Blood of Paradise (42 page)

“Pressure might be applied from ANDA or some of the other national water agencies.”

Waxman barked out a grim little laugh. “Excuse me. I could've sworn I saw a pig fly by.”

“It's not so inconceivable.”

“They have no enforcement capability. Not that the judge would obey them if they did.”

“It's also not inconceivable, as I suggested earlier, that Torkland might consider having Estrella divert some of the capital for the bottling plant's expansion—”

“Into the judge's pocket? I'm sure. But it won't build a recirculation system unless somebody puts a gun to his head. And maybe not then.”

Axel grimaced wearily. “How am I supposed to respond to statements like that?”

Waxman made a disgusted little huff, shifting in his chair, then wiped the sweat from his face and dried his hand on his shirt. “Fine. Let's get back to square one, a simple yes or no—can you come to a conclusion or not about the bottling plant's impact on the aquifer?”

“As I stated earlier, I'm not at liberty to divulge specifics.”

“If it's the truth, what's the problem?”

“It's proprietary. But Bob Strickland from Torkland Overby arrives this week, and we'll review matters. That's high on the list, believe me. I will say this, however: The plant has deep-bore, high-yield wells that were properly engineered. The well field's being competently maintained. The wells continue to be productive.”

“That sounds like damning with faint praise to me. Beyond which, it's not an answer.”

“At the risk of repeating myself—”

“Have you discussed this with your friends at ODIC?”

“They are hardly my friends.”

“You've met with Al Lazarek.”

“Not by choice. And I would hardly be shocked to learn his role with ODIC is merely cosmetic.”

“You think he's with the intelligence community.”

“It would not surprise me. Be that as it may, it has nothing to do with the water table along the Río Conacastal.”

Eileen touched Waxman's arm lightly, preparing to step in. “I may be wrong, Axel, but I get the sense something has changed since I told you about Oscar's sister being abducted.”

There, Jude thought. The little dark heart of the matter. When Eileen had shown up with Waxman, she'd looked helpless, as though to say she'd had no choice, he was coming here one way or another and she might as well tag along. Secretly, Jude had felt glad to see her, but then Axel had pulled him aside to whisper, “What can your friend be thinking, bringing a reporter here?” Jude hadn't missed the reproach lurking in
your friend
. Now she was asking questions herself and getting straight to the point—maybe a rebuke was in order.

Axel, meanwhile, hid behind a blank stare. “I'm sure I don't know what you mean.”

“We all want to do anything we can to help this family,” she said, lowering her voice as though Oscar might somehow crack the language barrier and understand. “But if you think not telling the truth about the bottling plant might somehow—”

Axel waved her off. “Listen. My job here—”

“You can't trust these people. God only knows what else they might do, who else might suffer.”

Axel, never one to be lectured to, looked off, his face knotted up like a fist. A tin clock atop the dish cabinet chimed the half hour. Finally, he came back and leaned forward, lacing his fingers together on the table. “Can I tell you a story? An old story, admittedly, but one that's apropos, I think.”

Eileen sank back against her chair, eyes blighted. “Of course.”

“It goes back to when I was studying geology at Purdue.” Axel dropped his gaze to contemplate his coffee dregs. “I attended a Lutheran church near campus. The pastor was quite old-school, but the younger ministers who came through there for their studies were decidedly au courant. Two in particular, Bill Dickey and Frank Fairchild. I had a number of discussions—arguments, I guess—with both men about the war, about race relations, about everything. It was a strange time, the sixties, with people like myself being every bit as naïve in a phony, hardheaded way as others were in their flakiness. But there's one discussion in particular that has always stuck in my mind.

“I was visiting Reverend Bill, we were teamed together for some sort of fund-raiser for the church. Can't even remember what now. But Reverend Frank came in, clearly in a state. He took Bill aside as though I weren't even in the room and told him what the trouble was. I just sat there, fiddling about my business, but listening in, too.

“It turned out there was a boy at a local high school who'd gone down to the steps of city hall and in a fit of high drama burned his draft card. He was young enough to think this was heroic—women would weep, boys would cheer. This is West Lafayette, mind you, the heart of the corn belt. He got arrested on the spot, tossed in jail, and told he should prepare himself for ten years in prison.”

Axel unlaced his fingers and began turning his cup slowly in its saucer.

“The young man didn't call his parents from jail. Or a lawyer, or someone from the War Resisters League. He called Reverend Frank—and was scared to death. Like a lot of high school kids in town, he'd come down to the church coffeehouse to hang out, smoke cigarettes, talk Kafka and Camus, that whole scene. That's where he'd met Reverend Frank and, like a lot of young people, was smitten. If there is such a thing as Lutheran magic, that man had it. Not a handsome fellow—shortish, pockmarked face, kinky brown hair—but very genuine, very sharp, very committed. This boy, I wish I could remember his name, he asked Reverend Frank to come to his defense, say something in the papers or from the pulpit, let them know he wasn't the craven pinko deviant they were making him out to be.

“The problem was, Reverend Frank was already on probation with the church hierarchy. His sermons were meant to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. Not surprisingly, they'd drawn complaints, nasty ones from important people. He'd been warned in no uncertain terms that one more little scandal and he was gone. That meant no more pursuit of his master's in sociology. It could well mean giving up the cloth.

“He poured all this out to Reverend Bill and said he knew he could do more good for more people if he gained his degree, stayed within the church. It wasn't just the safe choice, it was the practical choice—the compassionate choice when you balanced the benefit for the many against just one. But, he said, every time he thought about telling this young man that he'd have to seek help elsewhere, he thought about the parable of the one lost sheep. And he could not bring himself to abandon this scared, asinine boy, even if it meant giving up so much else.”

Axel left off fiddling with his coffee cup and folded his hands again.

“It left quite an impression on me, like I said. I'd never seen anyone grapple with his conscience openly like that—haven't seen much of it since, to be honest. It was the first time I'd seen the Gospel treated as something concrete, something to live by, not the shopworn taradiddle you normally get from the pulpit on Sundays.” He looked out the dining room window, past the gauzy curtains at the fading daylight. The street beyond was empty. “You can pray, you can examine your conscience, search every book you please, holy or not. But none of that provides guidance the way you want. What would be the point of faith if it did? You choose. If you err, as you inevitably will, hope for forgiveness.” He turned back finally, meeting Eileen's eyes with artless conviction. “Well, I've made my choice. I hope it's the right one. If not, please forgive me.”

No one spoke for a moment, and Jude found Axel's words resonating in a way he couldn't quite place. Gradually, though, it came to him:
If we fuck up, as we invariably do, we try to make good for the people we've screwed, which is the best we can offer
. He felt a sudden moral uneasiness, a sense that men like Axel and Malvasio, the honorable and the conniving, might in fact somehow be indistinguishable. How many ways, he wondered, does a man remain a stranger to himself? The thought devolved into a wormy little terror—that from this point forward every step he took would be not just blind but tragic.
Cry your eyes out, sucker
. Then the sound of a door opening and closing upstairs rescued him, luring him back to the here and now.

Shortly, Consuela appeared, gently stroking Oscar's head as she passed him on the stair. The boy seemed oblivious to her touch. She dropped into the chair beside Axel, fanning herself with her hand.

“I do not believe,” she said, “that young woman will survive this.” She glanced at Jude. “She told me something I hadn't realized before.The men who came and took her little girl—one of them, the leader, was an American.”

The import didn't hit Jude all at once. Then his insides clenched. “Did she describe him?”

“Yes. She said he was tall, like you—which was why she stared last night when you came into her room. But he was older. Darker. And his eyes, his voice—this is odd, but she said they made her think of Chupacabra. He's a monster, a scary story the country people tell, a kind of vampire who roams the hills, sucking blood from goats.”

Jude's mind raced. Nothing came. He just sat there staring at the blank white wall while, beneath the scrabble of unspoken words, an undertow of guilt thickened into rage.

Axel said quietly, “Jude?”

“I was thinking,” Jude managed finally, “of people at the embassy or anyone else who might fit that description.”

Waxman said, “This man's linked to the embassy? My God—”

Axel waved the notion away. “Let's not be idiots.”

Jude nodded. “I didn't mean—”

“Are you all right?” It was Eileen, staring across the table at him. “You look a little, well,
friquiado.”
Freaked out.

“I'm fine.” Jude shook his head. “I'm just fading a little. Spotty sleep the last few nights.”

“Which should serve as our cue.” Axel rose from his chair.

“I'd like to talk to the boy's mother,” Waxman said. He looked bitter and spent. The story was slipping away. “Would she be willing to do that?”

“She is terrified,” Consuela said. “A reporter, these people, the danger to her child—”

“But you'll ask?” Waxman made another rat-a-tat with his pen. “Please.”

Consuela trudged back upstairs, an empty exercise. Everyone knew that, even in the unlikely instance Oscar's mother felt inclined, Consuela would talk her out of it. Around the table, amid the smells of cold coffee and bodies ripened with sweat, no one spoke.
These people
, Jude thought. People like Bill Malvasio. Like me. You stupid, needy, gullible fool.

Soon enough, Consuela returned, shaking her head. “I'm sorry.”

Axel, still standing, gestured ungraciously to the door. His manners had frayed—the heat, the questions.

Waxman didn't move: “What if this girl ends up dead? What if she already is? What will you have gained?”

The blood drained from Axel's face, aging him ten years in an instant. “I really do think we're finished here.”

Jude showed Waxman and Eileen out, feeling light-headed and numb. Evening was falling, scarcely a breeze, the air smelling of metal and foul water and dust. An old couple walked a small, quivering dog down the shadeless street. Waxman plodded to his car but Eileen lingered, telling Jude, “I know you two are up to something, and if it's what I think it is, you're insane.”

“That's interesting, coming from you. Remind me—who brought Oscar and his mother here?”

“Does Axel really think he can bargain with these people?”

Don't let her drag you into this, he thought. “Your imagination's getting the better of you.”

“That little homily about Reverend Frank?” The sun caught her hair as she shook her head. “I don't think so.”

“He just wants to do the right thing, and he's having a hard time figuring out what that might be.” He wanted to add:
Now let it go
.

Her eyes scoured his. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“Say what you want, I can tell something's wrong.”

Secretly, he enjoyed the scrutiny, though he felt pretty sure that wasn't wise. He glanced away. “I told you, I'm just tired.”

“I'm checking in on you tomorrow.”

He mustered a smile. “If you come, don't bring Wax along, okay? You didn't score any points there.”

She looked stung. “He wouldn't do anything to hurt anyone. That's the last thing he wants.”

Like want has anything to do with it, Jude thought, but all he said was, “Be careful.”

Back inside, music wafted faintly from a secondhand boom box in the living room—Kiri Te Kanawa, the “Four Last Songs” of Richard Strauss. Consuela had grown up at the Salvadoran embassy in Bonn, her father the socialist colonel exiled to Germany for his support of the leftist coup in 1960. The Strauss played sadly, fatefully in the background as Axel sat at the dining room table again, mindlessly smoothing the coarse linen tablecloth.

Sensing someone there, he glanced up at Jude. “Well, that was an experience.” His eyes floated in their sockets; he looked baffled and dour. “Think I'll make an early night of it.” But he just sat there, staring at nothing, till Consuela finished washing the cups and saucers, turned off the music, and led him upstairs.

Alone finally, Jude dragged a chair from the dining room table, propped it in the front doorway, and sat there, staring blankly out at the staid, shabby neighborhood in its sweltering Sunday calm. His stomach roiled and the same numb dizziness as before returned—only now he realized it came from a kind of inner free fall, as though all his psychic moorings had come undone. It wasn't just that he felt duped and used—what particularly galled him was that same phrase circling back to haunt him,
The people involved in your hydrologist's project could be the worst of the worst down here
. Malvasio had known all along who Axel was working for; he was working for them himself, just to different ends. And worst of the worst, as it turned out, hardly came close.