In spite of the setting, the village lacked character, like all towns ruined by tourism. Its uneven streets were excessively wide, as though designed to accommodate nonexistent traffic. This gave it a bleak look compared to the lush surroundings. In the center, which was sandwiched between the road and the coast, generic stores lined up offering clothes, artisanal products, surfing equipment, and bicycle rentals. These alternated with restaurants and hotels, the latter being the only buildings that rose higher than two stories. The housing had been pushed out right to the other side and crowded around a supermarket that hid them and their residents from the tourists. In that seventy-five-foot strip the ground itself changed color, turning black, while garbage littered the facades. Chickens scurried around patios filled with mechanical and electronic detritus, motorcycle chassis, and metal bed frames.
Ethan had come on the last bus of the day, and the sun was going down behind him. Every corner of the commercial district was lit, and visitors were wandering around happily. There weren’t many families to be seen, and the atmosphere was dominated by low-volume music coming out of the bars, which eagerly awaited the surfers and dark-skinned hunks trying their luck with adventurous women who had come to this remote place hoping to experience precisely that fantasy.
Like all unfamiliar places, certainly anywhere in Central America, nightfall had an unpleasant, unsettling sheen to it. Ethan saw a pair of men in municipal uniforms sitting on a dilapidated stone bench and went over to ask for directions. When he got closer, he realized that he didn’t understand what they were saying; they were talking in garifuna or some other dialect. But with Ethan’s approach they happily switched over to Spanish, albeit a heavily accented coastal Spanish.
“I’m looking for Hostel Anunga.”
“Eww! No, buddy, no go there.”
“Nasty, bro, that place is nasty.”
They pointed to the unlit part of the village.
“Don’t go there, buddy. I’ll take you to a much better one.”
“Take him to the Miriam.”
“Not the Miriam, bro, the Caribe, bro, they have a much better breakfast. That’s where you’ll get the real rice and beans.”
“Oh yeah, they do good rice and beans there. The cook is the best, better than at the Miriam—she’s my cousin.”
“The real Caribe, man.”
They both laughed at this witticism. Ethan began to suspect that they were under the effects of a well-rolled joint. The younger one seemed to read his mind and tried to help him out.
“Are you looking for some good stuff, bro? We can hook you up.”
“Very good stuff, creepy.”
“Yeah, man, very good.”
They laughed again, as though it were an inside joke.
“All the Americans come to try our stuff.”
“Straight from the jungle, man.”
“Pure jungle, man.”
“It hits you hard, bro.”
Seeing how high they were, Ethan started to laugh along with them. “Thank you, but I’ve only just arrived. The thing is I have to go to Hostel Anunga.”
“No, bro, it’s nasty. It’s not for tourists.”
“Yeah, man, don’t go there.”
“A friend of mine told me to go there. She said it had to be that one.”
“Has your friend been there?”
“She said she had, and she phoned ahead. They’re waiting for me.”
“Duuuuuuude!”
They both shook their hands and clicked their fingers in triumph.
“That’s different, man. That’s great!”
“Good on you, brother—they’re going to treat you so well.”
“Your breakfast, man.”
“Very good, the best rice and beans. My cousin makes it.”
“Pure rice and beans with coconut sauce.”
“I thought your cousin worked at the Caribe.”
“She works for them both, man. But it’s cheaper there because it’s not for tourists.”
Their goodwill was so enticing that Ethan ended up sharing several beers with them, and the day ended as the polar opposite of how it had begun, which only made everything seem more unreal. At some point they walked him to the Anunga and helped him to sign in because the tokes they’d shared with him had clouded his head. He dropped onto his mattress like a lead weight and had unsettling, claustrophobic dreams during which he relived the terrible night when he’d met Ari, only this time she was Sasha, a baby he kept trying to rescue but failed each time. He was beset by anguish and guilt, so much so that he started to cry in his sleep. At one point he had Patito in his arms, but something was taking him away, and the impotence and desperation grew until he gave up. He saw himself repeating the same word over and over again like a mantra: impotence. He went on saying it, unsure whether it was in English or Spanish. Eventually the sound itself took on a physical form, like honey flowing from his throat, relieving it of its emotional weight. Then, finally, he was able to rest.
He woke up hot and confused. The sunlight shone brightly in his room, giving him a chance to actually see the room. It was a ramshackle place, painted in a flaking green with a dirty bathroom. Seeing that it was before eight and he was already sweating, he wondered what the advantage was in going to the Anunga rather than a hotel on the beach. At reception he asked whether they had rooms with air-conditioning, and they moved him to the top floor, to a corner where the damp was even more evident and not much more comfortable than the room without air-conditioning. At least his new friends had been right about the breakfast. He looked for an internet café and told Ari on Facebook that he’d be offline for a while but made no further contact with the outside world. It felt as though the horrors of the day before had never happened. Finally, he was able to relax and enjoy his impromptu vacation until he got back to the Anunga and found that the air conditioner was just an embedded portable refrigerator with the back facing outside. Kneeling down, he saw the dangling wheels. He went down to the beach with the basic telephone Andrés had given him. Andrés was his only contact with the rest of the country; his was the only number he could remember. His smartphone and the private one Suarez had given him were back at the hotel. He bought a newspaper with garish, sensationalist headlines. Inside, one story stood out amid the litany of violent crimes: TWO BURNED IN THEIR OWN HOME. It didn’t explain how the fire had started or make any reference to mob justice, saying only that “local residents suspected the family of involvement with a criminal gang.”
Before he had a chance to call Andrés, his friend sent him a message to reassure him: all his luggage had been safely transferred to his house. They had a brief exchange of texts in which Andrés reported that he hadn’t been back to the neighborhood and that his mother, who was still trying to take it all in, swore that she hadn’t heard from his brother. He had apparently run off with Leidy. After apologizing, even though he still thought he’d done the right thing, he showed some indication that he was rethinking his approach. He’d asked Michelle to wait until they could decide what to do next; Suarez was apparently following his own leads. Andrés didn’t get on well with Calvo and hadn’t contacted him to share the new revelations.
Trying to anticipate how long it would be before he was able to return, taking into account the funeral and the time it would take for the investigation to blow over, Ethan decided to plan his next steps. They had to track down Beto before he vanished off the face of the earth. He wondered whether he should set Calvo on the case or whether it should be that arrogant bastard Suarez. Just when he might have used his skills, he’d apparently washed his hands of the whole thing. Ethan missed having Ari there to go over the different options; she’d suggest doing something direct, and he’d have to calm her down, but something good always came from their clash of styles.
On the other side of the road leading into the palm groves, whose traffic was just a few cars and bicycles, a row of hawkers’ stalls set up during the day selling different wares: coconut milk, fr
uit juices and smoothies, local jewelry, and a pair of women offering braids and extensions. One of them, a small, elderly woman sitting in a fold-up chair next to the coconut vendor, whistled at Ethan across the traffic, the way one called a child. Surprised, he turned to either side to see if she meant someone else, but she continued to whistle, clearly pointing at him. He crossed the road and said he wasn’t interested in braids. But she’d seen him come out of the Anunga.
“Why that place? They don’t even have air-conditioning.”
Ethan gave a sigh. “I’m backpacking. It’s the only place I can afford. I know the Hotel Caribe is better, but I like the Anunga. I don’t care about air-conditioning; it pollutes. Think global, act local, you know?”
“Yes, of course, young man. I was surprised because foreigners don’t usually know it, just the people who live here. Did someone give you a tip?”
“I asked around. If you can recommend another place, I’ll take a look.”
“And where are you going to have lunch?”
“I haven’t thought about that yet.”
“Don’t worry. I know a very good place.”
“Thank you—I’ll come by later.”
Ethan walked away, smiling. He went to check the bus schedule and then spent the rest of the morning thinking about the terrible scenes he’d left behind in the city. The image of the horror was still very fresh. He was dozing in the shade when he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and was faced with the coconut vendor, whom he assumed was the old woman’s husband.
“You’ll burn if you don’t put on sunblock.”
“Thank you. I put some on already.”
“Rosita sent me to tell you about lunch.” The man paused as though this was a grand revelation. “That’s Rosita.” He offered Ethan a peeled coconut with a straw.
“No, thank you.”
“It’s a gift. Rosita wants you to have lunch with us. She’s invited you.”
Ethan looked him in the eyes. They seemed kindly; he must see the invitation as a great honor. As he woke up, something occurred to him. He asked, “Does she know who recommended the hotel?”
“Lorena.”
Incredible how they communicate with one another, Ethan thought, following the man.
And so he found himself with an elderly couple in a run-down shack, a small space with a table for four, a flat-screen TV, and a worn-out sofa covered in crochet. The fish-and-rice dish was exquisite and was followed by an excellent drip-filtered coffee. After lunch Rosita invited Ethan into a private back room that was in much better condition, decorated with niches full of saints and religious figures he’d never seen before. The paraments were decorated with light-blue mosaics while the altars themselves were an intense vermilion, creating a pleasant effect. His host started to light candles, solemnly murmuring some kind of litany for each while her husband watched television under a bare light bulb. Eventually, she closed the door, separating them from the outside world. She pulled a dark curtain across the only barred window, and the atmosphere soon grew thick. Then she asked Ethan to sit at a garden table and removed the crochet tablecloth. In its place she lit another candle.
“You see? There was nothing to worry about. Now it’s time for your questions.”
Ethan didn’t understand what she was getting at. He thought it might be a local saying. “What? What questions?”
The woman’s face crinkled up in offense. “Lorena didn’t tell you about me?”
“We didn’t get a chance to talk much. She told me where to stay, nothing more.”
“I’m Rosita. Didn’t Lorena explain why she sent you to me?”
“She didn’t explain a thing.”
Rosita didn’t get up from her chair, but Ethan could feel her presence fill the room. Finally, she shed the last vestiges of her humility and began to project power and authority. “I can answer your questions.”
She closed her eyes and brought her hands close to the candle, mumbling. Ethan started to ask something, but she silenced him with a raised finger. The sun was still out, and although the room was dark, the heat radiated through the metal roof and settled around them. Ethan felt a drop of sweat roll down the side of his face. After a few strange minutes, Rosita spoke again, her eyes still closed. Her eyeballs were moving under her eyelids as though she was asleep, and even so he felt them go right through him.
“The girl. Tell me about the girl.”
“The . . . what?”
“Why are you looking for her?”
“Because she was kidnapped. Did Lorena tell you about her?”
“You know we haven’t spoken. You have a presence. You’re looking for a girl who was taken away. You came to the country to rescue her. It won’t be easy; many people are against you, and you have few friends.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t know?”
Ethan shivered. She was reading him like a book.
“Who’s stopping you, my friend? Who have you had to cross to come here?”
“My girlfriend,” he said, stunned but trying to recover. “You know about the girl, but you don’t know that?”
“I can see, but I don’t know. You must tell me what I need to know, and I’ll help you to see.”
“I don’t believe in this kind of thing . . .”
“But you believe her.”
“My girlfriend?”
Rosita sensed the sarcasm and defensiveness. She leaned back in her chair, staring at him from her unseeing eyes. He could feel a wave of genuine power emanate from her. This was her territory, and everything within it belonged to her.
“The girl. She speaks to you in her dreams. Is that why you came to look for her?”
“I came because she was kidnapped, and I lived with her for a few years. She’s kind of like my daughter.”
Rosita was slightly mollified by this but not enough. “What does she say?”
“You can’t see that?”
“I see you. In danger. Someone here is helping you, but they’re not who they say they are.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Her mother and uncle are helping me.”
“There’s someone else too. A man.” She rocked back and forth as though she were in a trance. “I can see him. You think he’ll help you, but you shouldn’t trust him.”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t understand. He knows where the girl is.”
Ethan tried not to react, but the shaman sensed his horror.
“How did you find him?”
“The man?”
“He found you. I can see it. He was in . . . a hotel?”
Sweat ran down his neck.
“Tell me, how did you find him?”
“Uh . . . through Andrés.”
“Yes, I see. He led you to the ones who took the girl. Didn’t you ever ask how he knew?”
“He told me.”
“And you believe him?”
Ethan felt a drop of sweat run down his eyebrow and wiped it away with a finger.
Rosita couldn’t see him, but she smiled. Her smile was terrifying. “You don’t believe him. See what I see. The man has used you to cover his own tracks. Now I need to know what you know.”
He was paralyzed, hypnotized by the psychic like a rabbit in the headlights, intimidated by a gaze that wasn’t even there. His body began to grow weak from his shoulders down, as though he were leaving it, and his voice began to utter the name. Suarez, the teller of tales, the man who had deceived him and sent Andrés to clean up his mess. Suarez, the traitor who pretended to be a mysterious vigilante to conceal the fact that he was the man Ethan was looking for . . .
Instinctively, without thinking, Ethan reached out to snuff out the candle burning between him and Rosita, removing the glare that had been blinding him and keeping him from seeing the old woman’s face. The flame disappeared, and he felt himself released from the spell. He saw a brief twitch in Rosita�
��s face, concealing something just before she opened her eyes.
“What have you done? You mustn’t interrupt my communication with the other world! It could be very dangerous for both you and me.”
Ethan answered quickly, like a nervous child trying to fool his teacher. “His name is Adrian Calvo, a detective Andrés hired. Now you know what I know. Help me.”
“Fool! I can’t help you just like that! You almost cut the silver cord.” She was furious, raging, exposed. “You’ve missed your chance to find out more.”
“Forgive me. I don’t know why I put out the candle. I was afraid.” His forehead was drenched in sweat. Now that he was being submissive, Rosita relaxed.
“I gave you the name. He’s the one helping us.”
Once she realized that she had the name she was looking for, she returned to the role of charitable grandmother.
“You’re right, son. Forgive me; you broke my concentration, and that can be dangerous for psychics. I got scared too. Say the name again—I forgot it when you disrupted my flow with the beyond. Tonight I will try to communicate with the spirits again to see if I can find anything else. If so, I’ll come to find you and let you know.”
Ethan gave her Calvo’s name and information again, knowing that whatever Rosita did with them, he’d be able to handle it. He felt bad about dropping him in it like that, but Calvo had demonstrated very clearly that he was a survivor and would be able to defend himself better than Suarez. Doña Rosita must be the local witch doctor, the spiritual leader of the area, maybe even of Lorena and the whole neighborhood. Ethan now knew that he’d never have escaped the trap without giving her a name. She was perceptive and uncommonly sensitive; there was no doubt about that. She must have perfected her skills of suggestion throughout her life, learning how to conjure a kind of trance, a pseudohypnotic state in which she could make her victims do what she wanted. She had never completely closed her eyes: she’d fooled him with the darkness and flames. Ethan thought that was how she controlled her followers or whoever fell into her clutches, leading them down the paths she chose for them. They said goodbye with false affection, and he was pleased to be released from the cage.
Shadows Across America Page 14
