once. Just like he had always done. His touch seemed to calm her. Whatever drug she was on, she was at the end of her high. The toxins left her system and she drifted off into sleep. When her breathing steadied and he knew she would not wake, Mike lifted her gently onto the bed and pulled the covers over her. Then he went back to the chair, used his jacket as a blanket, and tried to sleep himself.
* * *
GENERAL CARILLO sat on his patio and faced the ocean at sunset. The police chief, Zaragosa, was with him again. But this time Carillo felt no resentment about the presence of the drunken buffoon. It was sad, perhaps, but Zaragosa was as close as he got to a friend in these parts. Not just a friend either. A former comrade-in-arms, who respected him, who loved him and understood his fight for his country. So it was good that Zaragosa should share in this moment of celebration and longed-for reward. This time Carillo happily broke out the good Chilean wine and also a box of fine Cuban cigars. Puzzled but grateful, it was only after Zaragosa was on his second glass and smoking one of Carillo’s fine El Rey Del Mundos that the policeman asked what they were celebrating.
“My reward!” Carillo proclaimed and raised a toast to the sun setting behind the hills behind them.
Zaragosa was puzzled but reluctant to press on.
“Let us just say, I have benefited from recent events and at last the true value of my sacrifices is being recognized. Livingston may be my home still, but I can afford to live a little more in the style of my forefathers.”
Zaragosa smiled, his lips parting to reveal teeth now stained with wine too. He did not know what the General was talking about, but the old man appeared pleased. That could only be good for him and he tentatively reached out to fill his glass again. Carillo did not stop him and so Zaragosa greedily splashed the liquid into his cup.
“We both have been soldiers. We both have sacrificed much, my friend. Now God is smiling upon me at last for my struggles,” Carillo said.
Perhaps it was the speed with which he drank the wine, or the sudden gloom as the sun finally dipped over the horizon, but Zaragosa felt a tug of melancholy pull at him. Emboldened by Carillo’s hospitality, he got up and walked to the side of the patio and looked out over the restless sea, growing darker by the moment.
“Do you believe in God, General?” Zaragosa asked.
The General snorted in surprise. “What a question!” he cried. “The church is the mother of our souls. It grants us salvation. Of course, I believe in God. Sweet Jesus, don’t tell me you have become like los Indios or the Garifunas. Are you a heathen, Zaragosa? Every week I go to mass. I do not see you there.”
Zaragosa felt stung by the words.
“And then you must go to confession too?” Zaragosa asked.
As soon as he said it, Zaragosa knew it was a mistake. But the words were already out there, hanging in the thick tropical air that suddenly started to have a chill. The General stubbed out his cigar. He stared at Zaragosa and his nostrils flared. Then he sighed. This was a happy night; he would not let the drunken ramblings of an idiot anger him.
“For what reason should I go to confession?” he asked. “I have done nothing that needs confessing.”
Inwardly Zaragosa breathed a sigh of relief and a silence fell between the two men. Carillo tried to regain his calm, drinking a deep draught from his wine cup. Do I believe in God? he thought. What a question indeed! But then, to his own surprise, he realized that perhaps he did have his doubts. Maybe he did not truly know anymore. He looked up into the skies and hoped to see a spray of stars, but the clouds glowered thick and dark above. Perhaps heaven was indeed far from guaranteed, he thought. Perhaps that was why he chose to take his rewards here on earth.
CHAPTER 8
LAUREN THOUGHT SHE was dreaming. The sound of rustling slipped into her mind,
* * *
GENERAL CARILLO sat on his patio and faced the ocean at sunset. The police chief, Zaragosa, was with him again. But this time Carillo felt no resentment about the presence of the drunken buffoon. It was sad, perhaps, but Zaragosa was as close as he got to a friend in these parts. Not just a friend either. A former comrade-in-arms, who respected him, who loved him and understood his fight for his country. So it was good that Zaragosa should share in this moment of celebration and longed-for reward. This time Carillo happily broke out the good Chilean wine and also a box of fine Cuban cigars. Puzzled but grateful, it was only after Zaragosa was on his second glass and smoking one of Carillo’s fine El Rey Del Mundos that the policeman asked what they were celebrating.
“My reward!” Carillo proclaimed and raised a toast to the sun setting behind the hills behind them.
Zaragosa was puzzled but reluctant to press on.
“Let us just say, I have benefited from recent events and at last the true value of my sacrifices is being recognized. Livingston may be my home still, but I can afford to live a little more in the style of my forefathers.”
Zaragosa smiled, his lips parting to reveal teeth now stained with wine too. He did not know what the General was talking about, but the old man appeared pleased. That could only be good for him and he tentatively reached out to fill his glass again. Carillo did not stop him and so Zaragosa greedily splashed the liquid into his cup.
“We both have been soldiers. We both have sacrificed much, my friend. Now God is smiling upon me at last for my struggles,” Carillo said.
Perhaps it was the speed with which he drank the wine, or the sudden gloom as the sun finally dipped over the horizon, but Zaragosa felt a tug of melancholy pull at him. Emboldened by Carillo’s hospitality, he got up and walked to the side of the patio and looked out over the restless sea, growing darker by the moment.
“Do you believe in God, General?” Zaragosa asked.
The General snorted in surprise. “What a question!” he cried. “The church is the mother of our souls. It grants us salvation. Of course, I believe in God. Sweet Jesus, don’t tell me you have become like los Indios or the Garifunas. Are you a heathen, Zaragosa? Every week I go to mass. I do not see you there.”
Zaragosa felt stung by the words.
“And then you must go to confession too?” Zaragosa asked.
As soon as he said it, Zaragosa knew it was a mistake. But the words were already out there, hanging in the thick tropical air that suddenly started to have a chill. The General stubbed out his cigar. He stared at Zaragosa and his nostrils flared. Then he sighed. This was a happy night; he would not let the drunken ramblings of an idiot anger him.
“For what reason should I go to confession?” he asked. “I have done nothing that needs confessing.”
Inwardly Zaragosa breathed a sigh of relief and a silence fell between the two men. Carillo tried to regain his calm, drinking a deep draught from his wine cup. Do I believe in God? he thought. What a question indeed! But then, to his own surprise, he realized that perhaps he did have his doubts. Maybe he did not truly know anymore. He looked up into the skies and hoped to see a spray of stars, but the clouds glowered thick and dark above. Perhaps heaven was indeed far from guaranteed, he thought. Perhaps that was why he chose to take his rewards here on earth.
CHAPTER 8
LAUREN THOUGHT SHE was dreaming. The sound of rustling slipped into her mind,
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