The Santero
Page 32
“What is it?” she asked, her big green eyes wet with tears but full of love.
As excited as I was about the baby, I began to imagine all the different ways she might tell me she was pregnant, and determined not to deprive her of a single experience this time around, I decided it was best to let her have the fun. Perhaps that had been William’s intention as well, knowing all the things his mother had missed out on and how much she’d suffered. It was her time now.
“Oh. Well, I was just thinking about what to do on our honeymoon,” I said, guiding her down the bridge. “Careful.” I pointed to an uneven panel in the metal ramp and helped her step over it.
“I’m sure you were,” she laughed. I wrapped my arm tightly around her shoulders as we descended to the dock, practically holding her up as we walked. I’d have to work on not smothering her, at least not until she knew, too.
“Are you sure you feel alright?” Aware of my desire to be close, she put her arm around my waist so that I could lean against her. “Here, hold on to me.”
As we came closer to the end of the bridge, the figure of a young man emerged from behind a palm tree. With caution he deliberately stepped into my line of sight, shoulders hunched forward, hands buried deep in his pockets. The glare of the rising sun made it difficult to discern his identity, but then I recognized the black leather jacket I’d seen somewhere before. It was Achille’s courier, Luc. Before I could react, Lars spotted him and drew his gun, shouting at him to drop to his knees and put his hands up in the air.
“What is this?” I said, holding an arm in front of Amada, urging her to stay back. I approached with caution, though my instincts told me he wasn’t a threat. “Do you want?” I asked sharply in Creole, not remembering the proper phrase. Ou vle?
“Rafa, he’s shaking,” said Amada, coming closer.
“Stay there,” I said to her over my shoulder.
She was right. He looked terribly ill, as if he could collapse at any moment. Instinctively I took a step back in case he was carrying an airborne virus of some kind. We’d had a measles scare in Haiti once and I knew it was the absolute last thing Amada should come into contact with now. I waved at Lars to take a step back.
“You said you would help me,” begged Luc in slow, broken Spanish. It was then I realized he wasn’t sick but instead going through some sort of drug withdrawal, probably opiates. Alex had said that Achille on occasion had tried to get him hooked on heroin, and though I didn’t think it was possible, seeing Luc in this condition only made me loathe Achille even more. What kind of monster could do this to people for their own gain? Understanding what he wanted, I helped him to his feet, glad to see the wave of relief and gratitude wash over Luc’s face once he was certain I wouldn’t send him away. I put my arm around his shoulder and told him I would make sure he was going to be alright. Eager to repay the favor, Luc leaned in, struggling to find the right words.
“They want to hurt you both,” he whispered. “You must be ready.”
“Achille and Grégoire?” I asked.
“I’ve heard that name before,” said Amada. “He refers to him as his teacher.”
“I’m aware of what he is,” I said, remembering Filomena’s warning about Gregoire’s blood-soaked basement. Teacher was hardly the word I’d use to describe a murderous practitioner of the dark arts. “But I assure you that if he and the priest make the mistake of coming for my family, it’s going to be their last.”
“Good,” said Luc. “But it’s not Grégoire you have to worry about.”
“Then who?” I asked, walking a bit faster. He was fading fast and the only thing on my mind was to keep him talking until we could get him into a car. It was clear that if Luc didn’t get to a hospital soon, he might not make it.
“Achille’s new madamn,” he said, eyes rolling back into his head. “His new wife, Madame Lisa.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kim is a first generation Cuban American from Orlando, FL, who grew up with a Spanish-speaking family that loved to tell stories, play cards and talk late into the night. One of her earliest memories is the day a poisonous banana spider dropped down out of the oak tree in the front yard where the family liked to sit and talk on nice afternoons. Amazed by how casually her grandmother swiped the black and yellow beast off her shoulder, Kim asked why she wasn’t even a little bit afraid of such creatures. “The outhouse scorpions in Cuba never bothered me much,” her grandmother answered. “Neither did the snakes or spiders. Just the toads.” Not surprisingly, it was these colorful, fantastic tales of life in early twentieth-century Cuba that fed Kim’s imagination and sparked a lifetime love of storytelling. As a writer, Kim is drawn to themes of romantic love, language, diversity, diaspora and adventure.