The Furies (42 page)

“Is that why he ordered the shooting?”

John nodded. “I don't know if he was trying to kill me or just send a message. But it didn't matter. His boys drove down our street at two in the morning and strafed our apartment. They blew out the windows of the living room. Then they fired at Ivy's bedroom.”

This was the most difficult part, remembering the moment when he'd rushed into Ivy's room. The shattered window, the glass on the floor. The constellation of bullet holes in the newly painted walls. Ivy slept with so many blankets heaped on top of her than John couldn't tell at first whether she'd been hit. But he knew, he already knew. She was a light sleeper. She would've woken up if she'd been able to.

Ariel came toward him, edging across the hut's plank floor. But she didn't say a word, and John was grateful for her silence. It gave him the strength to continue.

“I lost my mind. That's the only way to describe it. Carol, my wife, she ran into the bedroom too and started screaming, but I didn't even look at her. I ran downstairs and looked up and down the street. The car was long gone, but that didn't stop me. I started racing across the neighborhood, trying to find Salazar.” John closed his eyes. It was a little less painful that way. “I went to the police, but they couldn't do a thing. They didn't even try to find any witnesses who saw the car. When it comes to gang shootings, there are no witnesses in Kensington. No one will say anything against the Disciples.” He shut his eyes tighter. He wasn't in the rain forest anymore. He was back in Philadelphia. “This will tell you how insane I was. When I went to Ivy's funeral the next day I had a gun tucked in the back of my pants. A forty-caliber SIG Sauer semiautomatic that I'd bought on the street for two hundred dollars. Just in case I spotted one of Salazar's boys on the way to the cemetery. I was going to kill them all. Every last goddamn one of them.”

He felt Ariel's hand on his upper arm. She gripped it gently, massaging his biceps. At the same time, she leaned close and touched her forehead to his. He could feel her warm breath on his cheeks.

“What stopped you?” she whispered.

He opened his eyes. Ariel's face was so near, he couldn't see her very well. He hesitated, nervous about how she'd react to the rest of the story. Then he forced himself to continue. “Father Murphy conducted the burial service. Afterwards he took me aside and said, ‘Give me the gun.' He knew what I was planning to do. He could see it in my face. He even tried to reach behind me and pull the gun out of my pants. But I wouldn't let him. I said, ‘Father, I love you, but right now you better stay out of my fucking way.'”

“But he didn't, did he?”

“No, he didn't give up. He was the stubbornest man I've ever known. Everyone else had already left the cemetery, but we were still out there by the open grave, shouting at each other. Finally he said, ‘Just give me the gun for twenty-four hours. Then I'll give it back and you can do whatever the hell you want with it.' And I said fine, okay, because I was tired of arguing with him and I knew I could buy another gun anyway. Then he made me promise two things, that I'd go to Saint Anne's Church that afternoon and that I'd never tell anyone I'd given him the gun.” John frowned. “That should've made me suspicious. But I wasn't thinking straight. I wasn't thinking at all.”

Ariel shifted her head to the side, bringing her lips close to his ear. Her long hair brushed against his jaw. “What happened?”

“I kept my promise. I went to the rectory at Saint Anne's. Father Murphy wasn't there, but some of the old ladies in the congregation tried to console me. They held my hands and prayed and tried to make me eat a sandwich. I sat there for a couple of hours, dead to the world. I didn't want to go home because I knew Carol was in the apartment, packing her things. She blamed me for Ivy's murder, so she was moving out. She couldn't stand to spend another minute with me.” He clenched his hands and winced. “And then I heard sirens, a whole bunch of them. A few minutes later someone burst into the rectory and yelled, ‘Father Murphy's been shot! He's dead, he's murdered!'”

Ariel let out a soft “oh” of pain.

“I ran out of the church and rushed toward the sirens. They'd found his body in the basement of an abandoned row house. Just a few feet away were the bodies of Salazar and two of his boys. They'd all been shot in the head with forty-caliber bullets.”

She tightened her grip on John's arm. “Your SIG Sauer was forty caliber.”

“The cops couldn't find the gun. Their best guess was that another gang attacked the Disciples while they were having a sit-down with Father Murphy. He was just an innocent victim who got caught in the crossfire. It was a plausible story, and there was no evidence to dispute it.” He shook his head. “But I'll tell you what really happened. Father Murphy killed Salazar and his boys. Then he shot himself. When the other Disciples rushed to the scene, they grabbed the gun and dumped it in the river. They didn't want anyone to know that a seventy-five-year-old priest had just iced their captain.”

“Mercy.” Ariel bit her lip. “He killed them to save you.”

John was crying now. “He knew he couldn't stop me from going after Salazar. And that I'd probably wind up dead or in jail for the rest of my life. So he did the job himself. And he sent me to the rectory to make sure I had an alibi.” His throat tightened, and he let out a sob. “But here's the worst part. Father Murphy believed in heaven and hell. So he didn't just sacrifice his life for me. He sentenced himself to eternal punishment. He gave up God Himself for me.”

“Oh, John.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and held him tight.

He was sobbing freely now, like a child. It would've been humiliating if anyone else were holding him, but Ariel knew what to do. Keeping her lips close to his ear, she murmured, “Hush, baby, hush. It's all right, it's okay.” At the same time, she rubbed his back, making circular “there, there” motions between his shoulder blades. It was simple, commonsense consolation, but it worked. Ariel understood and forgave him.
She's good at this,
he thought.
It's yet another of her talents.

John stopped crying after a minute or so. He felt weak and shaky, but also relieved. He hadn't realized until now how much his secret had burdened him. Grateful, he nuzzled his head against Ariel's shoulder, luxuriating in her embrace. “You were right,” he whispered. “I feel better now.”

“I'm glad.” She patted his back. “But you haven't finished the story yet. Tell me how it got into the newspapers.”

“Well, gang murders in Philly are pretty common, but this one made the news because of the priest connection. A reporter at the
Inquirer
called me after he heard that I worked with Father Murphy, and he got excited when I told him what had happened to Ivy. He asked if I was glad that Salazar was dead. So I gave him a quote, and the next day it was on the front page.” He shrugged. “And you know the rest, right?”

Ariel pulled back, holding him at arm's length so she could look him in the eye. “Yes, I know the rest. In fact, I know the quote by heart.” She took a deep breath. “‘No, I'm not glad. Every death is a tragedy. My little girl is in heaven now, looking down at all of us, and I know she's not happy with what she's seeing.'”

He opened his mouth in surprise. “My God. You memorized it.”

“It's a good one.” She smiled. “And I should know. I've heard a lot of quotes over the past four hundred years.”

John smiled back at her. Then he leaned forward and kissed her. He couldn't help it. She was irresistible.

It was a good, long kiss. He hooked his arms around Ariel's shoulders and pulled her close. She opened her mouth, warm and eager, and the tip of her tongue touched his. She smelled of salt and sweat and the black water of the rain forest. Her lips had the licorice taste of the ration they'd shared.

He didn't want to stop. He couldn't get enough of her. After a while he slipped his hands under her shirt and caressed her back, feeling her smooth skin and all the bony knobs underneath. Ariel shivered and grasped the back of his neck, kneading the muscles there. Then she pulled up his shirt and touched his nipple, moving her index finger in slow circles around it. Soon he was in a frenzy, out of control, like the animals that had churned the floodwaters after tasting the Fountain protein. He tore off Ariel's shirt and unclasped her bra. Then she unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers. It was a mutual frenzy, a shared madness. While Ariel wrenched off his pants and boxer shorts, he slid his hands into her jeans and gripped the waistband of her panties. Within seconds they were both naked, their bodies shining in the moonlight.

John lay on his back on the plank floor. Ariel hovered over him, her knees on either side of his waist. She stretched her hand toward him and touched his cheek, stroking it gently. Then she gripped his erection and angled it upward, pressing its tip between her labia. Leaning forward and lowering her hips, she guided him inside her, slowly engulfing him.

The moon was above her left shoulder and its light silhouetted her. John could see the outline of her body and her long, gorgeous hair, but the rest was dark, a mystery. He grasped her waist as she rocked up and down, and though he could barely see her face he knew she was smiling at him. She laughed and ran her hands through her hair. Then she let out a moan and cupped her breasts, holding one in each hand.

She was unashamed, unafraid. Rocking faster, she let go of her breasts and reached down to her crotch. She rubbed her clitoris with her middle finger, jiggling it rapidly as he moved in and out of her. She moaned again, louder this time. “Oh, John. Oh, sweetness.”

Behind her voice he heard all the noises of the jungle, the nighttime chorus of frogs and birds and insects. The noises rang in his head, steady and loud, like the thumping of his blood in his ears and the slick, rhythmic smack of their bodies. He thought he'd have to shout if he wanted Ariel to hear him. When he spoke, though, his words came out in a whisper. “I love you, Ariel. I want to be with you forever.”

She heard him. She arched her back and groaned with pleasure, grinding her crotch against his. Her head tilted backward, catching the moonlight, and for a moment he could see her eternally young face. She'd squeezed her eyes shut and opened her mouth wide. It was a silent scream, ecstatic and beautiful. John could see the wave of pleasure coursing through her, making her tremble, and a second later he felt it rush through his own body. He writhed beneath her on the plank floor, pumping madly.

For an instant, the universe was theirs. All of creation whirled around them.

 

 

They fell asleep afterwards, which was a mistake. When they awoke three hours later, half a dozen men in olive-green fatigues loomed over them. The guerillas stood around them in a circle on the hut's plank floor. The pale light of dawn reflected off the barrels of their assault rifles.

John felt a surge of adrenaline and despair. He tightened his hold on Ariel, who stiffened in his arms. Her eyes darted toward the corner of the hut where they'd stashed their carbines, but the guerillas had already grabbed the guns and Ariel's backpack as well.

The biggest man, a monster with tree-trunk arms and a face spotted with grotesque pimples, said something in Spanish, and the others laughed. John understood Spanish pretty well—half his friends in Kensington had been Latino—so he knew the guerilla had just made a comment about Ariel's ass. She'd put on her T-shirt and panties before falling asleep, but not her jeans. John sat up and pointed a finger at the big, pimpled bastard. “
No seas ojete,
” he warned.

The men laughed again. The big one, who wore a bright red bandanna, stepped forward and poked his rifles into John's ribs. “You don't have to curse me in Spanish, señor,” he said. “You can call me an asshole in English, if you like.”

“Listen, we're Americans. If you fuck with us, you'll be in deep—”

“No, no, please. Don't waste your breath. I'm not impressed that you're American.” He waved his hand dismissively, then gave an order in Spanish to his men.

Two of the guerillas grasped John's arms and lifted him to his feet. Then one of them pulled a rope out of his pocket and began tying John's hands behind his back. His guts roiled as he felt the rope around his wrists. “Look, you're messing with the wrong people. I don't know who you guys are, but—”

“I'll tell you exactly who we are. My name is Comandante Reyes. I'm the man who shot down your expensive airplane. But the truth is, I'm glad you survived. I'll get paid twice as much for bringing you back alive.”

Another guerilla stood behind Ariel and tied her hands together. She kept her eyes on Reyes, studying the man. After a few seconds she curled her lip in disgust. “Let me guess. The man who's paying you is named Sullivan?”

“
Sí,
Señor Sullivan.” The commander smiled. He seemed genuinely pleased that Ariel had guessed right. “He says he's your brother. And he's anxious to see you.”

“He's here? In Caquetá?”

Reyes nodded. “
Sí, sí.
And someone else from your family is here, too. Your sister, I think.”

“Sister? I don't have a sister.”

“No? That's strange. She looks just like you.” Leaning toward Ariel, he closed his left eye and pointed at it. “But she's missing one eye. You sure you don't know her?”

THIRTY-ONE

First, the guerillas got on the radio and reported to their headquarters camp, describing in rapid Spanish what they'd found. Then they loaded John and Ariel into their skiff. They put John in the back of the boat and Ariel in the front, keeping them separated and well guarded. Then the men began poling the skiff down the shallow channel in the rain forest, using long sticks with pronged ends to push the boat through the black water. This, John realized, was how the guerillas managed to sneak up on them. Except for an occasional splash, the skiff moved silently across the swamp.