No One Lives Forever no-3

by Jordan Dane

  Jasmine heaved a sigh and looked toward Guia Do Espirito, resigned to losing her small verbal skirmish with him. "Let's go. We are burning daytime."

  He grabbed his carryon bag and followed her to the voodoo store, walking off a fresh limp. From weird science to black magic, his day kept getting better.

  He didn't have the heart to correct Jasmine's bastardized version of the old saying "burning daylight." Sometimes a guy had to know when to quit. He only hoped that when it came time to let go of his obsession with the tragedies of his past, he'd be able to do it.

  CHAPTER 11

  Late afternoon

  Downtown Cuiabá

  "So what's it mean . . . the name on the store?" Christian asked. He winced as he flexed his aching shoulders. And Brazil's heat had inflamed his abrasions and bruises.

  "Spirit Guide, I think." Jasmine's dark hair wafted in the marginal breeze as she walked across the street toward Bianca Salvador's Macumba shop. "And before you ask, I've never been inside. I'm not exactly the religious type."

  "Oh, don't sell yourself short, J. I bet you've put the fear of God into plenty of men."

  When Christian looked down at Jasmine, he caught her sly smile as he opened the door to let her pass. A bell tinkled overhead.

  Looking over her sunglasses, she stopped in front of him, blocking his way into the store.

  "I prefer to think of it as improving the gene pool." She winked, the smile gone. He shook his head and followed her in.

  When Christian closed the door behind him, the darkness took over. He fought an unexpected panic, his usual reaction to the dark. Removing his sunglasses, he let his eyes adjust and slowed his breathing. Veiled in murky shadows, the room closed in. In this place, time stopped dead. Off the beaten path of the tourist trade, the store was a throwback to another century, an ancient dwelling operating the same way for a very long time.

  If he had any preconceived notions what Guia Do Espírito looked like inside, those images disappeared faster than loose cash on a subway. The words controlled chaos came to mind. Every square inch of the store accommodated its inventory, no space unutilized. And although the shelves looked cluttered to his way of thinking, they were clean and dusted. Someone had laid out the store in a grand scheme and maintained it.

  The heavy aroma of incense and herbs made the air thick and smell stagnant. But on the side of good news, the incense masked an underlying odor probably best left to the imagination. Closer to the front door, rows of candles in every color were mixed in with tall glass jars and an amazing array of religious statues. Pretty tame stuff, which he'd seen before. But as his eyes wandered into the deeper shadows toward the back, the creep factor kicked into high gear. Jars and glass containers were filled with unnamed roots, herbs, feathers, and animal parts. Rows of them. Small vials contained a dark oozy substance bearing an uncanny resemblance to blood. No labels.

  Some things you're better off not knowing.

  Flickering candles called attention to altars that commemorated graphic and bloody crucifixions. Martyred faces of Catholic saints twisted in agony and stood alongside fierce pagan monsters and spirits he didn't recognize. A religious alternative universe, Guia Do Espirito peddled fear and redemption at retail prices.

  Jasmine seemed oblivious to the macabre spectacle as she took off her shades and tucked them into a pocket. She had targeted the young man behind the register like a deer hunter dressed in blaze orange on opening day. Christian only hoped she had a limit of one.

  "Let me do all the talking." She grabbed the bag from his shoulder and put it on the floor. With her back to the clerk, she undid the top two buttons of her white blouse. After a second look, she unbuttoned a third. "How do I look?"

  Christian raised an eyebrow, his expression flat and his tone mechanical. "Hold me back."

  With a practiced glare, Jasmine jutted her chin. "Watch . . . and learn, grasshoppa." Working her hips, she headed for the register, not taking her eyes off the unsuspecting rutting buck in her sights behind the counter.

  "Can I help you?" A heavy Portuguese accent, but so far the guy's English was understandable.

  The young man had no interest in Christian. He smiled at Jasmine with eager eyes and brilliant white teeth against dark skin. A handsome kid in a land of good-looking people. By the looks of him, Jasmine had bagged her buck without even trying. The clerk being a flagrant horn dog made it far too easy for a woman like Jasmine. Christian cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. He had the urge to confiscate the kid's man card, send him back to the factory for retooling.

  The guy's badge carried his first name.

  "Hector," she began, placing the bag on the counter, "you look like a smart guy. Help me out, will ya?" "

  Heaping on the sex appeal, Jasmine leaned on the counter, making sure good old Hector got an eyeful. Christian veered left and down the nearest aisle, staying within earshot. He pretended to shop—as if he'd suddenly run out of yak fetus and chicken feet—but he kept an eye on the clerk. The guy's body language might give a clue if he lied or hid something.

  Ironically, Jasmine had a real flair for bullshit and stacked it high without breaking a sweat. He found it increasingly difficult to chalk her skill up to a good thing.

  "My ex-husband cheated on me. And now, when I'm trying to move on with someone new . . ." She smiled at Christian and gave a perky shrug, practically blowing him a kiss. ". . . the lying bastard is trying to ruin everything. He wants me back."

  Hector gave him a skeptical sideways glance, probably wondering why the beautiful woman hadn't traded up in the process. Unable to hide all his bruises, Christian knew what he must look like. Jasmine milked the sympathy factor, twirling a strand of hair with her finger. The guy ate it up, watching every move she made.

  "Some men have no idea the best way to treat a woman." Hector tweaked an eyebrow, making a move of his own.

  Christian rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. Yep, a real horn dog.

  "I thought by leaving the U.S. for a while, my ex would cool off, but he's hired a local thug to scare me," she went on, embellishing her story. "I don't want to report this to the police. It's a private matter. I just want it to stop."

  Hector leaned closer, more engaged by the treasures underneath the white blouse than her sob story. "But what I can do for you . . . Miss . . . ?" The kid fished for a name, his English challenged.

  "Jasmine. Please . . . call me Jasmine." She smiled and held out her hand. He took it, holding on too long. "First, that bastard left a calling card at my hotel room. What can you tell me about this?"

  She dumped the contents of the carryon bag in front of the clerk. The black magic paraphernalia caught the guy's attention, but not half as much as the headless snake. It thumped onto the countertop. Hector gasped and jumped back. Christian knew the feeling.

  Try this sucker with fangs, bro. Talk about changin' your shorts.

  "This is . . . jararaca. Is deadly. Bad, very bad." Hector pushed his back against a wall, not taking his eyes off the snake. "You got the head? Where's the head?"

  "Last night this thing came as a matched set, head and all. My ex-husband's idea of a prank." Jasmine cocked her hip and fought back her amusement as Hector regained control of himself. "See what I mean? The sick bastard's out of control."

  "And the rest of this?" The guy peeled himself off the wall and stepped back to the counter . . . slowly. "What is it?"

  "You tell me."

  Hector kept one eye on the dead snake like it was playing possum . . . without a head. With the other eye, he searched through the remains of the makeshift black magic altar and noticed Charboneau's voodoo pincushion.

  "This you?" the guy asked with another sideways glance, noticing the family resemblance.

  Guess all tourists looked alike to Hector.

  "Yeah. Creepy, huh?" Christian spied a glimmer over the clerk's shoulder.

  A small pinpoint of light broke through the murky shadows, coming from a peephole in a do
or behind the counter. Movement. Someone eclipsed a light. Given the location of the doorway and the framework of the walls, Christian assumed the really nasty stuff was under lock and key, reserved for special patrons. But someone behind the door wanted a closer look at the tourists. Most probably, the peephole had been installed for that reason.

  Hector shook his head. "I only sell this. Can't help you, but someone set the evil eye on you, man. Nasty curse."

  "The doll and the altar materials look homegrown," Christian said, "like someone built it from scratch. It looks different than the merchandise in your store. Can you tell me anything more about it?" Christian asked.

  The clerk shrugged. "Sorry. Maybe if you leave your number. I can reach you, have someone call. Leave this with me."

  At this point, Christian knew he had few alternatives . . . and no need for a dead snake or a voodoo doll with a used up curse on it. He nodded and handed the kid his business card, saying, "We're staying at the Hotel Palma Dourada."

  "Nice." Hector grinned and wrote the hotel on the back of the card. "Anything else I do for you?"

  Since Christian was on a roll, he reached into his pocket for a copy of the photo of Rodrigo Santo. "Yeah, you ever see this guy?"

  The kid took the photo and glanced down. A muscle under his eye ticked and his jaw flinched, a subtle move.

  "That's the guy my ex hired to harass us." Jasmine pointed at the photo but shot a heated glare at Christian. She looked surprised by his direct approach, especially since she was supposed to do all the talking. Maybe she hadn't seen the light flicker through the peephole behind Hector.

  More under control now, the clerk pursed his lips and shook his head. "No, man. I never see him." He handed the photo back.

  It all happened so fast. Had he imagined the kid's reaction? He pressed. "Someone told us Bianca Salvador might know the man in this photo. Is she in?"

  "No. Me, I only one here." He smiled, cool under fire now. Apparently, lying in a second language came naturally. "Bianca Salvador is old. She no come here . . . much. Her health no good, you know?"

  "So you know all about this hinky inventory? I thought you only sold the stuff." Christian caught a moment of hesitation in Hector. "I mean, none of these jars are labeled. If Bianca Salvador isn't here, she must have the utmost confidence in your ability to serve her customers."

  Hector narrowed his eyes, knowing he'd been set up, but without skipping a beat, conjured up a steaming pile of horse dung. Fresh. He must have learned a thing or two from Jasmine.

  "Not me." Hector shook his head. "Mrs. Salvador works with customers by appointment only. She has different peoples who help, they have specialties. Each different. She match customer to these peoples. You see? That's how it works." He shrugged. "Besides, most peoples come here? They know what they want."

  Was it his imagination or was this guy's English getting worse by the lie? If Christian had any hopes of getting insight from Hector on the local tribes, he quickly changed his mind. He wouldn't find an ally here. Christian forced a smile.

  He'd just hit a roadblock named Hector.

  Jasmine diverted the kid's attention. "Please . . . call me. I won't be able to sleep until I know what all this means." She pointed to the Macumba ritual gear on the counter.

  "Yeah, I see." But Hector had his eye on Christian this time.

  Guess he'd made an impression.

  Bianca Salvador heard every word from the shadows of the storeroom in back. With aged hands, she touched the single strand of pearls at her neck, a gift from her deceased husband. It had become a nervous habit. Her fingers trembled. Through the peephole, she watched her nephew deal with the Americans. Now, she sat at the small wooden chair at her desk in the back. Her legs weren't what they used to be, especially after what she had seen in the stranger.

  The tall man with emerald green eyes held her fascination. He had sensed her presence but did nothing to confront her. That intrigued her and may have drawn her out, but something else kept her hidden.

  The stranger had the strongest aura she had ever seen—a complex combination of evil and goodness at constant struggle for control. He knew death all too well. The young man had survived it more than once. And somehow, he came to battle it again. Would he be strong enough to stand alone in this remote place on the edge of the world?

  Bianca did not question how she knew this. She had been taught in the old ways, rituals passed from one ancestor to another. She had witnessed the power of the spirits, the Orixas in all forms, and trusted in her faith. She would not doubt her instincts now.

  Her nephew opened the storeroom door and called to her. Hector had a bag in his hand. "I have to go out. Can you manage the store? It's getting late anyway. I can put the Closed sign out."

  Hector's English had suddenly improved. A miracle. She shook her head. Her nephew liked to play games with foreigners, to watch them try and cheat him when they thought he didn't understand. But this time his game came in handy. He'd handled himself well.

  But she knew of the reward money offered by the Americans. Word of it spread like a plague. A young man like Hector would be tempted to walk the line between easy money and the betrayal of his own people. And she had no faith in his judgment to do the right thing when a small fortune was involved. Before she answered him, Bianca waved him over, not hiding the concern on her face.

  "Let me see the card that man gave you . . . and show me what's in the bag," she demanded, her voice stern. Like a stubborn child, Hector trudged closer and did as she asked.

  The contents of the bag confused her. Some elements looked authentic, but most were products of someone's vivid imagination. A nonbeliever. Why would someone go to so much trouble to break into a foreigner's hotel room to plant a curse with no substance? Even worse, using a deadly snake meant whoever did this wasn't above killing to get what they wanted. Who would do such a thing . . . and why?

  Since she had met the Asian woman before, she knew her story about an ex-husband wasn't true. Definitely inventive, but true? No. Bianca understood why they had come to her store for answers. She was considered a local authority on religious beliefs and rituals. Yet after seeing the contents of the bag, she feared for the safety of her people, especially the man in the photo. None of this bode well for him or his tribe. It would be far too easy to plant evidence against the local natives, especially if they had a face to blame. Her people would serve as a scapegoat yet again.

  After setting the tote aside, Bianca read the name on the business card and softened her tone. "Please don't do this, Hector."

  "Do what?" He shrugged and leaned against a corner of her desk, looking nonchalant. He forced a smile, but she knew better.

  "The Asian woman deals in death. I have felt this more than once, nephew. I've met her before." Bianca touched Hector's arm when he rolled his eyes. "And her employer, Nicholas Charboneau, is much more dangerous. But that one with the green eyes, he scares me most. The Orixás have marked him. I hear their whispers. The evil may be too strong for him to overcome. Please don't get involved."

  "You are a superstitious old woman." He leaned over to kiss her forehead, more eager to do what he intended. He pointed a finger at her. "Stay out of this."

  "The spirits have spoken. Their whispers warn of evil and should not be ignored. Hector?" She cried out to her nephew, but the high-pitched tinkle of bells told her he had already left the store. He had no faith in the old ways. One day it might get him killed.

  But Bianca had the power to intervene. With one hand, she clutched at her pearls. With the other, she grabbed a pen to make a list of what she would need. To summon the spirit, Ayza the Protector, she would need her most powerful magic.

  The sun had dropped below the skyline, blazing liquid fire across the horizon. Neon lights competed with nature's show, a city getting its second wind. As beautiful as it was, he missed Chicago . . . and Raven. And to make matters worse, the stiffness in his body couldn't be ignored. He felt like crap. Lack of sleep and his
narrow escape from the hit and run had taken their toll. Only thoughts of Raven made the pain tolerable. She had that effect on him, even across the world.

  But when his thoughts drifted to Charboneau, Christian knew he was running out of options as he walked back to the hotel with Jasmine. Without the heft of the bag on his shoulder, the absence of it served to remind him how abysmal the day had gone.

  Hoofing it gave him time to think, and he hoped the exercise would do him good. Since Jasmine hadn't said a word since the voodoo store, he assumed she felt the same until . . .

  "You didn't let me do all the talking." Eyes forward, she kept the anger from her voice.

  "Someone in the back storeroom was looking through the peephole."

  "Yeah, I know."

  Christian did a double take. Jasmine was full of surprises.

  "Don't worry, little acorn. You played it right." She smiled, still not glancing his way.

  Meandering like a shopper, she kept her eyes alert, even using the reflection in store windows to check behind them. She looked uneasy, a subtle nuance to her demeanor.

  "What's up?" he asked.

  "Don't know yet. I've had the feeling all day. Someone is tailing us, but they're too good to spot."

  "You want to ditch 'em?" He kept his eyes straight ahead. "Out of principle?"

  "No. We're heading back to the hotel. Let them feel in control . . . for now. When we need to shake them, we will." She smirked. "So what did you make of Hector?"

  Christian gave her his point of view. The guy behind the register at Guia Do Espírito got a little testy after Jasmine dumped the dead snake and the Macumba gear on the counter. Who could blame him? Working retail brought out the worst in folks. And whoever kept their distance in the back stockroom certainly got his attention, but did the place warrant a return visit or a nighttime surveillance gig? He wasn't sure they had the time to spend on an operation that might not pan out. Hector didn't seem to know much.