Tropic of Darkness (8 page)

They were in long dresses, the same ones—presumably—they'd died in. Each of them wore beaded necklaces of brown and white with red stripes . . . the colors of their
orisha
, their guardian deity, Oya, Queen of Graveyards.

Dolores crossed her arms in front of her chest—the traditional greeting of their cult. But it did no good. Lucia scowled at her fiercely, her face twisted with contempt.

Isadora had on one of her forlorn expressions, but Dolores wasn't fooled. The sisters might have different temperaments, but when it came down to brass tacks they were each as bad as the other.

She tore her gaze from them, dropped her hands and stared down at her knuckles.

“What should your punishment be?” came Lucia's voice. “Something very bad, I think, for disobeying me this way.”

Isadora broke in again.

“Haven't we
all
been punished quite enough?”

Which seemed to make her twin sister remember something. Lucia looked like she was focusing inwardly, her eyes becoming slightly glazed. And then she let it go, emitting a dry grunt.

Both sisters moved away in the direction of the hallway.

They could travel so much faster than she could. They could cross the whole house in the blinking of an eye. The twins were not bound by the rules of this world, after all.

Dolores found them again in the dining room. Lucia was peering around angrily, searching for anything the slightest out of place, as she'd expected. Isadora had settled her misty form down in a high-backed chair and closed her eyes.

It was merely an illusion, since she had no physical form. But she managed it perfectly.

Her lashes trembled. She was concentrating hard.

Trying to find a new man, Dolores understood. Or perhaps she had already found one, and was studying him closer.

And she had to admit that, however sorry she might feel for the sisters' victims, she always found herself praying that—this time—it would be the right one.

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

It was evening as well much farther north in Toronto. Doctor Leland Hague—the same doctor who had tried to rescue Frank Jackson and had failed—was lying in his hospital bed, feeling like a tethered animal and bored as all damnation, his left foot and his fractured ankle in a cast. Only the painkillers they'd been giving him had kept things remotely bearable. And this morning they'd reduced the dosage, and a nagging frustration had begun to replace the fuzziness of the last couple of days.

He'd read the newspaper and magazines his daughter had brought him. Had no desire to listen to the radio, or make friends with any of the other patients. So, what to do?

He shifted a little, staring at the bare ceiling. Blinked. And saw a blood-smeared Francis Jackson, sitting on the edge of that damned bathtub.

She's . . . under my skin . . . she's . . .

Christ alive, as horrible and inexplicable a suicide as you could ever imagine. And Frank had been a friend of his. What a sickening thing to happen. He was blinking moisture from the corners of his eyes now, and he wasn't often given to emotion.

But there was something else that was eluding him. Not what Frank had done or uttered. Something he himself had said, passing out on the way here. What in the hell had it been? The painkillers had left him with a memory like Swiss cheese.

I think he was trying to—

He'd been practically fainting, at that point, and it was a struggle recapturing the exact words.

Rid himself of something. Just cut something out.

Hague fastened the words tightly in his thoughts, although they puzzled him. He wasn't in the least bit sure what he'd meant when he'd said them, and neither was he certain what to do about it. But there was one route to try out.

The chief pathologist for Francis Jackson's district would be Dalton Sokrowitz, a long-time friend of Hague's. They hadn't been in touch for practically two months, and he doubted it would lead to anything. But the hell with it, what could it hurt to ask?

Hague got a phone brought over, dialed the man's home number. Dalton answered, sounding weary and harassed. There were kids' voices screeching in the background—he had four under the age of seven, heaven help him.

“Leland? Hold on a moment while I close the door. . . . Better,” he sighed a short while later. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I'm in hospital, Dalt, I'm afraid to say. I'm okay, but I had a fall.”

“Wow!” The man sounded genuinely startled. “Bad news. They treating you okay?”

“It makes little difference which way they treat me, to my way of thinking. God, but these are hateful places from the inside.”

Dalton's tone transformed into a knowing chuckle. It was that old adage about doctors making the worst patients, and Hague had been expecting it.

“Just do as the nice consultants tell you—”

He could feel his blood pressure rising. “They're all half my age!”

“And don't go chasing any of the nurses. They're a third your age.”

And then Dalt pulled himself together.

“Seriously, I'm sorry to hear that. I'll drop around sometime in the next couple of days. But till then, what can I do you for?”

Hague suddenly felt awkward. What on earth was he expecting to find out?

But then he came straight out with it.

“A friend of mine committed suicide a couple of days back.”

“Oh, wow. I'm genuinely sorry to hear
that
, Leland. That's awful news. But how can I be of any help?”

“I'm wondering if he wound up on your slab. Guy by the name of Francis Jackson?”

Dalton's voice abruptly got a whole lot quieter.

“Jesus, yeah. Hard to forget.”

“A hell of a way to kill yourself, for sure. But Dalt, did you find anything unusual apart from the method of dispatch?”

There was a pause, far longer than seemed necessary. And the man sounded nervous when he finally came back.

“How private is this conversation?”

“How private should it be?”

“It's . . . I really don't want word of this getting around. I've built up a pretty solid reputation down the last few years, and I'm not inclined to go losing it now.”

Leland's pulse started to thump a little harder. “Your secret's safe with me. So give.”

“Okay. I looked at the guy shortly after he came in. I checked the body temperature, of course. Except that when I saw the records and the time of death, I realized Jackson was seven degrees cooler than he should have been when I examined him.”

Under normal circumstances, the human body cooled at a pretty stable rate—they both knew that. There were not too many variables, but Hague tried groping around for an answer. “He was wandering about in the snow in his pajama pants, a short while before he died.”

Which sounded like a stupid explanation, even as he said it. These things simply didn't work that way.

“You know better,” Dalt scolded him. “But there's worse. I thought the answer might be something chemical, so I took a sample from the little blood that he had left.”

“And?”

“No medications. No foreign agents whatsoever. But the
sample
was cold, too. Actually
cooler
than his flesh. Another three degrees below what was already an abnormally low temperature.”

Blood colder than the body that contained it? This was getting crazier by the second. Hague rubbed at his temples.

“So, what do you think might account for it?”

“There's nothing that could. I mean,
nothing
. It's scientifically impossible.”

His friend's voice had slipped the whole way down to a hoarse whisper. Hague was quiet and still a while.

“How did you write it up?” he asked.

“I didn't. I went through the motions and then passed the whole thing on. I think the corpse is at the tropical disease center by this time. It's their problem.”

Leland could fully understand why Dalton would want to do something like that. Medical careers, of whatever kind, were not exactly helped by filing reports from the
Twilight Zone
.

Dalt was sounding quite embarrassed by this stage. “Look, I've got to go. I'll see you soon. Behave yourself till then, okay?”

The line clicked and went dead.

Hague replaced the handset and let his head settle back. He was staring at the ceiling again, but not bored this time.

His eyes were glittering fiercely as he tried to think the whole thing through.

CHAPTER

TWELVE

Walking into the shadow-mottled cantina where they'd arranged to meet this evening, Jack realized Pierre Melville had arrived ahead of him again. As though he couldn't wait to start the evening's antics. He could hear the Frenchman's booming laugh the instant that he stepped in through the door.

Pierre was at a table at the far end of the room. And—as Jack had guessed he might—had two new girls in tow. Both peach-skinned Latinas this time, each with waist-length hair so black it seemed to have almost a bluish sheen.

Pierre introduced them, but Jack didn't take much notice of their names, feeling the same weariness descend on him as last night.

He still felt a bit cautious of the Frenchman—those mocking remarks about the need for female company he'd made. Scowled a little as he sat down. Okay, they had been pretty drunk but—

Perhaps, it occurred to him again, the mockery still stung a little because it had approached too closely to the truth.

Pierre seemed to have forgotten, though. His mood was as jovial as ever.

“Jackie, boy! Recovered from last night's excesses? Ready for some more?”

There was not the smallest hint of irony in his tone. Yesterday was lost into the past, so far as the Frenchman was concerned—which was entirely typical.

Pierre changed the subject without even waiting for an answer.

“What did you think of the band?”

“We got on fine.”

“I
knew
you would. Man, I'll tell you, I should be a manager. I'm great at hooking people up.”

Jack felt the last of his annoyance subside. This was the way it always was with Pierre. Incidents came and went and then were done with. Life was lived in a purely linear fashion, never clinging onto what had happened or trying to guess what would happen next.

“Thanks for the introduction,” he conceded.

“Don't mention it. That's what friends are for.”

Pierre then hugged the girls so hard they squealed. Jack figured out, from their eyes, they'd been sampling his new product.

“Let's get the hell out of this dump,” Pierre said, grinning. “There's a restaurant near here that serves the best lobster you've ever tasted. And from there, I think, to the Karibe.”

And now, Jack was intrigued. Even he had heard of the Karibe club. It was one of the most famous nightspots in Latin America. A place he'd definitely been hoping to visit. So, this was his golden opportunity.

*   *   *

Their cab thrummed through the night. Jack peered out the window. They had left the city center far behind and were driving down a wide, leafy boulevard lined with big old houses.

But he started to become puzzled, after a little while.

He had never been in this part of the town. But there was something about it that he recognized. He was probably thinking of somewhere else, he finally decided. There were districts like this in every major city he had been to in the past decade.

The cab finally pulled off the road, onto a curving asphalt drive lined densely with foliage. And once again, there was the weirdest sense of déjà vu.

He peered out through the insect-speckled windshield and then stiffened with alarm.

Ahead, he could make out flashing lights above the large, arched entrance to the club. He had never been to this place in his life, and knew that perfectly well.

But he
had
seen it before.

When he had been Mario Mantegna, in his dream last night.

*   *   *

By the time they were shown to their table, Jack believed he'd gotten this entire puzzle figured out. It wasn't déjà vu. It was simply that this place was so famous that he must have seen pictures of it somewhere. Or else it had been in a film, and that had been incorporated in his dream. Right?

He could not recall precisely where or when, what photographs, which film. But there was no other solution. It just had to be.

The Karibe turned out to be as topless as a waitress on Bourbon Street. No roof at all except around the edges. That wasn't recessed lighting above him—those were stars. They looked like part of the decor nonetheless. And the moon, suspended just above the branches of a tall, outspreading tree, might as well have been painted there.

Rumba music blasted from a nearby speaker, loud enough to make him squint a little. Even Pierre had to bellow to make himself heard.

“Hottest spot in Cuba! Not bad, huh?”

A portly
compère
in a suit of bright red sequins walked onto the stage, and the show began.

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

Carlos Esposito flashed his badge at the Karibe's door staff and was let on through. He'd changed into his day clothes, being officially off-duty, but he still had a revolver strapped around his ankle, just to be on the safe side.

He'd only ever been inside here twice: once to arrest a violent drunk, back when he'd been a beat cop, and the other time with a party of visiting Russians, way back in the eighties. He'd have liked to have brought his wife along tonight—it would have been a real treat for her. But he decided to come on his own, as he had no idea what he was looking for, or what to expect.

Nothing, probably. Any way he looked at it, he was just chasing phantoms. But those damned photographs . . . he was always like this when he came across something that he didn't fully understand. Like a dog with a bone.

Carlos crossed to the chrome rails that overlooked the tables and then scanned the crowd. There were a couple of faces he immediately recognized. One was a black marketeer, Juan Sando. Another, Jose Hector Perinos, was a notorious high-class pimp. It annoyed him that creeps like these could live it up so well while honest people struggled for everything they had.

Mostly, though, the crowd was made up of
turistas
, enjoying what they doubtless believed was a “typical” Cuban night out.

His gaze touched on a familiar face a few tables away—a Frenchman by the name of Pierre Melville, working in Cuba as a volunteer. Carlos already knew about this fellow all right, from his informants among the working girls. And now, he could almost feel his nose start twitching.

How was it that an
Internationalista
could afford places like this, and drinks like the ones sitting in front of him? There was another gringo next to him whom Carlos did not recognize. But they both seemed to be doing very nicely.

He decided on instinct, then and there, to keep a very close eye on this pair.

As the showgirls began trooping out, Carlos let his gaze sweep out across the auditorium, trying to spot anything else in the slightest out of place.

*   *   *

The stage filled up with dancers, trooping out from either wing, dressed in gold bikinis and with tall white plumes of feathers in their hair. And an amused smile crept over Jack's features. This was nothing but a good old-fashioned cabaret. He doubted that the repertoire had changed too much in the club's history. Exactly the kind of show . . .

The smile dropped from his lips, his gaze becoming troubled once again.

The same kind of show that people might have watched here decades back. Back in the fifties.

The dream again. This was precisely like the dream.

But just where
had
he seen this club depicted? And why could he remember that particular dream so vividly when, normally, he barely remembered his worst nightmares for more than a handful of seconds?
Hell
.

The chorus girls all started singing as they kicked and turned.

“Welcome to you all! Welcome to the Karibe! Welcome, everybody, to the land of dreams!”

Brilliantly colored lights kept flashing across Jack. The music rose. The audience was rippling, heads bobbing, necks craning, palms slapping on tabletops.

But Jack felt himself almost . . .

Sinking.

Like he was drowning in a sea of noise and vibration, motion and colored light. Being pulled below the surface, where the sounds were duller, the hues more muted. And he tipped his head back and could see the moon again. It seemed like the only real thing at this moment.

There was a sudden pressure on his shoulder, and he rushed back to full consciousness.

Pierre had reached across and gripped him, and was peering at him strangely.

“Jackie? What in the hell is wrong with you?”

Jack shook his head, trying to clear it. Returned his attention to the stage.

When the dancers finished their number and left the stage, they were replaced by a singing duo. Then a fire-eater. Then the chorus girls returned. They'd changed costumes. There were still plumes in their hair, but they were red this time. The bikinis were of black leather, even skimpier than the gold ones. Each dancer wore a necklace made of seashells.

Deep drums—in the orchestra pit—set up a throbbing beat.

It was no Vegas-y number this time. They moved sinuously, like cats. Their heads swung languidly from side to side. Their eyes darted across the audience as if they were hunting.

Jack felt his throat tighten as he watched.

His girl for the evening snuggled up to him. Her perfume filled his nostrils, and he could feel her warm breath on his neck. But he did not so much as glance at her.

The lights began to dim. The dancers' bodies grew shadowy. Jack's eyes narrowed. He would've sworn that there was somebody else moving in the gray dimness at the rear of the stage. Except he couldn't make out who.

The pounding of the drums was so loud that he found it hard to think straight. The entire world around him seemed to be caught up in their rhythm. Even his own breathing was. Even his heartbeat.

Something glinted back behind the dancers for a second. Jack craned forward, trying to see what it was.

Another spotlight came on, high up. It was stronger than the rest, a searing white, and sent a brilliant, tight beam lancing down to the stage floor. But it was empty. It remained abandoned, nobody moving in its direction. Jack was starting to wonder what on earth it was for when . . .

Something passed through it.

So quickly that he thought at first it had to be a huge moth or a bat.

It was only when it came through for a second time, from the opposite direction, that he could see it was a hand. Female. Very slender and pale olive.

The spotlight began moving around, trying to find the rest of the body. All it caught were fleeting glimpses. A flash of shoulder. Or a forearm, trapped for a split instant before vanishing from view.

These were like the outer edges of a jigsaw, giving him no real idea what the whole picture was. Who was this woman?

And it seemed to be happening independently of the main act. The other girls were still performing their cat number, seemingly oblivious.

The beat of the drums abruptly stopped.

The dancers froze into position.

Something else had stopped too, Jack could see.

The spotlight had halted.

And captured in its harsh glow was the woman that it had been chasing this entire time.

Like the others, she was motionless, her body held erect. Her arms were raised above her head, the wrists crossed, and her head was tilted back. Her eyes seemed to be closed, but . . .

More than ever, Jack felt certain he'd seen this before.

The audience around him was reduced to silhouettes.

The woman finally began to move again. Very slowly, smoothly, she lowered her arms until they rested at her sides. Then, her chin came down. And the eyes were still closed, so Jack couldn't be quite sure. But wasn't she . . . ?
Wasn't she . . .
?

He had seen that face before. He was
certain
of it. In the dream.

The woman's lashes gave a quiver that was noticeable even at this distance. Then her eyes started to open. And Jack found himself praying for them to be blue or brown. Because if they were a soft, delicate hazel . . .

They blinked at him.

And as Jack jumped up from his seat, yelling out loud, the woman's lips formed themselves into a hungry and delighted smile.

He was vaguely aware of everybody in the audience staring at him, Pierre gawking at him like he'd gone insane. But that was only on the edges of his consciousness. He couldn't shift his focus from the woman on the stage.

She remained there a moment longer, as still as a statue now.

And then, without moving in any way, she disappeared.

*   *   *

One thing started puzzling Carlos when he stared across a second time at Pierre Melville's table. Exactly which part of the show was the Frenchman's gaunt companion looking at? His blond head kept on bobbing around quite independently of the dancers, as if he was watching something else entirely.

He was still wondering about it when the companion leapt up to his feet and cried out like a maniac. The girl who was with him ended up dumped on the floor. And everybody else was craning round, trying to make out what the commotion was.

The gringo seemed oblivious to the attention he was getting. He gawked at the stage for a few seconds more.

Then he gave a massive, nerveless jerk. Seemed to lose his balance and staggered. Had to grab hold of the table to stay upright, pulling the cloth loose and sending glasses crashing everywhere.

Carlos followed every movement, his suspicions deepening, as Pierre rose and took hold of his friend's elbow, trying to calm him down.

The man was probably a junkie. He certainly looked thin enough. Maybe he'd been sniffing the
cocaína
too much and was having delusions. And that made his mind up. Yes, he would keep a very careful eye indeed on these two jokers in the days to come.