Текст книги "Red Jungle"

Автор книги: Kent Harrington

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

THIRTY-TWO

The bell rang twice. It had been thirty years, or more—Antonio couldn’t remember exactly how long it had been since he’d climbed the stairs to Isabella’s apartment. He’d thought about Isabella every day of his life, but the memory was soft now, just their talking and their making love, nothing about her death.

He’d told no one about what had happened. He was proud that he’d kept his promise and helped her son until the boy had decided to do what he was going to do. And now Antonio didn’t know what to do to stop him.

He hadn’t expected Russell to ask him to come back to this apartment. He couldn’t refuse the boy, of course; he was sure Russell would die. Antonio told himself again, as he waited for the door to open, that Russell had made his own decision to kill Blanco. It had just been so unexpected. Who can tell about a person, Antonio thought, breathing a little hard after climbing the stairs. Russell should never have come back here, that would have been better.

He was about to reach for the bell again when the door opened and Olga let him in.

“I’m here to collect some things for the young gentleman,” he told Olga. She’d aged so much, and she was so stooped now, he hadn’t recognized her. Then he saw the shoulder, and remembered. “Olga? Olga, is that you?”

“Sí, señor,” she said.

“Olga! My god! I thought you’d gone to the United States like everyone else. Where have you been all these years?”

She looked at him.

“Don Antonio?”

“Yes. Isabella’s friend. Do you remember?”

“Sí, Don Antonio,” Olga said.

He took her hand and held it a moment. “God, it’s been so long, Olga.”

“Si, Don Antonio,” the old woman said.

He looked at her for a moment longer, then let go of her hand. “You came to my parents’ house after Isabella . . . after that awful time.” He remembered now how Olga had searched for Isabella.

“Si, Don Antonio.”

“My family was beastly to you. I’m truly sorry. I was out of the country studying. I’m so sorry for what happened.”

She shook her head in acknowledgement of the time she’d spent standing out in front of his house in the rain, coming back every day, trying to get an answer as to what had happened to her mistress. She’d collapsed out in front of the house and been taken to the public hospital, where she’d almost died of pneumonia. The war started in earnest right after that.

“Pase Usted,” Olga said, and led him down the dark hallway.

Antonio followed her. He remembered looking out the window once or twice at the silly Indian girl who’d stood in front of his parents’ house in the rain. At the time, he thought she was mad or interested in blackmail. He’d gone to the university in Chicago soon afterward.

“Don Russell was using his mother’s room,” Olga stopped at the doorway. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Don Antonio?” she asked, her face expressionless.

“Yes. Thank you, Olga. Yes, please.” He walked into Isabella’s bedroom and back into his youth. Olga watched him. He looked old, she thought, and fatter. He had been a handsome young man, very thin.

She turned around and went to the kitchen. She put the blue iron pot on the stove and turned up the gas. For a moment she saw herself standing in the rain. She listened to the water in the pot start to move and dance. She’d been pregnant then, but hadn’t even known it.

She turned and looked at De La Madrid. Like all of his class, he’d taken it upon himself to sit at the dining room table and wait to be served. She closed the door to the kitchen, got out the rat poison and spooned it into the bottom of the cup. Then she filled the cup with essence of coffee, two teaspoons of sugar, and hot water.

She opened the door to the dining room and served De La Madrid. Afterwards, she went back into the kitchen, sat in the same chair she’d sat in years before, and waited.

1988

Guatemala City

Dearest Russell,

Antonio De La Madrid and I are getting married. I wanted to write to you as soon as he proposed, but I had to run to the plantation yesterday because of the harvest. I tried to call you from there, but the beastly Communists had cut the telephone wires again.

So, darling – I just wanted to say that you will be able to come back here and live with us, if that’s what you want. I would like you to finish school there in the States, but you could come for a long, long visit. If you prefer, you can stay here. And there’ll be a house here in the capital, as Antonio wants me to find something for a new family. That

means you’ll finally have a brother or sister! I want you to take a semester off and get to know Antonio. I know you will like him. I don’t ever expect him to replace your father, that would be absurd. But I hope you and he can be great friends. I’ll finish this letter in the morning, as we are going to a party tonight. Good night, mí Capitan…

Antonio struggled against the rat poison. It had been violent and very painful. He’d run first into the bathroom; after he’d been sick, he’d staggered into Isabella’s room trying to vomit the rest of it up, but it was too late. He’d screamed for Olga, but she’d disappeared. In the bedroom mirror he saw his mouth white with foam; he’d grabbed at the hair brushes and pulled the glass top off the counter. It was there that Isabella had slid the letter to her son before she’d gone out that last night. Olga had found the letter and picked it up, seeing her mistress’s handwriting, but she couldn’t read it; she’d never learned to read. She threw it into the fire.

•••

“Where’s Carlos?” Russell asked. Beatrice was in jeans and a T-shirt, and looked upset. There was something wild and desperate in her eyes when he’d pulled open the door to his hotel room.

“Here in the Hotel. But he doesn’t know I’m here. He was to have a meeting with the Americans,” she said.

When she’d knocked on the door, he thought it might be Katherine, with an explanation for why no one had shown up. Seeing Beatrice was completely unexpected.

He’d gone over a thousand times how he was going to shoot Blanco. He planned to shoot Blanco by the escalator as the president rode it up from the lobby to the ballroom. Russell had gone down and selected a place to stand. Then he’d come back to the suite to wait.

He looked at his watch. Blanco would be arriving in two hours. “I went to your mother’s apartment looking for you,” Beatrice said. “I’ve decided to leave him . . . Carlos. I don’t care. I’ve taken the children . . . I’ve brought Olga,” she said. “She’s downstairs in the car park with the children now.”

“What’s wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?” he said.

“Russell . . . Olga’s killed Antonio,” she said.

“What are you talking about?” He glanced again at his watch. It was a quarter to six. He had to go downstairs soon, if he wanted his place, before the crowds got too big.

“Antonio is dead, Russell. I saw him. . . . She begged me to take her away. She’s killed him, and she’s terrified. She begged me to take her home to your mother’s plantation. I didn’t know what to do. She said you were here at the hotel, that Antonio told her.

“I’ve taken the children,” she said again. “They can’t grow up with Carlos. I won’t have it. I want to be with you. I can’t stand it anymore.”

What she’d said seemed crazy, and he wasn’t sure she hadn’t gone mad. He slapped her. It was involuntary; all the tension of waiting for nothing made him do it.

“You’re lying.” He held her by the shoulders and shook her. “I just spoke to him. You lying bitch.” Her face was red where he’d slapped her.

“No. He’s dead.”

“Why are you lying?” He let her go.

“I’m not.” She was holding her face.

“I’ll call him right now. You’ll be sorry you did this,” he said. “Did they put you up to it?” He went to the couch, picked up his cell phone and dialed Antonio’s cell number. He got the voice mail message.

She hadn’t moved.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not lying. He’s dead. I’m sorry, but it’s the truth.”

“You are lying and I don’t know why, but I can’t forgive you. Not for lying to me about this. They sent you, didn’t they? Carlos. You’re working for them now. Is that it?”

She shook her head. He closed his phone. He had a horrible desire to hit her again, but stopped himself.

“I came because I love you. Please don’t hit me again. I’ve left Carlos. I wrote him a note. He’s going to know about us when he gets home. I couldn’t stand it anymore. Any of it. I want to be your wife. I want you to take me and the children away from here.”

“If you’re lying . . . I’ll. . . .” He reached for the pistol he’d shoved into the couch pillows, pulled it out and walked towards her. She didn’t move.

“You told Carlos. That you’ve left him?” She shook her head yes. “Are you working for them? Is that why you’re lying about Antonio?”

“No! Stop it. You’re scaring me, Russell. I’ve got the children downstairs, for God’s sake! We have to go now. We have to leave. We can be in Mexico before the announcement. Antonio’s dead, and I’m not lying about that. Why in God’s name would I lie to you?

“Are you listening to me? We don’t have much time. Carlos will be President in a few hours. I’ll never get the children away from him then.” He was standing there staring at her, the gun in his hand. “He’ll never let me leave with the children once he’s been named President. You know that.”

He saw suddenly that she wasn’t lying.

“Why did she do it?” he said. “Why?”

“Russell, I don’t know why. But we have to go. Now. We can take Olga with us if you like. You know what they’ll do to her if they arrest her. She’s an old woman. I couldn’t leave her there. She was pathetic, just sitting in the kitchen staring

at the wall.”

“I can’t go with you. Not now,” he said. “It’s too late.”

“What do you mean? It’s two hours to Mexico. He won’t notice I’ve gone until late tonight.”

“I have to kill Blanco. Now. In a few minutes.”

“What?”

“I have to. You don’t understand. If Blanco makes that announcement, Carlos will be President,” he said.

“What difference does it make who’s President? We have to go now. It’s our only chance to take the children. Please. Russell, I’m begging you.”

“Don’t, because I can’t. Not now. You don’t understand. It doesn’t matter about Antonio. There’ll be someone else… anyone but Carlos,” he said.

“I won’t let you do it. They’ll kill you,” she said. She took her cell phone out of her coat pocket and began to dial. “I’ll tell Carlos what you’re planning.”

He grabbed her phone away from her and threw it across the room, against the door of the bathroom, smashing it. She collapsed in a heap on the floor, and was crying. He bent over and lifted her up. “I want you and the children to go to the hotel Lago in Puerto Barrios. Register under the name of Molly Jones. Take the children, and take Olga. I’ll meet you there in three days. Do you understand?”

“But they’ll kill you.”

“Maybe. You’ll know soon enough if they do,” he said. “If they do, you can take the children to Honduras from there. There’s a British consulate office in Tegucigalpa. They’ll help you get to England.”

“You promise me you’ll come?” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ll come in three days. But Carlos will have to die now, too. I can get close to him. I’ll have a chance.” He looked at her. “Can you live with that? If I make it, they’ll have to grow up with the man that killed their father.”

“I don’t care,” she said. “As long as you come to Barrios in three days.” She threw her arms around him. “I don’t care about Carlos, just come to Barrios. Please.”

•••

“I’ve got the Jaguar. Here,” Russell said. He’d dialed the general’s cell phone. “Where are you?”

“I’m at the Camino Real,” Carlos said. “I thought you said Mahler had it.”

“He did. He’s brought it out. It’s at Tres Rios. We’ll sell it to you for two hundred thousand dollars cash. . . . In an hour.”

“Wait a minute, I can’t speak here,” Carlos said. Russell heard the sound of voices, and he guessed that the general was in the café downstairs. “Why so cheap?” Carlos asked finally.

“Because we can’t sell it, and you can. You’ll be President. It shouldn’t be a problem, should it? You can sell it back to the state, right?”

“You’re very clever. All right, I’ll get the money,” Carlos said.

“I want you to fly me to Tres Rios in your helicopter. You can have the whole thing, the plantation and the Jaguar. You will be back in time for the ceremony. By the way—congratulations, Mr. President.

“I’ll meet you in the lobby in—” Russell glanced at his watch “—in half an hour.”

“Fine. Is it big? The Jaguar?” Carlos asked.

“It’s huge. You’ll see,” Russell said.

Exactly ten minutes later he managed to shoot President Blanco dead as Blanco was riding up the escalator. His body guards did nothing; the Americans had paid them off and told them not to interfere. Russell had simply stepped on the escalator and ridden right past the smiling Blanco, who thought he recognized the kid from somewhere.

THIRTY-THREE

Sitting above the jungle canopy on a hill, the temple’s stone face was hit by the last of the slanting afternoon sunlight. It was both frightening and beautiful. And, Russell thought, there was something clearly defiant about the way it sat alone facing the river, forever a silent epitaph of empire. Was it the start of a Mayan city? Or was it something else? Finding no one at the camp site, he made his way along the track towards the site. Was it only the last moments of a defeated culture? he wondered. Had the temple been only a hiding place, as it was for him now? Had Mayan soldiers huddled here with their wives and children, praying to their Gods, waiting for a last great battle?

It started to rain as he trotted up the track past discarded boxes of equipment. A cloud blocked the sun and the jungle darkened the finishes duller. Further along, he found Mahler’s horse lying dead at the foot of the temple. Its saddle had been torn off and lay nearby. High above, at the top of the site, he could see Mahler sitting by the entrance, waving to him excitedly.

Unable to walk, Mahler had crawled out when he heard the jeep cross the river. It must have hurt him to crawl, Russell thought, because he looked like he was in a lot of pain.

“How did you get here?” Mahler asked him. He was sitting in the dirt, a kerosene lamp at his side. Filthy and gaunt, he had wound a piece of torn rain slicker over his injured leg.

“Bakta Halik. I’ve brought your jeep,” Russell said. A bad smell hit him as he stepped closer to Mahler. “What happened? Where is everyone?”

“I tried to move the Jaguar. I think something scared my horse. I’m not sure. But it fell on the steps,” Mahler said. A few bats flew out into the twilight past them. Russell saw a colony of them clustered on the ceiling, their upside-down bodies twisting slightly.

“I’ve broken my leg. It’s pretty bad,” Mahler said.

“Can you walk?”

“No. Can you smell it? The leg.”

“Yes,” Russell said.

“Septicemia,” Mahler said. “The bone came through the skin. I managed to shove it back down.” Mahler looked down at his leg, then up at Russell. “But my hands were dirty from all this bat shit. I couldn’t get down the steps to the medical bag.”

Russell could see flies sitting on Mahler’s leg. “You hold the lamp,” Mahler said. “I show you.” Russell took the kerosene lamp and held it over him. Mahler rolled back the bloody slicker. “What do you think? Not so bad?”

He could clearly see where the femur had snapped, leaving a sharp glossy end. The wound looked badly infected, and he could see hideous clusters of fat maggots.

“It’s infected,” Russell said. He didn’t use the word gangrene, but he thought it. Mahler slipped the dirty slicker back over the hole in his leg.

“Bad luck, huh,” Mahler said absently. He looked down towards the camp. The mist had turned to rain, the dusk-colored jungle canopy an ocean of tree tops that went on for as far as the eye could see. “I couldn’t get down the steps. I could see the camp and the medical bag. . . .”

“Yes,” Russell said. “Bad luck.”

“Maybe they were wet. The steps. It was raining pretty hard.”

“Maybe,” Russell said.

“There it is. I told you I’d find it.” Mahler smiled. He grabbed the lamp out of Russell’s hand and held it up. Its yellow light opened a passage in the darkness. Russell could see the Red Jaguar standing in the middle of the temple, the rope Mahler had used to drag it around its neck. “Fucking huge. . . . Can you see it? It’s getting pretty dark.” Mahler turned the lamp back toward Russell. There was nothing he could do for him, Russell thought. Mahler was going to die, and he knew it.

“I remember when I was a boy in Germany, we had a view of the wall. . . . The wall, remember?”

“The Berlin wall?” Russell said.

“Yes. The Wall. We had a garden right on the wall. You could hear the guard dogs barking. . . . My mother hated it. I’d like to call my mother,” Mahler said. “I think she should know I’ve found it. . . . Do you have your phone?”

“Yes,” Russell said. “But from in here, you. . . .”

“I thought maybe if I crawled outside into the open,” Mahler said. His face was very pale, his eyes reflecting the yellow lamplight.

“You shouldn’t, it’s raining pretty hard,” Russell said.

“Could you get me some brandy from the camp, and your phone? I want to call my mother,” Mahler asked, as if he hadn’t heard what Russell had just said.

Russell took the lamp and went and got the brandy and the medical bag from the camp. He passed Mahler’s horse again on the way back.

“No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue. . . .”

Mahler was singing in a soft voice, drinking from a cup Russell had brought him. The metal cup fell from his hand suddenly, but he didn’t seem to notice at first. The sound of the falling cup echoed on the temple’s stone floor. Mahler seemed to be somewhere else. “I could not foresee this thing happening to you. I want to see the sun blotted out from the sky. I see no red doors . . . go ahead and turn them black.” Mahler was singing and rocking a little, maybe because of the pain. His lips were wet. Outside it was pitch black now.

“I’d like more,” Mahler said suddenly. “I can’t hold the cup. Why not?”

Russell didn’t know what to say. It was hard to watch someone die, even someone he didn’t like. He’d cleaned and dressed the wound as best he could.

“What happened to everyone? Where’s Gloria?” Russell asked. He bent down and helped Mahler drink straight from the bottle.

“I killed them,” Mahler said, swallowing weakly. The brandy spilled out of his mouth as he spoke, onto his stomach and bad leg. He drank a lot of brandy and spilled a lot. “It’s a ton at least, isn’t it?” Mahler said when he’d drunk his fill. “Will you put the light on its face? I want to see it again.”

“Sure,” Russell said. “If you want.” Russell picked up the lamp and walked into the darkness. It smelled better away from Mahler’s leg. The yellow lamp light caught the face of the Red Jaguar. Its eyes were gold nuggets; its teeth were white bone. The body was a red jade that looked almost translucent. The face, jewel-encrusted, was frightening. He’d never seen anything like it. Was it a talisman against the Spanish? He reached out and touched its face. If it had been, it had failed them.

“Mayans. They were fucking good, man. Make something like that. Fucking good, man. I just wanted to pull it out of here so I could see it better. I wasn’t going to try and steal it from you,” Mahler said. Russell didn’t believe him, but it didn’t matter now. “The horse slipped . . . on the steps. Or something scared it. Bad luck,” Mahler said again, like he couldn’t believe it had happened.

“Could you move it?” Russell asked, coming back towards him.

“Yes. I moved it. I had to dig it out myself. You won’t have to do that. It took me two days,” Mahler laughed. “That’s why I’m so dirty. It’s filthy in here. Will you give me your phone now? Please. I want to try to call Germany.”

“Sure,” Russell said. Mahler took his cell phone and tried to dial.

“I can’t see,” he said. He was dying, and his eyes were going, Russell thought. He held the lamp over Mahler’s head to help him see the phone.

“Mutti,” Mahler said. “Mutti, why don’t you answer?” He was losing his guts now. “Why can’t I talk to my mother?” Mahler asked. “I’ll go outside. It will work outside. Will you help me? I want to speak to my mother.” He started to crawl towards the door frantically.

Russell tried to help him, but Mahler screamed in pain and they had to stop. There was a frightened look on Mahler’s face now. He started to cry from the pain. Russell suddenly felt sorry for him, because he knew Mahler was going to die like that, in pain and alone. There was no way he could take riding in the jeep.

“Fucking horse,” Mahler said when he could finally speak again.

“I’ve brought your jeep,” Russell said. “I can try and take you out.”

“How? You told me, but I’ve forgotten.”

“I came through Bakta Halik. It took eight hours.”

“Yes. I suppose you could. It will be dangerous on the way back, with the Jaguar.”

“Do you think we can get it out?” Russell asked. He got closer, bending down over Mahler.

“Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe. You could take me to the doctor, maybe, too.”

“I’ll take you. It would be very painful, in the jeep. But if you want I will try.”

“No, I don’t think so. Maybe you could send someone back for me? Maybe that’s better.”

“I’ve killed the President of the republic. So I don’t know if you want to be traveling with me anyway. But I’ll send someone. I promise,” Russell said.

“Fucking hell! Really? Blanco? That tub of shit.”

“Yeah,” Russell said. “And Selva. He’s dead, too.” He picked Mahler up and dragged him back over to the wall so he could sit up.

“You’re crazy,” Mahler said. “I always said so. What happened?”

“I had Selva bring me to Tres Rios in his helicopter.”

Mahler looked at him. “You fucking crazy.”

“I told him we were going to sell him the Jaguar. I also told some people who had a score to settle with Carlos that he’d be there. They killed his pilot and bodyguards, and then they took Carlos away. He’s dead by now,” Russell said. “I’m sure of that.”

“Fuck him. He would have made a lousy President,” Mahler said. “You brought my jeep?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a winch in the back. I hid it so that it wouldn’t be stolen. You can use that to drag it out of here. I want my cut. When you get it sold,” he said. He was sucking on his lip now because of the pain.

“Okay,” Russell said. “I’m meeting Carl’s brother at Puerto Barrios. Tomorrow.”

“Then you take the luggage rack off the top and you drag it on that,” Mahler said. He was a genius, it was true. Russell knew he would never have thought of that.

“That’s a good idea,” Russell said. “It might work.”

“Fucking right it is. How do you think I found the Red Jaguar? I want my cut,” Mahler said again. He was a little drunk now. “I found it, didn’t I?”

“Yes. You found it. And you’ll get your cut,” Russell said. He wasn’t smelling the leg so much now; the rain was blowing fresh air through the temple door.

“I’m smart, aren’t I?” Mahler asked.

“Yeah,” Russell said. “You’re smart.”

“Fucking right,” Mahler said, looking at him.

There was a shot; the bullet hit Mahler in the forehead. Mahler’s body twitched violently for a moment, as if he were trying to get up.

“Now, amigo, I don’t want to kill you, too. But I will,” Coffee Pete said. He was standing in the entrance of the temple, wearing a black rain poncho and a cowboy hat. His .45 was pointed at Russell.

“Now that’s what I call a stinking kraut,” Pete said. He walked over and gave Mahler’s chest a hard kick. “I heard that last part about dragging it. I just don’t know what the fuck you boys are up to. But I guess it’s in here. Right? What is it?”

Russell had been crouching very close to Mahler, his hand on the lamp. He could smell the acridness of the gun shot. Mahler was staring at him.

“Well, lift it up! The light, asshole, so I can see what you got in here!” Russell didn’t move. “Listen, kid, I don’t have a lot of time here. You got half the Guatemalan army out looking for that General, and they’ll get here sooner than later. So lift the motherfucking LAMP!”

“He was dying anyway,” Russell said finally. “You didn’t have to shoot him.”

“Yeah, well, I spared him the wait,” Pete said. “Now, amigo, lift the lamp.” Russell did what he asked. “That’s right; why don’t you stand up, too. Are you carrying a gun?”

“No,” Russell said.

“I bet you’re lying. Drop your pants. And take your shirt off,” Pete said. “Go on, don’t be bashful.” Russell put down the lamp and took off his shirt, then dropped his pants. “Okay. I hope that was as good for you as it was for me,” Pete said. “Now pick up the lamp.”

Russell didn’t say anything. He pulled his pants up and lifted the lamp as Pete asked.

“Jesus. Fuck me, boy. I got to see that a little better. Get closer. What is that down there?”

“What’s it look like,” Russell said. He had hoped Pete wouldn’t see it.

“Fucking giant pot of money, is what it looks like to me. That’s what you two have been up to, then?”

“That’s right,” Russell said.

“And what about the sack of money in the jeep? What’s that about?” Carlos had paid him for the Jaguar in cash and he’d brought the money with him. “I was going to leave with that, but then I saw the light up here. The girl at Tres Rios, she’d said something about digging out here, and I thought fuck it. I had to know what was up here. For all I knew, you two had found the fucking lost Dutchman mine,” Pete said.

“What girl?” Russell asked. He thought of throwing the lamp at him but he decided against it.

“The girl the kraut here tried to send to her maker a couple of days ago. See, I’ve been staying in the village next to Tres Rios since I met you. I started thinking about it. Why would anyone buy a coffee plantation nowadays? It didn’t make any sense. I started wondering what was going on. So I went back to the village and put my ear to the ground.

“That girl had to walk all the way out of here with buckshot in her ass, but she lived. I heard about it yesterday. Then today, I heard Selva had been kidnapped by a lot of exguerrillas when he landed at Tres Rios. You’re a busy motherfucker, kid, I’ll say that. I’m just guessing now, but I guess that’s the general’s money in the jeep. But it don’t matter to me whose it is now,” the old man said.

“You’re awfully quiet, Price. You must be trying to figure out how to kill me. I’m seventy years old, son, and there’s a lot of men that’s tried, and I’m still here. You best figure out another plan.”

“All right,” Russell said. “Help me get the Jaguar out to the asphalt and you can keep the money in the jeep.”

“How about you help me get the Jaguar out of here, and I don’t kill you. That’s what’s on the menu today. Take it or leave it.” The old man raised his pistol.

“I’ll take it,” Russell said.

“Good. I thought you might. You won’t mind if I don’t shake your hand,” Pete said. “I think that might not be such a good idea. Now, drag that dead motherfucker out of here, because he stinks.”