what happened in that suite last night . . . What? Excuse me, Maddie, but this is a goddamn homicide investigation and—” He slammed his cell phone down against the mattress and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Fuck. Fuck this shit.”

  Dominica mustered all her skills and slipped into him as unobtrusively as possible. She was not disappointed. His body felt strong, solid, healthy. He took care of himself. The gym, a vegan diet, exotic juices loaded with nutrients and antioxidants. He loved his work, which bolstered his immune system. But the deep bitterness he harbored about his loss of Tess had canceled out some of the benefits of that vegan diet. He’d quit smoking six years ago and his lungs had recovered, their oxygen capacity boosted by his daily three-mile runs. He would do well in the thin air of Esperanza, she thought.

  He didn’t realize she had slipped inside of him, that he was now compromised. He didn’t seem aware of her at all. No screaming or internal dialogues, no struggle. Tense, she waited for him to shout, fight. Nothing. Yes, she had been cautious before when seizing someone, but never this cautious, this determined to remain hidden, disguised, allowing her essence to be dispersed, scattered among his molecules and cells. She was now liquid to his earth, spread everywhere but concentrated nowhere. It diluted her strength, but served her purpose.

  Once he was in his car, he drove south to Tango Key. Morning now. His body was in such excellent health that using his senses was sheer joy. The sun blazed, the sky was gloriously blue, and the air smelled of salt, heat. He stopped for a cup of café con leche at his favorite Cuban eatery. She wanted a croissant with a dripping fried egg inside, but Dan the vegan hadn’t eaten eggs in years, and bought a container of granola mixed with soy yogurt. She could live with it, for now. She didn’t dare rock this strange and wondrous vessel she had borrowed.

  She thought, briefly, of Ben—Ben and his Mercedes, Ben and his hunger for physical life—and wondered where he was now, where annihilated souls went. Maybe he was with Mole, the retriever pup. This question had nagged at her for centuries, and even after nearly six hundred years she didn’t have an answer.

  As they neared Tango Key, Dan started feeling sick, a malaise so powerful that he pulled to the side of the road, stumbled out, and puked. Dominica gently urged him to get back into his car and return to Key West. He made a hasty U-turn in the middle of the bridge and, almost immediately, his nausea ebbed.

  For a while, he drove the narrow, tangled streets of old town Key West, mulling things over. Dominica remained silent, observant, made small adjustments in his blood sugar levels. She thought that might be why he had gotten sick. He finally parked, went into a restaurant, and ordered a salad, veggie burger, cold iced tea, no sugar. Afterward, he felt much better and decided stress was the culprit—over the breakup with Tess, work, high gas prices, life in general.

  As he approached the bridge again, something took shape in his peripheral vision, in the passenger seat, but Dominica realized only she could see it. Whatever it was didn’t register for Dan. Then she saw it clearly—a hummingbird, white, luminous, wings beating fast. The shape slowly solidified into a man with thick white hair, Ben Franklin glasses, broad shoulders. He wore jeans, sandals, a pale guayabera shirt. Not a brujo. This man was some other sort of spirit—a chaser?—and he shook his finger at her as though she were a naughty child. I don’t think so, Dominica. You won’t be getting anywhere near them. Not on this island.

  Who the hell are you?

  The man laughed. You’d better make your host turn around or he’s going to get really sick this time.

  As soon as he said this, she felt the sickness bubbling up through Dan’s body. Before she could convince him to turn around, he vomited violently all over himself. He swerved to the side of the bridge, slammed on the brakes, got sick again. The car reeked, he was sweating, clumps of his undigested lunch clung to his jeans and shirt, to the seat and console.

  The man with the white hair said, I told you. Get him off the bridge. Tango Key is off-limits to your kind.

  Dan started to open the door, but Dominica seized control of him completely. She forced him to start the car, check for traffic, then to make a U-turn. He sped away from Tango Key.

  Very wise, Dominica, the white-haired ghost said.

  What are you?

  Your worst nightmare.

  That doesn’t mean anything to me.

  Then this will, and the white-haired ghost became Manuel Ortega, companion of Tess, Ian, and Nomad. Then the image faded and the luminous hummingbird flew up through the roof and away. A mounting horror flooded through her. Tess Livingston was being protected by the same man who had driven her bus to Esperanza, the bastard who had turned the flamethrower on her. A light chaser. His r
eal form, she guessed, was that of the white-haired man, but when he was in and around Esperanza, his virtual form was Manuel Ortega. Or a hummingbird. He wasn’t allowing her to enter Tango Key, and as long as she was inside of Dan, he wouldn’t be able to get on the island, either.

  Twenty

  When Tess woke at noon, her eyes felt like they were filled with sand, her stomach rumbled with hunger, she was alone in the room. She looked around uneasily for any sign that the brujo had pursued her here. But the shadows pooled in the corners were only shadows. Motes of dust drifted in the ribbons of light that slipped through the curtains, the air conditioner wheezed. On the nightstand, she found a note from her mother that she and Maddie had gone shopping. They would be back around twelve-thirty to take her to lunch and then to her reading with the psychic at two.

  Tess had been to only one psychic, at the South Florida Fair shortly after she and Dan had gotten involved, a Gypsy lady in a tent, five bucks for a five-minute reading. Long life, happiness, true love, good health. Yeah, right. And you win the 30-million-dollar lottery. So, in spite of the fact that Mira Morales had worked with the legendary Sheppard, Tess harbored doubts about how useful this would be. But she had nothing to lose.

  She turned on her iPhone and found a dozen text messages from Dan and nearly as many voice mails. It amounted to one long litany about why she should call him. We need to talk about what happened last night. Local cops have serious questions. Got thru to Maddie, she said you’re on Tango, then hung up on me. Call me. Let’s talk.

  Call? And tell him what? That she no longer lived in a world of reason and left-brain logic? He already suspected as much. He had ridiculed her once, she wouldn’t invite it again. Tess turned off the phone, selected clean clothes and toiletries from her pack, and went into the bathroom to shower. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and just stood there, staring. No wonder her mother had asked what had happened to her hair. It had turned completely white.

  One World Books reminded Tess of a house in a fairy tale, all crooked corners, a sloping front porch with a hammock at one end, two stories painted blue and yellow. Dozens of wind chimes hung from the mango and banyan trees that shaded the building. As the breeze blew, the chimes danced and sang, filling the air with music.

  Inside, walls had been removed to create a vast, open area filled with bookshelves, wide aisles, a coffee shop. Dozens of customers browsed in the aisles, where sunlight from the many tall windows streaked the cherrywood floors.

  “I’ll find out where we’re supposed to go,” Maddie said, and hurried off.

  Lauren touched Tess’s arm. “I’m going to browse. And stop fretting about your hair. I think you look terrific.”

  “You’re my mother. You’d say that even if I was covered with warts. And c’mon, how many thirty-three-year-olds do you know who are totally gray?”

  Her mother pretended to think about it. “Dozens. There’s always Clairol.”

  Sure. Better living through chemicals. “I’ll order us cappuccinos, Mom.”

  Once she had ordered, she claimed a table by the window, opened her laptop, and went online to check her e-mail. She ignored the dozens of e-mails from Dan and clicked on the only one that mattered, from Professor Luke Ritter.

  Dear Ms. Livingston,

  My inclination is to believe this is some sort of joke. I last saw my dad 40 years ago, when I drove him to the Duluth airport. But if you’re who you say you are, then you should be able to answer a couple of simple questions. What was my dad’s nickname for you & why? Who was Nomad?

  In which cottage did you stay? Who drove the bus to Esperanza?

  Luke Ritter

  She read the e-mail several times, dread and excitement thrashing around inside her. A separation of forty years meant that Ian was either very old by now or dead. But this e-mail was confirmation that he’d existed, that what she was remembering had happened. A kind of Zen stillness claimed her, then memories poured into her like sunlight through darkness.

  Dear Luke,

  He called me Slim, from the movie Dark Passage. Nomad was a black Lab. We stayed in cottage 13. Haven’t recovered the memory about the bus driver’s name. But I remember brujos, being on bus 13, Ian cooking, hummingbirds, a black & white cat named Whiskers. I remember sealing doors and/or windows with duct tape to keep out brujos during an attack. I remember falling in love w/yr dad. Memories continue to surface, but those are the ones about which I’m certain.

  Six months ago, I was shot during a federal counterfeiting sting, died during surgery, was revived & spent weeks in a coma. Only recently have these memories started returning. If Ian told you about brujos, then you’ll understand why I ask if he was threatened by them once he regained consciousness.

  Thank you again.

  As she sent it off, a slender, diminutive woman stopped at her table. “Excuse me, are you Tess?”

  She looked to be in her early seventies, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back into a braid that snaked down her left shoulder. She wore loose black pants, a T-shirt with a ceiba tree on it, hemp sandals. There was such presence about her that for a moment Tess wondered if she might be another ghost. “Yes, I’m Tess.”

  “I’m Nadine.”

  The name didn’t mean anything, but Tess felt compelled to honor this woman in some way, so she brought her palms together. “Namaste.”

  Nadine looked astonished, pulled out the chair on the other side of the table, and sat down. “How long have you been practicing yoga?”

  “A few months. My downward facing dog stinks, I still can’t get my heels flat, and in class I feel like the turd the dog dragged in.”

  Nadine laughed. “Even the masters have trouble with certain postures. Some of them can tie their ankles behind their heads, but they can’t lie flat in a forward bend, with their chests flush with the floor. Some of them can’t do a lotus because their hips are too tight. You do what you can and honor that part of yourself that tries. The divine light in me recognizes the divine light in you. That’s what ‘Namaste’ means. That’s what our yoga practice is about.” Then: “My granddaughter is ready for you.”

  “Your granddaughter?”

  “Mira Morales. You have a reading with her?”

  The psychic of Tango Key. “Should I pay you or her, Nadine?”

  “She said the reading’s free.”

  “Free? Why?”

  “Usually when she does that, it means she’s picking up something so unusual about you or your situation, it will give her a chance to expand her ability.”

  It sounded incredibly idealistic, but what the hell. She slipped the laptop in its bag, and she and Nadine picked up the coffees, and headed toward the back of the store. “Nadine, is it true that Mira lives with Wayne Sheppard?”

  Nadine emitted a derisive laugh. “Today she does. Tomorrow, who knows? I’ve given up trying to figure out their relationship. Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  “You’re FBI?”

  “No longer.”

  “I wish Shep would say the same thing.”

  “But I hear he’s phenomenal at what he does.”

  “He is. But when you’re in that kind of profession, you attract experiences you might not attract otherwise. You’re better off doing something else, Tess.”

  That remained to be seen. Right now, “something else” might be the inside of a prison cell.

  A cat snoozed in a chair at the end of a bookcase. In a reading area, a clutch of teenage girls huddled together, laughing, whispering, text-messaging. Photographs covered a wall on Tess’s right that captured the ineffable essence of the island’s mystery, moodiness, majesty. They entered a comfortable room with a huge picture window that overlooked an exquisite Japanese garden bathed in early afternoon light. Beneath the window stood a stone coffee table with couches and chairs arranged in a half-moon around it. Lauren and Maddie sat there, talking with a slender, attractive woman.

  Mira Morales. Her dark hair was pulled back from h
er face with mother-of-pearl combs and tumbled to her shoulders. She wore gray Capri pants and a black T-shirt with TANGO FRITTER written across it in a luminous blue. No carnival Gypsy, Tess thought. No dumpy frump in a muumuu whose voice was husky from too many cigarettes. She didn’t wear a million rings and probably wouldn’t say, As I come into your vibration.

  “Tess, it’s wonderful to meet you. Maddie and I have just been catching up on her move to Florida.”

  Tess and Nadine set the cappuccinos on the table. “I understand you were instrumental in convincing her to move. Mom and I appreciate it. We love having her with us.”

  Lauren pushed up from her chair. “We’ll wait outside, hon.”

  “I’ve got nothing to hide,” Tess said. “You’re involved. You should stay.”

  “Is that okay with you, Mira?” Lauren asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  Tess settled into the chair between her mother and niece. She didn’t see any tarot cards or other divination tools on the table. Mira didn’t look like the type who would pull some Santería bullshit from her bag of tricks, like a reading that first required an offering to the orishas, the saints—coins, chocolates covered in honey, a piece of jewelry, or a hefty check. She had seen Dan’s grandmother and father at work in that regard.

  For a few moments, Mira said nothing. It seemed to Tess that her breathing altered slightly. The room felt thick and sluggish with silence.

  “Tess, a man came into the room with you,” Mira said suddenly.

  She glanced behind her, but only Nadine was there, standing by the door. “She means a spirit,” Maddie whispered. “A ghost.”

  Not another one. A legion of the dead followed her. “Is he . . . hostile?”

  “Not at all. He’s smiling. He’s got a broad chest, thick white hair, large blue eyes. Ben Franklin glasses. Right now, he’s standing between you and your mother and I believe his name starts with a C.”