Revenant (6 page)

Quinton noticed my horrified stare. “What is it?”

“I’m not sure. . . . Did Portugal have an Inquisition, like Spain?”

“It’s a Catholic country. I’m pretty sure it did.”

I closed my eyes and turned my head away. “At the north end of the square where the big white building is now, there used to be another building. In front of that is where they had the public trials, the penance, and the executions. They’re piled up there—the images—like overlapping film.” My knees wobbled and I swayed a little.

Quinton steadied me, putting one arm around my waist, mirroring my hold on him. “That bad?”

“It’s pretty bad.”

“Let me get you out of here. We need to catch a train anyway.”

He steered me away from the scene of burnings and beatings, to a wide staircase leading down to a subway station. “Keep hold of your purse at all times,” he warned. “This area’s famous for its pickpockets.”

“I don’t have anything but a map and two keys,” I replied. “No money, no ID . . . nothing.”

“I’ll take care of that later. For now, stick close to me. Oh—keep your head down near cameras. Portugal doesn’t use an on-the-fly facial recognition system, but if any of Dad’s creeps have access to the feed, they may start looking for us in the tapes later.”

“All right,” I replied, adjusting my hat. “I was planning on sticking close to you anyhow.” I was disturbed by his lack of response. Even in the Grey, he was not quite himself, distracted from me, but focused on other things, and the energy surrounding him was dark, bleak, streaked with orange anxiety and red anger.

He paused and looked around. “I’d better tell you the rest once we’re on the train—we have too much moving around to do here. I’m barely keeping my thoughts together and this gets complicated.”

“The metro or the story?”

“Both.”

“Can you tell me where we’re going, at least?”

“First we have to get to the train station, and then I’ll tell you.”

I frowned at him and he saw it. “Lisbon was full of spies during the Second World War. I don’t know why, but the place makes me feel like I’m being watched, like those old, dead spies are still around, doing their work. And with what my dad does, I’m not sure they aren’t. Humor me.”

It wasn’t hard to do so—Lisbon fairly crawled with ghosts. I nodded and followed him past a sign that identified the station as Rossio.

FIVE

A
s best I could tell, the metro station took up a large part of the space under the central square with a complex of stairs and concourses leading downward. As with the streets above, the tile work was distractingly beautiful: One bit of floor had an old-style compass rose of tiny mosaic squares. A wall had a long panel of painted tiles running at shoulder height of a woman in a voluminous coat walking along with us, rendered in delicate blue brushwork on white. A staircase descended past a mural of abstracted leaves and flowers in squares of green and gold. It was like walking through a museum collection. I was surprised that most of the people in the station paid it no attention, flowing along in their colorful streams of busy energy to destinations I couldn’t guess, accompanied by the ghosts of commuters past.

“What’s with the tile?” I asked as we continued toward our platform. Determined not to force him to discuss the case, I was still hungry to talk after the long silence of eight months apart.

“I’m not really sure,” he said, still distracted though making an
effort, “but much of Portugal was controlled by the Moors for quite a while and I would guess it’s some kind of artistic holdover of their influence. You saw the tiles on the doll hospital building and others, I’m sure. Even the street signs in most places are plaques of painted tiles mounted on the walls. It’s not as common to see the sort of signboards you and I grew up with. On the highways, yes, and in a few very modern ‘designed’ communities, but otherwise, it’s mostly the tiles.”

It was still early for rush hour, but the station was busy and we got a little turned around finding our train and buying tickets. Once we were on the metro, the ride was only a few minutes long. It almost seemed ridiculous not to have walked it, but we did have the advantage of being in a crowd and therefore harder to spot.

We exited the metro outside the Cais do Sodré rail station, which had another breathtaking view of the river—when you could see it past the trains and the people. I was momentarily disoriented by finding myself walking through the ghostly hull of an ancient wooden ship instead of the halls of a modern train station.

“I’d guess this used to be a shipyard,” I said.

Quinton shrugged. “I’m not sure, but it would make sense. Right here where the river widens before joining the sea would be ideal and Portugal was, once, the greatest maritime nation in the Western Hemisphere. That required a lot of ships. You know—Vasco da Gama, Henry the Navigator, and guys like that sailing off and discovering India and Japan and a quarter of Africa, and so on. I’ve never really been able to figure out how they went from being the masters of the seas—the greatest navigators in the world—to this.”

“What do you mean . . . ‘this’?” I asked.

“
Saudade
—which roughly translates as ‘yearning.’ Maybe you haven’t been here long enough to notice, but there’s a sort of sadness
to the Portuguese—especially the Lisboans. Sometime after the earthquake and the loss of Brazil and before the Great Depression, they began to look backward instead of forward. Terrible things happened and although they rebuilt, they didn’t spring back. There are still ruins of the earthquake here in Lisbon—like that church you saw from Rossio. Two hundred and fifty years later, the shells of buildings, the arch of a church doorway . . . They’re still as they were, not cleared away but not really memorialized, either. If you didn’t know what you were looking at, you might think they were just urban blight—people paint graffiti on the walls as if they were the remains of burned-out tenements in South Central L.A.”

“No wonder all the history I see replaying here is of the gruesome variety.”

“But the Portuguese are mostly friendly folks. They’re the sort of people who fix broken dolls for kids and make pencils that smell like orange blossoms and sing sad songs about loss and yearning in tiny bars on the beach where the liquor will kick your legs out from under you. At the same time, some believe there’s a ‘Sleeping King’ who’ll come back to make things right some day, and old women crawl a tenth of a mile on their knees to reach the shrine of Our Lady of Fátima. They’re an odd mix, modern and medieval and generous and sad.”

“I wonder what your father has in mind for them.”

“He may not have much in mind at all aside from snatching Soraia. I haven’t been able to figure out his larger plan beyond ‘sow chaos and reap destruction.’ I haven’t seen much sign of the paranormal, even though I know it’s a big part of whatever he’s up to. I think we may have destroyed a lot of his progress in that respect back in Seattle, but he’s been successful with the ghost boxes at least enough to plant one in most of his units. The way he manages to get
information and set people up is uncanny, and I can’t think of any other way he could be doing it.”

“You mean like the box that Sergeyev was stored in—imprisoned ghosts who act as spies and agitators?”

“Yeah. But I can’t see ghosts like you can and it’s one of the things I need you for.” He seemed frustrated at acknowledging that he needed anything, and furious with himself. “I’m missing something—missing too much, obviously, if I missed his taking Soraia.”

I was on the point of telling him to stop blaming himself when he turned to me sharply and started for the train station, saying, “We need the train to Cascais.”

“We do?”

“We won’t be going that far. Sam lives in Carcavelos. It’s on the coast before you get all the way out to the famous parts around Estoril—that area is full of fancy resorts for the wealthy for the most part and always has been. Carcavelos is more famous for its surf. The Tagus River still has an effect at that location, so the waves are a lot more defined. And it used to be a British communication depot, so there are still a lot more English speakers there than in most small towns in Portugal. Come on,” he added, urging me into the building.

The station was sleek and modern inside, all cement and steel, but there were still bits of art here and there, like a row of giant anthropomorphized rabbits in blue suits rushing across the platform walls from the metro to the train station. It took a while to figure out which train we needed since there were several types of service. Quinton found a clerk who spoke excellent English and who explained the various trains running on the Cascais line and which one would get us to Carcavelos quickest. Then we had to purchase passes from a vending machine and go through various turnstiles and
validate the pass, find our track . . . and miss our train by seconds. The next would leave in twenty minutes.

We doubled back to a small food vendor selling a sort of spicy pork sandwich called a
bifana
. The smell reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since Seattle. I didn’t appear to be the only one who was ravenous: The area was busy and we were jostled by hurrying commuters and hungry customers. Several men with ominous clouds of Grey energy around them passed as well. I tried to watch them and figure out what they were up to or who they were, but I couldn’t guess. We received our sandwiches wrapped to go—which had caused some sighing as if there was no understanding the silly ideas of tourists—and I asked Quinton what he thought of one of the men and if any were familiar.

“Haven’t seen them before specifically,” he said, “but they remind me of the guys from one of the units I didn’t work with at a certain agency. Mostly young agents from the KGB and Stasi, who suddenly didn’t have a job when the wall came down in Berlin. They were at loose ends, not particularly idealistic, but well trained and resentful of being unemployed. Most of them were willing to work for the highest bidder or the government most likely to let them emigrate. By the time I met any, they were middle-aged, cynical, and mean as snakes.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“If you mean they remind you of my dad, I’d say these guys were less charming and had limits even they wouldn’t exceed—which is not something I can say about Dad anymore. Not after this business. Who kidnaps his own granddaughter . . . ?”

I had worked on parental kidnapping cases and I knew that there were plenty of people in the world who didn’t find the idea of snatching their own child, grandchild, niece, or nephew to be out of the
question. Some did it for what they thought were altruistic reasons, like getting a child out of a bad situation when the law hadn’t. But most did it for selfish and often crazy reasons, like getting back at an ex-spouse, or believing that their methods or motives for raising the child would be better. Some of their reasons were less sane and far more terrible—which I hoped wasn’t going to be the case with Papa Purlis.

“So, what would men like that be doing here?”

“Europe’s in upheaval—at least partly thanks to Dad, but also just the circumstances he’s taking advantage of. Most of it seems fairly normal most of the time, but it’s a complex problem that’s widespread. There’ve been a lot of economic problems and those have bred a lot of social and political unrest—not just things like Ukraine, but smaller and surprisingly vicious. Guys like that always show up where the opportunity for violence or political or economic advantage is high. Right now, there are a lot of those opportunities. The Portuguese people haven’t been pleased with their government’s austerity measures—which seem to hit the taxpayers a lot harder than the politicians and government bureaucrats. They almost broke out in riots near the first of the year. That was avoided, but there’s still a lot of discomfort about the situation and that means there are people who are ready to use that turmoil and discomfort to their advantage—people who’d pay to have others make the situation worse in strategic ways. That’s what those guys are—the hired guns.”

“Do you think any of them work for your father?”

“Probably, but they don’t know who we are. At least not yet. There’s no way of knowing which of these guys, if any, are in Dad’s employ, though, so we need to avoid them if we can. Just play tourist for now. They aren’t looking for a nice couple on their way to the beach.”

I frowned, thinking as I ate my
bifana
. As a fanatic—and he was—James Purlis was willing to do whatever he thought necessary to achieve his goals. He hadn’t caviled at trying to trap and manipulate Quinton, nor had he been unwilling to harm—or possibly kill—his son when Quinton had refused to play along. Quinton had been monkey-wrenching his plans for a while and it sounded as if he might have managed to stop a few of Papa Purlis’s attempts at economic and social disruption. That would make Quinton a thorn in his side worth plucking out, but whatever Purlis was planning to do with Soraia was probably a lot bigger and more horrible than just using his grandchild as short-term leverage against his son.

The sandwich stuck in my throat and I felt a lump of fear harden in my chest. It weighed on me for the entire trip, making it hard to appreciate the beauty of much of our route along the riverbank and out to the edge of the sea.

The rails wove in and out of the riverside fringes of Lisbon, past developments dated by their architecture, including an area of swooping cement buildings that looked a little like leftovers from a world’s fair. We passed a stretch of churning water where the river clearly met the surging sea, creating a choppy band of waves even in the mild weather. A square tower of the same butter-colored stone as the castle above Alfama stuck out of the sea nearby. Our yellow-faced train rushed on, clacking and spitting sparks from the overhead wires.

Once we were ensconced in seats as isolated as we could manage on the train, I prompted Quinton to restart the story he’d dropped in Lisbon.

“So, tell me what happened. Your dad snatched your niece. . . .”

Quinton let out a heavy sigh, the colors of his aura dimming and flashing red for a moment. “Soraia. Yes. Three days ago I picked up
a message from Sam—that’s my sister. Her name is Samantha. Samantha Elizabeth Rebelo. She doesn’t use ‘Purlis’ or ‘Quinn.’”