The Jaguar (33 page)

He sat at the head of the table with Erin on his right but they were far enough apart to be strangers sharing space in a cafeteria. Overhead the ceiling fans turned at low speed, their blades bending the candle flames.

Armenta had shaved and his hair had been cut and styled. He wore an expensive looking black silk suit and a white jacquard shirt with small black hummingbirds flying through the weave. The tailored clothing hid his bulk and the haircut revealed a strong neck and
a face of intensity and intelligence. She saw Saturnino’s handsome roughness and she pictured his face on the night he attacked her, coming into view on the window of the Cadillac as it shut on her.

A servant opened a French Pouilly-Fuissé and set the cork before Erin, who knew nothing of French wines but smelled it and nodded and tasted the wine. It was cool and light and it offered pleasure, which collided with her fear for Bradley and her worry over Hood and her anger over the killing she had done.

“I’d drink this whole bottle if I wasn’t pregnant,” she said. “And being held captive by a cartel kingpin. I could use a night of forgetting about all this. Maybe a lifetime.”

“I see the unhappiness on your face.”

“This was one of the worst days of my life. I’ve had several of them since I met you.”

He nodded tersely. “Why did you run? Where were you trying to go?”

“Away, away and away.”

“Mexico can be dangerous.”

She actually laughed.

He glanced down distractedly at the courtyard, then turned his attention back to her. “Father Ciel found his key. He had misplaced it. Apparently. Maybe your escape was one of opportunity and not planning.”

“Either way is just fine with me.”

“Do you hate this place very strongly?”

“I’m going to be a mother soon. I can’t describe to you how genuinely awful it is to be a prisoner here. Can’t you imagine what Anya would have felt like if she were going to give birth to Gustavo and your enemies were holding her thousands of miles from home? Planning to skin her alive? How can you not understand this? Is your heart that small?”

He looked down and away. The waiter set out bowls of ceviche and guacamole and chips, and refreshed the glasses of wine. “I hope not to remove your skin.”

“Saturnino will actually do it. So, no worries for you.”

“I never wanted to skin you, of course.”

She choked down the mouthful of wine and coughed into her napkin. “From the beginning? A bluff?”

“Oh, no bluff. No, no. I kidnapped you for business and to punish an enemy. And because I wanted to meet you. I was a fan. I love musical talent and skill. I intended to skin you only if necessary. But when I met you my perceptions changed. There is more in you than musical talent and skill. There is something that you have and it is only you. I see it. I understand it. My heart sees it. So I want now very much not to skin you although I have given my word and my word is who I am. I want my money. But I want you to write. And go free. And have your child.”

“But you will skin me?”

“I must, if Charlie Bravo fails you.”

“You…Saturnino has done this to other people?”

Armenta raised his eyebrows and cleared his throat softly and continued to look out the window.

“Jesus H. Christ,” she said.

“H?”

“It’s a saying.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning can you just please fly me out of Chetumal tomorrow? Can you let me go home?”

“Impossible.”

“Why is it impossible? You’re the most powerful man in Quintana Roo. Aren’t you?”

He looked at her again, nodded and smiled proudly, then his face
fell into a scowl. He unbuttoned his jacket, brought a phone to his ear and listened for a long time.

Erin looked down at the loggia colonnade melting into the darkness. The driveway was a pale swatch through the black of the jungle. The
sicarios
were just dabs in the background now, difficult to see but not quite invisible. Her mind was alive with images of the day and she wondered if it was possible to unsee the seen or forget the unforgettable.

Finally Armenta said
bueno
and reclipped the phone to his belt with an apologetic shrug.

“I think you’re lying about Charlie Bravo,” she said. “You’ve misled him. He won’t be here with the money tomorrow because you don’t
want
him here. Right?”

He shrugged and looked at her, then abandoned his pretense and nodded.

“Or have you killed him?”

“No. He is alive, but not here. He is off course but he has my money.”

“How long do you propose to keep me prisoner?”

“I have given this thought. My wish is to own a collection of songs that you have written and recorded for me. Enough to form a body of work, on compact disc. The recordings will of course be basic vocal tracks and you will accompany yourself on guitar and piano. Let us say, twelve songs in all. It will not be sold. This is not commercialism. It is for me only to possess.”

“Then you’ll fly me home?”

“You have my word.”

“But your word isn’t true. You’ve sent Charlie miles from here, haven’t you? You’ve gone
back
on your own deal.”

He looked morose at his honor being doubted. “But you are compelled to believe me. Charlie Bravo and his one million dollars are not
here. Your weak and fearful husband remains hiding in California, useless to you. These are factual truths. Twelve songs.”

Twelve songs, she thought.
Time.
Time for the baby inside me to grow. Time for Bradley and Hood. I could write the songs and lay down the vocals in a week. A week! Earn my own freedom.

“You already have one of my songs.”

“But you must record it.”

“Then you mean eleven.”

“Eleven more written, twelve recorded.”

“They could not all be epic
corridos
.”

“They will be what you want them to be. I do not have to be the subject. Write whatever you want to write.”

She sipped the wine and studied his hopeful face. An idea presented itself to her, and although she had no time to examine it, she felt confident that it was good and workable.

“I know you,” she said. “You’ll take the million dollars from Charlie Bravo whenever you want to take it. After seeing the treasures in this place, I know this is true. To you, this million dollars is only filthy paper. But it means a lot to me. It belongs to me and my husband and the baby inside me. I earned some of it. So I want it back. I will not write the songs unless you send me home with Charlie Bravo
and
the money.”

His frown broke into a smile. It was the first smile she had seen on him and it was wide and robust and genuine. “Would you like to be a part of my organization? I will give you cocaine and
mota
distribution in Los Angeles. The plaza will be yours. The money is very tremendous. And with your contacts, all of the musicians in L.A. will remain high forever and produce wonderful works.”

“How about no? No works for me.”

“I am kidding you. A joke for you.”

“That’s very funny, Mr. Armenta.”

“I agree, then. And you agree to eleven more songs to be written and twelve recorded. At the end you will be flown home with one million dollars, and this Charlie…what is his last name?”

“Bravo.”

“Brave. Of course. Very brave when he killed my Gustavo. I had forgotten his bravery. But I now promise I will send him home with you.”

“Not to the tigers?”

He shrugged and avoided her eyes.

“You ordered your people not to feed them.”

“Agreed. Not to the tigers.”

“I will be finished in one week. I believe in you as a man of your word.”

Now he seemed to vet her like a taste of product, a pleased look spreading across his face.

“Also,” she said. “I need the freedom to leave my room when I want to. With no one to watch me. I need to be free to walk around in your Castle and on your property. Except the third floor, of course. I won’t run away again. I give my word on this, and it is every bit as good as yours, and you know it is.”

He smiled again but this time there was something amused in it, as if he’d just been told a good joke. “Of course this is impossible!”

“Impossible why?”

“Because I don’t trust you. Now the truth is exposed. Neither one of us trusts the other but we are making deals like powerful capitalists in the back room! No. You may have limited freedom but only when Owens is with you. Or you will run away. I can see this happening very clearly.”

She took a deep breath and let it out. “Okay.”

Looking down through the last rays of daylight she could see that the outside gunmen were gone now, having vanished as they sometimes did to places unseen, and for reasons not apparent.

The waiter brought a tray heavy with plates of seafood and beef, and another piled with tamales and Yucatecan mango-topped enchiladas. He set out dishes of hot sauce and wedges of lime and baskets of tortillas.

Armenta lifted his wineglass to her and she took up her glass but did not acknowledge his gesture. “I am worried about Saturnino. He is never to leave here without telling me.”

“He’ll probably show up.”

“You never saw him on the trail to the cenote?”

“I told you I never saw him at all.”

“Then maybe he was not acting loco. Maybe he truly is loco and he has taken off for Merida or Veracruz or…who can know?”

She said nothing and watched his face crinkle into a scowl. He set down the wineglass and lifted a phone to his head again.

When he stood and cursed into it Erin heard the gunfire erupt outside, short urgent bursts in the darkness. She saw a ragged flash of orange from the jungle, then came the answering shots from somewhere down in the courtyard. A round whinnied through the night, then another.

Armenta stashed the phone and slid a large holstered pistol around his belt until it hung in front. Then he came around the table toward her and when she stood he put both hands on her shoulders not roughly and he guided her to the floor and under the big table.

“Stay down and the bullets will go over your head.”

“Who are they?”

“The same as they will always be.”

He went to the armoire that sat along one wall and pulled out an assault rifle and swung the strap over his shoulder and chest. Next came what looked like a shotgun, short-barreled and pregnant with a drum of shells. He looked back at her once then marched from the dining room and Erin could see the silent bodyguard leading the way from the suite. He was an older man like Armenta but they moved lightly and spoke to each other though she couldn’t hear the words.

Then the generators went silent and Erin heard gunshots replace their insistent drone and these came from inside the Castle, below her, nasty little rattles that seemed to be arguing with each other. The darkness was sudden and deep. She lay in it with her back to the floor and lifted her knee and worked the Cowboy Defender loose from her calf. When the gun was free she looked to the window and saw below the rim of the tabletop the quarter moon high in the east and the lights of what might have been a commercial jet blipping up and away from what city she couldn’t say.

She rolled over and crawled out and peeked over the window frame. The drive below was lined with solar lights set in decorative concrete frogs, turtles, fish, and crocodiles, and in their modest light she saw two men sprawled on the drive and two more moving slowly toward the Castle from the trees. Two heavy booms and a fusillade of lighter reports erupted from downstairs. Where in the Castle? she wondered. Had Armenta made it outside? Were all those
sicarios
trying to protect him, or kill him? A flare was launched from the foliage and flew into the courtyard out of her sight. She could see the bright red light of it washing the pavers and the columns of the portico and when the two men ran from the jungle onto the drive they were cut down by fire she could not trace. One of them lay still and the other moaned and rolled back up onto his hands and knees but a furious
chatter of fire pocked the sand around him and sent him down absolutely and he did not move again.

The glass above her blasted apart. She slumped down against the wall and felt the shards raining down on her. The main battle seemed to be taking place on the drive right below the dining room but she heard other shots and shouts farther down the driveway and from the nearby jungle where Saturnino had attacked her and from the far side of the building. She crawled back to the table with the glass pricking her hands and knees and the derringer held absurdly in her teeth. She stood and tried to tip over the table but bullets whizzed past her and smacked into the wall and she fell to the tile and rolled flat to the floor under the table. Outside she heard the sound of boots on the crunchy sand of the driveway and men shouting and a scream ended by a volley of fire. The flare light burned into the night from the courtyard and she saw the gun smoke rising into it, then felt the concussive explosion downstairs within the Castle. A grenade, she thought, or a bomb of some kind.

Then she heard vehicles on the drive and more shouting and automatic weapons, and the roar of engines. The bullets twanged against the vehicles and she wondered if they were bouncing off or going in. Then an abrupt silence fell. She lay curled in a ball in the dark hugging herself and talking to the baby inside her about some of the beautiful things he would get to see in his life, beginning in just a few short months.
In fact, you will open your eyes to the sky and the moon and stars and Daddy’s and Mommy’s faces and the faces of toy bears and lions, and there will be music too, beautiful music, and even though you can’t see the music it will make you imagine things that you will see whenever the music plays and sometimes even when it doesn’t.
She felt her heart thumping and the cool of the tile against her flank and she could smell the festive smell of gun smoke wafting in through the broken window. She put a stinging finger into her mouth and sucked at the blood.

Men shouted. Then another shot, just one shot, somehow forlorn and final, followed by a silence that to Erin seemed to go on for hours.