Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 02 - Elective Procedures (30 page)

Really? The farther we got from the center of town, the more exposed I felt and the tighter my chest got. Breathing was an effort.

But Susan was unfazed. She talked about the exciting art in the area. The symbolism, the variety of media and traditions. I half listened, noting that the sun was getting lower in the sky, thinking that we should return to the crowded plaza. Picturing sheep wandering from the herd, becoming prey for wolves. But I didn’t say anything. I tagged along with Susan but, like a stranded ewe, I watched for predators. An hour later, I didn’t care if I never entered another art gallery in Mexico or any other country.

“I need to go back,” I told her.

“Why? Your leg?”

Fine. I’d blame it on my leg. “I shouldn’t be standing as much as I have been.”

“Sorry. I lost track of time.”

We finally headed back toward the plaza. I hurried, not sure
why. Except that the winter sun would soon set and it would be harder to recognize danger in the dark.

An endless stream of torches and candles flowed through the darkness. Banners identified each section of the procession: families, neighborhoods, villages, organizations, businesses. They wove through the streets and ended up at the cathedral, paying homage to the Virgin of Guadalupe, singing, reciting prayers. Elaborately decorated floats portrayed the Virgin and her appearance to the peasant Juan Diego. Pickup trucks carried bands or DJs playing music, or overflowed with family members of all ages. Some groups were composed by gender. Men reading prayers or carrying placards. Women dressed in splendor, singing as they marched.

People paid homage to Aztec traditions, too. They dressed as jaguars and deer. One man wore feathers, head to toe, might have been an owl. There were people with faces painted gold, wearing white robes and metallic headdresses, rayed like the sun.

Susan and I didn’t talk—we couldn’t. There was too much noise, too many people, too much movement. We stood on a street corner near the cathedral, pedestrians swarming by or straining to see over each others’ heads. Torch flames flowed past, glowing like burning lava.

Charlie whispered, “Remember, Elle? Torches on the beach?”

I turned toward his voice even though I knew he wasn’t there. And despite myself, I saw the beach and the torches. In Negril. A band played reggae, and people danced—hell,
we
danced, couldn’t help it. The night pulsed with music and life and rum and ganja. Charlie’s tanned face glimmered in the torchlight, his body radiated heat.

“This is how life should be.” His voice penetrated the music, and he pulled me close. Spoke into my ear. “We need to stress less, celebrate more. Are you happy, Elf? Because right now, here with you, I’m the happiest man alive.”

We stepped away from the others, into the dark. Beside the
ocean, under the open sky, to the rhythm of steel drums, just outside the light of torches. Charlie and me.

Yes, I remembered.

But Charlie was gone. And the memory was useless. Why did everything always revert to Charlie and the past? Why couldn’t I spend even one lousy evening without him intruding and spoiling it? Hell, he’d shown up even when I’d been in bed with Alain.

“But the parade is better with me here,” he spoke into my ear.

“Go away,” I said.

“Come on, Elf. It’s a parade. What fun is it if you’re solo?”

“I’m not solo. I’m with Susan. And what are you doing here? Why aren’t you with that woman on the beach?”

“What woman?”

“I saw you.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“Señora?” A man standing beside me tried to move away, but the crowd closed him in. He watched me warily.

Of course he did. I’d been talking to myself. Who would want to stand next to a woman who talked to herself?

I needed to move. Felt closed in. Couldn’t stand there anymore. Maybe the crowd would be less dense farther from the cathedral. Besides, I was thirsty, wanted a bottle of water. I turned to Susan to tell her. But the person I faced wasn’t Susan. I looked behind me, saw a gray-haired woman with a wide nose. Turned to the other side. Faced the man who was still watching me, pretending not to. Beyond him was a woman with a young boy. His wife and son? Maybe. But no Susan.

I rotated, looking behind me, diagonally, to the side. Saw dozens of strangers in every direction. How had I gotten lost again? We’d agreed not to separate. So where was Susan? She’d been standing right next to me. She wouldn’t have simply walked away, would have brought me along with her. Or, at least, told me where she was going.

Unless, maybe she had and I hadn’t heard her. Maybe I’d
been traveling with Charlie in Jamaica, not paying attention. That must have been what happened. Susan had probably needed to go to the bathroom. Had probably said so. Would probably be right back.

With difficulty, I reached into my bag, found my phone. Sent Susan a text. “Where are you?” If her phone was on, and if she was paying attention to it, she’d get the message and answer. But with all the commotion, she might not notice it. I watched my phone for a reply. Finally, I dropped it back into my bag.

I waited. I stood where I was, watching the parade, but not really seeing it anymore. The parade rumbled ahead like a landslide, unstoppable, powered by its own momentum. Bystanders teemed moblike, dense, sweaty, passionate. Ignitable. I was closed in, breathless. I stood on tiptoe, looking for Susan. She’d be back any moment. Probably she’d come from behind and startle me again, and I’d swing around, almost knocking her down the way I had earlier. Probably, she’d say that she’d told me where she was going. “Didn’t you hear me? Were you ‘pulling an Elle’ again? I swear, you miss half of everything around you. It’s a wonder you can function.”

We’d laugh and take in the parade for a while. Stop someplace for dinner. Find a taxi to go back to Nuevo Vallarta.

Except that I was doing it again. Wandering in my mind. I looked around again. Didn’t see Susan.

Obviously, she’d come back here, to this spot. So I couldn’t leave. I waited, watched.

Susan didn’t come.

Maybe she was lost? I rotated, scanning faces. Not seeing her. The crowd rippled and swayed. A throng of women paraded by, carrying candles and singing hymns. A low, unnamable fear rumbled in my belly, insisting that something was wrong.

No. Nothing was wrong. I was overly sensitive, still jumpy from the trauma of my near—or actual—death. Susan and I had simply gotten separated. She’d show up. I kept searching the
crowd. In the dim light of sunset, I saw couples, families with young children, young men dressed as gauchos. Guys with Aztec masks, guys with their faces painted silver. No one familiar.

So where was she? What was keeping her? She could have found a bathroom and been back twenty times.

Unless she was waiting in line for a toilet somewhere. I needed to be patient. My leg grumbled. The old woman next to me leaned her body against mine. I felt her dampness, smelled stale sweat, tried to step away. Bumped into the man who’d been warily eyeing me. Apologized. I had to move, couldn’t stand there any longer. I turned, edging away from the curb. The crowd shifted, spongelike, letting me press my way through. Finally, I emerged from the mass of flesh and leaned against the darkened window of a shop. Took a breath. Smeared sweat across my forehead. Looked around again for Susan. And came face-to-face with a demon. Not a real demon, just a demon mask. The kind worn by Mexican wrestlers, made of black-and-white Spandex. Just another guy in costume for the fiesta.

But even in the dark, I could tell that this demon’s eyes were fixed on me.

Adrenaline jolted through me. But I didn’t panic right away. I broke eye contact and turned the other way. Probably the mask was no big deal. People wore all kinds of costumes to the parade, even if a demonic wrestler seemed out of place at a festival for the Virgin Mary.

Damn. Where was Susan? And why had a masked stranger been giving me the evil eye? Maybe he hadn’t been. Maybe I’d inadvertently bumped into him. Maybe he hadn’t even been looking at me, and I’d just been in his line of sight while he’d been looking at someone behind me. I turned to see who that someone might have been, saw the empty windows of a closed shop. Okay. So maybe he had been looking at me. I might have overreacted to his glare. Slowly, trying to look casual, I glanced back at the wrestler.

He was still watching me. Openly staring. Except for the white parts of the mask, he was dressed all in black, his back to the parade. I looked away again as if I hadn’t noticed him. After all, he had no reason to bother me. And it wasn’t as if he could with so many people around. A chain of chattering women snaked past me, holding hands, making their way through the crowd, talking in Spanish. When they’d moved on, I looked up, didn’t see the wrestler. He was gone.

I searched the area where he’d been. Looked right and left. No wrestler. How could he have disappeared in just a few seconds? He couldn’t be far. I could feel him watching me, hovering like a cloud. Like a fist aimed at my head. With my back against the shop windows, I inched toward the cathedral. I’d felt safe there earlier, protected by its warm stained glass and golden crown. Maybe I’d be safe there again. The parade ended up there; there would be security officers. Police. And no one would harm anyone right in front of the cathedral, not with the icon of the Virgin of Guadalupe watching. Not on her festival day. Would they?

Not that I was really in danger of being harmed. I knew better. It was just my nerves. Just Susan’s unexplained absence. Just the mobs of people in the darkness and the endless stream of torches that reminded me of those carried by the frenzied peasants storming Frankenstein’s castle.

Just my overactive imagination.

Still, I was alone. Unsure what to do. And I knew I’d feel better close to the cathedral with its gleaming golden crown. I kept edging my way along the shop window, looking over my shoulder. Worrying about Susan, wondering where the hell she was. Watching people around me. Nearing the end of the building, looking around for a wrestling mask. Seeing none.

Approaching the jam-packed intersection, I stepped forward, away from the building toward the curb.

“Stop!” The voice was urgent, not more than a whisper. Was it Susan? No—a deeper voice. Charlie? I hesitated, and before I
could figure out who was stopping me, I saw movement around the corner of the building. Glimpsed a black-and-white mask. And a glint of metal, reflected in torchlight. Before I could register the images, the blade whipped around the corner of the shop, aimed at my heart.

I leaned back, dodging. The thing swiped at my tank top, grazed my collarbone. I spun around, diving into the crowd, pushing arms, shoving shoulders, darting through tiny spaces. I divided couples, separated little children from their moms. Stepped on feet without apology. I kept moving, tearing ahead, driven by instinct. What was it called? The fight or flight response? I’d chosen the latter, was doing my best to fly. Once or twice, people pushed back, resisting, and I had to veer left or right. But I kept going, not pausing to look behind me, not daring to stop.

I don’t know how long I charged through the choking crowd, opposite the clamoring, swelling parade. But at one corner, it occurred to me that I’d move faster if I turned off the main street, away from the congestion. At the next intersection, I turned up a side street. People gathered there, but not as densely. I had room to move, time to catch my breath. I stood in a shadowy doorway near a streetlight, looking out. Saw no sign of the man in the mask.