Night Vision df-18 Read online

  She didn’t respond, hoping he wouldn’t make a grab for the jade amulet and the silver medallion she always wore on leather straps, day and night, no matter what.

  Instead, the man reached and began massaging the back of Tula’s neck with his fingers. The girl didn’t flinch. Instead, she found the bar of soap and began to lather her feet, her movements masculine and intentional, her expressions sullen, like a child.

  The man stood, his smile gone. “Bullshit! You speak damn good English, you little liar. You and old man Carlson was spying on me last night, weren’t you, goddamn it? You and your special buddy-I snuck back here a few nights ago and heard you two whispering. You was speaking pretty good English, so you can stop your lying right now.”

  Harold Carlson was one of the few gringos who lived in the trailer park. Tula trusted him because she trusted her instincts. Carlson, already an old man at sixty, was also a drunk, probably a paint sniffer judging from the half-moon darkness of his eyes.

  But, as Tula knew, the depth of a man’s decency could sometimes be judged by the depths of his own despair. People who were kind, after years of being wounded by their own kindness, naturally sought ways to dull the pain.

  Carlson was her patron. After their first conversation, she had thought of him that way. He would help her, given the chance, because that is what a God-minded person would do. After only eight days in the States, Tula felt confident because she had already acquired two patrons.

  Her second patron was a man as well. He was a strange one, named Tomlinson, who did not have fog in his eyes. Even though he resembled a scarecrow with his straw-bleached hair, Tomlinson was one of the few people Tula had ever met whose kindness glowed through gilded skin.

  Tula continued lathering. She had seen what Squires had done last night, but Carlson, the old man, had not. Squires had gone to the bed of a rumbling truck, lights out, and dragged something malleable and heavy across the sand, then down the bank into a little mangrove lake that was surrounded by garbage dumpsters and palm trees.

  The sack had sunk in a froth of bubbles, Squires watching, before he returned to the truck.

  It was a human body, Tula guessed. Something weighted in a sack. Tula had seen enough corpses being dragged through the streets of her village to know. They were old people who had ended their lives in a gutter usually but sometimes a young man who had died from drinking too much aguardiente.

  Also, Tula had been old enough during the last revolution to remember corpses drying among flies in the courtyard.

  Her father’s charred body had been among them.

  Tula hadn’t intended to spy on Harris Squires last night. She had been sitting in the limbs of a ficus tree, listening to owls speak. There were two big owls, one calling from nearby, the other answering from across the water where the strange boats with metal wings were tied side by side.

  The shapes of the boats-their triangular silhouettes-had reminded Tula of the jade amulet she wore around her neck. And also of small pyramids that were covered with vines in the lowlands west of Tikal. These were familiar stone places that the girl often climbed alone in darkness so that she could listen to the great owl voices converse while she stared, unblinking, at a jungle that strobed with fireflies.

  The owl voices and the sparking fireflies invited visions into the girl’s head. At the convent, Sister Maria Lionza had taught Tula about this phenomenon, and the nun was seldom wrong about such things. Tula had been living at the convent, under the nuns’ guidance, learning the healing arts, and also studying the Bible along with her other lessons.

  Sister Maria was a fierce woman given to fits of epilepsy and kindness, and she was particularly kind to Tula, who was her favorite.

  “My brave little Maiden of Lorraine,” Sister Maria was fond of saying. “Our blessed saint spoke of you in one of my visions. And now you are here with us. A messenger from God.”

  It was only within the last year that Tula had begun to suspect that Sister Maria was actually preparing her to join the nunnery and, perhaps, the Culta de Shimono. It was a secret group-a mythical cult, some said-that caused the villagers to cross themselves at night while whispering of wicked nuns who were actually brujerias.

  The English word for bruja was “witch.”

  Thanks to Sister Maria’s secret teachings, Tula had experienced many visions in the last four years. The most disturbing vision had come into Tula’s head three times-all within the last few months-so she knew the vision would come true if she didn’t act.

  In the vision, Tula could see large white hands choking her mother to death, fingers white around her soft throat. In the vision, Tula’s mother was naked. She appeared diminished by her submissiveness, a fragile creature clinging to life, while the big hands suffocated the soul from her body.

  It was a difficult vision to endure.

  Now, because Tula had yet to answer him, Squires leaned a shoulder against the bathroom wall, getting mad, but nervous, too. Tula could read his eyes.

  He said, “Tell me what you saw last night, you little brat! You were watching me, weren’t you?”

  Tula didn’t react, but she was relieved. If Squires had known for sure that she had watched him struggling to drag a corpse into the water, he would have killed her. He wouldn’t be standing here, asking questions.

  Not that that meant he wouldn’t anyway. Tula guessed that he would invent some excuse, drive her to a quiet place, then befoul her body, as men did to young girls, and kill her. Or… or he would ask someone else to do it. Fog covered the man’s eyes, but fog didn’t cloud the truth that Tula sensed: Squires was capable of murder-his spirit was already stained with blood, she suspected-but he was also a weak man tainted by the ugliness of people close to him.

  Squires’s wife, Tula sensed, was a poisonous influence. She had seen the woman only twice, but that was enough. The man called her.. . Frankie? Yes. She was a tall woman with large muscles, but her spirit was withered by something dark inside. Frankie was a man-animal, Tula was convinced, who enjoyed feeding on the weakness of smaller humans.

  This man, Squires, was the same in that way.

  For the weak, silence is among the few weapons available. Tula was using silence against Harris Squires now.

  Squires tried his bad Spanish, saying, “Hear me, puta!”

  He said it twice, but it didn’t cause the girl to look away from her toes, so he returned to English, his voice softer. “I saw you, chula -you know that. I saw you sitting alone in a tree like a little weirdo. And you saw me.”

  It was true. At first, Tula didn’t believe Squires could see her, sitting among branches, listening to owls, but then she realized he could. The man, after dragging the sack to the water, had leaned into the rumbling truck, then stood, holding binoculars to his eye. They weren’t normal binoculars, Tula realized, as the man turned in a circle, searching the area, and then suddenly stopped, leaning to focus on the small space she inhabited.

  When the man had jogged toward her, yelling, “Who the hell are you? Stay right where you are!” Tula had dropped from the tree and run, vaulting roots, then a wire fence at the boundary of the trailer park property.

  Last night, she’d slept curled up on the floor of a bathroom stall, and she had spent most of the day in hiding, too, expecting Squires to appear. Now here he was.

  Yes, Squires had seen her. His binoculars allowed him to see in darkness, like a night creature. Tula had heard rumors of such devices from women who lived in widow villages, created by the government after the last revolution for wives who had lost their men. In such villages, they knew about war, and the behavior of drunken soldiers, yet it surprised Tula that a man like Squires would own such a device for he did not look like any soldier she had ever seen.

  “Was Carlson with you?” Squires demanded. “You two are buddies, don’t try to deny it. The little weasel has been begging me for your mama’s phone number the last couple of days.”

  Tula moved her legs, using the washcloth to hide
some parts of her but to reveal others.

  For a moment, Squires’s expression signaled slow confusion, then he shook it and said, “You know, I just might know where she’s living. I bet she’s got some pretty little peaches on her, too-I wouldn’t mind helping you find the lady. You want that phone number? Play your cards right, chula, I’m the man who can give you everything you want and more.”

  Tula sensed that Squires was lying about knowing her mother, so she ignored him, dipped her face into the water and washed.

  Her eyes were closed, but she could feel what was happening when Squires dropped to his knees. His hips were against the rim of the bathtub as he grabbed a fistful of her hair. Then the man pulled her head back, saying, “Answer me, you little brat!”

  The girl opened her eyes and sat still, muscles relaxed, letting silence communicate what she wanted the man to hear. Tula waited until he finally took his hand off her.

  Slowly, Squires got to his feet and backed away. “What the hell’s wrong with you? You a retard or what? You don’t look even a little bit afraid. By God, I’ll teach you! Just like I’ll teach your whore of a mama to jump, once I find her!”

  Tula’s head snapped around when she heard that. Her eyes found Squires’s eyes, and she said, “Don’t talk about my mother that way. You have no right!”

  That caused the man to smile, taking his time now, because he had finally won this game of silence. “See there?” he drawled. “By God, you speak the language as good as me.”

  The girl said, “Why be so mean? If you know where my mother is, you should tell me. This is a chance for you to do God’s work.”

  “ God’s work?” Squires said, rolling his eyes and laughing. “You’re a damn comedian. You think I keep track of every Mexican spends a few nights in this park? Besides, what do I care? Unless…” He paused to give the girl a theatrical smile. “Unless you’re willing to give me something in trade. That’s the way the world works, sis. Otherwise, why should I bother?”

  Squires didn’t expect an answer, but he got one.

  “Because God is watching us,” Tula told the man, looking into his face. It took a moment, but his expression changed, which pleased the girl. “The goodness of God is in you,” she continued. “Do you remember how you felt as a child, full of love and kindness? God is still there, alive in your heart. Why do you fight Him so?”

  Squires made a groaning, impatient noise. “You got the personality of an old woman. Christ! Save your God-loves-me speeches for Sunday school.”

  She could feel his anger rising again, and she knew she had to do something because she had broken the silence that protected her. Perhaps she had ruined the spell she was attempting as well.

  Tula folded the washcloth, put her hands on the rim of the tub and got to her feet, water dripping. As she did, she looked into the fog that covered the man’s eyes.

  The man was a foot and a half taller than her, two hundred pounds heavier, but her confidence was returning as she cupped the jade amulet and the medallion in her right hand.

  Then, closing her eyes, speaking softly in English, Tula began repeating the phrase that had comforted her these last few weeks, three thousand miles riding atop freight trains, in the trailers of eighteen-wheelers, dodging Federales who would have jailed her and the coyote gangsters who could have robbed and raped her.

  As if praying, she chanted, “I am not afraid. I was born to do this. I am not afraid. I was born to battle evil, to smite the devil down. I am not afraid. I was born to do this…”

  They were the words of her patron saint, a powerful spirit who communicated to Tula through the medallion she wore. The saint had died as a young woman, burned at the stake, yet she still came to Tula, sometimes at night in the form of visions, and during the day as a voice that was strong in Tula’s head. The voice seemed to come to Tula from distant stars and from across the sea, where, long ago, a brave girl had put her trust in God and changed the world.

  If the Maiden could vanquish the English from France, certainly, with the Maiden’s help, Tula could now vanquish this mean, weak man from her bathroom.

  As Tula prayed, Squires made a sour face. “You was born to do what ? You was born to be a pain in the ass, that’s what I think.”

  He could feel the heat rising, no longer seeing an adolescent girl standing naked before him but imagining her talking to police, telling them about what she’d seen him do last night.

  Squires grabbed the girl’s arm and gave her a shake. “Get your duds on. You want to see your mama? We’ll get in my truck and go see her now.”

  The man was lying again. Tula knew it. She could picture herself in the man’s vehicle, the two of them parked in some dark place where no one would hear her screams.

  Tula switched to Quiche Mayan and continued chanting, “I was born to do this… I am not afraid… I was born to battle evil and smite the devil down…,” as the man shook her so hard that her head snapped back, and then said, “Now! Let’s go! Stop your goddamn jabbering and-”

  He didn’t finish. Squires’s words were interrupted by a wild, wailing scream, and he let go of the girl’s arms.

  The man turned toward the sound, listening, then said to Tula as he went to the door, “I ain’t done with you, chula. Don’t you go nowhere!”

  The screams came from a person who was terrified and in pain, the voice unrecognizable. But Tula knew instantly who the person was-it was Carlson, the old drunk with the good heart. The girl didn’t understand how she knew such things but she did.

  Without toweling herself dry, Tula pulled on her jeans, a baggy T-shirt and stepped into her sandals. On the kitchen table, among mole sauce, sodden nachos and an ashtray, was a bottle of tequila. She grabbed the bottle, hesitated, found a flashlight, too, then stuffed a kitchen towel into the back of her pants and went running out the door.

  Tula Choimha felt sure and determined, emulating the behavior of the Maiden, who spoke to her now from across the ages. The voice was strong in Tula’s head, instructions from a teenage girl who had lived a life of fearless purity six hundred years ago.

  The Maiden’s voice told Tula to be quick, that she could save the life of her friend. And the girl obeyed, as she always did when under the loving direction of the Maiden of Lorraine.

  Tula’s patron saint-Joan of Arc.

  THREE

  Focusing on the cries for help, Iran after Tomlinson, not gaining on him, through an area that consisted of maybe forty trailers packed tight into an area bordered by a low wire fence. Beyond the fence was a mangrove lake, where a crowd was gathering. The lake was fringed with coconut palms and a row of garbage dumpsters.

  The place had probably been a homey Midwestern retreat back in the seventies, popular with Buckeyes who caravanned south each winter. But now smoldering cooking fires and a sewage stink communicated the demographic change and a modern economic despair.

  Over his shoulder, Tomlinson yelled to me, “There’s someone in the water!” which I could already see. At first I thought we had stumbled onto a brawl, that the fight had tumbled into the pond.

  But the man’s screams didn’t communicate rage. The sounds he made signaled terror, an alarm frequency that registers in the spine, not the brain. His howling pierced the gabble of men and women who were peeking from their trailers, yelling questions and expletives in Spanish, as a dozen or so of the braver residents-several of them children-ventured as a group, not running, toward the water’s edge.

  In his poor Spanish, Tomlinson yelled, “What’s wrong? What’s happening?” as I ran past him, hollering in English, “Call nine-one-one. It’s a gator. A big one,” because I could see details now in the pearl haze of security poles that rimmed the park.

  I could see the alligator’s tail, slashing water, an animated grayness edged with bony scutes that had not evolved since the days of stegosaurus. I could see the flailing arms of a man as he battled to stay above the surface of the water.

  A likely scenario flashed into my mind: T
he man had stopped on the bank to urinate, or stare at what might have been a floating log-no one in their right mind would go for a swim in that cesspool-and the gator had snatched him.

  It happens-not often in Florida-but it happens, and it had happened to a friend of mine only a few years before on Sanibel Island, where I live and run my small marine-specimen supply company. A good woman named Janie Melsek had been attacked while pruning bushes and she had died even though she had fought to the end, just as the man was fighting now. Even though in shock maybe he sensed that if the gator took him under, he would never surface again.

  I hadn’t been there when a twelve-foot gator took Janie into the water. I hadn’t seen what had happened in the following minutes of terror. And things probably wouldn’t have turned out any differently if I had. But maybe, just maybe, it was the memory of Janie that caused me to push through the slow phalanx of onlookers, as I jettisoned billfold, cell phone, then pulled the Kahr pistol from my pocket and lunged feetfirst into the water, unprepared for the knee-deep sludge beneath.

  Jumping into the lake was like dropping into a vat of glue. My ankles were anchored instantly in muck, so my momentum caused me to slam forward, bent at the waist, face submerged, until I floundered to the surface and fought my way back to vertical.

  The man was near the middle of the lake, only thirty yards away, screaming, “Help me! Grab my hand, I’m dying!” so maybe he’d gotten a look at me as I pried one slow right leg from the mud, losing my shoe, and then struggled to pull my left foot free. To do it, I needed both hands, so I pocketed the pistol and went to work trying to break the suction.

  Behind me, someone had a flashlight, and he painted the pond until he found the alligator. I’d been right. It was a big one: four or five hundred pounds of reptile on a feed, creating a froth of lichens and trash that washed past me in waves. It was a male. Had to be. Female gators seldom grow beyond ten feet and two hundred pounds.

  The animal had its back arched, head high, and I could see that it had a frail-sized man crossways in its jaws, the man’s buttocks and pelvis locked between rows of teeth that angled into a reptilian grin.