William Heffernan - Red Angel

“And Plante Firme’s grandson was murdered in his place.”

“Yes.”

Martinez turned to Devlin. “Are your questions answered, my friend?”

Devlin nodded. “Except for the location of Dr. Mendez’s body.”

Martinez turned back to Cabrera. “You can answer this question?”

“Yes.”

“Do so.”

“The body, or what remains of it, has been made part of a nganga now under the control of the palero Siete Rayos.”

“And the remaining parts of the body?”

“Destroyed, the ashes scattered at the direction of the palero Baba Briyumbe, who prepared the nganga ”

“And the change-of-heads ritual for Senor Rossi is still to take place.”

“That is my understanding.”

“When?”

“Tonight. After dark.”

“And where will this happen?”

“At a house in Cojimar.”

“You have the address?”

Cabrera nodded, and Martinez did not correct him this time.

“Write it on the paper I have given you.”

As Cabrera did so, Martinez turned back to Devlin. “Is there anything else?”

“No. No more questions,” Devlin said. “I just want to get my hands on Rossi. Around his throat would be nice.”

Martinez smiled at him. “I take it you did not know that the lovely Senorita Mendez was always to be part of this killing that Senor Rossi paid so generously to arrange.”

“No. But I do now.”

Martinez raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I am afraid I cannot allow you to give him the death he deserves.” He raised one finger. “But I believe I can help you give him even greater misery.”

“How?” Devlin’s eyes were cold, blue steel, and the scar on his cheek, the gift of an old knife wound, had turned a vivid white.

“In time, my friend,” Martinez said. “But well before you take your leave of my country.”

He turned back to Cabrera, and noticed that the colonel had succeeded in regaining some composure. “Do you have something more to say, Colonel?”

Cabrera straightened his back. “I wish the privilege of an officer,” he said. His voice broke as he spoke the words. “I wish a pistol, and time alone in this room.”

Martinez walked back to the desk and turned off the tape recorder.

“I am afraid I cannot accommodate you.”

Martinez went to the door and rapped lightly three times, then stepped back. The door swung back slowly to reveal Plante Firme.

Devlin heard Cabrera gasp. The old palero was naked to the waist. He wore a straw hat with several large multicolored feathers protruding from the brim. In his left hand he held the long staff Devlin had seen at his home. It was nothing more than the straight limb of a tree, denuded of bark, the top forking into five separate branches, six to eight inches in length, each holding an individual white feather. Plante Firme’s mpaca hung from his neck on a leather thong, and in his right hand he held a crudely fashioned rattle, also covered in white feathers.

He stepped into the room and began to chant in a mixture of Spanish and Bantu as Cabrera shrank back in his chair, his eyes frozen with fear.

Martinez took Devlin and Pitts by the arm. “Perhaps you would like to leave now,” he said.

Devlin shook his head. “No, I’d like to stay.”

“As you wish, my friend.”

They watched as Plante Firme advanced. His steps were slow and methodical, each bare foot planted with an audible slap on the polished tile floor.

Cabrera’s eyes widened and his entire body shook. He pressed back in the chair as if hoping it would swallow him.

Plante Firme stood before him now, the feather-festooned rattle held high above Cabrera’s head. His low, rumbling voice rose until it seemed to shake the walls of the room. Then he lowered the rattle and thrust it against Cabrera’s chest.

The colonel’s body stiffened with the blow. He let out a high-pitched scream; his eyes bulged in his head, and his body began to jerk uncontrollably. His face twisted in agony, then collapsed with the rest of him into a limp mass.

Devlin stepped forward and placed two fingers against his neck. There was no pulse. He looked at Plante Firme. The palero ‘s face was expressionless, except for a fading glint of hatred in his eyes.

Devlin turned to Martinez. “He’s dead.”

Martinez nodded, and Devlin turned back to look at Cabrera’s lips, waiting for a blue tinge to appear. Nothing happened.

“It wasn’t cyanide,” he said. “Maybe curare.” He turned to Martinez. “What’s your guess, Major?”

“I make no guess,” Martinez said. “Many would say it was magic.”

“You think if I opened Cabrera’s shirt, I’d find a small puncture wound near his heart?” He inclined his head toward Plante Firme. “Maybe from a needle embedded in his rattle?”

“I would not know,” Martinez said. “I do know that it would offend the palero if you were to do so. I must insist that you do not offend him.”

Devlin turned away from the body. Plante Firme took his arm and spoke. The words sounded urgent.

“The palero says you will be in great danger when you leave this house. He asks that you take great care.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we should listen.” Martinez went to the door and snapped out an order to his two men, and they immediately ran toward the rear of the house. Devlin heard a door open as the men headed into the rear yard.

Martinez glanced quickly at Devlin and Pitts. “To the front door,” he said. “With caution.”

All three had their weapons drawn as Martinez reached for the knob of the front door. He eased it back, then moved quickly across the open frame. The move drew immediate fire, only a second too late. Martinez flattened against the wall and shouted out a command. From each side of the house steady bursts of automatic-weapon fire erupted as the major’s men fired toward the street. Martinez leaned out and emptied the clip of his automatic.

Pitts swung into the door frame, crouched low, his weapon out in front. Devlin spun in behind, slightly higher, his own pistol leveled at the street. They fired, then jumped back. Another burst of automatic-rifle fire came from the sides of the house. There was no return fire.

Pitts jumped back into the door frame, ready to fire again. Devlin followed.

“Shit,” Pitts said. “It’s over, and I didn’t get off one clean fucking shot.”

Devlin pulled him back from the door. “Wait for Martinez’s boys to confirm the kills,” he ordered.

A few minutes later words were shouted in Spanish, and Martinez stepped out onto the front stairs, followed by Devlin and Pitts.

They eased their way to the street, weapons held down along their legs. Three men lay scattered on the roadway, two near one car, the third sprawled next to another. A fourth man was slumped against the steering wheel of the second car. Martinez’s men stood to each side of the cars, their weapons pointed toward the ground.

“Dead?” Devlin asked.

Martinez nodded.

“Cabrera’s people?” It was Pitts this time.

“No, I do not think so,” Martinez said. He glanced at Devlin. “I think Senor Rossi has not yet given up on his plans for you.”

Plante Firme stepped past them. He had followed them from the house unnoticed. He used his staff to turn one of the bodies, then reached down and tore open the man’s shirt, revealing a series of ritual scars.

“Abakua,” he said.

“Hey, we owe you,” Pitts said. He turned to Martinez. “The old boy must have seen them when he came in.”

“You discount magic?” Martinez said.

“Hey, magic is fine,” Pitts said. “As long as these scumbags are dead.”