Tortured Spirits (23 page)

She lowered the cushion, cutting off the light, and
heard the seat lock into place. Pulling the lever inside, she took a deep breath. With the gap for the lever providing the only ventilation, the temperature climbed.

Maria felt the car slow and stop. She heard Jorge's muffled voice but could not make out his words over the sound of her own breathing. His tone sounded gentle, easygoing. Two more voices: a man's and a woman's. The car stopped vibrating and the front door closed.

Jorge got out.

Silence for a moment. The air grew stuffy. The compartment felt like what she imagined the inside of a coffin must be like, only less comfortable.

The voices grew louder. Weight sank into the seat above her; the upholstery squeaked and springs groaned. The woman spoke to the man, warbling as if underwater. A loud metallic sound followed.

The hatchback.

Knocking, banging, hands sliding. Metal scraping against metal. One of the inspectors prodded the vehicle with what must have been the barrel of a gun.

If they fire at the seat
…

Sweat soaked her body. She couldn't breathe.

So fucking hot!

The hatch closed, then the rear doors, then finally the front door. The engine roared to life. Jorge spoke again and the car eased forward.

Maria counted to ten and pulled the lever. The seat popped open a crack, and she sucked in fresh air.

“Raise the seat but don't sit up yet.”

With one hand, she lifted the seat higher, and air-conditioning settled over her. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

“If they'd found me, they would have killed you.”

“I don't want to overstate things, but on Pavot Island we live with that fear every day.”

“I couldn't do it.”

“You'd be surprised how strong the will to survive is. Look what you did last night.”

He's right.

“You can get out now, but you'd better stay flat.”

Maria climbed out of the compartment, set the seat down, and lay across it. “This is a lot more comfortable than lying on those guns.”

Twenty minutes later, as the Subaru climbed a mountain road, she peeked out the window and recognized the rain forest stretching below. A short while later, the Church of St. Anthony came into view.

“Don't get up yet.”

Maria felt the car slow down and saw the church as they circled it. After several seconds, they stopped in the shadow of a wide garage.

Jorge got out, opened one of the gray wooden doors, then got back in and drove the Subaru inside. He removed a flashlight from the glove compartment and set it on the seat beside him, then spoke without turning around. “St. Anthony's is often under surveillance by Malvado's secret police. I'm going to get out and close the garage door behind me. When I do, walk over to the wooden shelves against the
wall. Pull back the mat and you'll find a trapdoor. Climb down the ladder and shut the trapdoor. Don't let it slam. Follow the tunnel until you can go no farther, and wait for me there.”

Jorge left the car, closed the door, and exited the garage. The wide door swung shut, and light seeped in through the cracks in the walls.

Maria stepped out and removed her weapons from the hidden seat compartment. Light glinted off an old Mercedes, a pickup, and a riding lawn mower, and tacked crates obscured tools hanging on the walls. Standing before the wooden shelves covered with paint cans and cleaning chemicals, Maria pulled back the floor mat, exposing the square trapdoor with an iron ring secured to its surface. Setting the rifle down, she seized the ring in both hands and opened the trapdoor, her back straining with effort. She stared down at the iron rungs bolted into the concrete walls of the shaft and a cement floor.

Very professional.

Maria climbed halfway down the ladder, the rungs cool to her touch, then picked up her rifle, closed the trapdoor, and descended into murky grayness. Dull light illuminated the tunnel, and when she reached the floor she saw that three caged work lights hung from a yellow cord strung along the low ceiling. She followed the cord, passing a sofa, a cot, a table, and chairs. At the end of the tunnel she glimpsed hinges and the outline of a door, which opened away from her, revealing Jorge and a short priest.

“Maria Vasquez, meet Father Alejandro.”

The priest's features were tanned. Maria guessed he was forty, though he appeared younger.

“Miss Vasquez.” Alejandro held out his hand.

Shaking the priest's hand, Maria felt rough skin. Alejandro did hard work in addition to offering spiritual guidance. “Nice place you've got here, Father.”

“This tunnel was part of the church's original construction. It was sealed off generations ago. My predecessor reopened it. I'm glad you like it, because you'll be staying here until we can arrange for you to leave Pavot. In the meantime, please join us.” Alejandro gestured inside the room where he and Jorge stood.

Maria followed them into a red-carpeted office with two desks and a copy machine.

Alejandro arranged three chairs so they faced each other, and Maria sat. He opened a small refrigerator. “May I offer you something to drink? We have soda, juice, and beer.”

“A beer would be great.”

“Jorge?”

“The same.”

Father Alejandro opened three bottles with pirate ships on their labels, served his guests, and sat between them. “You've stirred up some excitement; the police and military have doubled their patrols. But your picture hasn't been broadcast on TV, so the people don't know what the commotion is about, only that three members of the People for Pavot were killed in Pavot City yesterday.”

Maria sipped her beer, which tasted damn good. “What about Jake?”

“Our news organization is a propaganda arm of the government, and our underground press has no access to government matters. We only know that many soldiers were dispatched to an abandoned factory in the neighborhood where our three friends were killed. Shots were fired and the soldiers left. I fear your companion is no more.”

Jake.
Maria's jaw tightened.

“We need to get you off this island immediately.”

“Miriam said she arranged for a boat to transport us tomorrow night.”

“That will be too late. You're now an enemy of the state. As long as you're free, the population will be subjected to Malvado's ruthless methods. It's imperative that you leave tonight and that Miriam announces your return to Miami. When Malvado realizes you've escaped, life here will return to normal.”

“How do you propose I leave?”

“One of the US companies with a factory here bottles the very beer we're drinking. They have a cargo ship leaving tonight. You'll be on it.”

Gazing at the ceiling, Jake experienced ecstasy. Mambo Catoute's candle continued to spew Black Magic smoke into the air for him to breathe. He no longer remembered why he was unable to move his arms and legs, but he regretted being unable to play with himself when he felt so good.

The door opened, and two soldiers wearing gas masks entered. One walked over to the desk and pinched the candle's flame.

No!
Jake feared he would never experience such a perfect high again.

The other soldier stood before Jake, aiming the machine gun at his face. Jake's heart beat faster. The first soldier joined the one closest to him. They both looked down at him through the bulbous, insect-like goggles of the masks and spoke to each other in Spanish or French. Hell,
it could have even been English. It was too muffled for his stoned ears to decipher. The soldier who had extinguished the candle reached down, and Jake tilted his head to see the restraints holding him in place. The soldier unfastened them and they fell away.

That was nice of him,
Jake thought.

The soldier with the machine gun motioned for Jake to exit the room, but when Jake got off the bed he folded in half and struck the floor. Feeling no pain, he rolled over. The soldiers hauled him to his feet.

“Thank you,” he said.

They dragged him out of the room and into the hospital ward, where the open windows let hot air in and black smoke out. Dusk had settled over the palm trees outside the clinic. The soldiers peeled off their gas masks, revealing sweaty features. One was black, the other Hispanic.

Ramona stood near an empty bed, watching him. As they passed her, she made the sign of the cross.

Nice lady,
he thought.

The soldiers took him through a door and to a flight of cement stairs. Halfway down, they dumped him on a landing. His face and palms slapped cement, but he felt no pain. One soldier said something he didn't understand, and the other laughed. They lifted him, pushed open a metal door, and guided him through an empty corridor to a set of glass doors. Two more soldiers guarded the entrance.

The doors opened, and Jake felt fresh air on his face. An olive green military truck idled in the parking lot. The men dropped the vehicle's gate, heaved Jake into the back of the
truck, and secured shackles around his ankles.

“Don't try to climb out,” one of the soldiers said. “The truck will drag your face off.”

Why would he try to climb out of the truck? He just wanted to enjoy this feeling, which he hoped would last forever. Listening to the truck doors close and the engine rumble, he closed his eyes and felt the vibrating metal.

Russel gazed out at the night sky from the backseat of his limousine as his chauffeur drove through the security gates of Malvado's palace. Half a dozen armed soldiers stood at attention, and many others patrolled the grounds.

During his time on Pavot Island there had been a number of minor attacks on the government: a suicide bomber here, an IED there. In each instance, minor damage had been inflicted, and neither Malvado nor his sons had ever been in real danger. But Russel had developed a keen sense for trouble in nations such as this, and his gut told him trouble was brewing. Although Malvado had ruled the island for three decades, change was in the air, and Russel prided himself on sensing when the wind shifted direction.

The limo drove up the long driveway, past elaborate gardens of tropical plants, colored rocks, and glowing fountains. Work lights illuminated the grounds and the palace, a hybrid of Versailles and the White House. The central portion of the château, which served as Malvado's home, stood three stories high; the wings on the
left and right, which extended from the main building at forty-five-degree angles, were two stories each. The right wing served as Malvado's military center, while the left wing served as the parliamentary headquarters.

The limo stopped at the military wing, and the chauffeur got out and opened the door for him. A staunch believer in rank, Russel did not acknowledge the driver. He crossed the walk and mounted the steps below the enormous Pavot Island flag. Two soldiers wearing red berets saluted him, and he returned the gesture as they opened the doors for him.

Inside the great hall, two more soldiers offered salutes, and Russel signed in at the admittance counter. Glancing at the other names above his, he saw he was the last to arrive, which caused a slight pang in his stomach. Punctuality was important to him, and Malvado might take his tardiness as a sign of disrespect. Like other dictators he had known, Malvado demanded respect at all times.

Nearing another pair of armed soldiers, Russel straightened his tie. When they opened the grand door for him, he did not return their salute because he was too focused on organizing the information in his mind.

Malvado sat at the head of the thick oval table in a chair that would have resembled a throne had a smaller man sat upon it.

As usual, his sons, Maxime and Najac, sat at his left hand and his right hand. The brothers made Russel nervous these days. He recognized their hunger for more power and envisioned a scenario in which they assassinated Malvado and fought for the seat of control. Russel did not wish to
get caught in a death dance between them, but he would be risking his own life to warn Malvado about the danger they posed.

Malvado was no fool, and he told his sons he intended to retire one day so they might rule in his place, implying that Maxime, as the elder son, would become president and Najac vice president. Maxime seemed satisfied with this plan but impatient to see it implemented, while Najac remained silent on the matter. Russel had good reason to believe Najac had his eye on the top spot.

Either way, he trusted neither son and saw no reason to believe they trusted him. Unfortunately, most of his money was tied up in the Pavot Island National Bank, and any effort to move it would arouse Malvado's suspicion. He had been investing small sums very carefully, creating just enough of a fund to survive if he needed to flee the island but not enough to permit him the lifestyle to which he had become accustomed.

The usual suspects sat around the table: Mambo Catoute, dressed in an elegant black dress, beside Maxime; General Buteau, who headed the military, beside Najac; and Colonel Solaine, the head of the police, beside him. The alliances were clear to Russel. Did Malvado see them?