Tropic of Darkness (16 page)

But he couldn't seem to conjure up even that simple image. His resistance was fading fast, dwindling with every second that went by.

He stared glassily at the hands of his watch. The sickly green of their luminescence felt like it was etched onto his retinas.

Four-oh-one. Only make it through to four-oh-one.

Except he wasn't listening anymore. He'd gone completely limp. His mind seemed to be tipping over and then falling in slow motion.

He felt that he was sinking, deep beneath the surface of some lake.

His eyelids fluttered shut.

*   *   *

He could hear again before he could see.

There was music coming from around him. Yes, a band, as he'd suspected. And playing a Cole Porter tune: “I've Got You Under My Skin.”

Out beyond the music, there were voices chattering, glasses clinking and the high tinkle of laughter.

Gradually, his new surroundings drifted into focus.

Jack was still on board a ship, but nothing like the one he'd stowed away on. This was a luxury yacht, burnished brass and gleaming teak everywhere he looked, rows of pennants flapping from the rigging. And it was anchored in the center of Havana Bay.

It was still dark. Headlights drifted in a steady procession along the shoreline. They were large and round, looked out-of-date. And, more peculiarly still, Havana itself was ablaze with multicolored lighting. He'd seen nothing of that kind when he'd walked around before.

Here on deck, Chinese lanterns were strung up from every mast. There were candelabras on the tables. Sparklers fizzled in the top of a huge cake.

There was a tightly packed crowd in front of him, but Jack did not seem to be part of it. Rather, he was removed, in a place from which he could study them.

The people here were almost all white. And wealthy-looking, in fine evening garments, all the women draped in jewels. There was a crowded dance floor full of glittering motion.

He began to see, from the style of their clothing, that he was back in the Fifties once again.

But he didn't seem to be Mario Mantegna this time. So who the hell
was
he?

Jack looked around, and found himself in the front of three ranks of musicians. He was on a bandstand, which explained his slightly elevated vantage point. And he was dressed in a white tuxedo and a dark red cummerbund, his precious cornet in his lap.

But he didn't understand. What was he doing up here? He wanted to step down, and found he couldn't move.

Until his cue came along. At which point, he raised the cornet to his lips and went into a solo, better than he'd ever played in his whole life.

He ran his gaze over the crowd as he performed. Waiting for her to drift into sight. He knew that she would, sooner or later.

He was into the last few bars when he spotted, among the people who were dancing, an all-too-familiar figure. A large man, handsome and tough looking—and when Jack had seen him before, it had been in the first of these weird dreams, looking in a mirror.

Jack felt astonished, though his fingers kept on moving and he didn't miss a note.

If he's down there,
the thought came,
then what am I doing up here?

His solo completed, he lowered his horn. Continued to watch as Mario Mantegna danced, gliding across the deck. The man's partner was hidden from view.

But—smoothly and gracefully—the mafioso
turned.

Isadora DeFlores was clutched to his chest.

*   *   *

She stared up at him. Jack flinched back.

The tune dwindled to an end.

The bandleader announced, “We're taking a short break now, ladies and gentlemen. But we'll be back, and
soon
!”

There was patchy applause from the crowd. The rest of the musicians began gathering up their score sheets.

Still, Jack didn't move. He watched as the woman put her mouth to the gangster's ear and told him something. Nothing good, by the look of it. Mantegna let go of her angrily and turned round on his heel, marching away into the throng.

Smirking, she advanced on Jack, almost seeming to float in her long gown. Entirely against his will, he got up off his stool and stepped across to meet her.

She produced a cigarette from her purse and stood there amusedly, waiting for him to light it. Blew out a thin stream of smoke, then peered into his eyes.

“I'd always heard you play the cornet like an angel. I can only hope that you're not quite so angelic in, well, other ways.”

“How about your boyfriend?” Jack could hear himself replying. “He looks like the jealous type to me.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “I answer to no one.”

“Good for you.”

She moved up closer, reaching for his shoulder.

“Oh no, Mr. Gilliard. I
hate
being good.”

Her face closed in. She nuzzled at his cheek, and then his neck. And she wasn't cold, like last time. She felt deliciously warm. He simply couldn't help himself.

“Where should we go?” he heard himself asking.

“Well, the owner of this vessel is a very naughty man. I'd hardly got on board when he slipped me the key to his private cabin.”

She lifted it from her purse.

“I can't imagine why.” She grinned.

And then she took his hand.

*   *   *

Deep carpet underfoot. And red velvet drapes at the portholes. The huge bed, below a mirrored ceiling, was in the shape of a giant scallop shell, as if Venus might be bunking down there.

Isadora led Jack to it and then was on top of him. Their mouths pressed together. Nimble fingers started to undo his shirt.

And however hard Jack fought to stop it, his resistance didn't work. The sheer heat of the woman was completely overwhelming him.

The heat of her,
he told himself.
Yes
,
concentrate on that. Her body is not warm. That simply cannot be. She's dead
.

One of her hands slipped inside his shirt, and her palm felt hot enough to burn.

No. Cold—it's cold!

It seemed to begin working, just a fraction. Her touch against him became a tiny degree cooler.

She was pulling off his tie by this time, her tongue at work like some live creature inside his mouth.

Except her lips grew cooler too. And the woman seemed to notice there was something going wrong. She slowed to a halt and lifted herself, peering at him.

“What's wrong? Don't you want me, Jackie?”

And that finally did it.
Jackie
. The exact same thing Pierre Melville used to call him. He started to shove the woman off him, yelling,
“No!”

And then woke up.

To the echo of his own loud shout, resounding through the hold.

*   *   *

He had actually cried out in his sleep. God! Jack went completely still under the damp tarpaulin.

The noise of hammering from above had stopped. And when he listened, he could hear boots clanking down the stairs. He yanked the canvas off his face, looked around for an escape route.

A burly seaman, grease smeared on his face, came lumbering through the one hatch with a flashlight. Jack got slowly to his feet, not taking his eyes from the man. He had a hammer in his other hand. And three of his compatriots were coming in behind him.

They gaped at him in astonishment, taking in his blond hair and blue eyes.

“A gringo?”

“You!” said the first one. “What d'you think you're doing here?”

His gaze slid down to something at Jack's feet. The bottle of amphetamines had dropped out of his pocket.

“You a junkie? Christus!”

The man raised his hammer and stepped forward.

“I
hate
junkies! You think you're going to stay here, stinking up my ship? No. I'm going to mess you up!”

Jack dropped to a crouch, his knife coming smoothly out of his back pocket. Expected the man to step away. Come to a halt, at least. But he was wrong.

The sailor didn't hesitate. He lunged out, with incredible speed, and lashed at Jack's hand. He connected, and the pain was like a tent spike being driven through his bones. The blade went clattering away along the floor. Jack clutched at his knuckles.

One of the others hissed, “Try to cut us, huh? Son of a whore!”

They were spreading out, ugly smiles on their faces. But it was his turn to counter. He plunged in, attacking with his feet and his remaining fist, his old instincts returning.

He managed to punch one guy in the mouth; kicked another on the knee so hard that he heard something crack.

But then the flat side of the hammer slammed against his neck. The hold began turning sideways.

Someone hit him squarely on the chin, and he didn't seem to have legs anymore. So he fell over, coming down hard on the drenched, rusted steel floor.

He could make out boots surrounding him.

Then they started kicking . . . kicking . . .

CHAPTER

TWENTY-EIGHT

Manuel had real difficulty getting off to sleep that night, and woke as soon as dawn's light began creeping up his windowpane. He must have only been out for three hours at the most. He clutched at his brow and moaned. It would probably have been better not to sleep at all.

“
Hola
.” Luis nodded as he went into the hallway.

The young man had showered and was wrapped in a clean towel. And—damn the young their energy and their resilience—the boy was fresh-faced, his eyes as bright as two new coins.

A noise from downstairs announced that Doctor Hague had risen, too.

Ten minutes later, the smell of brewing coffee was emerging from the kitchen, eggs were sizzling in a pan. The Canadian was standing over them, his crutches tucked under one arm. In the hallway, Manuel watched as Luis dialed the clinic.

The student spoke hurriedly on the line. He looked surprised by the answer he got, then turned to Manuel, beaming with relief.

“Doctor Torres is there,” he reported. “And he's expecting us.”

*   *   *

Light, like the answer to some age-old, practically forgotten prayer. It was coming in, narrow as razorblades, to slice through the pitch black inside Jack's head. Early morning light. There for a brief instant, and then gone as his eyes closed again.

A breath. He was aware of taking it. A very painful thing to do, as it turned out. His ribs felt tighter around his lungs. And there was a stickiness across his nose and mouth. His own blood . . . yes, for sure.

But he could not feel rust or moisture any longer. He was not on the ship. Where, then?

The question hung there in the darkness for a second. And then, like those brief slivers of pale light, it was gone.

*   *   *

Falling slowly. Turning as he fell. The darkness now had texture, form. Was swaying softly as he went by, as if his passage was disturbing it.

Jack reached out and tried to touch it. His fingers brushed against a delicate fabric. He was falling down a shaft, the walls of which were lined with fluttering black silk.

Finally and gently, he arrived at the bottom. And he lay there, perfectly at ease.

She came to him.

The black silk parted and she stepped through. So utterly beautiful. No woman he'd ever known came near to matching her.

Isadora DeFlores knelt down beside him, and her eyes were full of love.

He tried to respond to that. She raised a hand. Made a faint shushing noise. Soft as gossamer, her fingertips alighted on his cheek.

“Oh, my poor Jack. Look what they've done to you.”

Finding a bruise, her fingers began to circle it. And its soreness faded. She was smiling.

“You see? I can help you. I can take away the pain. You've been carrying so much pain, for so very long a time.”

His discomfort subsided. Her face was so close to his he could smell her breath.

“This is what you want,” she told him. “This is what you've wanted for a whole age, without knowing it. Somebody to comfort you. Somebody to make you feel at ease. You're tired of always moving on. Tired of everything changing. And so very tired of being tired. Isn't this so much better, Jack?”

He felt like he was falling asleep all over again. His eyelids had grown leaden, and his limbs extremely heavy.

“You're the one,” she was intoning. “I've waited for you all these years. We'll be together, until the end of time.”

She kissed his mouth.

And then, she did something extremely puzzling. Took hold of his sleeve and shook it. Why had she done that?

Both her hands were at his shoulders. So it had to be someone else.

A voice drifted to him, from the top of the deep well.

“Señor?”

It was a child's voice, not a woman's.

“Por favor, Señor?”

Jack bobbed back to consciousness.

The sunlight rushed in at him and his teeth set with pain. His body was full of it, his bones aching and his head raw. The woman hadn't soothed a single injury. It had been merely an illusion.

Jack pushed himself up, managing to get one eye open enough to see who'd shaken him. It was a little boy, no more than five years old, clad in a pair of overly large khaki shorts. The kid returned his gaze, aghast. Both his grimy hands went to his mouth in horror.

And then, he was turning on his heel and running away as fast as he could.

Jack watched until he was gone, then raised a hand and felt his lips. They smarted at the slightest pressure, and his fingers came back stained a reddish-brown. It wasn't the first time that he had come out on the wrong side of a fight, but he had to look like roadkill this time. Little wonder that the kid had run.

Groggily, he tried to figure out exactly where he was. It was a patch of dry grass, by the side of a wide road. Traffic rumbled past. Beyond that was the wire fence of the dockyard—but not where he'd first entered. He could see a gate. Those bastards had simply carried him out and dumped him here.

His head had begun to throb. But there was something else wrong. He remembered what.

It was the dream that he'd just had. She'd almost gotten to him this time. Almost suckered him, seduced him. That was bad enough. But there was one extra problem.

Daylight.
This time, Isadora DeFlores had visited him during the day. And he'd had it on good authority that was pretty much impossible.

He didn't understand it, but knew one thing for certain.

He wasn't even safe with the sun out any longer.

*   *   *

Somehow, Jack had found his feet and was stumbling along the edge of the road. The few pedestrians coming his way stared at him and gave him a wide berth. He was conscious of faces looking at him from the windows of passing cars, children leaning out and pointing.

Everything was still extremely blurred, the ground beneath him genuinely unsteady. He went around a corner, lurching. And then a rank of cabs came wobbling into view. He forced himself in their direction. Reached the first in line, making the driver, who was reading a newspaper, jolt.

Jack bent down, but the man flinched back.

“Doctor—Torres?”

He realized his voice was being muffled by his swollen lips.

“I have to find the clinic of Doctor Aldo Torres. Do you know—?”

The cabbie shook his head, then rolled up his window.

He got the same response from the next driver in the line. But the third, an elderly guy with a huge walrus moustache, peered at him in a measured way, then nodded.

“Yes, I know him. Come, get in. But keep your head off the upholstery.”

He kept on glancing at Jack in his mirror as he drove.

“You a sailor?”

“No.”

“I just thought . . . they are always getting into fights, is all.” The man seemed to be chewing something over. “There are clinics nearer by. Why this one in particular?”

“It was recommended by a friend.”

Maybe the man knew what Torres did, and maybe not. But he went completely silent at that point, pretending he was concentrating on the road.

Jack's head seemed to be hurting worse than ever. Swimming. Swimming.

*   *   *

The motion of the cab was getting to him, and so was the heat. His eyes were drifting shut again.

No! I have to get to the clinic!

But he'd arrived. He was already there.

He was sitting on a hard chair in a white-tiled empty room. Jack looked around.

“Is anybody here?”

There was a plain door in front of him. Far too plain, in fact. It had no handle and no keyhole. But after a while, he could hear footsteps coming up behind it on the other side, tapping. The sound of high heels.

“Who's there?”

The door began to open.

It was her, revealed. She was dressed in a crisp white uniform this time. A nurse's cap was pinned to her tumbling locks. And—curiously—she was wearing shades. Thick, black lenses. Jack could only stare at their opaqueness, wondering why she'd put them on.

She favored him with a grin and then shut the door behind her. Jack tried to draw away as she approached, but it proved impossible.

Click
.

One painfully slow step at a time. Her body swaying as she moved, her smile becoming menacing.

Her fingers went to the buttons of her coat, undoing them. Reaching him, she planted her hands on his shoulders, sat down, straddling his lap. Her face was closing in on his. And he hated those shades. Wanted to see her eyes again. If this was the end, he wanted to drown himself in those twin pools of hazel.

Jack reached up and lifted the dark sunglasses away.

The eyes staring back at him were a fiery, tigress green. This wasn't Isadora. The woman's features screwed up.

“Why should
she
have you?” she yelled, her voice echoing weirdly. “Why that simpering bitch, and not me?”

Jack shoved her away violently.

The cab's interior came lurching back.

*   *   *

“If Gilliard is still here,” Torres was telling the others, “then I doubt it is by any accident. Dark forces have built a cage around him he cannot escape from, and that can only indicate one thing. He must truly be the one the sisters have been looking for.”

“Surely only one of them can take him over?” Manuel asked.

“Of course. Maybe they are squabbling over him right now.”

Hague could contain himself no longer.

“Good God, do you know what this
sounds
like? Stuff from the Dark Ages.”

Torres stared back at him calmly. “It must be very hard for you,” he answered. “I completely understand. But before this thing is done, one way or another, I think you will be left in little doubt that what I say is true.”

He spoke the words with such unflinching gravity the only thing Hague could do was give way for the moment, sinking back into his chair again.

“The first thing must be to determine the condition Jack is in.”

Torres opened a drawer in his desk and took out four small objects, which he held cupped in his palm. Hague peered—they were four pieces of coconut shell, so far as he could see, dark on one side, white on the other.

“This is called
dar coco al santo
, Doctor. And I've never known them to be wrong.”

“Bits of coconut?” Hague snorted. “And I thought reading tea leaves was a lame excuse for superstition. I was obviously wrong.”

But Torres ignored him. He got up, went across to a wooden cabinet, and opened it. To Hague's bemusement, there was a tureen inside that looked like it was filled with stones. Beyond it was some kind of statuette.

“This is the vessel of Orunla, guardian of all high priests. And I am going to ask if he is happy with Jack Gilliard.”

“Happy—?” Hague started complaining.

But Manuel halted him with a brisk shake of his head.

“This is a serious ritual,” he whispered.

Torres got water from his sink, sprinkled drops of it in front of the statue and then started talking to it in Yoruba. He touched the floor and the tureen three times, still murmuring.

The
Babaaláwo
brought his hands together at his chest, the rinds in them. And then cast them on the floor.

Every single one had landed white side down. Four dark husks showed, and the man looked deeply troubled.

“The worst possible answer. Death.”

“For heaven's sake!” Hague groaned impatiently. “Don't you think our time would be better employed just trying to find the man?”

“But there's no need for that,” Torres replied quietly. His head had lifted, as though he were listening to something only he could hear. “No need at all. He is already on his way.”

*   *   *

When Jack didn't show up after ten more minutes, Torres's unease rose. He started pacing the room and then came to a decision. Headed for a side door. The rest followed him outside.

The Yanqui had been trying to get here, but he hadn't made it the whole way. He was lying facedown in the dirt between the curbside and the parking lot.

And he was barely conscious.