by Layton Green
“You’re German?”
“Czech.”
The man shuffled forward, and Viktor took a step back. The man didn’t seem to notice.
“Are you returning to the East Wing?” Viktor asked. “I’m going that way, if you’d like to join.”
The man’s smile was sad, as if he had lost something he could never retrieve. He turned to back away from Viktor, still concealing whatever was behind his back, then headed down a footpath opposite the cliff that descended into a copse of pine.
After watching the man disappear into the forest, Viktor strode down the mountain road, passing a gatehouse and taking a smaller road that led to the criminal sanatorium. Two men with rifles stood in front of a guard shack just off the road.
Viktor showed his identification, explained the situation, and asked the guards if they recognized the description of the man who’d approached him on the cliff. He could tell by the lift of their brows that they had.
One of the guards went inside the gatehouse, and the other, a stern-faced man with graying temples, waited with Viktor.
“I understand you can’t reveal names,” Viktor said. “I’m just letting you know you might have an escaped patient on your hands.”
The guard held up a finger, saying nothing. A few moments later the other guard returned and spoke in a low voice to the guard who had waited with Viktor. Both of the guards’ faces relaxed, though they looked askance at Viktor, as if he might need to be put away.
“Not to worry,” said the stern-faced man. “Everyone is accounted for. Would you care for an escort back to the East Wing?”
“Sure,” Viktor said.
Though Viktor accepted the ride in the jeep without a word, he had understood what the first guard had told the second. The guard had spoken in rapid-fire, slangy Swiss-German, but Viktor had attended boarding school in Switzerland and was familiar with the dialect.
Don’t worry, the guard had said, Glen’s been in isolation for the last three days. This tall guy must be off his meds.
ZONA HOTELERA
CANCUN, MEXICO
Glass of Don Julio Real in hand, a tequila as smooth as the curve of a virgin’s thigh, Ricky Orizaga surveyed his fiefdom: Caribbean waters the pale blue of a robin’s egg, golden sands the texture of flour, a fifteen-kilometer spit of land pregnant with mega-hotels and worth as much as the rest of Mexico put together.
Life was good. Business was booming. Ricky’s place in the cartel was secure, his village provided for.
The Alianza owned the hotel, and Ricky lived in the penthouse suite. Handmade Indonesian furnishings surrounded him. A wall of glass showcased the Caribbean. Two women lounged in his bed in the next room.
He couldn’t ask for anything more. Nothing, that was, except a replacement for the missing finger on his left hand.
In order not to anger El General, his superiors had not allowed Ricky to reattach the finger Señor Guiñol had removed with a knife. More than the missing finger, Ricky shuddered at the memory of the event.
Or the lack thereof, since he remembered none of it.
He had awakened in a hospital bed, screaming for pain meds, his memory of the preceding days a slab of unfinished concrete. All he knew was what he had been told: that after the meeting with Señor Guiñol, he had returned to Alianza headquarters, where he had calmly handed over his blood-soaked finger to the leader of the cartel, and informed him that it was his punishment for Miami. That if it happened again, there would be more than just a severed finger.
Relieved he had escaped with his life, Ricky had moved on. He was the highest-ranking member of Alianza living in Cancun, as the few men above him preferred their heavily guarded compounds outside the city. Ricky was someone the cartel leadership wanted to have a direct hand in the day-to-day business, high enough in the hierarchy to command attention yet low enough to replace.
Ricky didn’t mind. He knew the score.
A bell chimed, signaling the arrival of someone on the suite’s private elevator. His bodyguards hustled to the door, returning with a gilt-edged envelope bearing Ricky’s name. He blanched when he saw it, and started tugging on his goatee. The last such envelope had been an invitation to the meeting with Señor Guiñol.
Feeling a stab of phantom pain in the stub of his finger, he downed the tequila and used a penknife to slit open the envelope, needing a few tries before his hand stopped shaking. Ricky had ordered hits across the Americas, stared down federales, exchanged gunfire with rival cartels—yet it took him three attempts to open a goddamn envelope.
Inside was a sheet of paper made of thick cream stock.
Agent Federico Hernandez just landed at Cancun Airport. With him is a man named Dominic Grey. It would be best if they did not leave the country.
Ricky’s sigh of relief coursed through him like an orgasm. He would not have to meet with Señor Guiñol. He merely had to kill two men. If so asked, he would have tried to assassinate the President of Mexico rather than face El General’s spokesman again, handing over his own body parts to his superiors like some mindless golem.
Ricky knew the two men named in the letter; his cartel already wanted them dead. Their arrival was a stroke of luck. DEA agents were untouchable in the States, but Mexico was a different story.
His cartel’s best sicario, Lucho, would be especially interested in the news. As far as Ricky knew, Lucho had loved nothing in life except for his sister. Ricky would not want to be either of those two gringos, oh no.
He gave instructions to his men, then held the letter aloft on the balcony and lit it with his lighter. Ricky’s last thought before the letter flamed and then crumbled, ashes drifting to the beach, was not a pleasant one.
Agent Hernandez would have taken steps to disguise their arrival. Fake passports, bribed officials, the usual. Otherwise, the Alianza would have known of the visit before they left Miami.
The fact that El General knew of Agent Hernandez’s and Dominic Grey’s arrival before the Alianza did, in their own town, caused another ache where the missing finger should be, this one duller, deeper, and much more prolonged.
CANCUN, MEXICO
Fred drove away from the car rental agency in a sedan he had reserved under a false name. Their plan was to spend a day in Cancun checking out the yerberías, then head down the coast to hook up with an ex-DEA agent who could provide information and weapons.
Grey lowered the passenger side window. “You know Cancun? I’ve never been.”
“Too well.”
Five minutes later they entered Cancun’s Zona Hotelera, a rapier of land poised between an emerald lagoon and the Caribbean. In between the beachfront hotels whose entrances looked built for a race of giants, Grey got tantalizing glimpses of golden sands and azure water.
The car windows were down, a pleasant breeze rushing in. “Can you believe this was a coconut plantation in the seventies?” Fred said.
Grey leaned an arm out the window. “Not really.”
“The Mexican government decided to turn this place into a world-class resort and, well, it’s one of the few things they got right. Don’t worry, we’ll be back in the real Mexico in, oh, about thirty seconds. So what’s on deck first, finding one of these yerberías?”
“You know where to look?”
“I think so. You know what to say when we get there?”
“Not a clue.”
The change was immediate and visceral. One minute they were gliding through one of the most impressive tourist centers in the world, the next they were delving into the actual city of Cancun, a sprawling montage of concrete eyesores, chaotic traffic, and weedy abandoned lots. Though a stark contrast to the Zona Hotelera, Grey did not find it impoverished, at least in Latin American terms. Just scruffy and real.
“First order of business,” Fred said, pulling into a McDonald’s drive through, “lunch.”
Grey chuckled as he watched Fred order three cheeseburgers with fries. Though Grey downed a quarter pounder, he would have preferred a couple of fish t
acos from one of the enticing food carts along the highway.
Fred sucked fry salt off a fingertip. “How come Micky D’s is always better abroad? I guess the pink slime factories haven’t made it overseas.” He pointed at a sign for MERCADO VEINTIOCHO. Market Twenty-Eight. “That’s the one we want.”
A few minutes later they were parking near an open-air marketplace with tiled walkways and a warren of contiguous stalls. The humidity was oppressive, the covered stalls steaming the market like the lid on a crock-pot.
“Pretty sure I’ve seen a yerbería here before,” Fred said. “This is the main downtown market.”
There was a plethora of indigenous wares: ceramics and leather goods, jewelry, pottery, wooden toys, wedding dresses, colorful luchador masks. Grey led Fred deep inside, stopping to eye a knickknack now and then so as not to attract attention. The smell of stale lard emanated from a collection of food stalls near the center, and at times the chords of a roving mariachi band rose above the din.
Grey didn’t like the feel of the place. There were far too many vendors vying for the attention of a handful of patrons. The vendors were aggressive and accosted Grey and Fred in the narrow corridors of the bazaar, honing in on the promise of American dollars like birds of prey clawing at a pair of mice.
He could also sense the vice and the promise of illicit goods lurking just beneath the surface, behind the hard stares of the men, sticking to the honeyed smiles and beckoning fingers of the women. Normally Grey would have stalked through such a place, his own hard eyes and dangerous aura warding off aggressors. But he didn’t want to attract attention, so he played the part of the innocent tourist, eying a hand-woven shirt here, testing the strands of a hammock there.
A burly man in a soiled guayabera shoved a toy in Grey’s face, a rubber ball attached to a paddle that the man ping-ponged back and forth. “Mexican PlayStation?” he asked. He was so close Grey could see the dirt underneath his fingernails.
Grey let out a slow breath, resisting the urge to twist the man’s arm behind his back and shove his face into the stall. “I don’t have kids.”
As they walked away, Fred said, “Good times, huh? We should shop together more often.”
Half an hour later, just as Grey was starting to wonder if Fred had been mistaken or if the yerbería had relocated, Fred touched his arm and nudged his head towards a stall the size of a walk-in closet. The front counter displayed a collection of painted ceramic skulls.
Grey felt a buzz of excitement when he saw what filled the shelves lining the walls behind the skulls. Glass jars of dirt with taped-on labels, bead necklaces, religious icons, railroad spikes, and a few other items he recognized from the botánica in Miami.
Fred twisted the lid off a soda as Grey sidled to the counter. A middle-aged woman in a red-and-green patterned dress, her hair in a bun, rose from a folding chair.
“Sí?”
Grey spoke in formal Spanish, deciding on a different tactic than the one he had tried in Miami. “Good afternoon, Señora. You have a nice selection.”
“Gracias. There is something in particular you’re looking for?”
“Yes, there is. I need something for my palero.”
Her gaze remained steady, a slight lifting of her eyebrows the only sign of surprise. “We have a few items, sí. Candles, herbs, dirt, animal skulls.”
“Do you have any cauldrons?”
This time her gaze lingered on Grey, wondering what the gringo in the cargo pants and black T-shirt was doing in a street market in Mexico asking about a prenda. She leaned down and pulled out two pumpkin-size cast-iron cauldrons from beneath the counter, saying nothing, her thin eyebrows arching towards Grey.
“Do you have anything larger?”
She replaced the prendas and stood. Her eyes flicked to the sides of the walkway fronting the stall, rested on Fred, and then returned to Grey. “No, señor.”
“Is there anyone else in town?” Grey asked with a touch of scorn, as if it was the woman, not Grey, who was falling short.
“You would have to go to Merida.”
Merida was three hours west of Cancun, all the way across the Yucatan. Grey placed his hands on the counter. “I need it,” he said, his voice low and with a hint of menace, “for Tata Menga. Tonight.”
He half expected her to laugh at him, but instead she took a step back, her hands pressed against her sides.
Grey leaned forward. “Surely you can help me?”
Her lips moved before she spoke. “I wish that I could. I have only the two. No one local sells larger prendas.”
“Do you realize how far it is to Tata Menga?” Grey said.
“No, señor.”
“I don’t have time for Merida.”
Her face had paled, and her voice was almost a whisper. “I am sorry, señor. Very sorry.”
“Do you know anyone who can help me?”
“No, señor.”
Grey let his stare linger, then eased his hands off the counter and backed away.
Waiting until they reached the outskirts of the market, Fred muttered, “That poor woman looked ready to sell you her firstborn.”
“I needed to know if the name Tata Menga was real, and if she knew where I could find him. I think we got our answers.” A dozen men eyed them as they returned to their car. “We should go.”
“Yeah. We should.”
They spent the rest of the day at different markets in town, having similar experiences. Not all of the markets had a yerbería, and not many that did dealt in Palo. After a few more inquiries about Tata Menga, more discreet than the first but just as fruitless, they decided to call it a day. Night had fallen and the markets had wound down.
They jumped in the car and found a cheap motel near a shopping mall. Paid cash and found a taquería a block from the hotel. After ordering Negro Modelos with limes, they kicked back in plastic chairs.
“Time to move on,” Fred said. “It’s getting a bit hot in this pueblo.”
“At least we know we’re on the right track.”
“So what’s next?”
Grey took a swallow of beer. “I thought we’d stake out a few cemeteries.”
Fred looked as if he were waiting for Grey to laugh. “You’re joking, right?”
“Viktor tells me every good palero either digs up bones from a cemetery or has someone do it for him. With an outfit like Tata Menga seems to have, I’m guessing he outsources his grave robbing.”
“You’re not actually proposing going door to door at cemeteries in the Yucatan?”
“Not yet,” Grey said. “I thought about approaching caretakers, but they might be on the take, or the cemetery we’re looking for might not employ a caretaker.” The food arrived, mahi mahi tacos covered with jicama and poblano cream sauce. “This is more like it,” Grey said after taking a bite.
Fred munched on his own tacos and agreed. “Should we try Merida?”
“Not yet. According to Elias, Tata Menga’s somewhere in the jungle. I think he at least believed he was telling the truth about that.” Grey rolled the beer between his palms. “We need local information. Someone who can ask around without raising as many eyebrows.”
Fred wiped a dollop of sauce off his mouth. “My guy should be able to help with that. I hope he’s got our hardware, too. I feel a little naked in this country, if you know what I mean.”
Grey nodded, in full agreement. He had no affinity for guns but he understood their place.
Never focusing too long in one direction, Grey’s eyes roamed the taquería as they ate, searching for signs of anyone or anything that didn’t fit, flicking back to the entrance every few seconds for the trouble he sensed would find them one way or another before they left Mexico.
MIAMI
Lana woke to a feeling of suffocation. Something was covering her mouth and nose, something fleshy and foul. After gasping for breath and moving her head to the side to find air, she realized with a stab of terror that a heavy body, damp with sweat, was presse
d against her in the bed, groping her as she struggled to move. A geyser of dread welled up inside her, flooding her pores when it erupted, the kind of fear that can only come from foreknowledge of one’s fate, from past experience of something so terrible that even the thought of it was paralytic.
Lana screamed.
Rough hands slid up her thighs and yanked at her underwear.
She pushed as hard as she could against the crush of the man’s weight, gagging on the stale body odor. Why couldn’t she shove him off? She found enough focus to grasp the headboard and try to leverage him off the bed, but nothing worked. It were as if he weighed a thousand pounds and she were a child.
Panic overcame her, her mind a helium balloon filled with horrors from the past. She pushed and she pinched and she bit and she screamed and yet nothing could make him stop and he was closer to being inside her and this time Lana screamed so loud her soul ripped even further apart from her body than it had the last time and—
She jerked up in bed, shaking from the intensity of the dream. A nightmare of the worst kind, when one thinks one is awake but isn’t, the mind’s complicity lending the dream a terrifying reality.
It was five in the morning. Lana wasn’t about to face the possibility of another nightmare. Still in a cold sweat, she shuddered to her feet, turned on all the lights, and prepared coffee.
She hadn’t had that dream in years. Was it Miami? The conversation with Colonel Ganso? The current case and the bizarre cult?
All of the above?
She needed to cleanse. As soon as dawn arrived, she went for a long run across the Rickenbacker Causeway, past Virginia Key and all the way to Crandon Park. She walked beside the ocean, curled her toes in the sand, let the breeze caress her, and then ran back. She showered and dressed before driving to her favorite spot after a run, the Pinecrest Market.
Fresh pineapple shake in hand, she sat on a bench and let the sun burn away the memories, let the canopy of jacarandas and the chitter of tropical birds and the unfurling of a peach hibiscus restore her sanity.
