William Heffernan - Red Angel

“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of,” Devlin said.

Juan Domingo Argudin had followed the three cars from Havana. The assault at Cabrera’s house had been a disaster; all his men had been killed. He had escaped, having been far enough back to avoid detection, but it was a hollow consolation.

He had returned to the house that he believed was the American’s base of operations, and had been proven correct. But the police also had been there in force, and his hopes for the wealth he had been promised had again been thwarted.

Now, as he followed the caravan of cars traveling east, his despair deepened. As they approached the outskirts of Cojimar, there was little question where the American and his police bodyguards were headed. His only hope was to get there first. Perhaps the old man would even pay for the warning. And then, if the old man escaped, there might be still another chance to kill his target.

Siete Rayos raised his arms toward the ceiling. The nganga he had brought from Santiago de Cuba sat before him, four lighted candles placed about it, marking the major points of the compass. The palero ‘s voice rumbled with a prayer, largely in Bantu, the words running together so they were barely distinguishable, one from the other.

John the Boss sat across from the palero , the nganga between them. He studied the man’s face. It was painted with slashing lines of white chalk. He was naked, except for a pair of tattered shorts, and his chest was covered with ritual scars, which on his dark brown body appeared even darker, almost black.

Rossi leaned in toward the woman who had been sent as his new interpreter. She was short and fat and homely, and so far Mattie had not tried to fuck her.

“This palero , he seems young,” he whispered. “What’s he doing?”

“He prays to BabaluAye,” the woman whispered. “He asks the dead one be permitted to perform a change of lives. Yours for another.”

As the woman finished explaining, the palero lowered his arms, withdrew a long-bladed knife from his belt, and extended it across the nganga. He spoke to Rossi in Spanish.

“Now you must feed the nganga with your blood,” the woman whispered.

Rossi winced at the idea. All the paleros he had known in the past had been old men. This one was no more than forty, forty-five tops. He believed in the rituals, had even seen them work in the old days, but they had all been performed by men well into their sixties, even older.

He placed his arm over the nganga and watched as the palero made a small cut in the heel of his hand, then turned it so the blood would drip into the iron pot.

Rossi watched the trail of his own blood. It dripped onto a mixture of sticks and herbs, beneath which he could just make out a faint glimmer of white that had to be the woman’s skull. There would be other bones, too. He knew that, but he could not make them out. Her hands, cleaned of all flesh, would be there, and the bones of at least one foot. There would also be the bones of a dog to carry messages for the dead one, and those of the night bird to help the dead one see through the darkness of death.

“You okay, boss?”

Mattie had leaned down to whisper in his ear, but Rossi made a quick gesture with his free hand, telling him to move away.

The palero filled his mouth with rum and spit it into the pot. He began to chant.

“BabaluAye erikunde. BabaluAye binkome. BabaluAye nfumbe. Nikise.”

He picked up a handful of small, fragile seashells, no larger than peas, that sat next to him on the floor. He placed the shells in a mortar, then began grinding them with a pestle until they were transformed into a fine, white powder.

“You must place both hands over the nganga so you may receive the powder,” the woman whispered.

Rossi did as he was told, and the palero emptied the mortar into his cupped palms. Then he took Rossi’s hands and turned them over so the fine, white dust fell into the nganga.

He reached across the pot and opened Rossi’s shirt, revealing his pale, bony, old man’s chest. He dipped one finger into the pot and gathered some of the white powder, then rubbed the finger into the still-leaking wound on Rossi’s palm. Reaching out again, he used the mixture to draw three lines on Rossi’s chest.

Rossi felt a surge of warmth fill his chest, almost as if some power were forcing its way beneath his skin. The palero began to chant.

“Angel Roja, nfumbe. Opiapa. BabaluAye binkome.”

One of the Abakua, who had been standing in the shadows, moved forward now, leading a tethered black goat. The goat’s head had been covered with a hood, and the animal moved hesitantly, its hooves clicking erratically on the tiled floor.

When he reached the palero , the Abakua forced the animal down, pulled the hood from its head, then grabbed its horns, and forced the head back so the neck was exposed.

The palero slashed quickly with his knife and the animal bucked violently. The goat’s mouth opened in a bleat of pain and surprise, but only a gurgling hiss of air escaped the gaping wound in its throat. Blood poured into a bowl beneath it.

The thrashing animal became still, and the palero picked up the bowl of blood and began to mumble an unintelligible prayer. Finished, he extended the bowl across the nganga.

“Now you must drink,” the woman whispered.

Rossi’s hands trembled slightly as he took the bowl. Behind him, he heard Mattie suck in a sharp breath as he brought the bowl to his lips.

“You must drink half, then what is left must be fed to the nganga ,” the woman whispered.

Rossi held his breath and drank. The blood was warm and surpassingly sweet in his mouth, but he still felt his stomach wrench violently as he swallowed. He fought it off, then tipped the bowl, pouring what was left into the nganga.

The palero raised his arms above his head and began rotating his head. His eyes closed as a second Abakua began a rhythmic beat on a drum. The woman next to Rossi folded her arms across her chest, then lowered her upper body in a deep bow and began to sway back and forth.

Rossi wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his hand. He was certain he could feel strength returning to his body, strength he had not felt in years. He straightened his back and drew a long, deep breath.

Juan Domingo Argudin parked his car at the top of a hill that overlooked the house. It was nine-fifteen, but a half-moon cast enough light that he could see at least two men hidden in the brush below, their presence unknown to the four Abakua who guarded the front of the house.

The rear of the house faced the sea, a place from which there could be no escape. He calculated the odds of reaching the rear door unseen. There was an overturned skiff not far from the final bit of cover, then only ten meters or so of open sand to the corner of the house. He studied the rear of the house for other watchers, but saw none. One man might do it, he decided, providing his movement was very slow, using every bit of cover, every shadow that offered concealment. But only one. For more it would be impossible. He picked up a large rock and hurled it into the heavy foliage between the two police watchers he had spotted. He hoped the sound would draw the attention of the two Abakua guards and concentrate the police on any movements they made. From the height of the hill he could see the lights of three cars approaching along the road, about half a kilometer away, and he knew it was the caravan he had followed from Havana.

Argudin slipped into the heavy brush and began to make his way down the hill. There was little time now. Almost none at all.