The Green Cathedral

by Kerry Mcdonald

  “Oh, it is her special habanero chili sauce with jalapeños mixed in. She says it makes a man breathe fire from both ends,” replied Monti. “I must say, Señor Forrest, for a man raised in California, you have a very sensitive palate.”

  “My parents were from the Midwest,” Abel replied. “All Mom ever made for dinner were good old casseroles and meat-and-potato kinds of things. The only thing spicy she made was homemade chili that barely tasted like chili. I think the only kind of Mexican food I ever liked was Taco Bell.”

  Monti nearly spewed taco salad all over his desk with laughter, then started coughing and had to gulp water as well. “Taco Bell is an abomination!” He chuckled. “Lucia wouldn’t even feed it to her dog!”

  Abel chuckled, too, then asked, “So what’s La Catedral Verde?”

  “La Catedral Verde means ‘the Green Cathedral,’” replied Monti. “It was what the few people who lived in Playa de Palma when I brought my family here from Mexico twenty years ago used to call the island because of views like this of the rainforest there.” He pointed to Abel’s pictures. “I remember I went there once back then and walked through the rainforest and felt like I was in a grand cathedral, like some of them in Mexico City, except there were animals and birds and trees all around instead of stone walls and people. People would occasionally go to the island, but very few had boats, so nothing really ever happened out there.

  “Then, years later, after our operation here was going well and tourism was increasing, I thought of creating a nature park on the island where tourists could go, enjoy the rainforest, perhaps hike to the top of the volcano. Maybe we’d even put in zip lines and a little zoo or something for people to enjoy the animals safely, no? A real family adventure place.” He now stood and paced as he continued.

  “I went out with the first group of workers to survey where we should begin, what we should put where, you know, and once everybody knew what they were doing, they got to work, and I came back home.

  “A few days later, though, I got a distress call from my foreman there. He was screaming for us to come get them, that a ‘devil woman’ was running wild through the camp along with pumas and monkeys, destroying everything and attacking the workers. Some were dead already. My son and I went with guns to try to help, but by the time we got there, it was too late. Everyone was dead, even my foreman.”

  He sat back down and sighed. “I sent another group, heavily armed, to the island to get rid of whatever it was out there, but they didn’t return. Ever since then, no one has dared go there, and people stopped calling it La Catedral Verde and called it Isla del Diablo instead.”

  They were both silent for a moment, then Abel spoke. “Why didn’t you go back there with the men you sent? Maybe you knew something they didn’t?”

  Monti gave Abel an icy look at his insinuation. “I didn’t go with that group because Lucia, my granddaughter who is enjoying her taco salad out in the dining room, was just a baby then, and I knew that she’d need her grandfather around to help her grow up, that’s why.”

  “Didn’t she have a dad?” Abel asked.

  “No,” replied Monti. “He was the foreman supervising the workers when they were all wiped out by whatever is out there. For her sake, I couldn’t take a chance on leaving her with no father of any kind in her life. Paco, who had gone with me to rescue his brother, was only a teenager at the time.”

  “Sorry,” said Abel. “That’s a real shame.”

  “All of which brings me to a potential opportunity for you, should you be interested,” said Monti.

  Abel crossed his legs and finished his last bite of taco salad. “I’m listening.”

  “I have noted that you are, from all I can tell, a good man who is strong and honest and dedicated to his work with the DEA. However, it seems that this has gained you very little of the comforts of life that many like you seem to have. For example, I noted the other day that you’d brought very little to this place, yet you demanded to be put up at the finest motel in town in their finest beach house. There is some disconnect here, no?”

  “Maybe I just like nice places to live while I’m in-country,” replied Abel.

  “Maybe you like nice places, period, but can’t afford them,” pressed Monti.

  “Let’s just say that I’ve had a few setbacks lately, but things are looking up,” said Abel warily. He wasn’t sure what Monti was getting at.

  “I think things definitely are looking up for you, Señor Forrest.” Monti smiled. He got up and started pacing again as if he needed to settle his dinner while he talked. “My son and I still have the dream of making our island into something more that tourists can do when they come here, and just recently, we found an investor who would like to see this happen as well. He has already committed money to the project and is hoping we can get started soon so that, by next high season, everything will be ready.”

  “Does he know about your little problem with the island?” asked Abel coyly.

  “Actually, we failed to mention that to him. After all, we don’t want to sound like superstitious fools who believe in ghosts or some evil presence that might be angered by what we hope to do.”

  “Certainly not,” echoed Abel.

  “However, we do, as you now know, have this problem, and the time has come where it must be dealt with as soon as possible. We must start whatever construction and land clearing we may need to do now before the green season arrives and dry days become scarce.”

  “I’m catching your drift, but I’ll ask anyway. What’s this got to do with me?” asked Abel.

  “I have studied your background during the time you’ve been here, Agent Forrest,” said Monti, “and I’m aware that you spent many years as one of the most elite fighting men in the world, a Navy SEAL. Certainly, such a man would be a match for any such evil presence that might be lurking out on our island. Would you be interested in a little extermination work on the side while you’re here taking care of things for the DEA?”

  “I might be,” replied Abel. “Not sure my DEA boss will take too kindly to it, though.”

  “Don’t worry about the DEA,” said Monti dismissively. “I’m prepared to tell them of the vast amount of investigative work you’re doing on our behalf to help us fend off the big cartels in Colombia from destroying our little world here at Playa de Palma. That should buy you the time you’d need.”

  “What’s your offer?” said Abel.

  “One million US dollars,” said Monti, “including all the supplies, armaments, explosives, and such that you would need. Just give us a list, and it will all be here within a few days. Much we probably have on hand here already.”

  “I guess somebody has made an investment already,” interjected Abel.

  “It is as I told you. So, what say you, Señor Caleb Forrest, DEA agent and former Navy SEAL fighter?”

  Abel pretended to be deep in thought, but, in fact, any niggling voice of warning that may have tried to intervene had already been politely dismissed from his conscience. This job would be like being a SEAL again, only with a vast upgrade in pay. Who needed to think about that? The future was already looking brighter. This one was a no-brainer. He raised his head. “You’ve got yourself an exterminator, Señor Montezuma Ruiz, king of all Playa de Palma,” he said with a wry smile.

  “I see that you’ve done some studying as well,” quipped Monti.

  “I’ll have your Isla del Diablo turned back into La Catedral Verde inside of two weeks. I’ll have that list for you in the morning. I assume I can still use that boat?” asked Abel.

  “Of course,” said Monti. Abel rose, and they both shook hands. “To our mutual benefit, then,” said Monti.

  “Hear, hear,” said Abel.

  ISLA DEL DIABLO

  13

  —

  Abel was so amped up after his talk with Monti Ruiz that going to sleep was impossible, so h
e took the pushpins he’d bought along with his prints and did some interior decorating around the guesthouse. Nothing was framed, of course, but that would change in due time. After all, he’d just made the deal of a lifetime. At least he hoped he had.

  One million dollars!

  Abel figured that amount could just about set him up for life. Stick most of it into his secret bank account—or at least the new one he’d have to make for Caleb Forrest—and then keep the rest of it for travel, a nice house, a nice car or two. Abel’s mind conjured up all sorts of sunny scenarios as he finished putting up pictures and plopped onto his bed. As he thought more about it, his sunny thoughts began to set into the not-so-sunny, darker side of what he’d just done, and he became much soberer.

  First of all, he didn’t actually know that Monti had the money. He’d made a deal sight unseen as far as the actual goods were concerned. Monti was undoubtedly capable of accessing large sums of money. His “cartel” was small-time but still capable of having such funds on hand, especially if he had outside investors involved. But that was another thing. Who were these outside investors? Were they legitimate businessmen, or perhaps other shady types like Monti, sort of “good” bad guys who hoped to do good things with the money they received through not-so-good means?

  And just exactly what was expected of him? It sounded like Monti wanted him to kill an actual person, someone who lived on the island and had killed others who were out there trying to do peaceful work, at least initially. That didn’t sound all that bad, but he did have to ask himself what he would do if he were set up on a small island living his life and suddenly a bunch of people came and started messing with it without his permission. Wouldn’t he defend it—violently if necessary—if they refused to leave?

  Damn straight I would, he thought uncomfortably. I’d kill every damn one of them.

  Then there was the fact that inside of a month, he’d again made a deal with the devil. Maybe a more benevolent kingpin than Don Vicente Galvan, but still someone who made their way in the world through criminal enterprise. What caused him, someone who had fought for his country with honor and purpose for so long, to become a mercenary who was basically for sale to the highest bidder? Abel contemplated for a minute.

  Then again, it was a million dollars—one freaking million dollars. That could set him up for a very long time without having to do any other jobs at all. He might even be able to quit the DEA—or be forced to quit if he kept doing the things he was doing. Would they really frown on this if they knew that he, Abel, aka Caleb Forrest, was trying to assist one of their assets to build the legitimate side of his business?

  Was that really what Monti wanted to do with the island, or was it just an excuse for him to get Abel to clean things up so he could engage in further not-so-legitimate business?

  Abel’s mind spun all these conflicting thoughts around like a clothes dryer, tumbling them over and over in his mind with their various pros and cons until he was not only exhausted but had a headache as well. He finally popped some Tylenol and flopped back down on his bed. It had been a very long day, and he was relieved that soon the gentle sound of the surf lapping onto the beach not a hundred feet from his front doorstep would be lulling him into a deep and hopefully dreamless sleep.

  ***

  Up with the sunrise (which was always around six o’clock, as the sunset was also around six p.m. because of Costa Rica’s proximity to the equator), Abel hustled on down to the free breakfast that the motel served. Today, he skipped the Wheaties and went for a more high-carb meal of self-made Belgian waffles slathered with butter and syrup, a half dozen sausage links on the side, and a plate of scrambled eggs for more protein. After wolfing that down, he grabbed a couple of Wheaties single-serving boxes, several slices of bread, some butter pats along with peanut butter and jelly, a giant banana, an orange, and some paper plates and plastic silverware. He hustled back to his beach house to make sandwiches and pack up a lunch to put in his backpack. Though he didn’t know how many of the armaments he’d written on his list for Monti would be on hand for him this morning, he still anticipated a long day on the island, reconnoitering and mapping as much of it as he could. With his backpack loaded with food, water, gear (including one of his full-camouflage uniforms with service socks and boots), and his Glock, he slung it all over his shoulder and headed out to walk down the road to the pier by way of the general store, where he’d buy himself a couple of machetes and supplies for sharpening them.

  Making a pass through the Best Western’s lobby, he was glad to see that Faviola was there behind the front desk and that there was a lull in the usual morning rush of people checking out.

  “Your breakfast was delicious this morning,” he said. “I didn’t choke on anything, and so far, I haven’t died of food poisoning.” He gave her a crooked smile.

  “I’m glad,” she said curtly as she clattered away on the front desk computer, “only, if you were to get food poisoning around here, you wouldn’t die, you’d just be throwing up and shitting your pants uncontrollably starting sometime in the afternoon, so you’re not out of the woods yet.”

  “Good thing I’ve got plenty of your oh-so-elegant toilet paper stashed in my backpack then.” Abel smiled.

  “So where are you off to today?” asked Faviola. She still hadn’t made eye contact with Abel yet. “You look like you’re hiking all the way to Panama.”

  “Actually, I’m headed out to the island,” said Abel, careful not to take his eyes off Faviola when he said it. Though she tried hard not to react in any particular way, Abel noticed a definite hiccup in her clattering on the keyboard of the front desk computer.

  “I hear that is not such a good place to go,” she said, head still in her work.

  “I’ve heard the same, but Monti made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, doing a little side job for him out there so he and some investors can turn the place into a tourist attraction.”

  “And why are you telling this to me?” asked Faviola, still not looking up from her work.

  “Because you asked.” Abel grinned. “And because I want to know how you feel about Monti. You think he can be trusted?”

  Faviola finally stopped working and looked up at Abel. For the first time, he saw that Faviola’s business-suit coat and shell underneath seemed to be straining to keep her large breasts, enhanced by a push-up bra no doubt, from exploding out of them. Faviola gave him a little wink, then said, “After you have made this incredible deal with him, now you want to know if he can be trusted?”

  Abel shrugged.

  “It sounds like you’re thinking with your bank account instead of your brain, Mr. Norteamericano.”

  “So?” said Abel dryly. “I still want to know.”

  Faviola sighed loudly. “Monti can be trusted as long as he needs your trust.”

  Abel gave her a doubtful look.

  “It’s like this motel here. Monti needs my trust because my motel gives his town legitimacy as a tourist destination. If it fails to do that, or, say, another, bigger motel moves in, he may not need my trust as much, or maybe not at all.”

  “So what happens then?”

  “Then you don’t trust him any farther than you could throw his fat ass,” said Faviola. “And if I ever hear that you’ve repeated that, I’ll slap you and call you a liar.”

  She went back to work. Abel still hung around, trying to process what she’d just said in light of his own situation. Finally, Faviola looked up again at him.

  “There is something that you always must keep in mind about Monti. The clue is in his name. It’s actually not his real name. He gave it to himself when he came here from Mexico. It is short for Montezuma, the last great Aztec ruler—”

  “Yeah, I know,” interrupted Abel. “I’ve read his DEA profile. He wants to be a king and—”

  “I don’t care what you’ve read, because obviously whoever wrote it does n
ot understand him, and neither do you,” hissed Faviola.

  Abel gave her a hard look, which she answered with an even firmer glare. She now talked in a deep, conspiratorial whisper.

  “He does not want to be king,” she said. “He is king, here in this place, and his greatest goal is to be, like Montezuma, not just a king, but a fabulously rich king. All that he does, whether good or not so good in this town, is motivated by that one, single purpose. If he has made this offer you can’t refuse, it’s because he thinks that whatever he wants you to do at that island will make him rich somehow, and I’m not at all sure that it has anything to do with turning it into a tourist attraction. And after you have finished whatever it is he wants you to do—”

  A guest came down the elevator with her bags and moved toward the desk.

  “Ah, how can I help you, Mrs. Gibson? Are you and your husband ready to check out?” said Faviola. She gave Abel a quick “be wary” glance, then went to work with the tall blond woman who had approached.

  ***

  Abel made his stop at the general store, picking up two machetes, a regular-sized one with its long, eighteen-inch blade and another more compact one with a thirteen-inch blade for close-in hacking. The shorter one he tucked into his backpack, the other he bought a belt and scabbard for and hung it around his waist like a Roman gladius.

  Ah, the weapon that conquered the world, he thought, the Roman short sword. One key difference: the gladius, though roughly the same length, had a razor-sharp point and was made for thrusting, either over a barbarian’s shield into the poor bastard’s face or, more gruesomely, underneath the mighty swing of the barbarian’s huge but unwieldy sword or club and into the poor bastard’s gut or groin. Abel’s machete was sharp but had a curved point and was simply for hacking—hopefully at jungle undergrowth and not people or their animals.

  He passed Monti, who was by now just setting up his throne room at the head of the pier.