by Glen Carter
“I take care of Doctor Sam,” Dominique replied earnestly, her large brown eyes widening as she carefully placed her one-eared patient into Luis’s care.
A moment later when the children were nearly ready, Ernesto stopped what he was doing, sat down, frozen by memories of the last time he was shaken awake in the middle of night. It was his mother, and she was pulling him from his warm bed, screaming at him to hide. Ernesto remembered what he heard next. A loud bang, the sound of splitting wood, and the panicked shouts of his father in the front room. The gunshots sounded to Ernesto like the fireworks the old mayor lit off every year during the flower festival. His mother flinched at each report. “You have to run, Ernesto, now!” He climbed through the window, half pushed by his mother, and began to run. “Si, amor. Carrera! Carrera! Rapido!” More gunshots. Ernesto looked back as his mother collapsed. He stifled a scream. Ran faster, his little feet pounding the dirt along a worn pathway that led to the village. After fifteen minutes he reached the mayor’s house, where he was found the next morning, asleep next to a litter of kittens beneath the porch, safe beside the small mewing creatures.
Ernesto got up to help Luis clamp shut his suitcase just as Father Govia threw open the door. “Come, children, to the front of the church. Now, Ernesto!” Ernesto thought again about his mother in the seconds after he tumbled from his bedroom window, when her hands pushed him hard away from her, before the bullets exploded into her body.
“Go, my son. Go!” Father Govia shouted, furtively scanning the room for stragglers.
The courtyard in front of the small church was a flurry of activity. Ernesto wanted to look away because the sisters were wearing funny nightgowns. They frantically pushed the children aboard a small yellow school bus and the look on their faces made Ernesto even more frightened.
“Hurry, children.” Fat Sister Evangeline’s eyes were red, and Ernesto had never seen her move so quickly. “God be with you,” she said, silently counting the children.
Ernesto was sure something bad was about to happen, but he was too confused that late at night to figure it out. Father Govia was shaking, in bare feet as he lifted their small suitcases up a ladder at the back of the bus.
Sister Mary-Lynn handed Ernesto blankets. “Get moving, Frog,” she said, smoothing his wiry hair. She smelled like flowers. “You’ll be the one in charge.” She gently touched his cheek and then kissed him.
“Why?” A breath caught in Ernesto’s throat. “Why are you sending us away?”
Sister Mary-Lynn silently nodded, her eyes filled with tears. “Ten blankets. One blanket per child, Frog.” She pushed him aboard the bus, gently stroking his back as he climbed the steps. Inside the bus the children were crying. Ernesto placed blankets over their tiny bodies. Two of them bolted for the door, but Ernesto blocked their escape, pushed them roughly into their seats, and then shoved blankets at them. “We’re going on a trip,” he said in a lie. “Stop being babies.”
The others knew it was a lie, too. Father Govia always came on their trips, always drove the bus, but at that moment Mister Jeminez, the gardener, was climbing behind the wheel, his shaky hand fumbling around the ignition.
Ernesto sat at the front of the bus, his feet barely touching the floor, the one in charge because Mister Jeminez never spoke, never answered the children when they pestered him about the missing fingers on his right hand and the reason he walked in his funny lopsided way. Mister Jeminez, with a sadness that seemed to be painted forever on his face. He started the bus, and when Ernesto saw the old man’s reflection in the large mirror above the windshield, he was more frightened than the crying children. Ernesto peered through the window and saw Sister Mary-Lynn, fat Sister Evangeline and the others with their heads bowed. Their mouths moved like they did on Sunday mornings when they kneeled in their pews, eyes clamped tightly together as they quietly prayed.
Ernesto imagined the feel of his mother’s frantic hands, pushing him. “Run, Ernesto!” He had run then, unable to help her.
Father Govia shouted through the open door of the school bus, flapping his arms as if shooing the children away from his hammock after Sunday mass. “Vamos!”
Mister Jeminez jerked the clutch to get the bus moving. It growled. Black smoke painted ebony on night as Ernesto twisted in his seat to look back one last time. Sister Evangeline had a white rag to her face and even as the distance lengthened, her wet eyes found his, eyes that pushed him to run. Ernesto wouldn’t cry, but he thought about the feral kittens whose purring coaxed him into sleep the night his parents were murdered only a month ago.
SIXTY-ONE
Hernan and his men moved with the stealth of leopards, their shoulders hunched as they crept through the forest surrounding Trinity Orphanage. One of them giggled like an expectant schoolboy. He’d be punished for it once their work was done.
Suarez rubbed his rifle as if to awaken it and then halted to listen. The others watched him, waiting for instructions.
Suarez pointed to the rear of the building and his two men disappeared quietly in that direction. He moved towards the front of the church, a smaller building with stained-glass windows along its side. Suarez decided he would enter that way. They watched them first and had seen the priest lead his flock of nuns inside the church sanctuary. Fools. What did they think? That they were safe there. Suarez smiled as he pictured the children asleep in their beds. He had big plans for them too.
He reached the huge wooden door and slowly opened it with barely a squeak. They knelt at the front of the church, seven of them, heads bowed and muttering. Candles flickered on the altar beneath the Christ, and Suarez caught the smell of burnt wax from where he stood at the back of the church. He enjoyed the feeling of being an intruder. It tingled beneath his skin, made him want to call out and demand they acknowledge his violation. He stepped inside. Only the priest turned to see him. He stared at Suarez without surprise. “Our father,” the priest continued to pray.
The bitch had warned them, but Suarez wouldn’t let that spoil his enjoyment. His two men emerged from a small door to the left of the pulpit and sneered, one of them gulping noisily from a bottle of wine. The blood of Christ.
The nuns continued to pray. “Imps of Satan,” one of them whispered loud enough for Suarez to hear.
“May God forgive you,” the priest said harshly as Suarez raised his weapon.
SIXTY-TWO
There was no answer when Mercedes called Trinity Orphanage in the morning. She was worried – very worried. Jack reluctantly agreed to a detour. What choice did he have? Mercedes had no intention of leaving the country without assurances that Govia and the others were safe. Then she’d accompany them to Santa Marta where Jack had arranged for a private plane to fly the three of them to Costa Rica. Jonathan Short at the State Department told Jack an embassy representative would be there to meet them. The DEA and “others” would want to debrief Mercedes Mendoza. “We’ve gotten wind that something’s up, Jack,” Short had advised him. “But that’s all I can say. What’s important now is you get your ass to that airplane and you and your friends get the hell out of there.” A couple seconds of phone static passed, then Jonathan said, “Sorry your trip didn’t end the way you wanted it to, pal.” He hung up.
Jack thought about that as they drove from the motel the next morning. How had he expected it to end? Jack wasn’t sure he knew – absolutely. He realized he had been foolish, chasing an illusion all along, the promise of something that he understood now simply wasn’t possible. It had seemed so in the beginning, but Jack wouldn’t blame himself for the misdirection. The evidence had been too compelling to ignore. Jack couldn’t say for certain that Mercedes Mendoza was connected to Kaitlin. He couldn’t begin to calculate the odds that she was. Had Argus fathered two Colombian children? Jack suspected Argus would definitely want an answer to that question – Mercedes too.
Jack wanted his boat back, but he didn’t know if that would be possible. He’d get to Cuba as fast as he could and take Scoundrel to
sea, hoping Raspov didn’t have other plans for him, or his boat. He immediately shelved those thoughts when he realized something was wrong.
It was quiet. Trinity Orphanage at ten o’clock was disturbingly quiet. No one came running when Jack stopped the car.
They were in a clearing at the end of the road which was surrounded by gigantic trees with broad loping palm fronds. There were several swing sets tucked into shade beneath them. Empty. Besides the orphanage and small church there were a number of other buildings, a small dilapidated workshop of some kind and a large wooden storage shed that might have held large machines, or even a tractor, had this been a farm instead of what it was. No one here. A dread slithered down the back of Jack’s neck. Where were the children? The nuns?
Mercedes bolted from the vehicle in a dead run for the church. Jack and Seth jumped out and ran after her. They caught up just as she got to the front door. She gasped.
Through the shadows of the church Jack saw the smashed pews and broken glass.
Mercedes walked slowly inside.
Jack saw the blood trail first. He silently cursed, grabbed Seth’s arm and frantically motioned in the direction of the orphanage next door. He’d stay with Mercedes.
Seth bolted from the church.
“They’re not here, Mercedes,” Jack said, trying to sound confident. “It’s possible they all left after you–”
“The blood!” Mercedes exclaimed. “Idios mio. The children.” Mercedes swept past and was out the door. She moved quickly, feet kicking up clouds of dust. Jack ran after her.
“Wait!” He took hold of her arm, blocking her path. “Let Seth check things. When he says it’s OK we’ll go in.” Secretly, Jack was worried they’d grab Seth and use him as bait to get to her.
It must have made sense to Mercedes because she stood still, closed her eyes and exhaled a tortured breath. “Something’s wrong.”
Jack felt her tremble. “We’ll wait for the all-clear. Then we go in,” he repeated.
It seemed like an eternity. They were using a tree in the courtyard as cover. “You need to keep your head right now. OK?” Before Jack could stop her, she flung herself towards the orphanage, fingers scraping at dirt in a crouched run. She ducked into shadows just beyond the doorway.
Jack caught up to her again, ducking into the same doorway. “Wait,” he cautioned breathlessly. “Believe me. Seth will shoot first. Ask questions later. He gets jumpy sometimes.”
Mercedes nodded and then moved behind him. Jack slid the gun from his waistband as they both crouched. They were in a small foyer narrowing to a hallway that ran for a distance until it opened at a room at the back of the house. The kitchen. Light spilled on countertops and brass pots that hung from a ceiling rack. A dark table made of hewn wood was overturned, and pieces of broken dishes were scattered everywhere. Closer to them a large crucifix was ripped from its place on the wall and lay dully on the floor. Jack couldn’t take his eyes from it. Mercedes’ breathing quickened as he pulled her farther into the house. Jack swept the revolver in a wide arc in front of him. His heart suddenly pounded at the sight of a dark figure standing stiffly against a wall. It was a coat rack. Take it easy. Jack waited for his eyes to adjust to the hallway’s gloom. Then it was time to move.
They heard someone moving around upstairs. The floor boards creaked under the weight of slow measured steps. Over the buzzing in his ears Jack heard doors being eased open on rusty hinges. Seth? he hoped.
Three doorways were on the left of the hallway. All closed. The next opening was a stairway. Jack grabbed Mercedes and ran to it. He winced at the thump of his heavy boots on polished hardwood. So much for stealth. Jack threw himself against the wall and called out, “Seth, it’s us!” No answer. Jack pictured Seth, his finger nervously on the trigger, so jumpy he’d blast a hole in Jack’s chest. Ooops. Sorry, mate.
Jack mounted five steps that stopped at a landing, Mercedes still clinging to him. A small stained-glass window splashed hues of red and blue across iconic wall hangings, a blur of cherubs, and Jesus, forlorn in the passion of crucifixion. Broken glass crunched beneath their feet. Jack took the remaining steps slowly and emerged into another hallway, narrower than downstairs, but brighter because of a huge window at one end. More closed doors, six by Jack’s count, running at long intervals beneath a vaulted ceiling. Seth was nowhere. Jack hunkered down to lower his profile and shifted the revolver to his other hand, nearly dropping it in the process. He realized the safety was still on. Dolt.
“Keep her out of here, Jack.” Seth’s voice came from a room at the end of the hallway, as monotonous as tundra. The tone made Jack freeze. “It’s bad, Jack. Fuck. Really bad.”
Jack knew Mercedes would not be held back. She moved slowly ahead on legs that shook like spindles of thin bamboo. Jack touched her shoulder. His own feet felt like blocks of Indian rubber on floorboards stained red, boot prints smudged and streaked in a pattern of murderous frenzy. Jack would never forget the heavy burden of dread, the absolute hopelessness he felt as he was drawn forward.
“It’s like that time in Kinshasa.” Seth was blocking the doorway. His shotgun hung limply at his side. “Remember that one, Jack?” Seth clamped his other hand across his nose and mouth.
Mercedes pushed around him, tears streaming down her face, choking on sobs. “Oh God,” she wailed as she collapsed into Jack’s arms.
Seth looked back at him with haunted eyes. “Christ, Kinshasa was a picnic compared to this.”
SIXTY-THREE
There were ten beds in the room, three more than needed for the seven corpses. Six women and one man, bound and gagged, stretched out on white sheets stained with large red blooms. Crimson pools shimmered on the floor beneath the bodies. There was movement there. Jack thought the flecks looked like white rice.
“Maggots,” Seth said matter-of-factly. “It doesn’t take long in this heat.”
The stench he would always remember. So repellent it took control of the muscles in his face. Jack covered his mouth and steadied himself against the door.
Seth touched his arm and then hefted his camera farther inside the room, kneeling carefully to avoid a circle of congealed blood. There were small, black holes neatly positioned between their eyes, cloudy, hooded orbs that stared vacantly from death masks. Seth coughed, swore silently as he began to roll. He was methodical in his movements, eye plastered to the viewfinder while he framed one shot after another. A stiff hand, bluish fingernails – a gallows pallor that signaled the bodies were now controlled by the efficient soldiers of decomposition. Seth avoided the eyes, colourless and spent and the saddest part of death. On the Sony, the record light strobed, pulsing red in the rhythm of a heart.
Jack had gently drawn Mercedes to the end of the hallway, where she stood sobbing at the window. Shoulders pumping still.
“Looks like small caliber, possibly .22.” Seth studied Govia, the priest. He was in a T-shirt, jeans and bare feet, no peace in his last expression. No absolution.
“The weapon of choice of your garden-variety assassin,” Jack said, stifling a retch.
“Nothing garden variety about these guys,” Seth replied.
The murders were shocking in their cruelty. Their hands and feet were tied with the same blue rope, identical knots – something efficiently fashioned with an expert’s flourish. White cotton handkerchiefs were stuffed between grey lips in a homogenous display of evil, bordering on the Satanic.
It had to be Montello’s work, retribution on a grand scale, driven by boundless rage. Jack was sickened.
Seth put the camera down and touched the frozen hand of one of the old nuns. A white rag was locked in her fingers. He touched it, allowed his hand to brush against her necrotic flesh. “They could have run,” he said.
“Run where? Where could they hide?”
Jack stuffed his hands in his pockets, hunched his shoulders as if bracing for a heavy load. “Remember that Croat village? They had plenty of time to run but they stayed too.”
/> “They were praying for the UN. The UN didn’t come.”
“They stayed anyway.”
“The Serbs came instead.”
“Yes. They did.” Came and slaughtered an entire village, left nothing but a mass grave to be unearthed later, live to satellite.
Jack looked around the room, a kids’ space with its gallery of posters. Britney Spears, the Back Street Boys, and some other teen idol Jack didn’t recognize. There was a small stack of children’s books on a shelf near the door. “They got the children away,” Jack said, barely a whisper. “Thank God, Mercedes warned them.”
Seth stood, surveyed the scene one last time before shutting down his camera. “Faith or foolishness?” he said.
“Maybe both,” Jack replied. “Maybe sacrifice? Govia knowing they’d have to give up their lives for the sake of the children.” Jack looked down the hallway to Mercedes. What had she told Govia that made the notion of escape so hopeless? Another unknown, he thought, as he moved towards her.
SIXTY-FOUR
Jack led her gently down the stairs and sat her on the shaded porch at the front of the building. He sat wearily, poured cool water over his head and offered the bottle to Mercedes.
“I pleaded with him,” she sobbed, looking vacantly at the bottle of water. “I begged him to run…one of his silly camping trips with the sisters and the children.”
Jack had seen the snapshots pinned to a large cork bulletin board just inside the kitchen. Roadtrips with lots of happy kids. A yellow bus which was nowhere on the property. Jack imagined the scene. Govia and the nuns pushing the children onto the bus and then retreating inside the church to wait. Jack took a swallow from the bottle. “I’m sorry, Mercedes,” he said simply, feeling a deep sorrow for her.
“My fault,” she whispered.
Jack felt helpless to soothe her. There were simply no words. Instead he watched Seth shooting b-roll at the front of the orphanage. A moment later the Brit disappeared inside the church. Jack knew exactly what Seth was up to and for the moment he let it pass. He’d talk to him about the ground rules later. Mercedes began to weep once more, her shoulders shuddering under deep mournful sobs. Jack gently rubbed her back, swallowed the knot in his throat, and tried unsuccessfully to erase what he’d seen.
