Tropic of Darkness (10 page)

CHAPTER

SIXTEEN

Dolores was still asleep, her neck twisted awkwardly as she lolled back in her chair. And she was still caught up in dreams, although the scene had changed.

It was eighteen years after that first incident. And she was no longer seeing through Camille's eyes, but through those of her third daughter, spawned from a brief coupling with a slave called Vasquo.

Esme.

Hearing what she'd heard. Thinking what she'd thought. Just as it had happened, all those many years ago.

*   *   *

By the time Esme had reached her teenage years, her mother, Camille, was long dead. Relatives of Santiago DeFlores had taken over ownership of the plantation. And he had not been her father. She was the product of a sinful union, and was lucky to have been allowed to stay at all. So she had kept her head down and worked hard, reduced to a mere servant. But by the time that she'd reached puberty, the voices had started coming to her in her sleep.

“Come to the mansion in Havana, darling, for a better life awaits you there.”

And finally, they had become so overpowering, she'd followed their advice, going on foot the whole way to the capital.

She had arrived at the townhouse at night. Moonlight limned its edges. The front door was open and so she'd gone in.

The door slammed shut behind her. The trap had been sprung. Esme Vasquo and her bloodline were caught in this house, bound by an unbreakable magic stronger by far than any chains. Slaves to the two phantoms, maybe until the end of time.

Dolores came awake at last and clamped a hand across her brow. Oh, by all the Saints! She'd had that same dream many times before, but it had been so terribly intense tonight.

It had almost been like a proper memory. The images were so powerful that Dolores groaned gently.

But it was an inescapable truth. The sisters could do nothing physically. It was only dreams they could affect. And so they
needed
her. That was the irony of this whole thing.

She sensed that something had changed. Rubbing at her neck, she peered around her through the gloom.

When she'd first dozed off, Isadora had been absent, but her sister was still in the house. Not in view, but it was part of Dolores's own gift that she could sometimes sense it when they were about. She could feel the extra chill their presence loaned the air. Or if not that, then a soft psychic vibration on the fabric of the night. She was descended from the mighty Camille DeFlores as well, now wasn't she? And was not without her own abilities in supernatural matters.

But right now, she couldn't detect either of the twins at all.

If both of them were on the prowl, then it was a very bad night indeed to be a grown man in Havana.

CHAPTER

SEVENTEEN

Jack had brought a bottle of the local rum up to his hotel room. He downed the best part of it before collapsing on his bed. It was his only hope of sleeping after what had happened at that club tonight. And, Mother of God, he needed the escape of sleep.

His head spun as it touched the pillow. And another strange emotion overcame him. He peered out through slitted eyelids at the room around him, taking in how empty it was and realizing he'd ended up alone in almost every room he'd ever slept in.

Little wonder he had started seeing imaginary women.

His head gave another soft spin, and then he was gone.

He lay motionless in the sultry darkness. The music blasting through the windows was an unknown quantity to him. The insects that followed it and whirred around his ears got no reaction. He was lost as deeply as though he were in a great, dark network of connecting caves.

And, once more, he was Mario Mantegna.

*   *   *

As Mario, he'd gone backstage to find the dancer. But nobody seemed to have the first idea who he was looking for. The only things he got were puzzled stares and shrugs.

What the hell
was
this?
He started getting angry. Christ, she
worked
here, didn't she?

Mario stormed back to his table, furious, like a hurricane was raging in his heart. Eddie and the girls were staring at him like he'd gone insane, but damn the lot of them. He wanted that dancer worse than anything in his whole life.

Eddie managed to get him to sit back down and tried to reason with him.

“What's gotten into you? I don't even know what broad you're yapping on about. Look, here's four beauties right here in our laps. Have them all, if it makes you happy. What is
up
with you?”

Mario knocked his hand aside, getting to his feet again. Grabbed the table, overturned it, too crazed to even notice any of the shocked attention he was getting. Then he barged his way back to the entrance of the club and got a cab to the hotel.

It was quiet when he let himself back into his suite. Here, at last, he had a chance to simmer down.

He slammed the door behind him. Slumped against it, his chest heaving. Then he wiped his brow and let out a deep breath and stared about the room.

A fan was turning in the ceiling, throwing its slow shadows over everything. A fly was tapping against the inside of a windowpane.

The violent emotions subsided a little, but refused to leave him. Eddie had been right—this was crazy. But he couldn't seem to stop it. It was like a roller-coaster ride, too fast and frantic to get off.

He was sweating heavily. Perhaps a shower would help.

Mario stripped off his clothes as he went through to the bathroom. Turned the water on full blast and stood beneath it for what seemed an age. Was feeling looser, calmer, when he finally stepped out.

But he closed his eyes while toweling his face. The image of the dancer was still there.

So what to do about it?

Wrapping himself in a robe, he padded back into the main room of the suite, poured himself a Chivas from the bar. Downed it in one go and then refreshed his glass.

He carried it through into the bedroom, together with a fat cigar from the humidor.

Mario sat down on the bed, picked up the book of matches on his nightstand. But to his surprise, he found himself becoming drowsy before he could light one.

What was happening this time? He'd felt keyed up enough, moments ago, to fight an entire army.

Against his will, Mario's eyes slid shut.

When he opened them again, the room seemed darker than it had before. There was a tall, deep shadow over in the corner by the door. Had he hung his coat up there? He thought about it blurredly, then remembered it was tropically hot. Who the hell would wear a coat down here?

When the shadow moved, he sat bolt upright. He instinctively raised an arm, ready to hurl his glass.

He noticed, in that moment, that the silhouette was female.

And as it stepped across, he saw it was the dancer from the club.

Mario didn't stop to wonder how she'd found him. Nor how she had got into his room. He let himself sink back.

This was what he'd wanted since the first moment he'd seen her. And so he waited for her as she moved toward him. As she brought her face slowly closer to his, and pushed her long, slim fingers through his hair.

It was like the touch of butterflies. And her breath on his cheek was like the sweet perfume of some exquisite hothouse flower.

But . . .

He wasn't Mario Mantegna any longer.

He was now himself. Jack Gilliard, in his own dowdier bed. The woman was still here with him. Her lips were moving closer to his face. Toward his mouth. To kiss it . . .

Jack moaned and thrashed his legs. He was actually trying to fight against this, although he was not certain why.

He managed to break loose, very briefly. He came half awake, merely a fleeting instant's consciousness.

And then he was slipping helplessly back.

He'd changed again. He was an older man, now. Santiago DeFlores, the plantation owner.

A beard bristled at his chin. And he was dressed, despite the stifling heat, in a long flannel nightgown. The bed he occupied was a four-poster.

He had pince-nez balanced on the bridge of his nose, a quill pen in one hand, and was making entries in a ledger. Camille was off in the woods again, performing some annual ritual, and would not be back till dawn.

When the door eased open, he didn't take any notice at first. But finally he looked up, to see one of his own daughters standing there. This was Isadora. You could tell that by her eyes.

Jack rolled over.
Isadora.
He tried to breathe the syllables.

So that was her name.

She was dressed in the filmiest of gowns and, as she stepped in, Santiago realized he could see right through it. He felt his cheeks flush. But to his horror and disgust, he found he could not look away.

She returned his gaze shamelessly. Smiling at him, she walked across. The gown slipped from one of her shoulders, the tip of a breast falling into view.

This was utterly wrong. The foulest of all sins. But her hazel eyes were holding him firmly.

The dream's scene changed again.

Jack was now Evgeny Eusenovitch, a delegate from Moscow, sitting in the pale moonlight on one of Havana's eastern beaches. He had thought he was alone here, till a movement in the corner of his eye brought him around. Isadora came to him, leaving no footprints in the sand . . .

Jack grunted, twisted—kept on fighting.

He became Jan Meenders from Rotterdam. As Jan, he felt ill at ease as he got ready for bed in his hotel. He had not enjoyed the show at the Karibe. Perhaps he was too old-fashioned, he mused.

But that one special dancer had so fevered his imagination, filling him with strange desires . . .

And now, she came to him, her breath upon his cheek . . .

Just before she managed to kiss him, Jack pulled back again.

And became a Canadian this time. A guy called Francis Jackson. Why should such a beautiful young woman be interested in a guy like himself? But here she was in his hotel room.

It took all of Jack's strength to stop it happening.

He managed to make Jackson lift a hand and push her face away. And an expression of dismay filled up her honey-colored eyes.

“Don't you like me?” she asked, her voice pleading. “Don't you want me, Jack?”

As she spoke his name, Jack came fully awake, sitting up.

And could feel it immediately, before he even saw it.

There was somebody on the bed with him.

*   *   *

He gasped and swiveled. And came face-to-face with a weird outline, kneeling on the mattress beside him.

This was no dream. It was really happening.

The same outline as before. Isadora DeFlores, insubstantial as a sea mist. No color to her, save her eyes, which were the palest amber, like a hazelnut shell.

He could barely see the details of her face, her features reduced to vague smudges. But her eyes stared at him coolly. They were studying him—there was no doubt of that.

His body went completely tight. The eyes in front of him narrowed very slightly. Then one smoky hand came up, the fingernails translucent.

Started reaching for him, like a claw trying to grab him.

Jack let out a howl. He finally moved, flailing at it wildly.

And his hand passed through nothingness, simply a biting coldness on that section of the air. When he pulled back, his knuckles were all aching. But at least he'd stopped the figure. It was frozen in midreach.

Those eyes regarded him for a few seconds longer. They were damp and slightly puzzled, like she could not understand why he had chosen to reject her.

Then her lips began to move, quite soundlessly, but tracing out three brief words on the darkened air.

And somehow, he believed he knew what they might be.

“You're mine, Jack.”

That made him go more rigid than ever. He was pushing back away from her by this time, but with genuine difficulty. He felt sure at first that she would follow him and catch him up.

But then her entire figure vanished.

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

Manuel Cruz had found himself unable to sleep properly that night. He'd crept out before his family began to rise and was in his office at the Ministry of Trade before six thirty.

He pushed open his window, gazed out for a while. He loved the city at this time, the way the air was drier, lighter. Off in the direction of the airport, there was a muffled roar as a plane took off. It petered away, and the building became quiet around him.

He fixed himself a coffee and then set to work. So much could be done with no one else around. He ought to make a habit of this once a week at least.

The ink in his pen packed up on him. He was hunting for another when his phone rang, unnervingly loud in the surrounding hush.

Who on earth would call here at this hour?

A foreign accent, North American, came down the line. It seemed an elderly voice and was struggling with basic Spanish, quite appallingly pronounced.

“Bonus dee-ass. Senor Manuel Cruz, poor favor?”

“This is he.”

“Oh, you speak English? Thank God! I've had no end of trouble getting through to you.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. But how can I help you, sir?”

“My name is Doctor Leland Hague,” the man said. “I'm a medical practitioner based in Toronto, Canada. And one of my patients is—was—Francis Jackson. He visited your country recently, and I understand you met with him.”

Manuel closed his eyes a short while. What exactly was happening now?

“Yes. And I did hear what happened. I am most terribly sorry.”

“Maybe you can help me, then? I'm trying to shed some fresh light on this matter.”

Manuel sat up straighter. “Please, sir. Please, go on.”

*   *   *

Carlos Esposito was up and about too, but there was nothing out of the ordinary in that. Early starts and late finishes were part of his routine. His desk was smaller and less tidy than Manuel's, his office walls buried beneath thumbtacked photographs and press cuttings. But like his brother-in-law, he had a lot of paperwork that needed catching up on. He hated it like hell, but it had to be done.

He had been busy last night. Once he'd left the Karibe, he had gotten on the phone, calling up friends in immigration. Found out where the Frenchman was living. Found out that the Yanqui companion was a fellow called Jack Gilliard, staying at the Hotel Portughese.

And in the space of one brief hour, he had set the wheels in motion that would reveal what they were genuinely up to. They didn't know it yet, but an invisible net had begun closing in around them.

Enjoy your nightclubs and your whores while you still have the chance
, he thought.
Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow you might face prison, or even a firing squad.

He'd just completed a report when the phone rang and he snatched it up. And it was Manolito, sounding agitated once again.

He listened, his brow furrowing, as Manuel described the doctor's call.

“What are you suggesting now, brother—an illness? I'm a cop, not a medical man.”

“I know that. But this Doctor Hague is coming to Havana in a few days' time. I was wondering . . . you have a lot of influence. Could you help things run more smoothly, make sure that he gets his visa in time?”

Carlos rolled his eyes. “Okay.”

“Did you find anything at the Karibe last night?”

“Sure, but regarding to a different matter. A pair of foreigners who are acting strangely. In fact, I think that I might go back there again tonight.”

*   *   *

A building across the way blocked out the sun at first, and so the morning's light took a while before it found Jack. Almost as if it were hanging back, afraid of what it might reveal.

He was still squatting at the center of his bed as its glow finally touched him, head tucked down, knees pulled to his chest. He'd drawn the bed sheet up around his shoulders and was staring at his clenched fists.

As the yellow light began to warm him, he let his eyes close momentarily. He took in a rattling breath.

His mind began ticking over, gathering a gentle speed. He had, he figured, been in a mild state of shock the last couple of hours. Hardly surprising, considering what he'd been through. But in the clear light of day, he immediately began hunting around for a more rational explanation.

Somebody slipped something in my drink? No. He'd have known it, if he had been doped.

You never really woke up. You just
dreamed
you were awake.

It was the most plausible answer. But did not convince him as much as it should have. Because the skin of his right hand still felt sensitive and raw where he had touched the thing, the phantom. The sensation was undeniable.

And so dammit, what the hell to do?

Leave
, he told himself.
Get out of here immediately. Change hotels.

It seemed ridiculous, looked at that way. Running away like a child. But if he remained here this coming night, would he even be able to sleep?

Would he even be capable of shutting his eyelids?

He got up and started dressing, his movements suddenly urgent.

*   *   *

The desk clerk looked at Jack with surprise when he came down with his bag packed.

“
Señor?
I thought you were staying with us a while?” He was a pleasant-mannered individual and seemed genuinely concerned. “If there's any problem—?”

“Something unexpected came up, I'm afraid,” Jack informed him quickly. “If I could have my check, please? And my passport?”

“Yes, of course.”

The fellow tapped at a computer keyboard, setting an old dot matrix printer rattling. He went to a filing cabinet and started hunting through it.

The clerk stopped with a puzzled expression after a while. Glanced at the pigeonhole for the key to Jack's room. There was a note protruding from it, which he unfolded and read.

“I'm sorry,
Señor
, but your passport is not here. It's been withdrawn by the police, for a routine inspection.” The clerk shrugged. “It must have happened last night, when I was not on duty.”

“But I have to leave today.”

Jesus, he couldn't even check into a new hotel without the thing. All the guy across the desk could do was pull a sympathetic face.

“Do the police
often
do this?” Jack inquired.

“Well, what it says here . . 
.
” The clerk held out the note for him to see. “It's just routine.”

But Jack could tell that the man wasn't really sure.

*   *   *

A cab dropped Jack off outside Pierre's house. He went up the path and rang the bell. When he got no reply, he edged his way toward the back of the house.

Pierre Melville was in the kitchen, sitting in his bathrobe at a table. His face was downturned, his hair and beard askew, and there was a coffee mug clasped in one huge fist. He did not even look up when Jack banged on the window.

And when his head did finally lift, Jack could see immediately that there was something wrong.

Pierre's face was more than simply pale. It was deflated. There were bags under his eyes where none had been before, and his cheeks were drooping. It might simply be a hangover, but Jack didn't think so. The guy looked genuinely ill.

It was the Frenchman's eyes that bothered him the most. Despite the fact that he was standing in clear view, they were not fixed on him properly. Rather, they were aimed across his shoulder.

And there was nothing to see off in that direction but empty sky.

Pierre put down his mug and started lifting both hands to his face. They didn't make it the whole way. Halted in midair, uncertain. Jack could see that they were shaking.

He banged on the window again, more insistently this time. And at last, Pierre's gaze drifted to him.

The man's forehead creased, as if he couldn't tell who he was looking at at first. At last, he got up and unlocked the back door.

“Jackie? What is it?”

Even his voice was quieter than it had been.

“The kings of Cuba are about to be deposed, that's what. Christ, Pierre, are you sick or something?”

“Me?” The man looked genuinely puzzled. “No. In fact, I don't think I've ever felt so good.”

This took Jack completely off balance.

“You don't look that way.”

He put a palm to the man's brow, expecting to find a slight fever at the very least. But his hand jerked back immediately.

“You're freezing!”

This was totally ignored. Pierre's eyes drifted to the window again, and a smile that was practically seraphic lit up his dull features.

“What're you doing here anyway, Jack?”

“It turns out I can't move hotels.” He didn't bother explaining why he wanted to do that. “And I can't leave Cuba either.”

“Can't . . . ?” Incredulity distorted Pierre's gray face. “Why should you want to leave? Didn't you have a gig with those musicians?”

“Gig?” Jack felt his jaw drop. “What in hell is
wrong
with you? The cops have withdrawn my passport! What in God's name have you gotten me into?”

“It's such a wonderful place, though. Leave?”

This was getting crazier by the second. And it wasn't like Pierre was drunk or even going nuts. More like he hadn't properly aroused himself from sleep yet. Jack grabbed hold of the front of his robe. “Listen to me! I'm willing to bet the law is onto you as well, and that they think I'm involved.”

And finally, the man's eyebrows drew together and his gaze took on a sharper edge.

“I've been so careful though.”

“Like last night, for instance? Walking into that club with a girl on each arm, ordering expensive drinks? And how do you manage to afford all that? Who d'you think these people are? I warned you it would all go sour.”

Pierre glanced out through the window again, unable to pull his gaze away from it entirely.

“I'm not sure. I—”

Jack shook him. “Haven't you heard a thing I said?”

“Yes, Jack. You're quite right. It's just, I've a last consignment to unload.”

“To hell with that!”

“Wait a minute. Listen to me, okay? If what you're saying is true, then we won't be able to leave by legal means. And getting out of here illegally takes cash.”

“Which you've got plenty of. Please tell me that.”

Pierre shrugged. “Sorry, Jackie. I've spent almost everything I've made so far. Hell, you know me.”

“Damn it!”

Jack let go of him and took a step back, trying to think the whole thing through. “It's too risky,” he finally said.

“Then suggest another option? Look, the easiest and quickest way out of here is the same way that my stuff gets in: a boat. And the next one's due tomorrow night.”

“I can't wait that long!” Jack blurted.

That got him an incredulous stare. “One more night, for chrissakes?” Pierre suddenly blinked, figuring something else out. “Hey, wait a minute . . . what made you go looking for your passport in the first place?”

And this time, it was Jack's turn to look uncomfortable.