Zig Zag (64 page)

At
one point, Carter asked him if he could cook using a microwave.

"I
can make stew," he replied.

Carter
stared.

"So
make it."

It
was clear that the ex-soldier was taking advantage of him, but he
obeyed without grumbling. After all, how satisfying was staying home
alone working all the time? Now he could actually help other people
just by carrying out simple tasks.

He
opened several cans, a bottle of oil, and some vinegar, and did what
he could, taking advantage of the scarce natural light coming in
through the window to create, if not a masterpiece, at least
something that might qualify as a decent home-cooked meal. He'd taken
off his sweater and shirt and worked bare chested. The air was so
dense and heavy with sweat that he thought he might gag, but that
just made his mission all the more real. He was a miner making dinner
for his exhausted companions, a cabin boy sweeping down the deck.

Amazing
circumstances were cropping up all over the place. At one point,
Elisa actually walked into the kitchen with her jeans
in
her hands.
All
she was wearing was a spaghetti-strap top and a tiny pair of panties,
and she was sweating profusely. She'd put her thick black hair up
into a ponytail.

"Victor,
do we have anything I could use to cut these? Some shears or
something? I'm sweating like a pig."

"I
think I've got just the thing."

Carter
had brought a huge box of tools that lay open in the next room.
Victor selected the steel cutters. It was a marvelous, spontaneous
moment between them. He could never have dreamed of a situation like
that occurring to him, especially with Elisa. She even smiled; they
joked.

"Higher,
no, higher, cut them here," she pointed.

"Wow,
these are going to be real minipants. Even as short shorts, they'll
be short..."

"I
don't care. Jacqueline doesn't have anything to lend me, and I'm
boiling."

He
thought of his previous life, when he used to feel lucky if he got to
have coffee with her in Alighieri's clinical surroundings. And now
here they were practically naked (him from the waist up, and her in
panties), deciding how short to cut her shorts. He was still scared
(and she clearly was, too), but there was something in their fear
that made him feel he could handle anything, pleasant or unpleasant.
Fear was liberating.

By
the time dinner was ready, it was dark and the heat was less
stifling. A breeze, almost strong enough to qualify as wind, blew in
through the dining room's puny window. Victor could see clumps of
darkness swaying in the night, out past the barbed-wire fence. He put
a paper tablecloth down, set places for each of them, and placed a
portable lamp in the center of the table like a chandelier. He even
tried to serve with flourish, though it didn't really work. Dinner
was hurried and silent. No one spoke at all, and Elisa, Jacqueline,
and Blanes rushed back to the control room to work some more as soon
as they finished eating.

Victor
cleared the table and turned on the transmitter in his jeans pocket.
Of all the sounds coming through, he could pick out Elisa's breath.
He thought of breath like a fingerprint, and there was hers, the
unmistakable pant of her alto voice. He could also make out the
scratches of her pencil on paper.

The
transmitters had been Blanes's idea, and Carter's stony face soured
when he heard it, as if to say, "Professor, leave the
practicalities to me," but in the end he'd agreed (not without
objecting) to get two-way radios and give them to everyone.

"They're
not going to do any good, genius. Silberg was ripped to shreds right
in front of the bodyguards on the plane, remember? And Stevenson got
it on a micro barge smaller than this room, in front of five men who
didn't see or hear a thing."

"I
know," Blanes admitted, "but I still think we should be in
constant contact. It's just more reassuring, OK?"

That's
why Victor's ears buzzed and crackled with Jacqueline, Elisa, and
Blanes's voices—and probably with his own noises, he thought,
taking care to be quiet when he cleared the table (he'd have to wash
the dishes later using tubs of seawater that Carter had brought up
from the beach). Just then, Carter called him.

"Take
a flashlight, go down to the pantry, and see what's on the top
shelves, in case there's anything we can use. You're taller than me,
and we don't have a ladder."

Victor
asked him to repeat himself. Ever since they'd arrived on the island,
Carter had showed zero interest in speaking Spanish, and although
Victor's English was pretty decent, sometimes that man seemed to
speak gobbledygook. Finally deciphering the message, he complied
submissively, grabbing a flashlight and heading next door to the dark
room. To the open trapdoor.

The
gaping black hole.

He
shined the light on the opening, saw the ladder leading down, and had
a sudden realization.
This
is where he killed the older woman. What was her name? Cheryl Ross...

He
looked up. Carter was still in the kitchen dealing with something. He
looked back at the trapdoor.
What's
wrong? Is making stew all you're good for?
He
took a deep breath and started down the ladder. Elisa's cough came
through the transmitter in his pocket, distinguishable above the
interference. Would she have heard Carter's order? Would she know
what he was doing right then?

When
the pantry roof swallowed him up, he shone the flashlight around. He
saw metal shelves crowded with items. The dirt floor showed no signs
of what he'd expected (and feared), though he examined it carefully.
It was cool down there, even a little chilly compared with the sticky
heat of the kitchen.

Victor
saw a gray metallic door at the back, its frame all boarded up.

He
recalled Elisa telling him that everything had happened in that back
room.
Behind
that door.

He
shuddered. After climbing down the final rungs of the ladder, he
decided it was best just to concentrate on the task at hand.

Starting
with the shelf on the right, Victor stood up on his tiptoes and swept
the flashlight beam across the top shelf. He saw two boxes of what
looked like crackers and rusty metal cans of something that was
obviously not food. It reminded him of a riddle he'd solved in which
a Chinese man points to a
rusty
nail
to say "lusty."
Metal
would
be "metar." A hushed conversation came over the
transmitter, muffled by static. Blanes and Elisa were talking about
something related to UT (universal time) computations and energy
periods. The vibrato on Elisa's voice made his groin tingle.

"Christ,
turn that shit off." Suddenly, Carter's boots were behind him,
coming down the ladder. "It's bullshit, no matter what our
resident genius says."

This
time Victor didn't obey. He didn't even reply. He just kept searching
the top shelf until he found some more boxes.

Suddenly,
there was a hand on his crotch. A huge hand. He jumped a mile, but
not before Carter's thick, stubby fingers had jammed themselves down
into Victor's tight jeans pocket and turned off the transmitter.

"Whoa!
What are you
doing?"
he
shrieked.

"Relax,
Father, you're not my type." Carter flashed a smile in the
darkness. "I told you, those transmitters are worthless pieces
of shit, and I don't like being eavesdropped on."

Victor
swallowed his anger and went back to his task.

"Please
don't call me 'Father.' I'm a physics professor."

"Oh,
I thought you studied theology or religion or something."

"What
makes you say that?"

"I
heard you say something to the Frenchy at the airport in Yemen last
night. And I've seen you pray a couple of times, too."

Victor
was surprised at Carter's subtle powers of observation; this was a
new side to the man. It was true he'd spoken to Jacqueline about his
readings, and he had prayed several times during the trip (he'd never
been so motivated in all his life!), but always discreetly, barely
even mouthing the Our Father. He didn't think anyone had noticed.

"I'm
Catholic," he said. He reached out to lean on one of the boxes
and peered over to see what was in it. More cans. He pulled one out.
Beans.

"All
the same to me, scientist or priest." Carter had begun taking
boxes down from the shelves on the left. "Both the scum of the
earth, as far as I'm concerned: one invents weapons and the other
blesses them."

"And
soldiers fire them," Victor replied pointedly, despite the fact
that he really didn't want to start a fight. He checked the
expiration date on the can of beans and saw that they were four years
too late. Dropping it back in the box, he shone the light onto the
next one. Cardboard packages. He stuck his hand in and tried to pull
one out.

"Tell
me, then," Carter said, behind him. "What does God mean to
you?"

"God?"

"Yeah.
What does God mean, to you?"

"Hope,"
he said, after thinking about it for a little while. "And to
you?"

"Depends
on the day."

The
package was stuck. Victor rattled the box violently. A quick, black
shadow darted out inches from his hand and scurried up the wall.

"Oh
my God!
Dios
mio!"
Victor
yelped in Spanish, jumping back instinctively.

"Now
that's
definitely
not
God," Carter replied, adding,
"No
es Dios"
in
Spanish for dramatic effect as he shone his light on the ceiling.
"That's a cockroach. Big, yes, but no need to exaggerate..."

"Big?
It's enormous!" Victor felt sick. He could feel the stew
churning in his stomach.

"That's
a tropical roach, no artificial colors or preservatives. I've been in
places where seeing one of those was enough to make your mouth water.
Where seeing a roach crawl by was like scoping a deer."

"I
don't think I want to visit those places."

The
ex-soldier snorted.

"Well,
this
is
one
of those places, Father. If you want, I'll take the boards off that
door and show you."