Witch Lights (9 page)

“Then I look. Nothing
importante, no problema, sí?
Okay, Mr. Edward Michaels?”

Ray nodded.
“Sí
.
”

It took the soldier less than a minute to find the guns—two semiautomatic rifles, two pistols, and several boxes of ammo hidden beneath the backseats. The soldier's face hardened. “Nothing
importante,
Señor
Edward Michaels?” He whistled and the two soldiers talking to Mantu escorted him over.

One of the other soldiers asked Mantu if he had registration papers for the guns.
“Sí, sí,”
Mantu said. They eyed him warily, and one of the soldiers drew a pistol as Mantu rummaged through the glove box. He handed the soldier a plastic folder.

He looked over the papers, then handed them back to Mantu. Then he asked him what the guns were for.

“Protección,”
Mantu said, with the barest of smiles.

The soldier was apparently not impressed. He spat on the ground, then rattled off something so fast Ray couldn't understand it. Mantu asked to see the
capitán.

“You no need to see
el capitán.
”

And then Mantu did something that Ray had never seen him do. He tilted his head and his voice changed subtly, shifting into a musical lilt.
“Por favor,”
he said, and asked once again to see the captain, this time in a strange, singsongy pitch. Ray found himself captivated by the strange tones, as did, by the looks on their faces, the soldiers.
“El capitán”
he said,
“Ahora mismo.”

For a long, uncomfortable silence the soldier stared at him. The he nodded and walked off toward a military truck.

Ray stared at Mantu. What the hell had he just done?

The soldier returned with the captain, a squat, squinty-eyed man in a too-tight uniform. He looked pissed, and Ray wondered just how terribly this was all going to end. He'd heard that being shot and left to die by the side of the road was better than winding up in a Guatemalan prison.

The captain asked Mantu what the hell he wanted. His hand rested on his holstered gun. Ray felt his nose slipping.
Jesus. Not now.

Mantu pointed to the van. The captain followed him.

The two remaining soldiers stared at Ray. At his face. At the nose that was just about to slide off his face. He looked past them into the darkness. Another bus rolled up behind them.

“Quedate aquí,”
one of them said. Stay here.

As the soldiers walked away toward the bus, Ray quickly turned and pressed on the edges of the prosthesis. It wasn't sticking. He'd left it on too long, and he was sweating too much. And the more he pressed the more it loosened.

The soldiers were yelling at the bus driver. Telling him to wait. The headlights were blinding him. Worse, they were spotlighting him for everyone in the bus. Hey,
gringo
—your face just fell in the dirt!

Mantu returned with the captain. Both men were grinning, the captain's mouth full of gold teeth. “We're good to go, Edward,” Mantu said.

Ray was holding his nose in place. “Okay.” He felt as if he'd been plugged into an electric current and it had suddenly shut off.

“Help me load our stuff back in.”

The captain yelled to his men, then waved to Mantu. When he'd gone, Ray whispered, “What the hell did you do?”

“I'll explain later.” Mantu lifted the seat and started putting the guns back into their hiding place. “Get in before that fucking thing falls off.”

“It's something I learned from Micah,” Mantu explained as he drove. “A bit of hypnosis, a little verbal NLP. You have to use your eyes, too. It's hard to explain.”

“Well, it worked. I thought we were toast, and you turned it around. And you had
el capitán
giggling like a schoolgirl. Did you make out with him or something?”

Mantu laughed. “I didn't use any mind tricks on him.”

Ray snorted. “Right.”

“Seriously. I didn't have to.” He reached inside his shirt and threw a stack of U.S. twenty-dollar bills onto Ray's lap. “A few of these put that stupid smile on his face.”

Ray riffled the bills. “I guess that's one of the oldest tricks in the book.”

“Yep. Plus, that guy was as dumb as a doorknob. There wasn't much of a mind to work with. But money talks.”

“Well, thanks for keeping us out of prison.”

“No problem.” He slowed down to pass a cow standing halfway in the road. “Get your nose back on. And pray we don't run into another roadblock.”

The roads were a nightmare of mud and deep puddles, dangerous ruts, and drivers seemingly intent on killing them. From Escuintla they headed west—Mantu wanted to avoid Guatemala City and the police and military patrols they'd likely encounter along the way—before heading through the mountains on their way north to El Petén and the narco-infested jungles along the border of Mexico. It was a long, bumpy, and uncomfortable ride along some of the country's worst back roads, but it was a lot safer than the direct route—provided they didn't get stuck or slide off into a gaping crevasse or one of the numerous stinking swamps, or get hijacked by a gang of thieves.

When he wasn't driving, Ray spent the time staring out the window at the country passing by—a palette of land almost entirely green, broken by brown cow-trampled fields and primary-colored farmhouses surrounded by curious children, chickens, and dogs. Guatemala was a land of incredible natural beauty but also oppressive, debilitating poverty and ugly industrial blight. It reminded him of his time in Blackwater, where so many of the residents lived in squalid homes or trailer parks in the midst of stretches of unspoiled, picture-postcard wilderness.

And his mind never strayed far from Ellen and William. He knew Mantu's choice of roads was in their best interest, but damn if he didn't wish they could pick up the pace and take a route with actual pavement instead of dirt, gravel, and mud. Now Ray could see mountains looming ahead over the treetops, sharp-edged and wrapped in dense, cottony clouds. Beyond the mountains lay a great expanse of farmland all the way until the jungles of El Petén, where he prayed Ellen and William were still alive, unhurt, and out of the reach of Lily.

Mantu was tight-lipped about what he planned to do once they arrived at El Varón's heavily fortified compound. He was still figuring it out, apparently, which wasn't comforting—the couple of semiautomatic rifles they were packing would not get them far into the lair of a big-time international narco. But at least they were doing
something,
while Jeremy was happy to do nothing for the two expendables. Ray's faith in the Brotherhood had never been strong, despite the extraordinary measures they had gone to to help him, but he knew Mantu's insubordination had to be weighing on him. He had no idea what the penalty for going rogue was. But he suspected it wasn't pretty.

Ray wished they could have been friends in better circumstances. The man could make him laugh like no one else, even in the most hellish of circumstances. But now Mantu's humor dampened the longer they drove. He didn't joke or even talk much, just brooded and stared, day and night. When Ray drove he slept in the back until it was his turn at the wheel. Whatever was going on behind his eyes was keeping him silent.

It was night when they downshifted into the hilly town of San Juan Cotzal. A thick fog had rolled in from the valley, and it had become almost impossible to see more than fifty feet ahead. Mantu pulled into a gas station and walked into the tiny office. When he got back in the van, he looked exhausted, his eyes glassy and red from the long shift at the wheel. “Looks like we're gonna spend the night here.”

Ray nodded. “There are definitely worse places. This looks kinda nice.”

“It'll do for a night. Most of the people here speak Ixil, not Spanish, but I got the name of a hotel up the road a bit. Cheap and off the main road.”

Ray rubbed his cramped neck. It would be nice to sleep in an actual bed. Quality sleep in the back of their bus had been next to impossible—it seemed like every time he'd doze off they'd hit a rut or a bump and he'd jar into wakefulness. He doubted that he'd gotten more than an hour of continuous sleep at a stretch, and his jagged nerves were getting more and more strained. A bed and a solid stretch of sleep would do wonders for both of them. “A hotel? You kidding me? We haven't even been on a proper date.”

“You ain't my type, Whitey. Especially with that ugly nose,” he said. “So keep your hands to yourself and stay the hell out of my bed.”

Ray was too tired to laugh, but he smiled. At least there was a little humor left in his friend.

The hotel owner, a tiny Indian man, spoke softly and didn't look either of them in the eye. Mantu negotiated a price—just about every exchange required haggling—and finally got them a room with two beds for the equivalent of what Ray remembered paying for a delivery pizza in Baltimore. And the owner promised hot water, which made Ray deliriously happy. He could almost feel the days of grease and grime sliding off his skin in anticipation.

The room was dark but clean. Both beds were covered in traditional blankets of bright, ornate wool, and the bathroom was spartan and not very welcoming. At least there was a showerhead, although the scary-looking thing had one of the built-in heating elements that Ray was convinced would one day electrocute him.

The shower could wait. Ray flopped onto a bed, which squeaked loudly. “Oh my God,” he sighed. “I feel so civilized.”

Mantu sat down on his bed and took off his shoes. “Enjoy it. This may be the last bed you sleep in for a while. We have a long haul ahead after this. More mountains and then the roads might get even worse. At least until we get near Petén. Then when we get near El Varón's you'd better be ready to do a lot of hiking.”

Ray kicked off his shoes, then pulled off his shirt and pants and climbed under the sheets. They were rough but at this point they felt as luscious as satin. “You're always full of good news. How much hiking are you talking about?”

Mantu shook his head. “I'm not sure. But you can't just drive up and ring El Varón's doorbell like the Avon lady. Narcos like him have guards stationed on the roads for miles all around. With walkie-talkies, because the DEA monitors cellphone traffic. You drive anywhere within ten or fifteen miles and you start getting pulled over by these bastards, and if you don't have a good reason to be there, you might wind up buried in a grave next to the last thirty idiot motherfuckers who thought they would drop by to say hello. So we have to find another way. And that means a nice little scenic walk through the jungle.”

Jungle
. Ray had grown to hate the word. “I don't want to think about it yet.” He still had scars and scabs from his long night in the woods after the carnival. “How's your plan coming along? Any fresh ideas?”

He shrugged. “I think so. I might have something soon.”

“Is it more than us going kamikaze on this El Varón bastard and getting blown to pieces?”

“Not much, but yes. I brought along a little something I think may help us.”

“And—let me guess—you're gonna keep it a secret.”

“For now, Ray.” He turned off a lamp, and the room went dark. “Now get some sleep.”

That night, she came to him.

Ray was walking along a rocky trail, his feet bare, through a murky patch of woods. He looked at his feet and was surprised at how small they were. A boy's feet. He looked up, then back down, and they were his adult feet again. Well, that was good. He needed to be grown up because there was something bad up ahead. This was no place for kids.

Blackwater. He was back. On his way to find Ellen, spread-eagled and tied on top of an obscene slab of rock inside a grasping stone hand. What was he doing back here again, anyway? He looked down, and all he was wearing was a deep scarlet robe. His hands were empty.

No matter. He'd figure it out. He'd done it before, countless times now. Find her, get the ropes off, hoist her over his shoulder, and run away from the wicked-hot fire that burned at the center of the skeletal rock fingers. At least that's how the dream usually ended.

But this wasn't a dream. He looked down at his feet, and they were bloody and bruised purple from walking so long on rocks and sticks and roots. Dreams didn't hurt like this.

Ahead he heard Ellen scream.

He ran faster. Above him, in the sky, two orange blobs of light zipped through the trees. Toward Ellen's frantic screams.

And then he saw the flickering firelight ahead, and the shadows cast by the sharp towering rocks. The Hand.

He thought he saw Micah, in his ridiculous white suit, but then he realized Micah was dead. Drowned in a pool of his own blood.

But it didn't matter. Ellen was what mattered, and he was getting closer. So close he could smell her perfume. Jasmine. Mixed with her sweat, her musk, her hot, coppery breath.

As he stepped into the clearing, into the light and heat from the sacrificial fire, he stopped. A cold fear rose up from the black soil and through his legs, his guts, and squeezed his heart like the fingers of a corpse.

This wasn't right. This wasn't how it was supposed to turn out.

Lily. She was naked. Oh yes, she was as naked as the day she was born, sitting on the slab of rock with her legs pulled up, leaning back on her arms so that her breasts—nipples hard like pebbles—shone in the dancing light of the fire. Her hair hung over her shoulders, thick red, curled and twisted ropes, as red as the core of the flames. And her eyes, oh my God, so big and so inviting and so very full of magic and promises.

Come to me, my love,
she whispered.

She slowly spread her knees apart. Slid her fingers down between her legs. She lifted her fingers to her lips, kissed them, and held them out to Ray.