Tortured Spirits by Gregory Lamberson Page A

not?”
    Jake nodded. “Very.”
    â€œYou are tourists?”
    â€œYes. We’re staying at Mount Pleasant Resort.”
    â€œI have a cousin who works there. I see you are admiring our national rain forest.”
    â€œIt’s beautiful,” Maria said. “It reminds me of El Yunque in Puerto Rico.”
    â€œOh? I’ve never been there.”
    You’ve never left Pavot Island,
Jake thought.
    â€œBut why do you observe our beauty from here on the roadside? We have very nice tours for our visitors.”
    Maria held up the brochures in her hand. “We were just on our way to see the Church of St. Anthony, but we had topull over when we saw this view.”
    The policeman’s gaze flitted to Maria’s cross. “You are Catholic?”
    â€œSi.”
    â€œSt. Anthony’s is the oldest church on Pavot Isle. The architecture is magnificent. May I?” He held out one hand, and Maria gave him the brochures, which he looked through. “I have a cousin who works at the Rabaud Rum Plantation. The tour is very nice, but I don’t recommend driving there. They are too generous with their samples.” He winked at Jake, then handed the brochures back to Maria. “And you will find much fine shopping in Pavot City, mademoiselle.”
    â€œGracias.”
    The man turned to Jake. “I would like to offer you some advice, monsieur. Enjoy the resort. Enjoy our wonderful city and our attractions. But for your own safety, avoid isolated areas like this. I like to believe we have a good police force, but we have plenty of
voleurs,
and tourists are targets.”
    â€œThank you. We’ll be careful.”
    â€œAlso, I recommend that you do your sightseeing during the day. Stay on the resort at night. I would regret it if anything happened to you.”
    â€œWe will.”
    â€œBonne journée.”
    â€œAu revoir,” Maria said.
    The man offered Maria a slight bow, then returned to his car and drove off.
    â€œHe was Hispanic,” Maria said. “He understoodSpanish. But every time I spoke to him in Spanish, he answered in French.”
    â€œDid you see the tattoo on his arm?” Jake said.
    â€œYes. A black snake.”
    â€œNow we have to visit that church in case he checks up on us.”

    They visited St. Anthony’s, then the rum factory. On a narrow highway flanked by palm trees, en route to Pavot City, Maria sampled the radio stations while Jake drove. Salsa music. Reggae. Calypso. French news. All of it sounded generic, as if produced and programmed by the same person.
    â€œJacek Maban is Malvado’s Minister of Cultural Affairs,” Miriam had told them. “No movie is shown, no program is broadcast, no concert is held, and no guitar is strung without his say-so. Nothing suggesting freedom of religion or democracy is ever absorbed by Pavot residents through legitimate means.”
    A city skyline appeared in the distance. Jake counted a dozen buildings at least ten stories tall and twice as many half that size. “It’s bigger than I expected.”
    â€œBut there’s so little traffic going into the city. We’ve passed only three cars in the last twenty minutes, and according to the map, this is a major highway.”
    As they drew nearer, Jake noticed the buildings appeared gray. “They’re mostly old buildings. I see just onethat isn’t made of concrete.”
    A single black tower reflected sunlight off its tinted windows.
    â€œHow much do you want to bet that’s the capital?” Maria said.
    â€œOr at least police headquarters.”
    Raindrops spattered the windshield, and Jake switched on the wipers. The rain came down harder, then stopped two minutes later and the sun shone again.
    â€œWelcome to the Caribbean,” Maria said. She rolled down her window and lit a cigarette.
    Nerves,
Jake thought.
    â€œI wish I had my gun.”
    So did Jake.

    Jake and Maria entered the