Outside, it was almost dark, and the back part of town had returned to its unsettling nighttime atmosphere. Two doors down from Rosita, Ethan’s gaze met that of a large, very dark male with unnaturally blue eyes and a muscular body; he was leaning on a doorframe with his arms crossed in a territorial pose. Something about him chilled Ethan’s blood. He avoided eye contact and limited himself to a brief nod. The man responded politely with a nod of his own.
Once he was safely back at the Anunga, he called Andrés before his dutiful friend went to bed and asked him to warn Calvo. The detective needed to know that someone might come looking for him in relation to the case. That way he’d be expecting it. The next day Ethan didn’t hear from Rosita, and she wasn’t at her post on the road. He wondered at her intentions. Why did she want to know who he was working with? Had Lorena known about this when she’d sent him here? After going over their conversation again and again, he reached the conclusion that she had gotten her information from Lorena. Everything she’d said was common knowledge. She had revealed no secrets, but with a little showmanship she’d lent it all a supernatural aura that her believers must have found very convincing. Still, she’d planted a seed of doubt that he couldn’t get rid of. It seemed very plausible that Suarez was using his friendship with Andrés to cover his tracks. But there was something unnerving about accepting the woman’s version of events. Leidy had disappeared with Beto at the same time as Suarez had stopped answering Andrés’s calls, ostensibly to continue his investigation. What was he doing? Following the fugitives so he could kill them and complete the job? Every new piece of information Ethan got just confused him even more.
Sometimes, the ferry journey across the Central American isthmus could take a day or more, especially if you were heading north: a day of sticky heat in your seat or a night in the bunk with nothing to do but nurse your hatred and make sure that the shipment didn’t spoil, especially the ones that needed to be refrigerated. Fortunately, the frontier ahead could be crossed quickly; unlike elsewhere, the officials were efficient. Even so, it could easily take three hours, and the Beast worried about the package. It had been deteriorating since the changes in the garage, and he was anxious. He thought there was a chance it would wake up and try to make its presence known by banging on the side of the trailer. Concerned by the girl’s slow responses, he’d given her a much weaker dose of the tranquilizer, and now he worried that it might not have been enough. He kept going down into the hold to check, wandering close to the second water tank, listening hard so as to anticipate any unforeseen circumstances. But there was no sound. By the second hour, he was afraid that the opposite might happen: that the long, suffocating road journey had given her heatstroke. But there was no way he could poke his head in there to see. He just made sure to check the temperature of the water in the real tank and, as a precautionary measure, sprayed the other tank with water. Anyone watching would think he was either crazy or just an idiot.
During the final half hour he thought he heard something. He redoubled his rounds, growing more and more nervous. Finally, he was allowed through customs. He didn’t have anything to declare, so he quickly got through to the immigration window to have his passport stamped. The officer greeted him with a familiar smile.
“You haven’t brought back anything with you? That’s bad business, man.”
“No, boss. I’m going home to rest for a week. I’ve been away for a month.”
“Get some rest, buddy. It’s a hard life, being away from your kids like that.”
“You’re not wrong.”
“God be with you!”
And after three nerve-racking hours, he saw the barrier open before him. Like a whore’s legs, he thought. Like a whore—you’re all my whores. But this relief did nothing to calm his fears over the health of the merchandise. Just a couple of miles farther on, he turned off onto the verge and crawled under the belly of the beast. There she was: dehydrated, drenched in sweat, choking on the exhaust fumes. Her face was covered in tears and mucus that dripped down from the handkerchief he’d wrapped around her face, but she was alive and well. He put her in the driver’s cabin and forced her to sip from an isotonic drink and eat some cereal bars. He waited for almost half an hour, letting her enjoy the cool breeze. A few minutes later, the girl started to stir and stretch. The Beast finally felt the burden that had been weighing down on him float away. He had a powerful urge to put on his boots. Wearing them made him forget his troubles, the slights he’d suffered and the lack of respect he was shown. They restored the feeling of greatness that the world had not yet seen fit to bestow upon him of its own accord. The only therapy more relaxing was to go to a shoeshine boy in the street and sit down to get the full treatment: it was like a massage, seeing his feet being taken care of from on high. It ensured that everything made sense again. He admired himself in the mirror, raising his feet up onto the dashboard in the absolute certainty that they would impress the girl, like all the females who’d ever seen them. That was their power. He was great—he was smarter than the immigration officer, smarter than all the immigration officers—traveling across the continent with his merchandise as though it were all a grand estate that belonged to him. He stroked the embossed side, feeling its effect on his breathing. He was smarter than anyone who crossed his path, smarter than the girls he stole and their scummy families, smarter than the old man who’d changed his license plates, than the Mafia who’d provided him with his forged documents. Poor fools: they had no idea what he was transporting. He was the Beast. They didn’t know what he was capable of.
Pumped up on self-satisfaction, swollen with pride, he took the trouble to open a packet of baby wipes and clean the package’s face and arms to cool her skin. He even lifted her shirt, which by now had been torn to shreds, and cleaned her torso. As he did so, he flipped her over a couple of times to examine her body. In a couple of years she’d be just right for him. As he turned her over, he unselfconsciously groped her stomach and buttocks. The girl, revived a little by the cool towelettes, kept still during the deeply invasive inspection. The Beast felt her soft skin and, almost without realizing it, began to speak.
“Have you seen these, babe?” He grabbed her hand and placed it on the boot leather, but this didn’t draw a reaction either. “Don’t worry; you can touch them. They’re very expensive, handmade from snakeskin, just for me. Your family could never afford anything like these.”
The girl, still half-drugged, stayed rigid.
“Look at my eyes. Look at my piercing gaze. It’s piercing.” Every time he said the word, he felt more and more pleasure. But she still didn’t react. “Whatever—you don’t even know what the word means, babe.”
As he felt his excitement grow, he stopped himself, remembering that the merchandise was off limits. He took off his boots to avoid further temptation and put her in the back of the cabin to recover for what was left of the journey.
“Come on, whore. Get in there. Stay quiet, and sit tight if you don’t want to get into any trouble.”
Ethan was flicking through a Roberto Bolaño book he’d found in the only thrift store in town. It stocked everything from sports gear to canned food and CDs. It was a charming place, slightly run down, managed by a half-crazy Dutchman who barely spoke any Spanish. It was now quite late, and he was surprised to hear a knock at his door. When he opened up, he found the beaming concierge.
“Good evening. I’m sorry to bother you so late. Some friends are waiting for you downstairs.”
“I don’t have any friends here.”
“They’re your friends.”
“Like I said, I don’t have any friends here. Tell them that, and if they don’t leave, call the police.”
But instead of doing what he said, the receptionist kept on smiling and persevered in a tone that he imagined to be friendly but came off as simply wheedling. “Forgive me: I didn’t explain myself properly. I meant that they’re friends of the hotel. They’re good people. I’m sure they’ll help you with
your problem.”
Ethan stepped over to the door to close it, looking for his phone, but the intruder got in his way.
“You only have to go with them.”
“Get out.”
The receptionist stepped back, keeping up his friendly front. “They’re friends.”
Ethan slammed the door and jumped across the bed. He peered out the window, trying to stay hidden, but the street was completely dark, and all he could see were the tops of the palm trees lit up from his own window. There was no way to know if someone was spying on him. While he was still at the window, he heard the key turn in the lock. They weren’t trying to force it—the key could have come only from reception. He jumped to try to block it, but it was open by the time he got there. The receptionist reappeared, bolstered by three shadows standing behind him and his tense smile. His grimace widened with obscene pleasure, distorting his face and narrowing his eyes. He looked like a hyena, showing the few teeth he had left, several cavities, gold fillings, and all of his gums. He was the very image of a cut-price assassin.
“Forgive me. There’s nothing to worry about; they’re friends.”
Ethan didn’t really mind the ambush and the imminent danger. What really got to him was that he’d allowed himself to be trapped by a soap opera villain, someone so obvious that he seemed to revel in his own stupidity. The concierge stepped aside to reveal the dead-eyed, intimidating individual Ethan had seen near Rosita’s house the night before.
“You should be grateful. They’re friends of Doña Rosita. This is a great privilege.”
Not knowing what to expect, Ethan was led back to Rosita’s cabin through a dark, quiet town whose streets hid secrets he didn’t want to know. Rosita’s husband opened the door for him, and his escort stayed outside. No one said a word. Their quiet footsteps were drowned out by the rumbling of the waves and rustling in the nearby jungle. Rosita waited for Ethan in the back, the same place where she’d tried to scam him before, sitting among her candles. These were the only source of light in the house. Her husband closed the door behind him, and so once again they found themselves facing each other in candlelight. Ethan was surprised that they’d discovered his lie so quickly and wondered if he’d be able to get away again without selling out Suarez. Then, the question that had been tormenting him for a while now raised its head: Should he sell him out? Who were they working for? Rosita remained expressionless. She didn’t ask him to sit down, and he remained standing, trying to make eye contact. This time, she made no pretense at keeping her eyes closed. He was surprised by what he saw in them: fear.
“Who is he?”
“I told you yesterday, a detective we hired. He has contacts—”
“I don’t care about your detective or your kidnappers,” Rosita raged in a booming voice. “You know what I’m talking about. What have you done to me?”
Now Ethan heard danger in her voice, the danger of a cornered animal. For the first time, he realized that this woman could do him harm.
“I haven’t done anything to you. I promise.”
She fixed him with a terrifying stare, but he looked past it, seeing her properly for the first time. The woman seemed to have changed since the afternoon before; she was in a nightshirt and old robe, as though she didn’t care about her appearance. Her sparse hair was messed up like she’d just rolled out of bed or hadn’t gone to bed at all. Her burning eyes continued to bore into him. “How did you make me dream of her?”
The veil was lifted, and now he saw her for what she was: a frightened little girl. Suddenly she had become the only person in the world who had shared his experience. Apparently it had been quite traumatizing.
“Have you dreamed of Michelle?”
The old woman nodded, looking uncertain.
“What did you see?”
“I don’t know. What did you do to me?”
“I didn’t do anything. I thought you were the psychic.”
Rosita held back a sob. “You don’t know who he is either? I’ve never seen anything like it. It was real. Oh, God save me, it was real, and I saw it.”
The statuettes of saints and offerings remained unmoved. Rosita’s gaze had lost its depth and confidence. She seemed afraid she’d never get it back. She fixed her eyes on Ethan again, angry but imploring at the same time. “How do you see him?”
“Who?”
“The man.”
“What man?”
“You know who I mean; stop playing the fool.”
“You mean in the dreams? I’ve never seen a man.”
“He was there. Close your eyes. Remember him.”
Ethan did so and immediately began to feel afraid. He tried to remember the dreams, but he couldn’t. He regretted not having written them down.
The frightened voice of the psychic tried to nudge him along. “He was there the whole time—you must have seen him. With the girl.”
Then, although he couldn’t have explained how it happened, an idea formed in his mind, something like a blurry face in a negative. A looming, expanding body. A shape that wasn’t seen but rather felt. A volume, occupying space. “It was the presence that Michi saw.”
The woman broke into a nervous laugh, crying a little. “Did you see him? He’s there all the time.”
“Is he a man?”
“No, no,” Rosita said, shaking her head. “I think that she creates him. I don’t know what it is. He only has one eye, did you see?”
“I’m not sure. I think so.”
“What did he look like to you?”
Ethan made an effort to describe him but failed. It wasn’t a visual idea but a concept that was also somehow three dimensional. He knew that she was right: one of the eyes was blind, but he didn’t know because he could see it. It was just how the man was. “I . . . I don’t know.”
“The jacket. Look at the jacket, the vest.”
That nudged a memory. “A three-piece suit, I think. With a waistcoat and leather shoes. Pearl gray. It looks old fashioned, like from the thirties.”
Even though he could describe him, Ethan knew that he hadn’t seen him. It was as though he were describing something he’d read in a book.
Rosita giggled again, her jaw trembling. “That’s how she sees him. She doesn’t want you to find him; she wants to protect you. Now focus on him. Forget everything else. Forget the girl. What does he look like?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Think of the man outside the room where you saw her. Focus on his face, his complexion, his height. Tell me, if you saw him in the street, would you be able to recognize him?”
Ethan tried to isolate just the distinguishing features. It was obvious; it hadn’t occurred to him before, but a man with one eye must be easy to pick out in a crowd. And yet he was still unable to provide a description. “Uh . . . but this can’t be. I can’t say anything. The suit wasn’t there; I didn’t see him at all. Just the eye, like you said.”
“It’s as though he doesn’t have a body, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I can’t actually see what we’re describing.”
“Because it doesn’t exist. He looks like that because that’s the image he has of himself—he creates it because it’s his idea of reality. The girl creates a body, like all children do, to make him more human and assuage her fear. You didn’t see him. You saw the image of him she created.”
“I don’t understand. What about the clothes? Why would a girl dress him like that?”
“I don’t know—it’s the mind of a child,” Rosita said. “Maybe it means something to her or she saw a movie where an evil man dressed like that.”
“He’s evil,” Ethan answered instinctively.
Rosita laughed but soon broke into a distraught sob. “He’s very evil, the incarnation of evil. Where he comes from, there are much worse things, pain and cruelty we can’t conceive of, but here he is the absolute worst thing you can imagine.” She shook as she talked. “You mustn’t find him, do you understand? It’s very important
that you understand. When the girl is free of her nightmare, she won’t see him again because he’s trapped in that world, but if you find him before her, they’ll kill you. Do you understand? You must know that; it’s the most important thing.”
“How do you know?”
The old woman curled up in her chair, hugging herself. “I don’t know. She spoke to me. I woke up, and I knew. I don’t know any more. I never want to see or hear from you or her again. I don’t want to have anything more to do with you.”
Ethan waited a few minutes for her to calm down.
Finally she looked up, herself again. “I’ll walk you out.”
They went out the door. The husband was nowhere to be seen. Outside, the four men were waiting without saying a word, vague shapes in the dim moonlight. The boss’s light-blue eyes gleamed in the darkness. At an imperceptible nod from Rosita he came over submissively.
She squeezed his arm hard. “Martin. This man is either blessed or cursed, but there’s nothing we can do about it. Nothing is to happen to him. Did you hear me, boy? Nothing is to happen to him.”
They escorted him back to the hotel, where the reception was unattended and his key was on the desk. He took it and turned around, and the shadows disappeared. When he got back to his room, everything was where it should be. He went over to the telephone and found seven missed calls from Andrés. Surprised, he read the several messages he’d sent:
Don Ethan, I’ve tried calling but I can’t reach you. CALL ME when you see this message.
Don Ethan, I hope you’re well. If you don’t answer, I’ll call the police. Michelle has been attacked, she’s been taken to the hospital. I don’t know if she’ll make it. I’m going over there but I can’t reach you and I’m afraid they might have attacked you too.
Shadows Across America Page 15
