Almost Mortal

by Chris Leibig

  Sam recognized that his methods, historical websites and the like, were not exactly foolproof. But half the time the cops did no better. The mystery man’s story, up until this point, was possible, grandiose, to be sure, but possible. Sam found it very unlikely that police records could be obtained for the death of a tourist in 1957, but because the mystery man had confessed to a murder and named the victim, he needed to follow it up.

  Retiro, Clock Tower, Buenos Aires—this was an easy one. The British clock tower stands a bit over seventy-five meters high in the center of the square in the Retiro neighborhood of Buenos Aires. Of course, easy to prove meant easy to fabricate.

  Information about shipping from Buenos Aires to Cuba in 1958 was scant. Of course, ships sailed from Argentina to Cuba in the 1950s. Ships were the primary method of world travel until the 1970s but all in all, not much for Sam to go on.

  Sam refilled his glass in the kitchen. One more. One hour. One drink. One chapter. One. He sat down and pulled out the journal and realized what had been on his mind all day. Sure, he was tired. Sure, he was working and drinking too much. Still, he was almost sure he had seen this writing before.

  •••

  JANUARY 7, 1958

  After a meager lunch, Paul and I stood on the deck. My gaze remained fixed on the coast, which had been reduced to a thin, green line as we proceeded north. I gripped his hand, and as was my habit, massaged his thoughts as if to gently hold clay without imprinting upon it.

  “Shoot for the sky. If you miss, at least you’ll land on the mountaintop.”

  Startled, I faced the speaker, ready for anything.

  “First time away from home?” The man had one of those complexions common in Bariloche. The ruddy face, crafted by years of sun, drink, hard work, or some combination of the three, made young men old and pretty women plain. He stood near us, one hand on the rail. He wore a round, white hat, white pants, and a fancy, blue jacket, like the clothes of a businessman or a landowner. But his rough demeanor and accent said different. He was one of us, or at least used to be.

  I forced a childlike blush. “Is it so obvious?”

  “Oh no, no. Not to most eyes, at least. But to mine, yes. First time away, I would say. And not planning a swift return, eh?”

  I swallowed. I had a gift for seeing thoughts and the twisted meanings in things, but the impression put forward by the man caused me pause for a convincing false show of confidence.

  “It’s okay.” The man stepped closer. He lowered his voice as he leaned in. His whisper was like air, like a soft wind with no sound behind it. His skin smelled like cologne, perhaps overdone, much like his clothes, so as to cover his true nature. Something pulsated in the man, though, a familiar, attractive force I could not place.

  “Your secret is safe with me, friend. But be wary of the mate—Aguilar, they call him on the ship. But his name is Ramon Ortiz. He works with the police and has been asked to watch the two of you. Specifically”—the man turned to look around, then met my eyes again—“you.”

  Again I hesitated, and then flinched as the man touched my arm.

  “No need to say a word, friend. I’m someone you can trust, and you need to listen to me. You’ve always wondered if you’re special. Stop worrying about it. You are. But you’re no demon or devil. Just keep to your roles, two young people abroad for a short holiday. Maybe to visit relatives in Florida, no?”

  “They aren’t roles. Who are you, sir?” I gripped Paul’s hand and could feel the heat of his nerves coming alive at the man’s proximity, though he knew of neither of the murders from which we fled.

  The man winked. I looked him up and down and then pried into his eyes, perhaps a bit too hard. My heart unclenched.

  “Are you … ?” I hoped for an interruption, since I did not know how to phrase my question.

  “A kindred spirit? One like you? No, I’m certainly not like all the rest. You could say I’m the sort of person who recognizes your kind when I see them. I’ve taken a special interest since I was very young. But no, I’m not your brother. Not your kindred spirit you might say. Cousin maybe. Johannes Van Zyl.”

  The man extended his hand to me. It was dry and calloused, which confirmed my suspicion about his humble origins.

  “You’re always bothering yourself with the origins of things,” Van Zyl said, though I had not said a word. “Like you, I’m no Argentine, just a misplaced foreigner from a race of no-good castabouts.”

  I laughed. Indeed, I had seen his heritage beneath his leathery tan. Afrikaner, Dutch from Africa. Pretending to be somebody else. Same as us. I don’t know why I felt such a level of comfort with a man who claimed the knowledge to expose me.

  “Remember what I said,” Van Zyl said. “Watch Aguilar. He’s a fool but powerful, with the authority to arrest you.” His face went grim, his next words froze my heart, and they might have been his last were we not standing in public view of a dozen fellow passengers.

  “Miguel’s death means nothing, but Salome was a foreigner, with money and a family and a life. Be careful.” Van Zyl’s whisper whipped through me like a long, cold breeze through trees.

  “Your gifts can’t bust prison walls. I suggest you leave this ship in Cuba. If they look for you, it will be in Miami. Wait in Cuba before making for America. They have too many problems there now for the authorities to worry about some fugitives. Stay alive, and keep moving north.”

  Van Zyl strolled away towards the main cabin. He turned back quickly and half saluted from the brim of his hat.

  “Shoot for the sky. If you miss, at least you’ll wind up on the mountaintop!”

  Paul stared at me quizzically. “Diablo?”

  I shrugged. “And what would that say about us?”

  Before we came to our room tonight, I saw the man called Aguilar. Perhaps Van Zyl has my mind overworked, or is a devil of some sort either for or against us, but the fat Aguilar is watching us. His mind is spinning with thoughts not of justice, but reward. He carries a little notepad on which he pretends to scribble shit about the ship.

  •••

  JANUARY 10, 1958

  For days I have not been able to get Aguilar out of my head. Even Paul made note of the man’s movements. For someone presumably trained as a spy, he was mentally sloppy, always forgetting to keep his mind on the task he was pretending to do while he actually watched us. This morning I resolved to solve the matter if the opportunity arose.

  Tonight, Paul and I stood together on the cold upper deck. He shivered while I smoked cigarettes, a habit I picked up just today from a fellow traveler. It makes me feel older somehow. We were all alone and watched the horizon as we passed the very northernmost point of South America. From the far-away lights, I envisioned a town, a small one perhaps, a peaceful one without the craziness of Buenos Aires or the ominous unknowns of the north. I thought about how I might never again be so far south on the planet. I even surprised myself by feeling nostalgic for my hometown. There was no particular reason to blame little Bariloche and its sad wooden cross and stinking dogs for my life thus far. It was just itself, as I suppose all places are.

  “One more.” I pulled another cigarette from the crumpled, red Pall Mall pack. But Paul’s eyes focused past me with alarm. I turned around and saw that someone was watching us from about thirty meters away, at the end of the darkened deck. The man leaned forward, hand above his eyes to block the glare from the dull electric lamps lining the edge of the cabin roof. It was Aguilar with his little notebook flipped open, pencil in hand. I closed the distance in seconds and was upon him. Instinctively knowing that no other human eyes pierced the darkness this late at night, I quickly snapped his neck and launched him over the side into the noisy ocean. It was a bit overdone. He spun, as I once heard a Venezuelan say, ass over ankles into the darkness. Before his notebook followed him overboard, I learned from it that his real name was indeed Ramon Ortiz, and he was an undercover policeman.

  So odd, the interplay of luck and fate—are they
the same thing? The answer is, of course, that it does not matter. Ramon was on to the next world, and we were on to Cuba. One second he was just doing his job, the next he was heading toward the great mystery beyond, whatever that held for him. For some reason, this death of Ramon Ortiz makes me think of Trinity. Where she may be, and, if dead, would Ortiz see her in heaven? In hell? Would they talk about what I have done? My mother once said the magic was stronger in me than in Trinity, but I never actually believed that. Her dancing and laughing and her thoughts, which floated above our Bariloche shit pile, proved differently to me. Why are we not drawn together, instead of this empty silence? Surely, she would know what to do.

  I had to kill him. It was a question of odds, I suppose—he presented a chance of apprehension and punishment, even death. I can’t believe Paul and I are evil. And what about my mother? Or Trinity? Or Salome? Or Van Zyl? Did he suggest this murder to me? Maybe the myths of the human culture—witches, wolves, and demons dancing around fires in the thick and brambly medieval forest—touch the truth. Could it be I am one of these very creatures? Why are spirits, demons, and angels (call them whatever you wish) any more evil than puppies, locusts, or sharks?

  Paul now sleeps while I read our Bible, wondering if the ship’s crew will come knocking when Aguilar fails to turn up wherever he is supposed to be.

  Exodus 20:2-5 says the following:

  I am the Lord your God, who brought you up out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery. Do not have any other gods before me. You shall not make for yourself an idol, whether in the form of anything that is in Heaven above, or that is on the Earth beneath, or that is in the water under the Earth. You shall not bow down to them or worship them; for I am the Lord your God and I am a jealous God, punishing children for the iniquity of parents to the third and fourth generation of those who reject me.

  This is the beginning of the Ten Commandments. Certainly the Great One is a jealous God. But not even he claims to be alone. I find it noteworthy that the Decalogue, these Ten Commandments, appear twice in the Bible. I cannot discern why they have been selected above the Bible’s other prohibitions. But many of the Ten Commandments, to my eyes, were penned by a chest-pounding Bariloche bully so sure, yet so wrong, that his personal ego means anything in this world.

  Another passage that caught my attention was Revelation 12:9:

  And the great dragon was cast out, that old serpent, called the Devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world: he was cast out into the earth, and his angels were cast out with him.

  It is obvious to me that exposure of my identity, and not only my crimes, would mean death for me at the hands of humans. Like what happens to witches. But even the Great God seems to tolerate only a solitary special one. All the rest must be the same. Or be cast out. I wonder how many others are like my mother, or indeed if I am even like her. Able to see the meaning in all things and live after death. Another passage strikes my attention, in part as it relates to some inconsistencies in the passages above. Psalms 19:7:

  The law of the Lord is perfect, refreshing the soul. The statutes of the Lord are trustworthy, making wise the simple.

  Is that so? And yet the Great God punishes traitors’ children to the fourth generation? And the castaway angels for how long? Forever? And he created me this way yet casts me into the world alone to figure it out?

  I shut my eyes but felt no urge to sleep, suddenly alive inside, if perhaps a little afraid, with the desire to learn more of this Bible and its nonsensical power.

  I flipped to the book of Job, the man who sued God. Again, the Great One’s Bible provides just enough for curiosity but not much more. Such a sad story, and I see my mother’s point though I wonder what it has to do with me. So the Great God ruins his faithful servant’s life on a dare from Satan? And, what’s worse, rejects Job’s demand for an explanation and merely boasts back at him like a mean landlord? And why did my mother call Job’s plea a suit? Shoot for the sky, if you miss, at least you will land on the mountaintop? It seems to me Job landed nowhere good.

  The Bible talks about miracles but says nothing about kids who can read minds, toss fat men three meters into the air, and kill without hesitation. Am I part of the covenant so often described in the Great God’s Bible, or am I, and perhaps Trinity, Salome, and my mother and the like, more like Job? All alone, fools if we believe in the Great One’s promises?

  I listen to Paul’s breathing as I try to sleep. I wrap my arms around myself. Surely my duty is to protect us, to give Paul a chance for a life. And not to worry about Job, mysterious old writings, or strangers who mean us harm. But as I had launched Aguilar over the rail, I had seen too much. A wife who loyally awaited him at home. She planned to use his extra pay to fix the family car. I shuddered and eventually must have fallen asleep, because Paul woke this morning complaining about his late breakfast.

  CHAPTER 12

  SAM AWOKE TO A buzzing phone. He looked at the time—1:01 p.m., August 1. Thank God it was Saturday. But the number coming in was his boss.

  Suck it up. Take the call now.

  Taking difficult calls as they came in usually turned out to be worth it. Otherwise, they swelled, like a wave cresting to crash. Sam spoke aloud before answering to clear the phlegm and hungover edge from his voice.

  “This is Young,” he said cheerily, as if jumping from one call to another.

  “Seen the news?” Simmons said.

  “What’s up?”

  “Bennet PD arrested a guy last night for assaulting Chief O’Malley. Punched him in the face at a fundraiser at the Ballston Mall.”

  Sam didn’t see where this was headed. The office had a dozen assault-on-police-officer cases at any given time. Sure, punching the chief was interesting, but a call from his boss?

  “The guy is Jerome Johnson, the father of Carole Kingsley, the second Rosslyn Ripper victim. Seems he was upset with O’Malley campaigning instead of working on solving the case. After he sucker punched the chief, he got a beat down from half a dozen cops and spent the night at Bennet County General. Overnight, the cops searched his apartment in the projects. They’re saying they found a pound of pot and three automatic weapons. The press has the police station surrounded, and it looks like Johnson is being transported from the hospital to the police station any minute. Johnson’s a former client of ours. He suffers from PTSD from his time in Iraq.”

  “So why—”

  “Here’s the problem. If Johnson confesses to the automatic weapons and the pot, the case will go federal, with twenty-five years of mandatory minimums at play. Without a confession, they may not have enough evidence to convict him of anything but assault. Two other unemployed vets stay at the apartment, and people are always in and out of the place. You should go down there and try to stop the interrogation. You’ll have to move pretty fast. I’d say get there within an hour.”

  “But there’s no case. No appointment. We actually don’t represent him. The statute says we can’t act until appointment. I could get sanctioned, don’t you think?”

  “Ah, the rules,” Simmons said. “That always stops you, doesn’t it?”

  Five minutes later, as Sam pulled the Escalade out of his parking lot, his phone buzzed. A blocked number, which he usually did not answer. Telemarketers or, potentially worse, someone he knew deliberately blocking his or her number, to whom he was not prepared to speak. The phone buzzed and buzzed in his hand. It could be somebody from the Bennet County jail calling about Johnson.

  “This is Young.”

  “Samson Young.” A soothing, slightly accented voice. “Long time no see.”

  “Raj?”

  “How are you, Samson?” Ouch. If Raj was calling personally, it probably meant he had really crossed the line with Steve. “Hey. Let’s get a coffee, you and me. I need a favor. Nothing big, you know, but something you can help me with.”

  “Now?”

  “Sure. I’m at the coffee place, you know the one.” The place they first met, when Raj appro
ached him about Steve’s drunk-driving case.

  Sam looked at the time. Still only ten minutes since Simmons’s call. He thought of Torres, all the clients Raj had referred to him over the years, and, well, that it was Raj Buterab.

  “See you in five.”

  •••

  Just like the first time Sam had met Raj years before, Raj was strikingly out of place in the bland atmosphere of a suburban Virginia Starbucks. He sat alone at a table, his large hand covering almost the entire white cup from which he sipped. He appeared huge at the small table, but it was his formal manner, pressed dress shirt and slacks and genteel calmness that made him stand out from the yuppie parents and the sandal-wearing twenty-somethings. Sam sat down.

  “Hi, Raj.”

  “You know, it’s funny. You’re one of the only people other than my family to call me Raj. They say Mr. Buterab. I say, hey, call me Raj. They say, okay, Mr. Buterab. Go figure. I’m glad you call me Raj. It’s not a problem … Really.”

  Sam managed a hesitant nod.

  “I’m sure you’re in a hurry, Samson. I’ll get to the point. You’re a smart guy, that’s what I like about you. I’ve always thought of you like a son. Kinda like a son that’s more responsible than my other son—if you follow me. I think you know a little about my business, my reputation, anyway. I’ve sold things. I’ve bought things. If people needed some help, some extra cash, that’s never been a problem. But I’ve been done with all that business for years.”

  Raj’s well-manicured hand extended towards Sam, offering him a business card. Buterab Enterprises.

  “This is what I do now. For fifteen years I’ve worked on it. In 2013 we raised four and a half million dollars for scholarships for poor kids from Hungary and Romania to attend college in the US. We donate to politicians who wanna actually do something to eliminate poverty. Naïve, I know, but that’s my life now. I like you, and it’s important to me that you see. Sure, I cut some corners to get where I am, but I haven’t broken a law in ten years. I know you hear this all the time from all your clients. But the church is my life now. I got no reason to lie about that. Ask anybody. Hey, Samson, did you know that the Catholic Church is the largest charity on Earth? That it does more work to eliminate poverty than anybody, even the US fuckin’ government?”