“I just can’t,” he said.
“Can’t what? Can’t accept that this exists? That this is the world we live in? I have a hard time with that one, too.” She stepped back against the wall and slid down onto her butt.
Seeing her like that, he realized something. He walked over and sat down beside her.
For a moment, he said nothing. He put his arm around her. “I’m sorry.”
Her eyes shined in the dark. Then she went after something in her pocket. “I found this in a shop at the ferry terminal.”
He took it from her — a greeting card with the face of an old woman on it. He read what was inside.
Your job is not to judge. Your job is not to figure out if someone deserves something. Your job is to lift the fallen, to restore the broken, and to heal the hurting.
He handed it back to her, his hand lightly shaking. Then he stared into Catarino’s messy office.
He’d been selfish, only considering his own pain, his own anger. With him the whole time was Hanna. Surrounding him were the women who’d gone through things far worse than he had. He’d taken his knocks, but he’d had a chance at life, the opportunity to make choices.
The women packed like sardines into Penninger’s boat, loaded up on drugs, raped, moved around like cattle, treated like sub-human beings, they’d had no choice. They’d been taken by darkness, still children.
Julio came back with the supper, but William’s appetite was gone.
Catarino called Hanna and she put him on speaker. He told them he was going to be kept late at the hospital. “Let’s meet in my office tomorrow nine a.m. You need rest. It’s going to be a long day.”
After forcing down some food, they packed up and took a cab to Isabella’s modest home in the barrio.
It was going on two o’clock in the morning, but Isabella greeted them warmly and showed them to their rooms. Julio and William shared one room while Hanna got her own — she’d already stayed there one night.
William’s head hit the pillow and he was unconscious within minutes.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
He awoke with a start from the sound of gunfire and images of bloody, screaming faces. He broke out in a sweat and flung away the covers, leapt from the bed.
It took a few moments, his heart thumping, his fists clenched, to realize that it was a dream. The sky was a bit lighter, the rain spacking against the windowpane. It was just before seven a.m., according to his watch.
He went into the bathroom down the hall to relieve himself, splash water on his face. The bandage on his arm was dark red and tattered. He pulled it off and dropped it in the trash. The wound was healing.
He heard voices from downstairs. At first he was alarmed by them, but relaxed as laughter drifted up. He descended to the main floor and went into the kitchen.
A young woman was at the table, dark hair and brown eyes. Pretty, with a small nose like her father’s. She looked older than the pictures, more mature.
Rene Sterling.
“Good morning.” Isabella sat in her wheelchair beside Rene. “I thought you’d sleep a little longer.”
William felt awkward for a moment, and tried to remember social custom. “What about you? Not much sleep for you either.”
“I don’t seem to need it.” She smiled. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
Rene already had coffee. She set the cup down and rose, holding out her hand. “Hello. I’m Rene.”
He took her hand. “William Chase.”
“Nice to meet you.”
Seeing her standing there in the flesh was bizarre. He’d been studying her picture for days, and now here she was.
William took a seat at the table, and Rene lowered back into her chair. The whole domestic scene continued to feel unreal. Here they were, just three people having a cup of morning Joe. Less than twelve hours ago he’d shot and killed a man on Penninger’s boat. He’d opened a storage room and found a dozen captive women inside, one of them dead.
The sleep had dampened some of its stark reality, but not much. Images plagued him. Phrases repeated in his head. His aching body was a reminder of a week’s worth of trauma. But the coffee tasted good — strong. He realized he was making the two of them a little uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry, I ah . . .”
Isabella shook her head. “Don’t worry, William.”
She turned and gazed out the window over the sink. “The rain has come,” she said. “The season is a little bit early this year.”
He tried to talk about the weather with them, but he just couldn’t. He looked at Rene. “Have you spoken to your mother?”
She traded looks with Isabella. “Yes. I talked to her yesterday.”
“Good.”
“Do you know David Sausa?”
Rene sipped her coffee and stared into the rain for a moment. “I do. I first met him when I was about eight years old. He’s worked with my dad for a long time.”
“I’m very sorry about your father.”
“Thank you.”
“Sausa murdered him.”
It was harsh talk for seven o’clock in the morning, and felt out of turn. But there was no sense beating around the bush.
“I witnessed it,” William said. “I didn’t see it, but I heard it.” He glanced at Isabella. “And I’ll testify to that.”
“I’ve told Detective Catarino everything,” Rene said. “How long I’ve known Sausa, what happened when I came to Roatán, what Nicole and Korey were doing with Alexandra.”
“Good.” He bobbed his head. “That’s good.” He sipped the coffee, then set down the mug and looked at them both.
Of course, he thought, I could also fly back to the States, find Sausa, and kill him.
He suddenly pushed back from the table. “Excuse me.”
William left the kitchen, found his way to the front door and walked out of the house. The rain misted against him.
He moved down the walkway to the dirt street. There were more modest clay and stucco homes like Isabella’s with coarse grass lots and plenty of dirt. He had the cigarettes Julio had bought the night before and lit one up.
He sat on the curb, getting wet, smoking. Before the cigarette had burned to the filter, Hanna came out of the house and sat down beside him.
“It’s gonna take some time, Will.”
He looked at the battered cars on the street, the palms sagging in the bad weather. “What is?”
She put an arm across his back. She didn’t answer. Then she put her hand in his and he squeezed.
They sat together in the rain a little longer.
* * *
Isabella provided William some clothes. Not a perfect, but close enough — a pair of slacks just a half inch too short and a button-down linen shirt tight against his chest.
Julio drove Isabella’s handicap-equipped van and they headed to downtown San Pedro Sula. Hanna rode shotgun to provide directions to the Public Ministry’s office of the prosecutor, William sat beside Isabella and Rene settled into the back.
The van bumped over the uneven dirt roads out of Isabella’s neighborhood and into the city.
The mountains formed a bowl, with the metropolitan area of San Pedro Sula in the center.
It was the murder capital of the world, sprawled out in a rainy haze. As they descended out of the hills toward its downtown, William thought it looked like a lot of cities in Central America — he saw a McDonald’s golden arches, a few squat office buildings, billboards, lush green trees, traffic packed together on a four-lane highway — but when he considered the homicide rate, Honduras’s second largest city took on a more sinister look.
The billboards were ominous. The buildings housed hidden dangers. The streets were ruled by the drug gangs holding the city hostage as a key operational and strategic point for the distribution of guns and arms. It was the center of trafficking in Honduras, providing the country its eighty percent of illegal firearms.
Julio made a few turns, adept at handl
ing the snarls of traffic. Not only was Julio good with boats, he could drive the hell out of a handicap van, too.
“We have some good options” Isabella explained. “The Ministerio Público is an independent, autonomous organization. You’ll meet Oscar Ocampo today. He’s one of the Chief Prosecutors under Luis Chinchilla, the Prosecutor General. The Public Ministry was instituted by legislative decree — its main functions are the prosecutions of all crimes and felonies.”
William watched the traffic. The motor scooters and motorcycles weaving their way reminded him of Roatán. Zipping along the winding Carretera Principal after Sausa had fled the Royal Playa Resort. He’d ditched the motorcycle in the woods and followed the muddy trail on foot to the cabin where three of the victims had been held captive.
He wondered how many times he was going to have to repeat his story. He wondered how the prosecutorial team would react to him.
“What about Sausa leaving the country?”
Isabella patted William’s hand. He noted the veins protruding through her skin. At first he’d thought Isabella was close in age. But the nearer he was to her the more he realized she was older, in her fifties. Her youthful face belied her true age and experience.
“We’re going after Penninger first,” she said. “One thing at a time.”
“But Honduras has an extradition treaty with the United States. You’ve sent drug traffickers to face justice there. We can bring Sausa back here, can’t we?”
She turned and trapped him in a powerful gaze. “William. One thing at a time. Listen to me. Like I said, we have options. If we even need to, we can take this to the Cour Pénale Internationale.”
“The ICC?” He glanced at Hanna, listening in from the front seat of the van. The International Criminal Court was an independent, permanent court which tried persons accused of the most serious crimes of international concern. The details on such persons, however, were harder to come by, and that was one of the ways the black box had been indispensable.
He thought about smashing it on the floor at the Grand Roatán Resort.
“How does the ICC get involved? They deal mainly with war crimes.”
“They deal with crimes against humanity,” Isabella said with a sharp look. “Which is exactly what this is. If we need the highest court, we won’t stop.”
He hadn’t seen Isabella get emotional yet — she was always cool, even detached — and this was the first bit of passion she had displayed. He didn’t mind it.
He understood Isabella a bit better now. She’d been right to be skeptical of the Roatán Police, and of the national police and their DNIC branch. It wasn’t unfounded disdain — the facts were there, the corruption in the executive branch of the Honduran government was terrible, the efficacy poor. But what the executive branch may have lacked, the judicial made up for — Isabella had greater faith in the prosecutors and courts. The conviction rate was so low, he now understood, not because the prosecutors failed, but that they didn’t have enough to convict. So few of the police were skilled at investigating, and those who were, were outnumbered by run-and-gun paramilitary types — the same types that Sausa himself employed on the island.
“DNIC is going to be there today, though,” William said, thinking out loud.
“Yes,” answered Hanna from the front seat. “And they’re not happy, for more than one reason.”
William followed her finger to a building in the distance, surrounded by a large protest. He saw a phalanx of militarized police, an angry crowd surging against the barricade, news vans parked close by.
“That’s DNIC headquarters. Protests going on there for over a week.”
“Against Pacheco.”
“Yes. In favor of Sabillón. Calling for his reinstatement as head of the national police.”
Soon the protestors, with their signs and fists in the air, disappeared behind more buildings as Julio drove on into the city. But William could still hear their angry voices.
“Who’s leading for the DNIC today? Who will be there?”
“His name is Freddy Mayes.” Hanna pronounced it May-yez. “Investigator Federico Mayes.”
William saw Hanna pass a look to Isabella. He wanted to know what they were thinking. Something about Mayes? “Let me guess, he doesn’t like me.”
“We knew there would be someone,” Hanna said, “who was going to take a look at this thing and say, ‘Hey, who is this William Chase?’”
Of course there would be. William was supposed to be with a missionary group, yet he’d kept pulling young women out of bedrooms, isolated cabins, and the bottoms of boats. Catarino was right — not everyone was going to be patting him on the back. Many would question who he was, and some would resent how he reflected on their justice system. Would they consider him part of law enforcement? At least, a civilian on the right side of justice? Or would they see him as a suspect? A criminal? A murderer? Would they find out he was a fugitive of the United States?
Isabella patted his hand again. “It’ll be fine. There’s also going to be an ombudsman present.”
“But I’m not a native citizen.”
“No, but you have rights as a visitor. The ombudsman focuses on violation of human rights. He’s going to be working with Ocampo and the women, and his primary responsibility is to check for abuse of power, law error, negligence or omission, disobedience to the court’s rulings.”
“Still,” Hanna interjected, and in her voice was that tone of practicality she got, “he’s going to come for you. We’ve looked into Freddy Mayes.”
She nodded towards the back seat, cueing Rene to speak.
“Investigator Mayes doesn’t like Americans,” Rene said. She sounded like she’d done her homework. “He doesn’t like many Hondurans, either. Mayes really doesn’t like anyone outside of his chain of command. He’s a Pacheco disciple, through and through. He’s probably going to come after you, pretty hard. He wants to know everything about you; why you’re here, how you got involved.”
William turned to Hanna. “I mean, isn’t Catarino fielding some of this? He’s the official investigator working with the prosecution, not Mayes. Right? This is about Penninger. The boat, and the women on it, the murder.” He glanced at Isabella. “You said one thing at a time. So what does Mayes have to do with the case against Penninger?”
Rene spoke up again. “I said he hates everyone, but it’s mostly that he hates Americans. He’s had some members of his team recently be involved with a federal indictment from New York on money laundering charges.”
“DNIC cops?” William could still hear the voices, but faint. “That’s why the protests?”
Rene nodded. “That’s part of it. Certain DNIC cops have been accused of taking money from drug seizures and cleaning it. And the corruption goes all the way up to the top. Protestors are calling for Pacheco to step down, even for President Hernandez to resign and for an international commission against impunity to be formed to root out corruption.”
It was like they were in the middle of a national, political storm.
Satan lived in San Pedro, indeed.
Hanna added, “So what David Sausa represents is more action with impunity. A private police force, drugs, human trafficking, all for commerce and tourist dollars — and it strikes a chord here with some people.”
“There are many, many people sick and tired of life like this in Honduras,” Isabella said.
William faced forward and watched Julio continue to navigate the bustling streets.
“Amen,” Julio said.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
They pulled into a dusty parking lot baking in the sun. The Public Prosecutor’s office was a mirrored building taller than its surroundings.
Further down the block, as if to underscore the purpose of the office, a building gutted by fire sat gaping in the heat, windows gone, doors boarded over.
Rene operated the lift, lowering Isabella’s wheelchair onto the pavement and Julio helped guide Isabella over the sun-bleached pavemen
t.
William stood back, taking it in: A Honduran woman with no legs in a wheel chair being pushed by a big, seafaring Islander and a young American woman keeping company. It wasn’t the first time he’d marveled at how tragedy made strange bedfellows.
Hanna surprised him by slipping her arm around his.
“It’s not as bad as you think,” she said.
“No?”
They crossed the street and entered the building, through metal detectors where security guards feathered wands which made squelching, chirping sounds. One guard ogled William’s three-fingered hand before allowing him through.
Ocampo met them in the lobby. He was short and round with a perspiring face and pencil-thin mustache. He reminded William of the ring-master at a circus. But he smiled in his tight grey suit and pumped William’s arm with vigor. “Elevators are out again,” he said, “we’ll use the stairs.”
The prosecutor panted and puffed as he climbed the stairwell to the third floor. The air smelled stale, traces of fried plantains and cigarette smoke soaked into the walls. Julio carried Isabella and William toted the folded wheelchair. He reopened it on their floor and helped Julio settle Isabella back into her seat.
Ocampo kept apologizing for the terrible situation with the elevators. Isabella waved a hand in the air. “Not a problem,” she said. “I need the exercise.”
William’s smile faded as they round a turn in the corridor where several DNIC were waiting. One of them, with jet black hair and a five o’clock shadow, stood up. The way he glared at the group, and at William in particular, there was no mistaking it: he was Freddy Mayes.
Ocampo picked his way past the DNIC and opened the door. The large room was furnished with long tables forming a square.
On the wall, an immense framed photograph of a painted mural depicting a serene-faced man, painted with waves of brilliant oranges and reds. Rays of light exploded around a fluttering dove. A mother and child were wrapped in angel’s wings. And in the center of it all a tall woman in a flowing gown and blindfold held the scales of justice.
Titan Trilogy 3.5-Black Soul Page 24