“Dat's not even da 'alf of it,” she says, glancing at my necklace.
I don't want to know.
Beneath us we feel the runway race by, and suddenly there is nothing. There's a dramatic tug as we head to altitude, and Einstein's Equivalence Principle is working correctly, again. And I know this because Sodomy Cat is sliding towards me. I put my foot out and stop it, lifting it up and motioning to Mr. Green.
He wiggles his finger at me to open it, and when I do I see that he has placed a note in it for me. I pull it out, unfolding the small piece of yellow paper. This loner, badass, mercenary, dispute arbitrator, that speaks five languages and could pilot a successful coup in just about any civilized country, do you know what he writes on the note?
He writes,
'Connections to people don't make you weak . . . they make you strong.
Connect with enough people, and you become invincible .'
I nod to him, he nods back, and then I toss the book back. He snatches it out of the air like a hawk taking some small helpless insect in a flash. Mr. Green is a contradiction. He's not just the peripheral sum of his parts.
And then I start to realize that I don't really know anything about people. I make snap judgements based on how people look and what they do for a living. But beyond that, I don't have a clue.
Part of that is my social ineptitude. And some of that is laziness on my part. My reliance upon stereotypes instead of doing the work to get to know people. Because it takes work to really know somebody. You can't just wing it. You can't say, well, he's got a green shirt, so he's very intelligent, but with those brown shoes and black belt he's a computer geek with no girlfriend . Sure, you might accidentally be right, every now and then, but when you're wrong . . . you're way wrong.
I guess this deficit in my own character, this weakness of aptitude, it bothers me. It worries me that I might not know evil when I see it. And if I can't see these evil beings, how in the hell am I going to deliver them back to Deadside?
This is not an insignificant problem that I'm facing. Ricky is super intelligent, but he can't see the spooks. Ms. Josephine can hear the dead speak, but she can't see them coming. Mr. Green can probably kill them all with his bare hands, but he's just a shooter. He can't be sure that the people he's ripping limb from limb are evil.
And that just leaves me. So if I don't figure out a way to find the needles in the haystack, we're all doomed. And when I say we I mean, like, the whole planet we . The big us. All of us.
Ms. Josephine seems to sense this nervousness and apprehension in me.
“Jack, you are very gifted. Much more so than anyone I have ever worked with. And I've trained many. You have the tools for this hunt. And you are the one. You may not be what you thought, but you are definitely somethin' special. You will only get more capable as we continue. Just listen to your heart. Let your emotions point you in the right direction.
“And when the time comes,” she says, her face growing very serious and almost dark, “ . . . you rip every bit of evil out of this place that you can, and you send it back to rot on the other side.”
This is the side of her that I've only caught glimpses of. The side that was born in a jungle in Haiti, raised in a culture that practices blacker arts than I'll ever know. She's most likely eaten long pork, and enjoyed it. This short, chubby, harmless looking woman has probably seen and heard things none of us could imagine in our worst nightmares.
I'm glad she's on my side.
Ecuador
59
Quito, Ecuador.
4:13 am . . .
For the last couple of hours Ms. Josephine and Ricky talked about witch-doctoring and all the natural and supernatural intricacies that entails. I'm not sure, but I think they were discussing the appropriate measurement and application of different types of animals' bloods for use in their potions.
Yuck .
I shut my eyes until I feel a bumpy runway rolling beneath us. As I squint open my eyes to the darkness I immediately feel a distinctly moist, jungle smell to everything. Flanking the runway on both sides are thick broad-leafed trees and chest-high bushes. There could be a thousand monsters standing less than two feet inside the treeline and you'd never know it until it was too late.
We taxied to a partially covered hangar where two white Hummers were waiting for us. They had big blue crosses painted on the hoods, and the words ' World Peace Brigade ' painted in glossy black on each side.
“That was my idea,” Mr. Green says. “It's a lot easier to get around when people think you're here to save somebody.”
We are, I say to myself as I press my head against the window.
Mr. Green snaps into action collecting his bags full of gear, amassing them near the exit door. As he's moving about he's also talking to us.
“If anyone asks questions, we work for a humanitarian aid organization called, The World Peace Brigade . We're Canadian, not American. That's important.”
Why not American? I wonder aloud.
His eyes look shifty and uneasy, “Americans, around here, you know . . . they don't have the greatest reputation. As a matter of fact, there aren't too many places outside of . . . well . . . the US where Americans are welcome. They're considered the world police, waging war on almost every continent. Between the military, the CIA, and the DEA, no country is left unsoiled.
“ . . . they kill or kidnap Americans around here.”
Canadian it is, then.
“I'm a big fan of the maple leaf,” Ricky quips.
“I speak French,” Ms. Josephine adds.
Mr. Green nodded as he pulled out a small case from one of his bags and opened it. Inside was a small, pissed-off looking machine gun. The kind of thing Terminators probably keep under their pillows after a long day of exterminating humanity. It couldn't have been longer than a foot and a half, solid black, with a long magazine that curved forward.
He slung it over his shoulder and then grabbed a smaller black pistol and leather holster which he clipped on to his belt.
I'm not bothered by the guns. Intrigued, maybe. Todd Steele doesn't go to the bathroom without his chrome-plated .357 Super-Magnum. Mr. Green sees me eyeing the machine gun that's slung over his shoulder as he puts on a black vest with what looks like an infinite amount of pockets for every conceivable thing.
“ Heckler and Koch , MP-five, PDW. Thirty rounds in about three seconds. Really empties a room,” he says as he adjusts the sling. This Mr. Green, he's the guy who will kill you, no questions asked. He's the kind of man guns like that were designed for. For him, it's as useful as my cellphone is to me.
“ . . . let me answer all questions by Police, or other authorities. Matter of fact, all questions in general. If the locals talk, even if you think you understand what they're saying, defer to me as much as possible. At least until we establish who we're dealing with.”
I'm dragging duffel bags like bodies to the front of the plane.
“ . . . use the buddy system. Stay in twos. It doesn't matter if you're going to the food stand, the bathroom, or the Coke machine . . . always with a buddy.”
There looks to be 12 or 14 bags, and they're full. Ricky's got four bags just of his own.
“ . . . don't, for any reason, accept any gifts from anybody. Do not smoke the local cigarettes, or accept a cigarette from anyone. It's never just a cigarette.”
Why is that? I ask, not that I even smoke.
He looks at me, “The locals lace the cigarettes with drugs that will leave you paralytic or hooked after two puffs. The joke is: inhale once, you're high; inhale twice . . . you're a junkie.”
Okay, so don't pick up a smoking habit.
Ricky's handing each of us a small radio. “They work from two to five kilometers, depending on the weather.”
What is that in miles? My brain doesn't follow metric, yet.
“One-and-change to two-and-change,” Ricky replies.
“ . . . touch base with me every hour on the hour, unless you
're asleep. And then, it had better be when your eyes close, and again when they open.”
Then he looks at us, across a mound of black and olive drab duffel bags and cases. “Is there anything that I need to know in order to do my job more effectively? Remember, I'm here to help you. Not to judge. Think of me as an extension of your will. Anything ?”
“We may have to go into the jungle,” Ricky offers. “But we've brought all the appropriate clothing and equipment.”
Mr. Green nods.
“Dere may be people tryin' to keep us from lookin' around,” Ms. Josephine adds. “Perhaps some people dat claim to be from da church.”
Mr. Green nods as he checks his pistol to make sure a round is chambered. Then pops the magazine out and adds one more bullet, sliding the magazine back into the handle of the gun. That's what they call the administrative round.
“The church,” he says, “it's powerful in places like this. In most of South America. Now, anything else?”
I answer, “And . . . we might have to kill some vampires.”
Ms. Josephine and Ricky look at me like I'm retarded, again. Like I'm wearing flip-flops to a wedding.
What?
“Well,” Mr. Green says without a reservation in the world, “you just point out the vampires. I'll take care of the rest.” He holsters his pistol, now one round heavier than before. And I see in his demeanor, he doesn't care what it is we're after. He'll do his job. Earn his paycheck, no matter how ugly it gets. And it will probably be quite ugly.
“Right, then,” Mr. Green says, taking two duffel bags into his hands, “ . . . welcome to Ecuador.”
60
Quito, Ecuador.
5:02 pm . . .
We loaded the Hummers quickly and met our drivers. And in an instant we're scooting down the Pan-American Highway.
Both of our drivers are suspicious looking latino men that Mr. Green introduced as Mr. Blue, or Mr. Black. And I'm not completely sure about this, but I think that their names might not be legitimate.
They both have that been through shrapnel look about them with hollow, almost vacant eyes. I gather from the hugs and slaps on the back that they share with Mr. Green that they're Dispute Arbitrators, too.
I'm with Mr. Green and Mr. Black, in the first Hummer . Ricky and Ms. Josephine are with Mr. Blue. Mr. Black asked me to call him Juan, in his heavily accented English.
Isn't that the Spanish version of John?
“Si,” Juan said. And then he glanced over at Mr. Green, who was fingering his way through a crumpled road map, “This is a very smart Canadian, Jeffe.”
I know from my Spanish Tele-novellas that Jeffe means boss. They don't call him Mr. Green, or Andy . . . just Jeffe.
“Estais buscando los chicos que la montaña ha comisten?” Juan asks quietly.
“Si,” Mr. Green answers flatly, tracing some curving path with his free hand. Then he looks up, “Juan, dime . . . hay alguien buscando los chicos?”
I'm only picking up bits and pieces. Juan asked if we're looking for the kids that the mountain ate. And Mr. Green said yes, then asked if anyone else was searching.
“Si,” Juan replied, “hay mucha gente buscando.”
Yes, there are many people looking.
“No, no,” Mr. Green clarifies, “Catolicos. Sacerdotes que no viven aqui. Catolicos nuevos?”
No, no. Catholics? Priests that don't live here. Catholics.
And I'm wondering how heavy the Vatican is into all of this. We know that the anonymous voice is here, somewhere. He's investigating in whatever manner they do.
“Unas,” Juan answers. “Si, hay caras nuevas aqui.”
Some. Yes, there are new faces here.
As we're driving I start to see the early hints of light rising aqua blue on the horizon. We're heading to a hotel where we will leave our gear, but we also have an appointment with one of the 'aid' workers at a local pharmacy. Supposedly, a local doctor who is well connected will point us in the right direction.
While we hustle down the curving road I take in the scenery. Quito is the capital of Ecuador. It is situated in the Pichincha province, on some of the lower slopes of the Pichincha Volcano, which erupted in 1666—a comforting number. The city is in a narrow, and quite claustrophobic, valley that sits at an elevation of around 9,352 feet. I'm sorry, I mean 2,850.6 meters.
The city is just south of the Equator. It is known as the oldest of all South American capitals, and has a well-preserved old town, where we'll be staying during our visit. The city was the ancient seat of the kingdom of Quitu , the largest part of an Indian tribal confederation that left no recorded history.
Between the 10th century and 1487, when it was united with the Inca empire, it was ruled by the Shyris— sovereigns of the Cara Indians —who are said to have come, “ . . . by way of the sea. ”
Sebastian de Belalcazar, a lieutenant of the Spanish conquistador Francisco Pizarro, occupied the city on Dec. 6, 1534, and declared a municipal government. Quito remained the focal point of national affairs—social, political, and economic—until the early 20th century, when economic dominance shifted more to Guyaquil. A rivalry between the two cities still exists, with Quito remaining the nation's political and cultural center.
The city, as we're driving through it, has this colonial feel. There are towers from the many churches outlined against the circle of volcanoes that surround the Quito basin. There are elegant fountains, narrow streets with balconies from every house. Doorways with iron grills, and every now and then I catch the glimpse of small gardens behind bits of fence and wall.
Don't get me wrong, this is still inner city slums, just with more romance to it.
We head to our Hotel Antonio —named after Antonio Jose de Sucre, the hero of independence. It's located near the Church of San Agustin, on the Plaza Mayor, also referred to as the Plaza de la Independencia —Independence square. In 1809, at that very location, they signed Ecuador's Act of Independence.
There's a man there that will be assisting us. Although, to what extent or form his help will come, I don't exactly know.
We skid to a stop as the sun is just starting to burn through the blue to create a kind of eerie purple. We all get out like we're in a rush, bags in hands, strapped over our shoulders, and around our backs. In four laboring trips we have unloaded our clothing, and some of the bags into the hotel suites.
Another guy, a Mr. Red, he's tasked with watching the gear at the suites, and keeping tabs on anyone who asks questions. I'm not sure if he's working with Mr. Green, if he's a local policia officer who's moonlighting, or if he just has a funny last name. Again, he's the kind of guy you'd least like to meet in a dark alley.
13 minutes later . . .
We're making our way across the street to La Pharmacia Quito , where a man named Hector is supposed to be waiting for us. Mr. Green barked some rapid fire Spanish into his cell phone and said that we were still on schedule.
Everyone safely inside the Hummers , Mr. Green and I hop out and step down to the cracked and beaten sidewalk, heading for the pristinely clean glass doors of the pharmacy. As soon as we walk in, a short man with a ring of black hair on an otherwise bald head walks forward from behind a counter. This is the kind of place where you can probably buy hair cream, steroids, or designer stem cells if you know what to ask for.
The man extends his furry hand, “I'm Hector, thank you for coming.” He looks around nervously. “The men from the church came by last night to interrogate me.”
You mean to ask you questions?
“No,” he corrected, “it was an interrogation about the body of Maria Eduardo-Mendez Gonzalez.”
Mr. Green, understanding that these people live in an environment that can become hysterical and conspiratorial in an instant, he just puts a calming hand on Hector's shoulder. “What can you tell us, my friend? We're here to help your people.”
He looks at me, “You know, the childrens that have gone missing . . . well, I was one of the first doctors to e
xamine the first body. The little girl, Maria . . . ” he crosses himself, touching a small cross that's hanging just below the top button of his white shirt. “ . . . I saw her body, you know. I made the precipitin tests to determine if we were dealing with an animal attack. I did the autopsy notes. Took the pictures.”
All the sudden he turns and motions for us to follow him into the back of the pharmacy. We both follow, but I notice that Mr. Green has moved his tan jacket to the side in case he has to reach for his pistol. This guy is always on .
Hector takes us to a small office with a white desk that has several folders. He thumbs through them, reading off the names. “These are the pictures of the child's body. There are also some lab results.” He then hands the folder to me, “Abre lo . . . open it, please.”
I open the folder to reveal several black-n-white photographs of a dead girl who couldn't be older than about five or six years. She has long black hair, very thin features, and looks to have been almost completely drained of blood.
What in the Hell did this? I ask, handing the photos to Mr. Green.
I'm sure that Ricky will have his own theories, but right now we don't want to spook anyone with too many foreigners asking questions.
This man Hector really looks worried. His breathing is tense, and forced. He swallows a lot. His eyes dart back and forth, and he's constantly pacing side to side. “I am doctor, you know, for over fourteen years. I have seen every type of animal attack that you can think of. I've treated attacks by snakes, and spiders, and lizards, and bats. I work with animals, you know?”
Hector glances around, as if we should realize we're in a veterinary clinic. “People and animals,” he shrugs. “We don't have many doctors here, so we all kind of do whatever comes up.”
“We know your record, Doctor,” Mr. Green says. “You come very highly recommended among the people I've spoken with.”
Hector nods, “The girl was vaciado de sangre, ah, you know, drained of her blood. The bite marks, no matter what they tell you, they are not from an animal. Those are human dientes. Teeth from a person.”
See Jack Hunt (See Jack Die) Page 24
