Epiphany Jones (13 page)

‘I’m telling you the truth, Jerry. She had me give it to her last night before she left.’

‘Left?’ I say. ‘Left where? Where is she?’

She reaches into a small purse and slides something across the table. ‘She’s in Veracruz. You leave tonight.’ And I see that the something she slid across the table is a ticket.

‘No,’ I shake my head. ‘I’m not going anywhere else. No way,’ I say, avoiding the ticket as if touching it would teleport me to Epiphany instantaneously. ‘Why should I believe she’s even brought the tape with her?’

Then LaRouche, she leans towards me. ‘Look rationally at your situation, Jerry. You’re in a foreign country, illegally. You don’t speak the language. You have no money. You’re wanted by the police in your own country. You’re practically a trafficked person yourself.’ She almost laughs. ‘I’m sorry, but it doesn’t matter what
you
believe.’

My whole body feels like it’s being squeezed in a vice. I want to deny what she’s said, but when I slump back in my chair my wound surges with fresh pain, as if reminding me,
She’s right, Jerry. You’re Epiphany’s bitch
.

LaRouche says that I was meant to travel to Veracruz with Epiphany today, but something happened. Epiphany attracted the wrong kind of attention; she had to get out of town, but I wasn’t in any position to travel. She tells me it’s a long bus journey (
great
), and that Epiphany will arrive in Veracruz before I do. Epiphany will meet me at the bus depot and from there we’ll meet with a man who will give us transport to Porto.

‘Porto?’

‘It’s in Portugal,’ she tells me.

LaRouche reaches into her purse again and hands me a large wad of pesos. She says it’s the equivalent of two hundred dollars. On a note she’s scribbled down the name of some medicine I should pick up to keep my infection in check.

She also tells me to buy some new clothes and a pair of sunglasses, ‘Just in case.’

She tells me, ‘Buy food.’

She tells me not to get off the bus until it reaches Veracruz. Not even to pee.

‘Just in case.’

She tells me that, after I buy the food and the sunglasses and the clothes, I should meet her at the apartment. She’ll have some euros to give me. ‘That will make it easier when you reach Portugal,’ she says.

I ask her why,
why
are we going to Portugal? How on earth does Epiphany think either of us is going to get on a plane with our fake passports? They don’t scan. They don’t even feel real. But LaRouche isn’t bothered by those minor issues.

‘Then at least tell me,’ I say like I’m begging for bread crumbs, ‘tell me why I’m here? Why did Epiphany drag me into this? It’s not just for the passports.’

And for a moment LaRouche doesn’t speak. Then, as if taking pity on me, she leans in. She leans in and says, ‘Because, Jerry, Hanna believes you’re the only one who can help her get to the person she’s looking for.’

‘Who?’ I say, at the end of my rope. ‘The man who abducted her? The man who bought her?’

I say, ‘Nico?’ and I sense the air in the bar stiffen.

‘Don’t say that name so loudly,’ LaRouche snaps.

‘Well, who?’ I say. ‘Matthew Mann?’ and LaRouche doesn’t budge.

‘Who, dammit?’ I practically yell. ‘Who is Epiphany looking for?’

And a reflection of light finally gleams from LaRouche’s silver tooth. ‘Her daughter.’

‘J
erry, I promise I’ll give you the tape after we reach Mexico. What? Oh, no, I meant Portugal
,’ Epiphany says in my mind.

I’ve been roaming the red-light district near the place where I got stabbed ever since LaRouche and I separated. I’m hoping I don’t run into the Jamaican. Before I left the bar I tried to pry more information from LaRouche about Epiphany’s daughter, but all she said was she’d already said too much, and that if I ever wanted to see that videotape I’d better get moving.

In my mind, Epiphany says, ‘
Jerry, I promise. We just need to go to Russia, and then it’s all yours
.’

In the red-light district there are beautiful girls in window after window, but it’s the men I’m looking at. The men that walk like zombies. The men who own the girls. The men who sell the drugs.

‘
Jerry, I swear. China is just around the corner…
’

And finally I find him. He mumbles as I approach.

If I go to Portugal with Epiphany, what then? I have no guarantee this will ever end.

‘Coke. Guns. Heroin,’ the man mumbles.

‘
You see that glowing orb in the night sky, Jerry? Once we get there, I’ll give you the tape. I promise with a capital P
.’

No. The only way this is going to end is if I stop it.

‘Coke. Guns. Heroin,’ the mumbling man repeats.

‘Gun.’

I
t’s small and black and looks like a toy. The gun is wrapped in a brown-paper bag and slips easily into my back pocket next to the bus ticket and my fake passport. I spent most of the money LaRouche gave me on it so I can’t afford to buy the medicine or the food or sunglasses or clothes. I’ve picked up a cheap postcard from a newsstand though. It has a picture of a beach and palm trees and says ‘I love Mexico!’ in red, bubbly letters.

It’s nearly impossible to write a goodbye letter without sounding cliché, but I give it my best shot anyway.

I drop the postcard in the mailbox after I scratch the last line out, even though it’s something that’s been disturbing me ever since LaRouche told me about Epiphany. If what she said is true, could Matthew have been the one who bought Epiphany? He would have had the money to. Is that why she believes God says she can kill him?

I return to the apartment as dusk is settling over the neighbourhood. The dusty street is imprinted with marks from a soccer match the children played earlier in the day. A few of the kids are still outside, but most have gone home for dinner. I hope to see Ana Lucia. I feel like I should say goodbye, but she’s nowhere to be found.

As I grasp the doorknob it occurs to me that I haven’t thought of an excuse to tell LaRouche when she asks why I didn’t buy the things she told me to. Too late now, I’ll just have to make something up on the fly.

And through the crack in the door I see a red backpack and money scattered on the kitchen floor. Then my chest goes hollow. I open my
mouth but no sound comes out. Blood drips from short ruts gouged into the edge of the wooden kitchen counter. LaRouche is on the floor, flat on her back, her red hair fanned around her head. Her mouth gapes open, clogged with blood, like it’s a bowlful of tomato soup. Her teeth are cracked and jagged. Her lower lip, ripped.

I feel weak and stumble backwards to grasp the counter for support, but I pull my hand away as something pierces my palm’s flesh. Embedded next to the bloody ruts gouged into the kitchen counter is a misshapen piece of metal.

It’s shiny and small.

It’s a silver tooth.

A
little girl. Pale skin. Raven hair.

A little girl. Pale skin. Raven hair. Talks to God a lot.

A little girl. Pale skin. Raven hair. Talks to God a lot,
and
has a sliced ear.

I’m sitting on the bus on its way to Veracruz imagining what Epiphany’s daughter looks like. The best I can do is picture Epiphany shrunk. Mini-Me’d.

I’m trying anything to keep my mind off LaRouche’s face. When I close my eyes I see her jagged teeth encircling that lake of blood in her mouth. Her gums were split open like the peel of an exploded orange where her silver tooth had been ripped out.

After I found her, after I grabbed as much cash as I could and threw it into the backpack, I ran to the bus station. I was on autopilot. The faster I ran, the more I sweat, the colder I felt. At first I thought Epiphany had done it, but LaRouche had said that she had already gone to Veracruz. It wouldn’t make sense anyway. She was helping Epiphany and, if the two of them trusted each other as much as it seemed, Epiphany had no reason to kill her.

And her mouth – it’s like what she described that trafficker doing to that girl who escaped all those years ago. LaRouche had said that Epiphany went early, without me, because she had attracted the wrong kind of attention. Did the traffickers see her? Would they recognise her? Do they know who I am? Is that why LaRouche told me to buy sunglasses and clothes ‘just in case’? To disguise myself?

I look down the aisle and make my way again to the rear window.
About an hour ago we passed a car on the shoulder of the road. As we drove by it pulled back onto the highway behind us. It’s been trailing back there ever since, its square headlights visible in the night as other cars overtake it, and then speed by us.

Back in my seat I swallow a couple of my 486s to suppress my anxiety and grab the bus company’s generic tourist magazine from the sleeve on the seatback in front of me. The route map on the back shows Ensenada on the Pacific coast and Veracruz on the Gulf. I wonder where we are now, but when I look out the window all I see is the dark, purple sky over the cracked expanse of central Mexico.

I feel my forehead and it’s warm with fever from my infection. I wake hours later. The large digital clock at the front of the bus says its half-past midnight. The desert is pitch black and inside little orange floor lights dimly illuminate the cabin. Paranoia compels me to check my surroundings. Across the aisle a little old lady snores softly. Her newspaper rests on the seat next to her. The back of a few heads sprout from seats closer to the driver. Behind me, there’s another three people scattered throughout the bus – all sleeping. I peak down the aisle again to look out the rear window. There’s still a car behind us, but it’s farther away now. I can’t make out the shape of its headlights. I can’t tell if it’s the same one.

The gun in my pocket presses against my thigh. I’ve never used one in my life before, but I’m glad I have it. If Epiphany is looking for her daughter it makes her even more dangerous. How many moms wouldn’t kill to save their child? And she already has.

The bus jostles and I cry out a little as my stab wound hits the armrest. If my pain had a name it would be
Epiphany Jones
.

When I fall asleep again I dream I’m back in Chicago. There’s a ticker-tape parade in my honour. The city knows that I was an innocent man framed for a heinous crime. The mayor and I ride in the back of an open-top car, waving at citizens screaming my name. ‘At great personal risk, Jerry Dresden apprehended and brought to justice a most dangerous and wicked woman,’ the mayor shouts. ‘The videotape proved everything!’ My mom and Donald smile at me from the car in front,
and on a float behind us, Epiphany is tied to a stake. She’s being burnt alive.

I wake to a growing fever and a new fear that’s crept into my mind: What if the tape wasn’t recording? Why should I believe
anything
Epiphany says? What if it’s blank and she took it because she knew I would only come with her if I thought it proved my innocence?

A road sign says it’s two hundred kilometres to Veracruz. It’s now past eleven and the sun is shining brightly. There are more cars now behind us in the distance, some have round headlights, some square. I tap the woman across the aisle and gesture towards the newspaper she’s discarded. For the slightest moment she looks at me as if we know each other but then she smiles, obviously mistaken.

I can’t read Spanish but the pictures keep me occupied. There’s an article that seems to be about jobs or the economy. A graph shows little Lego-looking workers with arrows going up or down next to symbols for the peso, euro, dollar and pound.

On another page is an article about the orphanage fire in Ensenada. A photograph shows a young girl crying as a medic treats her on-site. Another split-picture shows the orphanage before and after. Truthfully, the fire didn’t make it look much worse than it already was.

Then I flip the page to find myself staring back at me. My graduation photo takes up four columns of text. Really, I should start a scrapbook. In the article, beneath my photo, the words ‘Chicago’, ‘Van Gogh’ and ‘US’ appear several times. I fold the paper shut, but for the remainder of the trip the old lady across the aisle casts inquisitive glances.

I
t’s early afternoon when we arrive at the bus terminal in Veracruz. When we pull in I look back to see if any of the cars follow us off the main road, but they all drive past. The terminal is packed and it takes a while for the herd of arrivals to make their way through the exit gates. Outside the crowds mix with taxi drivers and a few
policemen directing traffic. Some just stare into the flux of people who are coming and going. I don’t see Epiphany anywhere. Back the way I came I notice two police who look a bit agitated and I think of the newspaper in my backpack that’s now folded around the gun. Would Mexican police really be looking for me?

I flinch as someone grabs my arm. It’s Epiphany. She’s wearing this cute blue sundress, a wide-rimmed cream hat and white strapped sandals. The large sunglasses and yellow shoulder bag complete her look as American-chic tourist. And I remember what LaRouche told me:
Be inconspicuous. Be invisible
.

Her dress doesn’t have any pockets. The videotape has to be in the yellow bag. In my backpack, I can feel the weight of the gun. But it’s too crowded to do it here. Pull the gun now and the police would be all over me. Epiphany would have plenty of time to take off.

‘Didn’t Momma tell you to get some new clothes?’ she says.

‘Uh, yeah. I spent it on medicine,’ I lie and jiggle the backpack. ‘Antibiotics and all. You know, infection from
the stabbing
.’

Epiphany ignores my dig, instead explaining in her vague Epiphany-way why she had to leave early. ‘I made a mistake,’ she says. ‘If I didn’t leave town, I would have put Momma’s life in danger.’

Too late
, I think, and I almost feel bad not telling her what’s happened to LaRouche. Almost.

Epiphany tells me we leave for Portugal tonight. There’s a man we have to meet in thirty minutes to pay for our passage. Tonight he’ll sneak us onto his boat. And nothing sounds worse to me than taking a cruise with Epiphany. I’d probably order the wrong thing at dinner and she’d have the maître d’ stab me. And through all of her explaining her plan, she never once mentions my wound. She never once mentions setting me up; getting me stabbed.

And that fear, it creeps back into my mind. What if there’s nothing on the tape? What if it’s just a bluff?

But that’s what the gun is for.

And relax, would you? I’m not going to straight up murder her. The gun’s just here to give me some power over her; to make her give me
the tape. I’m not a cop and I’m not an action star. The tape is the path of least resistance to proving my innocence. Let the cops find Epiphany after I’ve proved to them I didn’t do it. My troubles end with the tape, but first I need to view what’s on it. And if it is blank, well, then I guess I’ll have no choice but to use the gun to take Epiphany by force.

So as Epiphany keeps talking about our itinerary, I wince and grab my back. ‘I don’t think I can go with you to meet the guy right now,’ I say. ‘I need to … I need to sit.’

This doesn’t fit into Epiphany’s plan. She looks at me suspiciously, so I press my eyes closed and grab onto a railing. I make it look like I’m about to fall over. But Epiphany’s not a fool. She knows why I’m here. Denying it would only make her more apprehensive.

So I say, ‘I’m not going to lie to you. The second you give me that tape, I’m gone.’ I wince as I take a deep breath. I bite my teeth together in a fake attempt to stifle another fake moan. ‘But you have it, so I’m doing what you want.’

I’m not the best actor, but my fever lends credibility. My sweats are real. Plus my wound
does
hurt. Just not as bad as I make it look.

‘I’m not much good if I pass out,’ I say. ‘Are you going to carry me to the boat?’

I give another muffled cry.

A cagey look sits on her face. And then Epiphany says, ‘I didn’t mean for that to happen.’

Stand back, ladies and gentlemen. That’s an apology – Epiphany Jones style.

‘I got these for you,’ she says, almost timidly, and reaches into her yellow bag and hands me a bottle of co-codamol and another of ibuprofen. And if I weren’t planning to rob her at gunpoint in a few hours, I’d be a little touched.

I wave her apology away like I’m a big martyr. ‘Let’s just do what we need to do. The sooner I can get back to my life, the better.’

But Epiphany, she looks like she’s still on the fence.

So I say, ‘I mean, I did just come all the way here on the bus. If I was going to take off I would have done it then. Besides, I hardly slept.’
Except
when I dreamt about burning you alive,
I want to add. ‘I just need some rest.’

But she’s nothing if not cautious.

‘Fine. Here, look.’ And digging in my backpack I pull out my bottle of 486s. I rattle them in front of her. ‘You know I need these for my condition. Take them. I’ll get them back from you when we meet tonight.’

And Epiphany, she finally says, ‘OK,’ and slips the bottle of 486s into her yellow bag. Then she pulls a tourist map out and marks a little circle on it by the docks. ‘We’re to be there at nine for transport to the boat. That gives us six hours. I’ll meet him now to pay. You rest. I’ll meet you back here in ninety minutes.’

I say, ‘Thanks.’

And she says, ‘And Jerry, if anything happens; if we can’t find each other – be at the docks at nine. That’s where your videotape will be.’

I
follow the sightseers and the sounds of rumba music until I come to a large outdoor market. It’s one of those markets designed to suck money from tourists who are killing time waiting for their cruise ships to depart. The magazine on the bus told me about this place. The stalls are full of prints of Mexico, ceramic plates showing generic images of beaches that could be anywhere in the world, and little bottles of sands labelled ‘volcanic ash’. There are T-shirts, mugs and watches; key chains, pens, and shot glasses. If you can put ‘Mexico’ on it, it’s sold here.

But what I’m here for isn’t a souvenir. I’m here for the tourists carrying their MiniDV cameras around with them – the kind of camera Roland used to record his sessions on for insurance purposes whenever he photographed a painting. From the looks of it, I’ve got more than a few choices. And I mean, how hard can it be? I’ll just wait until one of the tourists put their bags down to try on an authentic, indigenously carved tribal mask and then swoop in just like Epiphany did in the bus
station in Chicago and grab their bag. Then I’ll have what I need to view the tape.

And just as I pick my dumb, unsuspecting victim, shouts suddenly break through the crowd. I turn and notice a man. He’s got dark hair and a black leather jacket. But before I can remember where I’ve seen him, the two police running from his direction slam into me.

And my heart, it sinks into my stomach.

And my head, it keeps screaming,
‘No, no, no!’

And the last thing I see before the two policemen force my face into the dirt is the man in the leather jacket, smiling.