"Placing a curse on Mr. Charboneau after the fact seems a waste of time, don't you think? Perhaps the scare tactic was directed at you and your delightful companion. A message to mind your own business."
Jasmine stopped her pacing. She drilled her eyes on Duarte. Clearly, the man brought out the best in her. If looks dealt a mortal blow, Duarte would have been sporting a garrote necktie, his throat severed by a lethal wire.
"That's what I thought too, but I find it hard to believe kidnappers would tamper with their meal ticket." Christian offered his theory. "Usually ransom money is the main driver for an abduction, but whoever is behind this thing is sending mixed messages, like they don't care about the payoff."
"I've witnessed families of victims take different approaches to recovering their loved ones, to pay or not to pay. I am not offering advice, but I've seen a severed ear or finger put things in perspective."
"I appreciate your ... sensitivity." Christian scowled, leaning forward in his chair. "Forgive me if I don't wait for body parts to show up on my doorstep."
"I'm not suggesting—" Duarte stopped and slouched back in his seat, making the brown vinyl crinkle. He pulled something from his desk drawer. "You asked if any proof of life evidence had been received. Well, this arrived an hour ago."
The captain dropped a plastic bag onto his desk. It contained a Polaroid photo and a white envelope, the photo of a man holding a newspaper. When it landed in front of Christian, he recognized the face. His father, Nicholas Charboneau. He looked gaunt, his clothes rumpled and his skin smeared with grime and sweat. Before Christian picked up the bagged photo, Jasmine beat him to it. She held it close, in both hands, as if it were fragile.
"Did you see who left it?" she whispered, not taking her eyes off the Polaroid. "I can't see the date clearly. Did you recognize the headline?"
"The paper was yesterday's. And unfortunately, a small boy dropped it off before anyone questioned him. It came inside a sealed envelope. It's unlikely we will find the child, but even if we did, he probably couldn't tell us much."
How convenient.
He had asked about proof of life when he first met the captain on the ride from the airport. Now this photo arrived, materializing out of thin air. His skepticism tainted anything Duarte had to say.
"He's in some kind of jail cell, but with the shadows and the poor quality of the photo, we can't determine much else. And we found no fingerprints on the photo or the envelope." Duarte leaned forward in his chair. "If it's any consolation, it does confirm he's alive. More news than what we had before."
"I'd like to know what you've been doing to find him." Christian gritted his teeth, holding back his anger.
Second thoughts and instinct stopped him from showing the photos of Rodrigo Santo. Why didn't he trust the captain? If Duarte was covering for Santo, Christian would be stepping into the middle of the conspiracy without knowing the players. And having the photo would only bring up questions on how they'd acquired it. No, at this point he had no faith in Captain Duarte. And with his abrupt change in attitude, Christian's true colors showed.
"What leads do you have, Captain?"
Before Duarte replied, a booming voice came from behind him. Jasmine turned her attention to the newcomer, her expression unreadable.
"And if I were in your shoes, I would want to know the answer to that question myself."
Duarte glared at the intruder standing at his door. Tall and well groomed, a man in an expensive suit extended his hand, walking toward Christian. He stood, grimacing with pain as he knocked out all the kinks.
"Mr. Delacorte, my name is Chief Ricardo Zharan. I'm sorry for what has happened to Mr. Charboneau."
The man already knew his name. Did everyone in this town get the memo on his arrival?
"Pleased to meet you, Chief," he replied. Zharan had a firm grip.
"And it is a pleasure to see you again, Ms. Lee." The police chief nodded in her direction. Without a word, Jasmine leaned an elbow against a bookshelf and nodded. She raised a finger in greeting, going all out. The woman knew how to conserve energy.
Dressed in a dark navy suit, crisp white shirt, and a red power tie, Chief Zharan carried himself like a man of privilege, head held high and rock-solid eye contact. Seeing him on the street, Christian might have mistaken him for a politician or a successful movie actor. Charismatic. Confident. A head of thick dark hair grayed at his temples. And his strong jaw and white teeth projected a polished image.
"Understand this, Mr. Delacorte. I will not tolerate such a travesty in my city."
Apparently, Duarte had competition for control of Cuiabá. And by the looks of him, the good captain didn't appreciate the opposition from his boss.
Zharan continued, "It is despicable. I have formed a special task force to work with your American consulate, coordinating the rescue efforts. Captain Duarte has agreed to turn over his files to me, along with the evidence he's gathered thus far."
The chief's sideways glance toward his police captain sent a clear message to Christian. Zharan was taking charge and Duarte resented it. Nothing like getting your manhood whacked in front of an audience.
"And furthermore, I plan to match your reward offer for any information leading to the arrest of all those involved."
"I'm more interested in getting Mr. Charboneau back alive."
"Yes, of course. That goes without saying." The chief grinned, white teeth setting off dark olive skin. "Do you have a card? I will be in touch, of course."
After Christian handed the man his business card, the chief gave one of his own.
"Call me anytime ... for any reason." Zharan gave a quick dismissive look toward Duarte and left the room. The silence in his wake was deafening.
Although Jasmine kept quiet, her smug attitude spoke for her. She enjoyed the degrading show of disrespect Duarte just got from his superior, but Christian had never developed a fondness for gloating.
"I hope you know I had nothing to do with that." He didn't know what to make of this sudden turn of events. No point alienating Duarte.
"I have survived many chiefs, Mr. Delacorte. And I am still here. This one has ambition for politics . . . and other things. One way or another, he will not stay long."
"And what ambitions do you have, Captain?" Christian couldn't resist asking the question.
The man narrowed his eyes and flexed his jaw. "As I have said, I am a simple man. What I want does not concern you."
"I hope not, Captain Duarte. For both our sakes, I hope that's true."
With Jasmine on his heels, Christian left Duarte's office, feeling the weight of tension in his chest. His shoulders and neck felt like crap. Charboneau's case had escalated into the hands of the military police chief, with a hefty bump in reward money. He should have been satisfied for the added attention to his father's case. Instead, he felt adrift in a strong current, being pulled out to sea. A familiar sensation these days.
Had the police chief taken over too late? Or worse, was Zharan only an image-conscious figurehead without clout—more buff than stuff? And if Duarte had a secret agenda, would he sabotage Zharan's investigation?
All things considered, his short-fused mission to save his father's life had grown hair. And he didn't need the added complication.
"Come on. I could use some caffeine," he declared as he headed for the elevators with Jasmine. In his best Ricky Ricardo impersonation, he added, "And you have some 'splainin' to do, Lucy."
Christian picked a sidewalk cafe down the street from Guia Do Espírito, their next stop. With the carryon bag at his feet under the shade of the table, he indulged in a jolt of espresso and a sweet roll as he watched the comings and goings of the voodoo store and listened to Jasmine.
"That clinic was not in operation the last time Nicky and I came." She sipped her tea. Her eyes hid behind dark glasses. "I'm guessing, but I don't think Nicky knew of its existence."
"But you're only his bodyguard. How would you know that?" He smiled.
He had no proof, but he suspected she glared at him from under her sunglasses. No way she'd answer his sarcastic attempt to get a rise out of her.
"You saw something in those med charts. Talk to me."
She kept her silence for a long time. Finally, she said, "You raised a good point at the lab. Maybe we haven't seen everything going on there, only what they allowed us to see. With the focus of that clinic on pregnant mothers, especially the young ones or women unable to afford good health care, it makes me wonder. They could be conducting illegal embryonic and fetal stem cell research without the consent of these women, not to mention what they might be doing with the discarded umbilical cords. How would that poor young girl know any better?"
"I'm taking a wild guess here, but you're not a doctor, are you?"
Nothing about Jasmine would have surprised him at this point.
"I know enough. Hear me out." She leaned closer, elbows on the table, and glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one overheard. "When you said other backers of this facility may be behind Nicky's abduction, it made me think. Someone is operating in the shadows, escalating the research with this clinic and its so-called humanitarian efforts. With all the advanced technology at the lab and an abundance of human tissue to harvest, the opportunity may be too tempting to pass up. And like your Raven, I do not believe in coincidence."
Hearing Raven's name sent a sharp pang of guilt through Christian. He missed her. He took a deep breath to purge his system of her memory, for now.
"Don't try and convince me your precious Nicky is an innocent pawn in all this. You may be right about someone operating on the side and dealing him out, but Charboneau is just as guilty of raping and pillaging this country and its people. Don't whitewash his involvement." He had a growing headache and Jasmine wasn't making things easier.
"I knew you wouldn't understand." For an instant anger swept her face—biting like a winter chill over Lake Michigan—then it was gone. "If Nicky knew they were conducting research on women and babies, he wouldn't condone it. Some lines should never be crossed."
This coming from an assassin?
"What kind of research, Jasmine?"
She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms, unwilling to betray him. Christian shook his head and stared across the street. His father lived in a strange world, one with double standards. He made his money off peddling addiction, a vile soul-robbing commodity. And yet, according to Jasmine, he would defend a pregnant teen?
As if she read his mind, Jasmine said, "Please, do not judge him. You know nothing. I am here to save Nicky's life. If you've changed your mind about helping, I can and will do this alone." In a distant voice, she added, "I have to."
Christian searched for her eyes beneath the dark shades, looking for some semblance of humanity. He only saw his own reflection. Being on the wrong side of this fight could get him killed. And yet, he wouldn't turn his back on his father. If they were lucky enough to find Charboneau and free him, he would worry about the morality of his decision later. Right now he had a job to do.
"I'm still in, but you better be telling me the truth. You hold back now and both of us could get killed. Whoever is behind this thing has invested big bucks. And they won't stop at killing to protect their investment."
She nodded and whispered, "Thank you."
"Let's go." Christian left money on the table for a tip and started to stand, unraveling his aching muscles. Jasmine reached for his arm. She had his attention.
"You asked me before—" She stopped. "I
do
love Nicky, but he doesn't know. You have to understand I'm walking a fine line to protect his interests. Now, I'm asking you to trust me."
Ay, there's the rub.
His very action of following her to Brazil demonstrated some level of faith, but she had to earn his trust. And so far she'd shown no aptitude for the task.
"I could ask the same of you, but we both know how that would turn out." He hit home with a double barrel shot, dead center.
Jasmine heaved a sigh and looked toward Guia Do Espirito, resigned to losing her small verbal skirmish with him. "Let's go. We are burning daytime."
He grabbed his carryon bag and followed her to the voodoo store, walking off a fresh limp. From weird science to black magic, his day kept getting better.
He didn't have the heart to correct Jasmine's bastardized version of the old saying "burning daylight." Sometimes a guy had to know when to quit. He only hoped that when it came time to let go of his obsession with the tragedies of his past, he'd be able to do it.
Late afternoon
Downtown Cuiabá
"So what's it mean . . . the name on the store?" Christian asked. He winced as he flexed his aching shoulders. And Brazil's heat had inflamed his abrasions and bruises.
"Spirit Guide, I think." Jasmine's dark hair wafted in the marginal breeze as she walked across the street toward Bianca Salvador's Macumba shop. "And before you ask, I've never been inside. I'm not exactly the religious type."
"Oh, don't sell yourself short, J. I bet you've put the fear of God into plenty of men."
When Christian looked down at Jasmine, he caught her sly smile as he opened the door to let her pass. A bell tinkled overhead.
Looking over her sunglasses, she stopped in front of him, blocking his way into the store.
"I prefer to think of it as improving the gene pool." She winked, the smile gone. He shook his head and followed her in.
When Christian closed the door behind him, the darkness took over. He fought an unexpected panic, his usual reaction to the dark. Removing his sunglasses, he let his eyes adjust and slowed his breathing. Veiled in murky shadows, the room closed in. In this place, time stopped dead. Off the beaten path of the tourist trade, the store was a throwback to another century, an ancient dwelling operating the same way for a very long time.
If he had any preconceived notions what Guia Do Espírito looked like inside, those images disappeared faster than loose cash on a subway. The words
controlled chaos
came to mind. Every square inch of the store accommodated its inventory, no space unutilized. And although the shelves looked cluttered to his way of thinking, they were clean and dusted. Someone had laid out the store in a grand scheme and maintained it.
The heavy aroma of incense and herbs made the air thick and smell stagnant. But on the side of good news, the incense masked an underlying odor probably best left to the imagination. Closer to the front door, rows of candles in every color were mixed in with tall glass jars and an amazing array of religious statues. Pretty tame stuff, which he'd seen before. But as his eyes wandered into the deeper shadows toward the back, the creep factor kicked into high gear. Jars and glass containers were filled with unnamed roots, herbs, feathers, and animal parts. Rows of them. Small vials contained a dark oozy substance bearing an uncanny resemblance to blood. No labels.
Some things you're better off not knowing.
Flickering candles called attention to altars that commemorated graphic and bloody crucifixions. Martyred faces of Catholic saints twisted in agony and stood alongside fierce pagan monsters and spirits he didn't recognize. A religious alternative universe,
Guia Do Espirito
peddled fear and redemption at retail prices.
Jasmine seemed oblivious to the macabre spectacle as she took off her shades and tucked them into a pocket. She had targeted the young man behind the register like a deer hunter dressed in blaze orange on opening day. Christian only hoped she had a limit of one.
"Let me do all the talking." She grabbed the bag from his shoulder and put it on the floor. With her back to the clerk, she undid the top two buttons of her white blouse. After a second look, she unbuttoned a third. "How do I look?"
Christian raised an eyebrow, his expression flat and his tone mechanical. "Hold me back."
With a practiced glare, Jasmine jutted her chin. "Watch . . . and learn, grasshoppa." Working her hips, she headed for the register, not taking her eyes off the unsuspecting rutting buck in her sights behind the counter.
"Can I help you?" A heavy Portuguese accent, but so far the guy's English was understandable.
The young man had no interest in Christian. He smiled at Jasmine with eager eyes and brilliant white teeth against dark skin. A handsome kid in a land of good-looking people. By the looks of him, Jasmine had bagged her buck without even trying. The clerk being a flagrant horn dog made it far too easy for a woman like Jasmine. Christian cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. He had the urge to confiscate the kid's man card, send him back to the factory for retooling.
The guy's badge carried his first name.
"Hector," she began, placing the bag on the counter, "you look like a smart guy. Help me out, will ya?" "
Heaping on the sex appeal, Jasmine leaned on the counter, making sure good old Hector got an eyeful. Christian veered left and down the nearest aisle, staying within earshot. He pretended to shop—as if he'd suddenly run out of yak fetus and chicken feet—but he kept an eye on the clerk. The guy's body language might give a clue if he lied or hid something.
Ironically, Jasmine had a real flair for bullshit and stacked it high without breaking a sweat. He found it increasingly difficult to chalk her skill up to a good thing.
"My ex-husband cheated on me. And now, when I'm trying to move on with someone new . . ." She smiled at Christian and gave a perky shrug, practically blowing him a kiss. ". . . the lying bastard is trying to ruin everything. He wants me back."
Hector gave him a skeptical sideways glance, probably wondering why the beautiful woman hadn't traded up in the process. Unable to hide all his bruises, Christian knew what he must look like. Jasmine milked the sympathy factor, twirling a strand of hair with her finger. The guy ate it up, watching every move she made.
"Some men have no idea the best way to treat a woman." Hector tweaked an eyebrow, making a move of his own.
Christian rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh.
Yep, a real horn dog.
"I thought by leaving the U.S. for a while, my ex would cool off, but he's hired a local thug to scare me," she went on, embellishing her story. "I don't want to report this to the police. It's a private matter. I just want it to stop."
Hector leaned closer, more engaged by the treasures underneath the white blouse than her sob story. "But what I can do for you . . . Miss . . . ?" The kid fished for a name, his English challenged.
"Jasmine. Please . . . call me Jasmine." She smiled and held out her hand. He took it, holding on too long. "First, that bastard left a calling card at my hotel room. What can you tell me about this?"
She dumped the contents of the carryon bag in front of the clerk. The black magic paraphernalia caught the guy's attention, but not half as much as the headless snake. It thumped onto the countertop. Hector gasped and jumped back. Christian knew the feeling.
Try this sucker with fangs, bro. Talk about changin' your shorts.
"This is . . . jararaca. Is deadly. Bad, very bad." Hector pushed his back against a wall, not taking his eyes off the snake. "You got the head? Where's the head?"
"Last night this thing came as a matched set, head and all. My ex-husband's idea of a prank." Jasmine cocked her hip and fought back her amusement as Hector regained control of himself. "See what I mean? The sick bastard's out of control."
"And the rest of this?" The guy peeled himself off the wall and stepped back to the counter . . . slowly. "What is it?"
"You tell me."
Hector kept one eye on the dead snake like it was playing possum . . . without a head. With the other eye, he searched through the remains of the makeshift black magic altar and noticed Charboneau's voodoo pincushion.
"This you?" the guy asked with another sideways glance, noticing the family resemblance.
Guess all tourists looked alike to Hector.
"Yeah. Creepy, huh?" Christian spied a glimmer over the clerk's shoulder.
A small pinpoint of light broke through the murky shadows, coming from a peephole in a door behind the counter. Movement. Someone eclipsed a light. Given the location of the doorway and the framework of the walls, Christian assumed the really nasty stuff was under lock and key, reserved for special patrons. But someone behind the door wanted a closer look at the tourists. Most probably, the peephole had been installed for that reason.
Hector shook his head. "I only sell this. Can't help you, but someone set the evil eye on you, man. Nasty curse."
"The doll and the altar materials look homegrown," Christian said, "like someone built it from scratch. It looks different than the merchandise in your store. Can you tell me anything more about it?" Christian asked.
The clerk shrugged. "Sorry. Maybe if you leave your number. I can reach you, have someone call. Leave this with me."
At this point, Christian knew he had few alternatives . . . and no need for a dead snake or a voodoo doll with a used up curse on it. He nodded and handed the kid his business card, saying, "We're staying at the Hotel Palma Dourada."
"Nice." Hector grinned and wrote the hotel on the back of the card. "Anything else I do for you?"
Since Christian was on a roll, he reached into his pocket for a copy of the photo of Rodrigo Santo. "Yeah, you ever see this guy?"
The kid took the photo and glanced down. A muscle under his eye ticked and his jaw flinched, a subtle move.
"That's the guy my ex hired to harass us." Jasmine pointed at the photo but shot a heated glare at Christian. She looked surprised by his direct approach, especially since she was supposed to do all the talking. Maybe she hadn't seen the light flicker through the peephole behind Hector.
More under control now, the clerk pursed his lips and shook his head. "No, man. I never see him." He handed the photo back.
It all happened so fast. Had he imagined the kid's reaction? He pressed. "Someone told us Bianca Salvador might know the man in this photo. Is she in?"
"No. Me, I only one here." He smiled, cool under fire now. Apparently, lying in a second language came naturally. "Bianca Salvador is old. She no come here . . . much. Her health no good, you know?"
"So you know all about this hinky inventory? I thought you only sold the stuff." Christian caught a moment of hesitation in Hector. "I mean, none of these jars are labeled. If Bianca Salvador isn't here, she must have the utmost confidence in your ability to serve her customers."
Hector narrowed his eyes, knowing he'd been set up, but without skipping a beat, conjured up a steaming pile of horse dung.
Fresh.
He must have learned a thing or two from Jasmine.
"Not me." Hector shook his head. "Mrs. Salvador works with customers by appointment only. She has different peoples who help, they have specialties. Each different. She match customer to these peoples. You see? That's how it works." He shrugged. "Besides, most peoples come here? They know what they want."
Was it his imagination or was this guy's English getting worse by the lie? If Christian had any hopes of getting insight from Hector on the local tribes, he quickly changed his mind. He wouldn't find an ally here. Christian forced a smile.
He'd just hit a roadblock named Hector.
Jasmine diverted the kid's attention. "Please . . . call me. I won't be able to sleep until I know what all this means." She pointed to the Macumba ritual gear on the counter.
"Yeah, I see." But Hector had his eye on Christian this time.
Guess he'd made an impression.
Bianca Salvador heard every word from the shadows of the storeroom in back. With aged hands, she touched the single strand of pearls at her neck, a gift from her deceased husband. It had become a nervous habit. Her fingers trembled. Through the peephole, she watched her nephew deal with the Americans. Now, she sat at the small wooden chair at her desk in the back. Her legs weren't what they used to be, especially after what she had seen in the stranger.
The tall man with emerald green eyes held her fascination. He had sensed her presence but did nothing to confront her. That intrigued her and may have drawn her out, but something else kept her hidden.
The stranger had the strongest aura she had ever seen—a complex combination of evil and goodness at constant struggle for control. He knew death all too well. The young man had survived it more than once. And somehow, he came to battle it again. Would he be strong enough to stand alone in this remote place on the edge of the world?
Bianca did not question how she knew this. She had been taught in the old ways, rituals passed from one ancestor to another. She had witnessed the power of the spirits, the Orixas in all forms, and trusted in her faith. She would not doubt her instincts now.
Her nephew opened the storeroom door and called to her. Hector had a bag in his hand. "I have to go out. Can you manage the store? It's getting late anyway. I can put the Closed sign out."
Hector's English had suddenly improved. A miracle. She shook her head. Her nephew liked to play games with foreigners, to watch them try and cheat him when they thought he didn't understand. But this time his game came in handy. He'd handled himself well.
But she knew of the reward money offered by the Americans. Word of it spread like a plague. A young man like Hector would be tempted to walk the line between easy money and the betrayal of his own people. And she had no faith in his judgment to do the right thing when a small fortune was involved. Before she answered him, Bianca waved him over, not hiding the concern on her face.
"Let me see the card that man gave you . . . and show me what's in the bag," she demanded, her voice stern. Like a stubborn child, Hector trudged closer and did as she asked.
The contents of the bag confused her. Some elements looked authentic, but most were products of someone's vivid imagination. A nonbeliever. Why would someone go to so much trouble to break into a foreigner's hotel room to plant a curse with no substance? Even worse, using a deadly snake meant whoever did this wasn't above killing to get what they wanted. Who would do such a thing . . . and why?
Since she had met the Asian woman before, she knew her story about an ex-husband wasn't true. Definitely inventive, but true? No. Bianca understood why they had come to her store for answers. She was considered a local authority on religious beliefs and rituals. Yet after seeing the contents of the bag, she feared for the safety of her people, especially the man in the photo. None of this bode well for him or his tribe. It would be far too easy to plant evidence against the local natives, especially if they had a face to blame. Her people would serve as a scapegoat yet again.