Vega worked her way into the pilot seat and surveyed the instruments before her and reached out her hands but wasn’t sure where to put them. She looked helplessly at Bradley.
He felt the big machine groaning along but it felt different to him, as if a great weight was climbing onto its back. There was a hesitation and a dreamy yaw that brought his stomach up into his throat.
“Do something, Brad.”
He climbed from the copilot seat and clambered out of the flight deck with his hands on the bulkhead for balance and support. He looked back into the huge cargo and passenger bay, where the four black Yukons waited and most of the twenty men napped on litters. Most of the men wore the tan camo fatigues and shirts and desert boots of their leader, but two had changed into navy pants and light blue shirts with white oval patches over the left breast. Fidel was about to open a bottle of Bohemia and sit down with them.
Bradley approached. “You made your point.”
The men looked at him with boredom or contempt.
“Good,” said Fidel. “In another twenty seconds you would have been too late and we would all soon die.”
“And I have a point to make also, Fidel.” He swung the barrel of his AirLite flush up against Fidel’s forehead, cocking back the hammer mid-swing. “If you’re not on your way to the cockpit in five seconds I’ll pull. I’m sure one of these guys can fly this thing. I will not wait six seconds, Fidel. I simply will not wait. And we are not stopping until we get to Veracruz. So now, five, four, three…”
Bradley counted fast and on “one,” Fidel shrugged away from the pistol and started for the cockpit. Bradley fell in behind him, gun still up and ready, scanning the hostile eyes of the men as he walked. “Remain clear on who’s running this show, shitbird. And everything will be cool.”
14
She awoke to sunlight dashing through the open window shutters and a symphony of birdsong in the trees outside. A tangle of melodies, she thought. The sun looked in from the eastern sky like a big red face. The palm fronds lifted and dropped and lifted again.
She lay on her back in the bed with both hands spread over her belly and she silently told her son that everything was good now, everything was good. She thought of Bradley and wondered where he was and what he was doing. She thought of Felix the reporter and banished the memory, and she thought of Saturnino and banished that memory too, and she remembered waking up in this bed, with Armenta and Owens looking down at her as if she were a curiosity or something newly hatched.
The boy with the golden pompadour brought her coffee and breakfast. He said his name was Atlas. As he arranged her meal he asked her in good English if she had played the Gibson Hummingbird yet.
“I haven’t touched it,” she lied. It seemed mandatory.
“Mr. Armenta would be pleased if you did.”
“Well, isn’t that just dandy.”
He looked at her and smiled shyly. “Dandy?”
“What I meant was, I don’t care if I please that monster or not.”
With a furrowed look he rearranged the cream and the coffeepot. He snapped the napkin in the air and folded it into a fan and set it to the left of the plate. “He is not a monster. The natives call him yaguarete, with respect. It is good to please him. This is his world and he rules over it.”
“Will he feed me to the leopards if I don’t play his guitar?”
“It is your guitar. When something appears in your room it means that Mr. Armenta has given it to you. My casita is filled with treasures. I have beautiful clothes. I have Rosetta Stone for English. I have a smart phone. But I cannot use it here for reasons of security.”
“I don’t want the guitar. I have plenty of them at home.”
He looked at her and seemed about to speak but did not. He collected his tray and stand and carried them to the door and got his key from his pocket. “Mr. Armenta will be here at twelve o’clock noon, and he will wish you to perform.”
“Perform?”
“On the Hummingbird.”
“Piss on him. Piss on his Hummingbird too.”
Atlas’s smooth fair face flushed pink and his breath caught. He smiled very slightly and his eyes held both mirth and shame at the mirth, and he backed through the door with tray and stand and was gone.
Armenta stood formally beside the handsome leather armchair. His back was to the window and the shaded sunlight. His hair was a neglected heap and the lines of his face looked like they had been powdered with ashes. He wore a white Guayabera that called attention to the grayness. He was barefoot. He stood a long while in silence and no birds sang.
Erin sat at the head of the table watching him. She felt some fear but mostly anger and helplessness. She wondered what would happen to her and her unborn son if she killed Armenta right now. A quick trip to the bathroom would give her the means. She wasn’t sure she could do it but she thought she might. But then what, kill Saturnino too? Then all the Gulf Cartel?
“What is just is not always popular,” he finally said. “And what is popular is not always just.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m sorry for what you saw.”
“But not for what you did?”
“No. What I did was just.”
“I’ll never agree with you.”
“Justice is nature and I have been just.”
“You don’t believe that. Your face betrays you.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.”
“Explain my face to me.”
“It looks like something death brought with him in his suitcase.”
He studied her. “I loved Warren Zevon. I miss his music. Please. Play one of his songs for me on the Hummingbird. Do you know ‘Keep Me in Your Heart’?”
“I know that song.”
“When he writes that he is tied to her like the buttons on her blouse. Oh. Perhaps the last song he wrote and he knew this was to be the last. Valentia. To create while he is dying.”
“Don’t we all.”
A small twinkle came to Armenta’s depleted eyes. “Yes. And what bravery it is.”
“The reporter was struggling bravely when the leopards dragged him off.”
She looked away from him and out a window to where the palm fronds lifted and rode the steady breeze. A cursed beauty, she thought. Two pigeons sat upon the railings of her balcony outside looking down on the coop as if awaiting an invitation. She saw two men dressed in white with white balaclavas covering their heads and faces walking slowly up a path toward the castle. The breeze rippled their garments and they looked insubstantial, she thought, like ghosts.
“Who are the people in white?” she asked.
“The lepers.”
“Why are they the only ones who go to the third floor?”
“It is theirs.”
“Why are they here?”
“Their colonia was destroyed by a hurricane so I brought them here. Once, many years ago, I was pursued by killers. I ran until I was exhausted. My friends were all dead. I had a gun but no bullets. I ran to a leper camp. I did not think my enemies would pursue me but they did. The lepers hid me. I buried myself in a leper’s bed that stunk with the smells of his disease. Men with guns poked the blankets but not me. I told you I am loyal and do not lack compassion.”
She was aware Armenta had not taken his eyes off her. “So you murder reporters but comfort the sick?”
“The lepers are loyal and grateful. The reporter was not.”
“You aren’t God.”
“I do not want to be.”
She stood and walked into the bathroom and locked the door. She ran the faucet and found the derringer at the bottom of the flush box and pulled it out and let it drain over the bowl. It was a heavy little thing with a curved rosewood grip and a stainless-steel body and a funny name-the Cowboy Defender or the Texas Slayer or something like that. It fit easily within the span of her hand. The barrels were “over and under,” as Bradley had said, and it fired two different and powerful charges but she couldn’t remember what they were. He said if she shot at somebody from less than ten feet she’d probably hit her target. More than fifteen feet away just forget it. Head if you can, heart if you can’t. Squeeze the trigger, never yank it.