Blood of Paradise (36 page)

Axel directed them all to a circular table near the patio door, where the curtains rustled in the parched wind. He took the chair next to Consuela's, then inched it closer till their arms touched. Sensing his protectiveness, Eileen addressed her words to him.

“Jude may have told you about the woman whose body was found along the Río Jiboa about a week ago.” She waited, received an acknowledging nod, then: “A photographer took some pictures at the scene. In particular, he was able to get a shot of the woman's head when one of the soldiers lifted it up for his … for the other soldiers to see.”

The blood drained from Consuela's face. A whisper: “My God …”

Eileen turned toward her. “Another man named Truco Valdez was able to get away with the camera. He had the pictures developed here in San Salvador. You met with a woman named Marta Valdez who complained about the wells near her village below San Bartolo Oriente. I have the pictures here. I'd like to know if you'd be willing to look at them.”

Squirming in his chair, Axel mustered the beginnings of a protest, but Consuela stopped him.“Of course,” she said.

Eileen undid the envelope's clasp and removed several prints, sorted them, then handed one across the table, saying, “This will be hard.”

Consuela took the picture, studied it, then put her hand to her mouth. The hand began to tremble and her eyes hollowed out. Axel reached his arms around her and unwittingly knocked the picture to the floor. Even looking at it upside down, Jude nearly got sick. It was one of those grainy, hideous images that could make a photographer famous: the soldier jubilant, arm held high, with a fistful of matted black hair—the dusty, marble-eyed face with its crooked, gaping mouth; the sawed flesh of the neck; the clinging mass of flies.

Eileen said, “It's her, isn't it?”

Consuela nodded.

“There's no mistake?”

“No. No.”

“Because right now, officially, Marta is simply missing. The PNC claims someone came forward, identified the body as that of a runaway prostitute.”

“Yes, I've heard that. We all have. But I recognize her.”

Eileen leaned closer. “There's a boy who saw the men who abducted her.”

Consuela nodded, collecting herself. “Oscar.”

“Yes. He said he'd spoken to you. About Marta. It's why I came here today. I tried you at your home, but—”

Axel broke in. “What is it exactly that you want?”

“Please, Axel,” Consuela said.

“Oscar's in hiding,” Eileen said. “The people who have him are already being watched, though. They think. No one knows for sure. But it would probably be wise to move him. They've asked for our help, me and Wax—Bert, I mean, Mr. Waxman.”

“Bring him to me,” Consuela said, her revulsion already quickening into anger. “That's what you're asking, yes?”

“It's too dangerous. Bringing him all the way here, I mean. Sooner or later we'll have to, I suppose. There are lawyers here in the capital, the Human Rights Ombudsman—”

“Bring him to my house then. Until it's safe to move him. I'll go back today. With you.”

“Consuela,” Axel said. “Think for a moment.”

“It's not just him now,” Eileen said. “It's his mother as well.”

“Very well.” Consuela seemed impatient, conflicted—her sense of obligation, her outrage, Axel's concern. “I don't—”

“Men came to their home recently,” Eileen continued, “looking for Oscar. He isn't sure whether they were the same men that killed Marta, but they took his little sister, an infant. They told his mother the baby would be safe as long as Oscar tells no one what he saw—which, of course, means nothing. The woman's half-mad with fear.”

Jude leaned down finally and lifted the picture off the floor. He set it back on the table, facedown, as Axel said, “I'll be staying at the Hotel Gavidia tomorrow night. Why not bring the boy and his mother to me?”

Jude cut in. “Axel, wait.”

“I don't think,” Eileen said, “bringing Oscar and his mother to a hotel would be wise. Too many people could see them.”

“They'll be safer in the company of an American.”

“Axel,” Jude said, “you know that's not true.”

“I'd have to agree with that,” Eileen said. “If we didn't have reason before not to trust the authorities, we do now. The way they're handling Gilberto Soto's killing—”

“Let's put it this way then,” Axel said. “An American without the baggage. I don't mean any offense, but let's put it plainly. Mr. Soto belonged to a union people think of, rightly or wrongly, as an arm of the Mob, and the killing occurred here. To most Americans, that's a man they don't much care about killed in a place they've never heard of. I'm not trying to slander the man, I'm just saying …” He fluttered his hand suggestively. “I'm a little different. Perhaps. I could be their uncle. That could mean political heat back home if anything happens to me, and even the creatures who run things here don't want to alienate the boys in Washington.”

“Actually, it's more the reverse,” Eileen said. “El Salvador is the only Latin American country with troops still in Iraq. Now they're sending private security contractors too. It's the boys in Washington, as you put it, who want everything smoothed over here.”

“Even so, can we agree it would be something of a statistical oddity, two Americans killed here, one right after the other? Even during the war, it was very rare. I know that much local history.”

Jude rose from the table. “I don't think whoever's behind all this will be swayed much by the math. Would anyone mind if Axel and I spoke alone for a moment?” Without waiting for a response, he gestured for Axel to come with him to the adjoining room.

Axel didn't move. “Anything I have to discuss on this issue, Jude, I'll discuss with Consuela present.”

“I think—”

“I know, Jude. Please.” Axel's eyes hardened with a sad, protective defiance. Jude felt oddly helpless against it.

“I'll go,” Eileen said, getting up from her chair. “I don't mind waiting alone.”

Jude unlocked the door connecting Axel's room with his and showed Eileen through. Suddenly modest, he ducked a quick glance around to make sure housekeeping had hit here as well. All was neat, tucked away, but stifling. “Go ahead and open things up,” he said, “or switch on the air conditioner if you like.” He turned to leave, but Eileen snagged his arm.

“Could I talk to you alone? Just a second.”

Jude stepped all the way into the room and closed the door. Despite himself, his pulse was jumping. “We really do need a breeze in here,” he said, needing the distraction every bit as much as the air. He went to the sliding glass door, opened it, drew the curtains. Turning back to the room, he found Eileen sitting on the bed, her ankles crossed. She ran a finger along the lace rim of her camisole, the fabric sticking to her skin. A sheen of sweat glistened on her face and throat. Her glasses slid down her nose, and he found himself wishing she'd take them off.

“I realize this is awkward,” she said, fanning herself with her hand. “But the boy, Oscar, he specifically mentioned Consuela and—”

“It's okay. I understand.”

She nodded self-consciously, then pulled back her hair. “Good. Thank you. I just mean it's difficult, clumsy, given what happened between us.”

She made it sound so final, he thought. “I'm not sure I could tell you, one way or the other, what happened between us.” It came out needlessly flip.

Her eyes flared. “What I mean is, Jude, the situation here, it's bigger than a sport fuck, okay?”

“Excuse me?”

“Don't act like—”

“Wait. Hold on.” He could feel heat rising to his face, his neck. “My sole concern right now is keeping that man in there out of harm's way.”

“He's not the only one in a bit of a jam here, big guy.”

“I'm sorry about the woman, the boy, his little sister, all of it. But—”

“How American. They ought to start putting that on the dollar bill, don't you think? ‘We're sorry. But.'”

“Oh, great, drag that in.”

“Now don't get snide.”

“You want snide?” Before he could catch himself, he went to his briefcase and fished around for her poem. Stop this, he thought, but the thing had a momentum all its own. Finding the worn sheet of notepad paper, he unfolded it and held it out for her to take. “You forgot this at your house in La Perla.”

Staring at the limp sheet of yellow bond, laced with her script, she pushed her glasses up her nose. “Good God. Listen, Jude—”

“Let's get this straight. What
happened
between us, as you put it, has nothing to do with how I go about my job.”

Cooly, she met his eyes. “Convince me.”

“If Axel decides to go ahead, it's his choice. I'm going to argue against it—out of concern for keeping him in one piece, and nothing else—but it's his call.”

“I'll make you a bet. The minute I saw the two of them together, I had this much figured out—he sticks with her. Even if you refuse to protect him.”

“Refuse—that's what you think of me?” He wagged the poem at her. “That and this?”

She finally took it from him. Scanning her words, she smiled ruefully. “This isn't the only note I left behind—you know that, right?” She looked off, as though bringing a memory to bear, then pulled a few damp strands of hair off her neck as she tilted her head and began to sing in that raspy voice of hers: “Hey, Jude. Don't be afraid.”

It took a second for him to place it.

“That's right. The little note stuck with gum under the hood of your truck?” A half shrug, and she bit her lip. “A day or two after that night you came out to my place, one of the women in La Perla, Alma's her name, needed somebody to drive her to Comalapa. Her brother was coming back from the States. Everyone there's been great to me, of course I said yes.

“As I was parking at he airport I noticed your truck. I don't know, something just came over me. I got this idea. I told Alma to go on ahead, I'd wait in the car. I needed to tell you something, speak my mind, and yet I didn't want to come across like some mad bitch stalker, either. So it just came to me, that line from the song, and it seemed perfect somehow. A little anonymous observation from out of the blue. Because yeah, I think you're afraid, Jude. We all are, I realize, and I don't just mean you're afraid of me, or what you feel for me, though I think that's true. I feel like I know you—not just that you're afraid, but the good things about you, too. The fact that you're kind, for example. You understand the people here. You want to do the right thing. I see all that and more, but you're scared to death you're going to screw it up somehow. You've got two modes: kinda okay and complete disaster. Happy? Forget about it, too much to lose. Better hold back, wait the thing out. Because sooner or later it's bound to head south.” She closed her eyes and let out a long, burdened sigh. “That's sad, Jude. I don't mean it's weird, and God knows it's not uncommon. I don't think it's set in stone though, either, or I wouldn't be sitting here talking about it.”

He felt stunned by what she was saying, but oddly relieved as well. Wasn't this what he'd really wanted, especially from her? To be seen for who he was: good, bad, indifferent. She was right, he'd spent much of his life waiting things out, watching from a slight remove. Did that mean he was scared? He'd always thought of it simply as a way to fend off his joyless mother's relentless disapproval, a way to bury the embarrassment of never quite living up to his jaded dad's expectations, a way to keep his impatient needs and pointless wants in check. He couldn't pinpoint exactly when it had happened, but the strategy had become as effortless as breathing. Nothing insidious in that, he realized, it was human nature: The truest person you met had a practiced air. Character is habit, after all. And everybody falls for his own act in the end. Eileen, as far as he could tell, used a disarming mix of tomboy smarts, feminine charm, and an oddly brassy lack of guile to face the world. It made her terribly convincing. But he wanted more than anything to be convinced, so he was a poor judge.

“Given what a rust bucket that truck is, I figured sooner rather than later you'd be sticking your head under the hood. Well, hey. Now you know the whole story.” She shrugged dramatically. “I was hurt. And when I'm hurt I get royally pissed and I don't always make a lot of sense. That's me.”

He wanted to say something, tell her what he was thinking, that she was right, about everything, but the words he wanted, as always, got lost in a muzzy incoherence. Only then did he notice he was chewing his lip.

Finally, he managed, “That's … interesting.”

Subtly but unmistakably, the light in her eyes dimmed. “Okay. I get it. Look, I've got brothers so I know the routine. Quicker's easier, easier's better.” She tore the poem into shreds. “Stupid to make too much of this anyway, given what that woman in the next room has to decide.”

“I told you I was leaving the next day. The trip back home, it was … a job. I just—”

“Sure.” She crushed the shreds of paper in her hands. “It feels obscene, talking about this now.”

Jude closed the door behind him again as he returned to the other room. Axel, looking lost, sat with his arm locked around Consuela's shoulder, clumsy, stiff. Her eyes were desolate. The manila envelope had been rifled, the pictures gone through. They'd looked at them all. Beyond them on the balcony, set against the empty sky, a
pujillo
perched on the iron railing and fluttered its blue-black wings.

Axel turned to Jude, unhinged his arm from around Consuela's shoulder, and said, “Join me out in the corridor, will you?” He murmured something brief to Consuela, she nodded blankly in return, then he led Jude out.