The Scorpion's Tale

by Wayne Block

  “Callate, gringo!” he scolded Steven. The large officer shoved Steven in the back before picking up his bags. Steven realized it was pointless to argue. They obviously spoke no English. Steven walked behind the small officer down the main street that he had just traveled, humiliated under the disapproving stares of the locals who had, moments earlier, greeted him with smiles.

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  The local police station was small and barren, smelling of stale cigarettes and body odor. The large officer removed Steven’s handcuffs and pushed him into the cell.

  “Let me out of here,” Steven yelled. “I didn’t do anything. That guy was following me!”

  Both men shook their heads and laughed as they walked away. Steven turned around to inspect his accommodations. Thankfully he was alone in this windowless cell. There wasn’t even a toilet; just a hole in the floor in the corner of the cell next to a soiled and tattered mattress crawling with insects. The air was dank and smelled of human waste. Steven heard the officers come back, this time carrying his bags. They gave Steven a dirty look, but said nothing as they dropped the bags in front of the locked cell door, just out of Steven’s reach.

  “Let me have my bags, you assholes!” Steven yelled.

  The larger man grinned at Steven revealing an incomplete set of yellow teeth. He seemed to comprehend the meaning of the word “asshole”, because he spat on Steven just before he turned and walked out of sight.

  Steven sat as far away as possible from the mattress and the hole in the floor. He cradled his head in his hands, a million miles from civilization, at the mercy of God-knows-who, in the mountains of Ecuador, rotting in a jail cell. No one had a clue where he was. To be so close yet so far, he thought.

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  The next morning, Steven was still evaluating his predicament after a sleepless night. He was at the complete mercy of an Ecuadorian goon squad. If they decided to shoot him, there was nothing he could do. Nobody would know what happened to him. He would simply vanish without a trace. He would be remembered and missed by a few people, but other than that, there would be little evidence that he ever existed–no children or loving spouse to carry on his legacy. Steven believed it a fitting end to his worthless life. At least his torment would be over. He placed his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands together, and managed to close his eyes.

  Steven was awakened by the sound of keys jingling. He looked up to the grin of the large policeman, who was motioning for Steven to follow him. He pointed down the hall to the small officer who was gesturing to Steven to approach him. Steven mentally had named the large officer “Frankenstein”, and the small one “Weasel”. Weasel gave Steven a contemptuous look and disappeared into an office ahead of Steven. He half-expected to be shot in the back of his head by Frankenstein. Weasel motioned toward a wooden chair set before an old desk. Both men stood silently against the wall staring coldly at Steven with their arms folded against their chests.

  Minutes later, a middle-aged man in uniform entered the room. Although the officers did not salute him, Steven noticed they stood at attention with their eyes looking forward. The man nodded his head slightly and the two officers relaxed. The man took a seat across the table and removed his police hat, revealing closely cropped hair with a large bald spot in the middle of his head. He had a thick moustache and a square jaw, and his eyes were black and cold. He carefully studied papers on the desk before him. There was an awkward silence as Steven waited for him to speak. The man cleared his throat and raised his eyes.

  “Your name is Steven Capresi?” he asked, in almost perfect English.

  Steven’s heart raced as his hopes soared. Perhaps this was a reasonably intelligent man, he thought. “Yes, Sir,” Steven answered respectfully. Steven restrained his impulse to protest his incarceration. He knew that this man was his last hope, and he needed to make a favorable impression.

  The man continued sizing-up Steven. “My name is Colonel Lis Padroza.”

  Steven nodded deferentially. “Thank you, Colonel. I’ll be happy to answer all of your questions.”

  The Colonel nodded at Steven. “That is wise. You assaulted a citizen of Tena. That was a mistake.”

  Steven bristled, but composed himself. “I wanted to find out why he was following me, so I grabbed him. He fell to his knees and began screaming. I never hit him.”

  The Colonel chuckled and translated Steven’s words to the other officers. They both laughed. “I know this man, Guillermo. He has the brains of an ass. However, he is related to half the population in this town, which gives him more stature than a gringo tourist.”

  Steven said nothing.

  “By the way, Señor Capresi, how did you enjoy your stay with us?”

  “It was lovely,” Steven replied.

  “Yes, I’m certain it was,” he said with a grin, again translating for the two officers, who laughed at Steven. “Although you did not hurt Guillermo, you gave my men no choice but to arrest you. I’m not concerned about him, only about you. If you are not here to tour the rainforest, which I already know to be true, there is little reason for you to be in Tena, except perhaps, to meet with Father Mateusse.”

  Steven froze. How could this man have that information? Had he interviewed the women from the restaurant?

  The Colonel smiled. “You are wondering how I know about the priest, correct?”

  Steven remained silent. He did not like the direction of the conversation.

  The Colonel folded his hands together. “I don’t know who you are or why you are here, but I do not care. Someone wanted you to visit with us for a short while. Guillermo was paid to follow you and we were paid to follow him and arrest you.”

  Steven tensed. Who else could have known about the priest and arranged his stay in this jail?

  “Your fine is the cash hoard we found on you, which we shall keep as a donation to our local economy. You are free to go. My men will escort you to the bus terminal where you will take the bus to Archidona. Proceed to the church, inquire within, and you will be directed to Father Mateuse.”

  Steven watched as the Colonel walked past and barked orders in Spanish to his two subordinates. Frankenstein disappeared and returned with Steven’s bags. Weasel grunted at Steven and motioned toward the door. Steven took his bags and followed them to the bus terminal, where he purchased a ticket with all the change he had left in his pocket, took a final glimpse of Tena, and caught the next bus to Archidona.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The bus dropped Steven off in the middle of a deserted square, where Steven walked toward a small church, built from concrete blocks painted in alternating whites, browns and yellows. There was a clock tower adjacent to the building and large, dark wooden double-doors. Steven tried opening the door, but it was locked. He lightly rapped the doorknocker until a middle-aged woman answered.

  “Hola, Señora. Habla ingles?” Steven asked.

  The woman shook her head.

  Steven tried to put together a comprehensible sentence in Spanish. “Mi nombre es Steven Capresi. Soy Americano y estoy buscando Padre Mateuse.”

  The woman’s face lit up and she began jabbering away in Spanish.

  Steven put up his hands to stop her. “Señora, por favor, mas despacio. Slower, please. No entiendo mucho Español.”

  The woman smiled and motioned for Steven to follow her into the church. The main room was small, with hand-carved wooden crosses, colored candles, and paintings of Christ. They walked into a room next to the sanctuary, where a man sat at a desk writing, with his back to Steven. The woman spoke to him and mentioned Father Mateuse. He turned around and smiled at Steven.

  “I am Father Padron,” he said, in a thick accent. Carmen has told me you are looking for Father Mateuse.”

  “Yes, Father,” Steven replied, relieved he no longer had to speak Spanish.

  “Father Mateuse is at another mission in the jungle, but is expected to return either later this evening or tomorrow morning.” He p
ointed to a cot in the corner of the room. “You are welcome to stay here and use this room as your sleeping quarters. We would be honored if you would join us for dinner, which will be served in two hours.”

  Two hours later, Steven entered the kitchen, where he found Father Padron deep in prayer. Carmen spooned a healthy portion of rice and beans onto Steven’s plate, placed a loaf of freshly baked, coarse bread on the table, and poured red wine from a clay urn into each goblet before joining the men at the table. Father Padron said a blessing in Spanish, and then they ate in silence. Carmen refilled Steven’s goblet several times with the sweet-tasting wine, leaving him a little light-headed. After his third glass, he was having trouble staying awake. He clumsily excused himself from the table, thanking them for his supper, and stumbled back to his room, where he collapsed onto his cot and fell into a heavy sleep.

  Steven suddenly opened his eyes and realized that a man was standing over him, shaking his leg. He was tall with black, shoulder-length hair and jet black eyes. He was dressed in a black robe, but without a priest’s white collar. He had a kind, friendly face. The priest extended a ceramic mug toward Steven, filled with a dark, steaming liquid. As Steven took the mug, he noticed the priest’s wristwatch, momentarily exposed under his robes. It was unusually simple, yet elegant, with a jade face and black Roman numerals. Steven had never seen a watch quite like it.

  “I believe you consumed too much of our wine,” the priest said.

  Steven took the mug and held it under his nose. The aroma hinted of coffee and other unusual scents. Steven lifted the drink to his lips and took a sip.

  “It is coffee made from local beans,” the priest added. “It’s some of the finest in the world and the best known antidote for the effects of our wine.”

  “Thank you,” Steven said, as he slowly tried to sit up on the cot. His head was throbbing and it was uncomfortable to sit straight up. The man sat down in a small wooden chair across from Steven.

  “You have certainly come a long way for an audience.”

  Steven tried to prop himself up against the wall and took another sip of his drink. He was still feeling light-headed and was having difficulty focusing.

  “You will feel better if you close your eyes. Our wine is deceptively strong, but your hosts did not wish to deny you your fill. I would have stopped you at two glasses. We can still talk while your eyes are closed. You will feel better shortly.”

  Steven’s eyes were still heavy.

  “I am Pierre Mateuse. I know that Joaquin Ordonez sent you to me. What is it you wish to discuss?”

  Steven liked the man’s voice. It was deep and soothing, and Steven felt an immediate connection. “I want you to help me find James so I can kill him.”

  “That is an unusual request to a man of God!” Pierre Mateuse exclaimed, raising an eyebrow. “Joaquin told me James murdered your family.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “Tell me about your family.”

  “Why is that important?”

  Pierre Mateuse sat back in his chair and considered Steven’s question. “It is important because James and I were very close friends. More like brothers. You have come asking me to be complicit in your damnation. I have a right to know more about you.”

  Steven proceeded to tell the priest about his childhood growing up in New York, and about his wife and daughter. He recounted the story of their murders and the journey he had made to find the Scorpion. All the while, the priest listened with great interest.

  “I am sorry for you. Do you know you remind me of James?”

  Steven frowned as he finished his drink. “So I’ve been told.”

  Pierre Mateuse stood and replaced Steven’s empty mug with a fresh one. “Keep drinking and you’ll soon feel better. James also had a loved one who died violently. He has wasted most of his life living with loneliness and hatred, and seeking revenge against the world for the loss of his young fiancée.”

  “What happened?”

  “James was returning from a London theatre one evening and took a shortcut through a deserted alley, when he heard muffled screams. He ran towards the sound and saw two men assaulting a young woman in the alley. As James described it, ‘in that split second the woman’s eyes pled with him for salvation.’ His initial urge was to keep walking, but he could not resist helping her. As James ran to her aid, one of the muggers came at him with a knife. James grabbed the man’s wrist, twisted it, and then plunged the knife into the assailant’s chest. The second man ran away. Her name was Christine, a beautiful English woman who he worshipped from the moment they met.”

  “How romantic,” Steven mocked.

  “It was the happiest I had ever seen him. James became a new man. He vowed to change his life and work for Christine’s father, a very successful businessman. James believed he could leave his past behind, have a family with Christine, and watch their children grow.”

  “Tell me about her death.”

  The priest sighed deeply. “James and Christine were a month shy of their wedding day and the families were gathering at one of London’s finest restaurants to celebrate his twenty-first birthday.”

  “He was only twenty-one when he vowed to change his life’s work?”

  The priest nodded. “Yes, he was twenty-one going on fifty. She was nineteen. Unbeknownst to James, Christine’s father was the head of a London crime syndicate and had set in motion a course of events that would change James’ life forever.”

  Steven looked puzzled. His temples were throbbing. “I don’t understand.”

  “Days earlier, Christine’s father orchestrated the elimination of a captain of a rival syndicate. Retaliation against Christine’s father was swift and brutal. James and Joaquin had been living and working together in London, and were already at the restaurant waiting for Christine to arrive.”

  “Were you there too?”

  “No.”

  Steven nodded, striving to maintain his focus, which now was blurring even more.

  “As Joaquin presented James with his birthday present, a hand-crafted saber and a Samurai sword, made by two different master craftsmen, one of Christine’s father’s men burst through the doors, urgently instructing James and Joaquin to follow. When they arrived at Christine’s house, they were blinded by the flashing lights of the constabulary vehicles in the front of the brownstone. James broke through the police barrier when he saw Christine’s father kneeling next to two shrouded bodies, sobbing uncontrollably. James drew back the blanket and saw Christine’s blood-spattered face. Her mother lay dead beside her, with her bodyguards close by. James placed the wedding ring he had bought that day on Christine’s finger, whispered in her ear, and then gave her one final kiss. It was the last kiss he ever gave out of love.”

  Steven stared wide-eyed at the priest.

  “Christine’s father confessed his true occupation and the precarious relationship his organization had with this rival group. There was a deep hatred between the two organizations. It turns out one of the members had ordered the kidnapping of Christine, the very attack James had prevented. For that, Christine’s father had ordered the hit. Christine’s father was on the way home to pick them up for the birthday party when two cars pulled up to the house, gunning down Christine, her mother, and their bodyguards as they descended the stairs.”

  Despite the throbbing in his head, Steven was riveted by the story. “Please…continue, Father.”

  “James demanded to know the location of the people who killed Christine. Her father cautioned James that the compound was on the outskirts of London, heavily fortified and impenetrable, and that the father would avenge their deaths, but it would take time.”

  “What did James do?”

  “He had no plan. He reacted with a raw, feral fortitude. Joaquin tried to stop him, and when that failed, he tried to help him. James needed to act alone, as he had been trained to do. He neither cared about his own safety nor did he fear death. He put on his overcoat, hid Joaquin’s gifts
underneath, and went to the compound. James unsheathed his Samurai sword and kept it pressed against his body underneath his coat. He never attempted to hide and he was clearly visible to the guards as he walked up the long driveway to an electric gate. When James reached the gate, he instantly withdrew his Samurai sword and baptized it with the guard’s blood, then scaled the gate while two guards approached from the inner yard. He moved with such speed and ferocity that the two had no time to react to his onslaught. In less than a minute, three bodies lay upon the path of his revenge. He rushed into the house and slaughtered everyone he encountered. The syndicate’s leader was on the second floor, waiting inside his office with a revolver. James broke down the door and dropped to the floor as a gun fired several shots into the wall behind him. His target’s gun now empty, James charged, severing the man’s head with one elegant stroke of the blade. James told me that the entire episode was a blur; all he could recall was slashing, screaming, blood, and the sounds of death. When he finished, ten were dead.”

  Steven slumped back against the wall, his strength waning.

  “James told me that he felt exhilarated. He sat down amongst the dead and poured himself a glass of fine whiskey in celebration, thanking the demons of his past for the training that made his revenge possible. He never again spoke of Christine to anyone but me.”

  Steven remained frozen on the bed, unable to move. He was reliving the pain of losing Amanda and his daughters.

  The priest watched Steven closely. “James’ past pain is no excuse for what he did to you and your family. The day of Christine’s murder was the day James died and the Scorpion was born. James disappeared, evolving into a legendary horror story.”