Tortured Spirits (22 page)

“We're converting him,” one of the soldiers said.

Jake stared hard at the two men. “I don't think I like the sound of that.”

Ramona looked down at him, chart in hand. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. Instead, she unhooked the IV tube from Jake's arm, swabbed the puncture, and applied a Band-Aid to it. Then she lowered the bed.

The soldiers stood at opposite ends of the bed and wheeled it away. As they did, Ramona made the sign of the cross, which didn't ease Jake's mind.

The soldiers wheeled him feetfirst to the red door at the opposite end of the ward. The soldier Jake was able to see opened the door, and they brought him into an empty room except for a battered wooden desk. They parked him alongside one wall and exited. Alone, Jake gazed up at a dirty light fixture. The room had no windows.

How the hell do they intend to convert me?
He knew of only
one way for a living person to become a zonbie, and a component of the process included a fatal overdose of Black Magic.

He hoped he had gotten through to Ramona, but he doubted it. She was right: the people on Pavot Island accepted Malvado, Black Magic, and zonbies as part of their daily existence. It was a long shot that the nurse would risk her life to save his. She had family, and Humphrey had said Malvado struck out at his enemies through their families.

Minutes passed.

Half an hour?

The door swung open and Russel stood there. Behind him, a rubber stopper struck the tiled floor again and again.

A cane,
Jake concluded.

A hunched-over old woman entered the room, her gray hair pulled back beneath a scarf folded into a triangle. Despite the heat, she wore a shawl. Wrinkles like crevices crisscrossed her brown face, and she wore gold hoop earrings, like a gypsy. One of her eyes bulged in its socket, and her pupils seemed to look in different directions.

She's a witch,
Jake thought.
A Mambo.

Grasping the cane, the woman stopped at the bed and studied Jake. He had no doubt she was evil to her core.

Leaving the door open, Russel entered the room and stood near Jake. The old woman hobbled over to the desk.

“This is Mambo Catoute,” Russel said. “She's the high priestess of the Church of the Black Snake and the most powerful bokor on Pavot Island. When she's through with you, you'll wish you'd spent a few more days in my company.”

Jake struggled against the restraints. “You're as bad as Malvado and this old witch.”

“I never said I wasn't. You're the one who pretends to be a hero.”

Jake heard a match being struck, and a moment later dark smoke curled toward the ceiling from before Mambo Catoute. When she stepped away from the desk, Jake saw the wick of a thick black candle burning. His eyes widened at the sight of the smoke.

Black Magic.

The old woman cackled, and he noticed she missed several teeth.

Russel flicked off the light, leaving the candle's yellow flame glowing.

Jake sucked in his breath and looked away.

Russel chuckled. “That won't do any good. How long can you hold your breath? Not long. This Magic will
own
you. After a few hours in here, you won't be able to stop thinking about it, and we'll be only too happy to provide you with what you need.” He helped Mambo Catoute out of the room and closed the door.

Sweat formed on Jake's brow. He clenched his teeth. He had given up cocaine two years ago when Sheryl had found his stash and kicked him out of their apartment. Next he gave up alcohol after Sheryl had left a piece of her soul inside him and then cigarettes. He had started exercising again, gotten himself into shape, felt healthy. Now this …

It isn't fair!

Rocking from side to side, he hoped to knock the bed
over. His efforts only exhausted him, forcing him at last to take a deep breath. His mouth and nostrils gulped sweet-smelling air, and in the darkness as his chest swelled, the Magic took immediate effect.

Jake exhaled a tremulous breath. His jaw slackened. His mind clouded. His heart rate sped up. His senses tingled and awakened. His eyelids fluttered. He inhaled the sweet-smelling smoke again, then smiled and moaned with pleasure. He forgot all about Sheryl and Laurel and Maria and Edgar and Malvado.

Like magic.

Maria desired a long, hot bath but had no time for luxury and settled for a shower instead. The steaming water stung her scratches, blood and mud swirling at her feet. She soaped herself up twice and shampooed and conditioned her hair. The deep gash in her side required stitches. Although she buried her face in her hands, she did not cry again.

After drying off, she applied disinfectant to her wounds. The scratches were too long and too numerous for that. She wrapped a roll of gauze around her waist until she had used it all up, binding her deepest wound. Pulling on a terry cloth robe, she faced the mirror. Although she
looked
sane, she doubted she would ever be the same.

In the kitchen, she sat at the table. Rosa, the mother, served her a plate of scrambled eggs, which she devoured, and a mug of strong coffee. Celia, the daughter, sat watching
her with a dour expression.

“Merci,” Maria said.

Rosa joined her with a cup of coffee. “Your clothes are in the dryer. I got most of the blood out of them.”

A tall man with a thick mustache entered the kitchen and leaned against the sink. Hector wore boots, jeans, and a long johns top with the sleeves rolled up, covered with a light layer of dirt. “Celia, go into the living room.”

“I don't want to.”

“Do as I say.”

Pouting, the girl obeyed.

Maria sipped her coffee. “That's so good.”

Hector folded his arms. “As you see, we have a daughter.”

Rosa cocked her head. “Hector …”

“It isn't just us. We have to think of her.”

“I don't want to endanger you,” Maria said. “I'll be on my way as soon as my clothes are dry. I appreciate what you've done for me.”

“We won't turn you away,” Hector said, “but we have to put you in touch with people who will take you someplace safer.”

Maria held his stare. “Someone I can trust, I hope.”

“I called a friend who's an activist. He knew the man who was killed accompanying you in Pavot City yesterday. He's coming to help you.”

You mean he's coming to get me out of your hair.
“Thank you.”

“What happened to you?” Rosa said.

“She went where she didn't belong,” Hector said.

Maria wanted to challenge him, but she couldn't be rude after they had taken her in, so she just sipped her coffee.

Maria sat on the cement steps of the porch, smoking a cigarette and stroking the back of a white cat, when a dusty Subaru Outback pulled into the driveway. She had changed into her clothes.

A short, balding Hispanic man with a wide mustache got out of the Subaru. He wore a dark green plaid shirt. Crossing the lawn, he spoke in English. “Good afternoon. Are you my tourist?”

Maria smiled. “Forgive me for being an ugly American, but I think I've seen enough of your country.”

Setting one foot on a step, he leaned on his knee. “Then we'll have to see about getting you home.” He held out his hand. “Jorge De Jesus.”

She shook his hand. “Maria Vasquez.”

“Puerto Rican?”

“By way of Manhattan. Are you a member of Pavot for the People or the People for Pavot?”

“Honestly, I forget. I wish to see Le Père liberated from El Miedo and reunited with La Mère. Nothing matters more than freeing Pavot Island from Le Monstre.”

Maria inhaled smoke and allowed it to seep through her nostrils. “More people on this island need to share your attitude.”

Jorge glanced at the house. “They're good people. It's difficult to live under the thumb of a dictator. Please tell me what happened. I know you met Humphrey at Coucher du Soleil.”

Maria recounted how Humphrey had been killed
outside the restaurant and she and Jake had been separated.

A tear ran down one side of Jorge's face. “Forgive me.” He wiped his face on his shirtsleeve.

“I'm sorry. Hector said you and Humphrey were friends.”

“A euphemism.” Jorge groaned, then raised his gaze to the sky. “This is not the time for tears.”

Maria clasped her free hand over his. “There's never a wrong time to mourn our loved ones.” She stabbed out her cigarette and stood. “I jacked a car and fled the city. A chopper firebombed the highway, driving me into the woods.”

“We call it La Forêt Noire.”

“‘The Black Forest.' How appropriate. Have you ever had the pleasure?”

Jorge shook his head. “Anyone who goes there remains there. Until now.”

“A river stocked with piranhas divides the woods. It's a smoke screen to hide Malvado's drug crops. Your Black Forest is lousy with zonbies. I saw how those things are made and the Magic.”

“How did you survive?”

“I put down more than a dozen of them.”

“I've never heard anyone claim that before.”

“I'm from New York.”

Jorge smiled. “I think I like you.”

“It's your turn to share. What happened to my partner?”

“I don't know.”

“Is it likely they killed him?”

“Oui. If they took him prisoner, they tortured him to
death in Pavot City, or they'll repurpose him.”

“You mean turn him into a zonbie?”

Jorge nodded. “I have contacts all over Pavot. I've heard nothing about Jake Helman being taken into custody. You have to assume he's dead.”

Maria's eyes watered. “Humphrey joked about being a coward. He was anything but.”

“I know.” Jorge's voice cracked. “He was a good man. When Malvado's officers discover what you've done, they'll turn this island upside down looking for you. We need to get you someplace safe fast, and then we have to send you back to Miami.”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

As Jorge steered the Subaru out of the farmhouse's driveway, Maria, sitting in the backseat, stared at the woods across the road.

Zonbie land,
she thought.

“Malvado thinks nothing of killing our people to create slaves,” Jorge said.

“Is that the only plantation?”

“There are five that we know of.”

“Which could mean as many as fifteen hundred zonbies. How long do those things last? He must need a steady supply of scarecrows.”

“What the jails don't provide, he gets from the general population. Black Magic is easy to come by in our cities. It's
cheap, and the drug dealers are never arrested—”

“Because they work for Malvado.”

“They serve a function for him anyway.” They crested a hill.

“Get down,” Jorge said, his tone serious.

Maria glimpsed one police car and one military jeep parked in the middle of the street at the bottom of the hill. Crouching behind the seat, she counted four uniformed figures standing in front of the vehicles.

“Reach below your seat. There's a lever there wrapped in fabric that matches the carpet and upholstery.”

Maria felt along the bottom of the seat. “Got it.”

“Pull it and take your weight off the seat.”

Sliding off the seat, she pulled the lever, and the seat cushion popped up. Raising it higher, she gazed down at two rifles, one machine gun, and boxes of ammunition. Without waiting for instructions, she laid her rifle and machete over the other armaments and crawled on top of them, the Walther in her pocket. She had to bend her knees to fit inside the compartment, and the weaponry pressed against her.

“Before you close the seat, locate the lever from inside.”

Maria slid her hand along the bottom of the compartment, discovered an opening, and touched the lever. “I have it.”

“After you put the seat down, raise the lever and hold it inside. No one will see it, and it will be impossible to open the seat from the outside.”