William Heffernan - Red Angel

“Bathrobe,” Pitts said. “What are you doin’ here? They got good cannoli in Cuba?”

Devlin walked across the room and looked down into the nganga.

“He must be makin’ minestrone,” Pitts said. “Maybe a little pasta fagioli.” He moved next to Devlin and looked inside. Blood and white powder were splattered across the wood and herbs. “Don’t look too appetizin’.” He used the barrel of his pistol to spread open Rossi’s shirt, revealing the ritual paste of blood and powder that marked his skinny, old man’s chest. “Not too nice, Bathrobe. I see you missed your Saturday bath again.”

The palero began babbling in Spanish, and Pitts reached into his open-necked shirt and removed the pouch containing the dirt from the cemetery, topped by the red feather. He waved it at the palero and saw the man shrink back.

“Ooga booga,” he said, grinning.

“You still have that thing. And you’re wearing it.” Devlin couldn’t hide his surprise.

Pitts seemed momentarily embarrassed, then recovered his bravado. “Hey, after I saw old Plante Firme in action this afternoon, I figured what the hell.”

Devlin looked down at Rossi. Throughout it all, the old man had remained silent. Devlin bent down and stared into his hate-filled eyes. “What’s the matter, Bathrobe? Nganga got your tongue?”

Rossi gave him a cold smile. “Nice to see you, Devlin. What more could an old man ask than to see an old friend one last time?”

“You going somewhere, Bathrobe?”

Rossi let out a cold laugh. “Me? Sure. I’m goin’ back to New York. You plan on goin’ somewhere, Devlin?”

“I’m on vacation,” Devlin said.

“Hey, it’s always nice to take one last vacation.”

Devlin returned the laugh. It was as biting and as cold as Rossi’s had been. He nodded toward the nganga. “You take the cure, Bathrobe?”

“Hey, it’s wonderful. You should try it. I feel a hundred percent. I may live another fifty years.” He laughed again. “Now, wouldn’t that piss some people off?”

“Don’t count on it,” Devlin said. He held Rossi’s eyes. “Dr. Mendez might not have worked her powers for somebody who tried to ice her niece.”

Momentary concern-maybe even fear, Devlin thought-flickered across Rossi’s face, then disappeared. The old bastard really believes in this stuff, he thought. Martinez had come up beside him, and Devlin held out an arm, keeping him back. He turned to Pitts. “Kick that fucking thing over,” he snapped.

Pitts placed his foot against the lip and pushed. The nganga tipped over, spilling its contents across the floor. The palero screamed, and Pitts grabbed the pouch around his neck and waved it again.

“Ooga fucking booga.”

“Ah, my friend. It is sacrilege,” Martinez moaned.

“Tough shit,” Devlin snapped. He pointed down at the human skull, the bones of two hands and a foot, all the digits still held together by bits of cartilage. He turned back to Rossi. “You’re screwed, Bathrobe. DNA is gonna put your skinny guinea ass in a Cuban jail.”

Rossi threw back his head and laughed, with genuine pleasure this time. “Hey, Devlin, how you gonna arrange that?” He inclined his head toward the bones. “Let them run their tests. It’s gonna show I was in New York when whoever that is croaked.”

Martinez motioned to one of his men, who began gathering the bones and placing them in a large plastic bag.

He turned to Rossi. “You are under arrest, senor.” Then to Mattie: “As are you. The American Interests Section will be notified at the end of ten days.”

“What the fuck you mean, ten days?” Mattie growled.

“Cuban law, senor.” He gave them his patented Cuban shrug. “Proper procedures must be followed.”

A rustle of activity came from behind them, and Devlin turned to see Adrianna coming through the front door, still guarded by the two Cuban cops.

Martinez growled at the men, and received a rapid and humble reply. He let out a long breath.

“It seems Senorita Adrianna would wait no longer.” He looked at Devlin. “Madre de Dios, senor. ”

Devlin moved toward her, trying to block her view, but she quickly stepped to one side, her eyes riveted on the spilled nganga and the Cuban cop holding the clear plastic bag filled with bones.

“You know that bag of bones, lady?” Rossi called out. He let out another cold laugh. “My condolences.”

Pitts’s hand shot out and grabbed Rossi’s face between his thumb and fingers. He squeezed until the old man’s face was a mask of pain.

Mattie lunged forward, but Pitts struck out with his free hand, the fingers held rigid. The blow caught Ippolito at the base of the throat and he staggered back, then collapsed to one knee, gagging for breath.

“Let him go,” Devlin said. “But if he says another word, break his goddamn jaw.”

Devlin slipped his arm around Adrianna and walked her to the cop holding the bag.

“It’s over,” he said.

“Nothing’s over,” Rossi snapped.

Pitts sent the back of his hand smashing into the side of Rossi’s head. The blow knocked him from his chair.

“It’s over, babe,” Devlin said. “Now we can bury her the way she would have wanted. Then we’ll go home.”

Adrianna turned and pressed her head against his chest and began to cry.

Devlin took Adrianna out on the porch while Martinez’s men gathered evidence inside. Martinez followed with Pitts in tow.

“We must have no more violence on our prisoners,” he said.

Devlin glanced at him and saw his eyes were filled with a mischievous mirth. He looked at Adrianna. Her hands were folded across her chest, as if holding herself intact, but she was no longer crying.

“We have one more place we must go, when Senorita Adrianna is ready,” Martinez said.

“Where is that?” Devlin asked.

“To our Red Angel’s house in Guanabo, some twenty kilometers to the east of here.”

“You found the address,” Devlin said.

Martinez nodded. “It was as I thought. It was the weekend house of her father, the senorita’s grandfather. The records were old and difficult to find, as I feared they would be. But now we have the location, and we can go there and discover the meaning of her last message.”

“I don’t know,” Devlin said. “I think Adrianna may have had enough-”

“No. I want to go,” Adrianna said. “There may not be time later, and I want to see it. The house. What she wrote.”

Devlin moved to Adrianna and pulled her toward him.

Martinez stepped forward and placed a hand on Devlin’s shoulder. “It will be best, I think-”

Martinez’s words were cut off by the unmistakable crack of a rifle. Wood splintered off the wall of the house, and Devlin instinctively pushed Adrianna to the floor of the porch. Below, Martinez’s men guarding the captured Abakua turned toward the hillside and returned fire.

“Get her inside,” Devlin growled. He jumped over the porch rail and hit the dirt road running for the hillside.

Pitts followed, his pistol barking two covering shots up into the hill.

“Go left, Ollie,” Devlin shouted. “I’ll take the right.”

Devlin hit the thick foliage and started a slow, weaving pattern up the hill. Two shots cracked over his head, cutting into covering vegetation ten feet above him. His mind registered the position of the shots, and he realized the shooter wasn’t aiming low enough, was failing to compensate for the sharp, downhill angle. He cut right, and moved up again. To his left, Ollie fired two more rounds, trying to draw return fire. Behind them, Martinez shouted an order, and the guns of the Cuban cops fell silent. Devlin was certain Martinez would be moving up behind them, and he called out a warning to Pitts.