Anatomy of Fear

45

I realize this is delicate,” said Collins, “which is why I came to you, Chief Denton.”

“Perry, please. And I appreciate that, Monica.” Denton tried to imagine the FBI agent nude, but could not.

“There’s just a bit too much coincidence. Nothing concrete, not enough for an arrest, but I have to say we’re watching him.”

“Of course. I understand.” Denton tried not to smile. This was the best news he’d had all day. “I can see where you’re coming from. I’ll keep an eye on Rodriguez too.”

Agent Collins tried to concentrate but was getting lost in the chief’s blue eyes. She didn’t think a man like Denton would be interested in her, but there had been his arm on hers at the meeting, a conspiratorially wink or two, and now the way he was leaning in to whisper.

“Personally, I was against the idea from the beginning. It was Russo who encouraged it. Could be Rodriguez convinced her he’d be able to help.” Denton shrugged to make his comment seem offhand, but he wanted to be sure he seeded the possibility there was something going on between Rodriguez and Russo. “Don’t get me wrong. Russo’s a good cop. Sure, she’s made a few bad decisions in the past, but what cop hasn’t?” If Collins had not remembered Russo’s past, now she would.

“Right now it’s mainly a question of proximity,” said Collins. “And Rodriguez left prints all over the vic’s apartment, though there’s no way to date them. For argument’s sake, let’s say they’re new, that Rodriguez made them when he discovered the body.”

“That’s very generous of you, Monica.” Denton smiled.

Collins sat back and crossed her legs. “What I don’t like is that he traipsed across the apartment. I mean, why would a cop intentionally contaminate a crime scene?”

“I see your point.”

“I understand he was curious to see the drawing, but still…”

“If you’d like, I can put one of my own men on him.”

Collins looked surprised, and Denton worried he might have pushed it too far, supporting her suspicions over one of his own men. He laid his hand on her knee to distract her. “Can I be honest with you, Monica?”

“Oh.” Collins flinched a bit. “Please do.”

“I suggested my own surveillance because…well…if it turns out Rodriguez had anything to do with this, I’d like to know first.”

“I understand completely,” she said, feeling the heat from Denton’s hand. “And you needn’t worry. Whatever we find on Rodriguez, I’ll make sure you know about it.”

I had been drawing for a few minutes, my grandmother beside me, but I wasn’t getting anywhere.

“It is…an explosion,” she said, her eyes closed. “But I cannot tell you more. I cannot see more than that.”

“And do you know where this explosion is happening?”

“No sé. Es un…presentimiento.”

We were both into feelings these days.

I tried to get more information, but it was all she could come up with, so I put it aside and told her that I thought the unsub had been in my apartment.

She crossed herself, but did not seem surprised. She said she had been worried for days, that she had consulted the orishas and set up the bóveda all for me. She said she wished I was part of the faith and she could make me a saint.

“Me? A saint?” I laughed.

“Pórtate bien,” she said, behave, then asked what else had happened.

I didn’t want to tell her about Cordero and my fears that I’d become a suspect.

She looked into my eyes and laid her hand on my heart. “There is a problem, aquí adentro. Sometimes we anger the orishas and we do not know it. Sometimes it is not our fault and still the gods are angry with us.”

I knew exactly what I had done to piss off the gods, but couldn’t say it.

“There are things we can do, Nato, to scare away the espiritus malévolos.” She explained about receiving Eleggua and the warriors. Then she draped one of the beaded necklaces around my neck and I didn’t fight her. It felt strangely comforting.

She smiled, but it faded fast. “I do not have the power. It should be a babalao.” A male priest of the highest order with power over the future, she explained. A part of me wished he were here. My whole life I had resisted, but now I wanted to believe. I was like the dying man who has never been to church who suddenly wants the sacrament.

My abuela plucked a double-headed ax covered with red and white beads out of a shrine. She explained it was a symbol for Chango, god of thunder and lightning, and very powerful. It looked as if a kid had made it, half the beads fallen off. My cynic’s mind flipped back on: How could this hokey piece of fetish folk art possibly have any power?

My grandmother seemed to know instinctively what I was thinking. “The orishas will forgive you.”

She gave me new candles for my apartment and told me to create an Eleggua by the door. “Haslo, chacho. Esto es importante.” She gave me beads and shells. “For the Eleggua’s face, for his ojos y boca.”

Then she told me to tear off a little piece of the drawing I had been making and put it under the Eleggua.

“Why?”

“Because he is an enemy and if you place him under the Eleggua he will lose his power. And it would be good if…you sprinkled some blood on the Eleggua.”

“Like what? Kill a chicken or something? Perform some sort of voodoo rite?”

The muscles in my grandmother’s face tightened with anger, and I was immediately sorry. “Perdón, uela.”

“It is not voodoo. You know that. I never do el sacrificio, but now you must make el ofrecimiento, maybe some coconut and candy.”

I was tempted to make a joke, ask whether the Eleggua preferred Snickers to red licorice, but I didn’t dare.

“Algo rojo,” my grandmother said, which sort of spooked me as I’d just been thinking about licorice, red licorice.

She lit more candles, took my hand, asked me to pray along with her, and I did.

It’s a funny thing when one chooses to believe. I knew people, serious business types, who believed in feng shui, who rearranged their furniture so that they faced the door to invite money in, who placed tiny Buddha statues in corners to bring them luck. I’d always scoffed at them and here I was thinking that as soon as I left my grandmother’s apartment I was going to stop in Central Park to collect rocks for a god to ward off evil, and buy him some red licorice in case he got hungry.

When I got back to my apartment I found a big bowl, put the rocks into it, and wound the beads around them. I felt a little foolish but couldn’t ignore that one of my abuela’s visions had already proved prescient, and another-her description of my apartment and an evil presence-rang too true. I tried laying the shells onto the rocks to create the face, but they kept falling off, so I resorted to a glue stick. It was like a sixth-grade arts and crafts project, but I got into it, gluing down the shells to create the eyes and mouth. I didn’t know what to do with the licorice and ended up sticking it in around the edges of the bowl. They looked like headless, flowerless stems.

I spent a minute staring at my creation, wondering if I’d finally lost my mind, then figured what the hell, and pricked my finger with a pin. Three droplets of blood landed on the stone and were instantly absorbed into its porous surface. It was as if the Eleggua had eaten it. Then I tore a corner off one of my sketches, slid it under the rock, placed the whole thing beside my front door, stood back, and shook my head.

Rodriguez, you are definitely losing it.

But I didn’t stop. I took the glass-encased candles with pictures of Chango and Babalu-Aye that my abuela had given me and put one in my living room, the other in my kitchen window. I had no idea if that was right. Maybe Babalu-Aye didn’t like the cold and shouldn’t be in the window; maybe Chango needed sunlight? I switched the candles. I had no idea why, it just felt right. Then I stripped off my clothes, lay down on my bed, and for the first time in twenty-four hours fell into a deep sleep.