Hunt the Jackal (4 page)

There was no reason not to maintain her dignity and appear polite.

“Of course,
Señora
,” the young man answered. “You are not hungry today?”

“No. My stomach is bothering me.”

“It’s upset,
Señora
? I will call someone.”

“Thank you.”

She had to wait for a female guard to accompany her. As the young, oval-faced woman looked on, Lisa did her business, washed her hands, and drank heartily from the bathroom tap. Somewhere she had read that a person could live for two weeks or more without food, but only a couple of days without water.

The last day and a half had been weird, disorienting, and frightening, but not unpleasant as far as her physical comfort was concerned. Aside from the fact that she was being held prisoner; had been drugged; wasn’t allowed access to a phone or computer, books, newspapers, or news of any sort; and was watched 24/7 (even by a female guard as she took a shower), she had been treated relatively well.

Her current surroundings reminded of her of a very upscale resort, not unlike the one in Sedona, which felt like it was a million miles and many years removed.

She had her own beautifully appointed room and bath with sixty-four-inch plasma TV equipped with Netflix, the finest bath and spa products, and a closetful of resort attire and shoes in her size. Anytime she wanted anything from the kitchen, all she had to do was ask one of the young guards—all of whom were well groomed and polite—and it was served to her by a servant dressed in white.

Her primary worry had been her daughter, whom she loved more deeply than she had even realized. But as the hours and days passed and she didn’t see or hear her, she became more and more convinced that Olivia had managed to escape or had been spared.

She held on to that belief because the alternative was too awful.

Every time she asked why she was being held and who was in charge, she was told that the
jefe
would arrive soon and explain. But she was given no indication who the
jefe
was.

Since
jefe
was a Spanish word that meant “boss” and the people guarding and attending to her spoke Spanish, Lisa concluded that she was somewhere south of the border—maybe Mexico or Costa Rica, two places she had visited in the past.

Turning to the young woman who was sitting with her now, she asked again politely in English, “Can you please tell me when this is likely to end?”

The young woman shook her head. “I’m sorry,
Señora
. I don’t know.”

“Does the
jefe
want something specifically?”

The young woman smiled. “We all want something,
Señora
.”

“Do you know the
jefe
personally?”

“Of course. He’s like my father.”

Lisa tried not to reveal anything about herself, or what she was feeling, or to offend her captors. The room was elegant, with ornate Moorish-style plaster flourishes in the cornices and on the walls, but didn’t say much about the people who owned it, or ran it, because there were no personal or unusual items in it, except for a large framed picture of a skeleton in black nun’s robes holding a scythe on the wall beside the bed.

She thought it looked vaguely Mexican and might have something to do with a Catholic sect or cult.

“Who’s that?” she asked, pointing at the picture and feeling relatively clearheaded for the first time since her abduction.

“La Santísima Muerte,” the woman answered.

“La Santísima Muerte.”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t
muerte
mean death?”

“Yes.”

Lisa, who had been raised Catholic but had rarely gone to church before she was married, had never heard of La Santísima Muerte. Her husband studied and regularly quoted the Bible, but she had never heard him mention anything like this.

“Who is she?” she asked.

“La Santa is a very powerful force,” the young woman answered. “Some say she’s an incarnation of the Aztec goddess Mictecacíhuatl, who is the wife of the death god Mictlantecuhtli.”

Lisa wasn’t familiar with  Mictecacíhuatl and knew very little about Aztec culture and worship, except that the Aztecs had devised an elaborate sun calendar and believed in human sacrifice.

“Others say she is the spirit of the Virgin Mother, who still haunts the earth.”

Lisa shivered, then asked, “What does she represent?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“What does she do?”

“She’s very powerful and grants special favors to people in need,” the guard answered. “If you pray to her, she can protect you from all kinds of violence.”

“Violence?” The word frightened her.

“Yes,
Señora.
For the magic to work for you, you have to give up your conscience first. Because the black arts demand this.”

“I don’t understand.”

“La Santísima Muerte knows the reality,” the young woman explained. “This is a dark world,
Señora.
We didn’t create this world of violence, obstacles, and enemies, but we are not naive. We know that love and kindness don’t work.”

“Who are
we
?” Lisa asked.

“The people,
Señora
. The ones who understand the power.”

Pushed by the same wild, relentless energy he’d had since he was a kid, Crocker rode his Harley south, winding through country roads, not really aware of where he was going or why, just enjoying the rural scenery, the sunshine, smells of nature, and fresh air. There was something liberating about being on the open road with no real destination. Edenton, Tarboro, Rocky Mount, Smithfield, Clinton, Whiteville, Marion, Lake City. Towns flew by, schools, churches, golf courses, junkyards filled with rusting cars and buses, lakes.

He was searching for an answer or direction. Was it time to retire, leave the teams, and start something new? Had his string of narrow escapes from tragedy run out?

As he rode, he thought about his mother and father, and the cycle of life and death.

His mother had died of emphysema several years ago, but his father was still alive and living in Fairfax, Virginia. Lately, he’d befriended a thirty-five-year-old Gulf War vet named Carla and her nine-year-old son. According to Crocker’s sister, their dad had been giving Carla money—possibly as much as twenty thousand dollars so far.

Maybe the old man was lonely and she was taking advantage. Or maybe Carla was a good person and meant to pay him back.

When Crocker was eighteen and constantly in trouble with the police, his father had told him a Cherokee story about a man and his grandson.

The grandfather, seeing that his grandson was being self-destructive, said, “My son, there’s a battle between two wolves inside us. One is evil. It’s jealousy, greed, resentment, inferiority, lies, and ego. The other is good. It’s joy, hope, humility, kindness, and truth.”

The boy thought about it and asked, “Grandfather, which wolf wins?”

The old man replied quietly, “The one you feed.”

For the past twenty-some years, since joining the navy, Crocker had fed the good wolf. But now he could sense the bad wolf’s hunger. It was a big hole at the bottom of his soul carved out by the people he’d killed in the line of duty, and his anger at life’s injustices, and the wrongs that had been visited on the people he loved.

Last night he had stopped in Santee, South Carolina, and eaten blackened catfish for dinner, washed down with several Skull Coast Ales. Later he’d parked near the state park, watched the stars, and reminded himself that even they weren’t immortal. Everything in nature came and went. Stars died and broke up into asteroids. Trees felled in lightning storms rotted into mulch. People died and were consumed by worms. Maybe there was such a thing as reincarnation. He didn’t know.

What he understood was that life went on, mysteriously, hurtling toward something new, like he was now.

He parked his bike outside C J’s Sports Bar & Grill in Ellabell, Georgia, a few miles west of Savannah. He was minding his own business, sitting at the bar, which was lit by strings of little red-and-white lights. He threw back a shot of Jack Daniel’s with a St. Pauli Girl chaser and considered asking for a menu. The Atlanta Hawks were losing to the Heat on the big TV, which didn’t interest him. The little one to his right was tuned to CNN. Something about another budget deadline in Congress.

A poster past the bartender’s head listed the Ten Steps to Self-Esteem. They were (1) know yourself, (2) understand what makes you feel great, (3) recognize things that get you down, (4) set goals to achieve what you want, (5) develop trusting friendships that make you feel good, (6) don’t be afraid to ask for help, (7) stand up for your beliefs and values, (8) take responsibility for your own actions, (9) take good care of yourself, (10) help someone else.

It interested him enough to read it twice and stop at number eight.

An older, potbellied guy with a long gray beard seated to his right turned to him and asked about his Harley parked outside. The man had gray eyes, badly stained teeth, and a drinker’s nose, and reminded him of some of the old bikers he’d known growing up.

Crocker found it easy to talk with him about Harley models, engines, and close calls both of them had experienced riding. Crocker’s last had been one night on his way home when he was hit smack in the face by a buzzard.

He laughed and said, “I don’t know how he didn’t break my neck. I literally got a mouthful of wet feathers and could taste that bastard for days.”

The old man drained his glass, pulled at his beard, and chuckled. “I remember one Sunday night riding down a deserted country road thinking about the ol’ lady,” he said. “I rolled off the throttle as I crested a hill and sensed someone warning me even though I was all alone. I look up and see this big-ass truck has swung into my lane to pass some guy in a sedan. I had no time to stop. Had to pull my left shoulder back to avoid clipping the truck’s side mirror. Barely squeezed past, and shit my pants.”

“You’re lucky.”

“You know what I saw painted on the side of that truck?”

“No idea,” Crocker answered.

“Dana Mills. My girlfriend was named Dana. Her mom’s maiden name was Mills. She dumped me two days later. Broke my heart.”

Sounded like the lyrics to a Waylon Jennings song, Crocker thought.

The old biker bought another round and shifted the conversation to biker movies. Crocker listed his favorites. “
Mad Max
was good.
Knightriders, The Great Escape
. I liked
The Wild One
with Marlon Brando.”

“You ever see a movie from the seventies called
Werewolves on Wheels
?” the bearded man asked as though he was a connoisseur.

“No.”

“It wasn’t no blockbuster,” he said, “but damn if it don’t have its own sleazy charm. I’m talkin’ female bikers, one of whom is possessed by the Devil and changes into a real sexy werewolf at night. And black-robed monks who worship Satan.”

Crocker’s interest started to wander. The man moved his stool closer and signaled to the bartender to refill their glasses.

“You running away from something?” the old man asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“You had much experience with Satan?”

Crocker stared at the amber Jack as it entered the clear glass, considering that maybe the bad wolf and Satan were the same.

“You hear what I asked ya?” the man repeated, the little lights behind the bar reflected in his gray eyes.

Crocker downed the drink and nodded as he searched for an answer—one that dodged the question but was respectful.

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“I think you do,” the man answered, his eyes boring into Crocker. “Matter of fact, I got a notion you’re struggling with him right now.”

Crocker knocked back the beer and looked up at the TV. Anderson Cooper was talking. His face looked gray and pinched.

“Maybe,” Crocker said. “Maybe not.” It hurt to look inside himself, because every time he did, he remembered Ritchie lying on the ground with his guts spilled out, which opened a Pandora’s box of his own issues having to do with death, the meaning of life, his will to continue living the way he had.

What had seemed so clear and easy a week ago was now a murky mess.

He signaled to the bartender to bring him the check.

“You feel like talkin’ about it?” the man on his right asked.

“Not tonight.”

“You see this face? You think I haven’t done my share of wrestling with the Devil?”

Crocker looked over his shoulder at the exit.

“You ever hear the Proverb: ‘Avoid it, pass not by it, turn from it, and pass away’?” the bearded man asked.

Crocker reached for his wallet and shook his head. “No.”

“It means that if you’re fighting an opponent with sword and shield, and that fellow is about to strike the first blow, what do you do?”

Crocker checked the tab, which read $26.00. He tossed his Amex card on top of it and pushed both toward the bartender.

“Do you walk into the blow hoping that your shield will protect you, or do you move out of the way?” the man asked.

Crocker was about to say, “If he attacked me, I’d wrestle the goddamn sword away from him and slice his throat,” but instead looked at the poster behind the bar. The first of the Ten Steps to Self-Esteem was
know yourself
. He grinned, turned to his right, and saw a familiar face on CNN. It was a former SEAL Team One member, now senator, Jesse Abrams Clark, standing on the steps of the Capitol facing a group of reporters.

Crocker waved to the bartender and asked him to turn up the sound.

Clark, who usually appeared confident, looked anxious and worn out. His distress communicated clearly and stirred something in Crocker’s chest.

The man beside him said, “You never answered my question.”

“I’m listening,” Crocker said, pointing to the TV.

Reporters asked Clark if he thought the event in Sedona was related to the strong position he had taken against the Mexican drug cartels and his repeated calls for more aggressive U.S. action and stiffer sanctions.

“I hope not,” Clark answered, “and have no reason to believe that’s true at this time.”