Read The Infinity Tattoo Online
Authors: Eliza McCullen
The Infinity Tattoo
THE INFINITY TATTOO
Eliza McCullen
First published 2014
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is American English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.
©Eliza McCullen
Central America
October 1985
Juanita opened her eyes and gazed at the stars glittering in the night sky. The light of a full moon blinked through the shadowy branches of trees in her peripheral vision. The cool night air brushed across her skin like soothing fingers. She struggled to sit up but a searing pain in her breast stopped her.
What happened? Where am I?
She turned her head to the side. A man stared at her under the moonlight. He had cloudy, unblinking eyes and insects crawled around his mouth. She stifled a scream that threatened to erupt from her throat. It was not a man; it was a corpse.
As she lay there trying to assess her situation, she became aware of a horrendous stench surrounding her, like rotting week-old trash, overlaid with some sickeningly sweet odor. Insects hovered over her in a cloud, buzzing obnoxiously. They landed on her face and nipped at her eyes and lips. She shook her head in a useless attempt to ward them off. That’s when she saw the other bodies surrounding her and she began to realize where she was.
In a pit full of dead people.
Another scream rose in her throat and she clamped down on her lower lip with her teeth until she could taste her own blood. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
Why am I here?
Am I dead, too?
She lifted a hand to explore the pain in her chest and felt a wet stickiness.
Dios mio, dios mio,
she mumbled as understanding dawned. She wasn’t dead, but someone had tried to kill her. And then left her for dead just like the others, the bodies that surrounded her. Bile rose in her throat from her empty stomach. She turned her head and vomited all over the face of the man staring at her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I meant no offense. God forgive me.”
She reached for her shirt to wipe the bile away and realized that she didn’t have a shirt on. Then memory started to return. She had been held in a prison cell for such a long time that she had lost count of the days. Soldiers had tied her up, tortured her. They had accused her of being a spy, a communist. But she was neither of these things. She didn’t even know what that meant—communist.
Before the memories overwhelmed her, she forced them away to some faraway part of her mind. For right now, she needed all of her mental energies to work out how to escape this pit.
The moon had reached its zenith, and she looked around, schooling herself not to retch again as she took in the dead bodies. There were perhaps a dozen, maybe more. She could see the edge of the pit about a foot above her. She scrambled over the arms and legs of the bodies around her to reach it. Finding her right arm too painful to lift, she felt along its sloping side with her left hand. Still fighting her gag reflex, she turned her head towards the earthen bank and smelled the richness of the earth. She took several deep breaths drawing in its fecund, life-giving scent.
She searched around in the rocky soil until she felt something long and hard and narrow. She scraped at it, hoping to find a tree root and not a human leg bone. Slowly she dug the dirt away from around the object. Its rough surface convinced her that it was indeed a tree root and hope began to fill her chest. She scraped and scraped until her nails were broken and her hands were raw, she felt like her arms would fall off. Finally, she dislodged the dirt from under it so that she could grasp it with her hands.
She paused a moment to marshal her strength. Then she seized the root and pulled. As she tugged with her arms, she swung her leg up and attempted to hook a foot around the root. But the pain in her chest and right arm burned like fire, and she had to let go.
She lay in the pit, gasping for air, nearly choking on the putrid odor. Then she heard voices. They were barely audible. Men’s voices. She heard one of them laugh. And she was filled with anger . . . and fear. God forbid that they should find her still alive. With renewed urgency, she grabbed the root again, and, ignoring the pain, pulled herself up. As she did, she swung her leg up. This time, she hooked it onto the root.
With one leg supported by the root, she boosted herself up, her left arm flailing around for another handhold. It landed on a tree branch that hovered over the pit. She grabbed it and hoisted herself up and out of the pit. Once on firm ground she crawled a few feet away.
She closed her eyes for a second just to catch her breath. But she must have passed out, for when she next opened them light illuminated her surroundings in somber shades of predawn gray. The pit was several feet away and she lay amid scrub brush and stunted trees. Through the brush she could just make out the shadowy bulk of a building in the distance, probably the prison where they had held her. In the other direction, she could see what looked like a garbage dump.
She lay there, contemplating whether she really wanted to investigate it. Maybe it wasn’t a garbage dump, but another burial pit. Then she looked down at her body, scrawny from near-starvation and buck naked. If there was even a chance of finding some clothing, she had to take it.
Slowly, she squatted then stood on trembling legs. It seemed that nothing was broken there,
gracias a dios
. With her hand pressed to her chest, she stumbled over to her goal. As she got closer, she could see that it was, indeed, a garbage pit.
The sun was starting to rise so that the gray shadows began to take on color and form. Sure enough, among the beer bottles and plastic bags and other unidentifiable detritus were bits of cloth, more cloth than one would expect in a rubbish heap. Then she realized that these were the clothes of the hapless victims in the burial pit. Juanita felt another sob start to erupt from deep within, but the pain in her chest stopped her from letting it out.
“Forgive me,” she found herself saying once again to the dead as she started to rummage for something, anything, with which to cover herself.
Suddenly, she heard a low growl. She started and glanced around. On the far edge of the heap was a snarling and tattered buff-colored dog with teats hanging close to the ground. Her ribs protruded horribly and her belly was concave.
“It’s okay, pooch. I know you need to find food to feed your babies,” said Juanita. “I am only looking for a bit of clothing.” She searched the area until she found a swatch of blue. The dog continued to growl threateningly, her scruffy fur rising along her neck. Juanita looked at her. “Listen, friend, I am just going to reach for that piece of clothing there, okay?”
Slowly, always keeping half an eye on the dog, she snagged the fabric and pulled it from the heap. It was a shirt. With buttons. She pulled it first over her right arm then over her shoulders and onto her left arm. It reeked of rotting garbage but it covered her down to her backside, and she felt giddy with the relief that the simple act of clothing herself gave her. She looked around some more, always keeping the dog in sight, always talking to her softly.
Then she spied another colorful piece of fabric, a floral print. She shuffled over to it and grabbed it. Tears sprang to her eyes as she realized it was her own skirt, the one the soldiers had taken from her when they threw her into the cell. One whole side was ripped, and the memory of them tearing it off of her returned painfully. She choked back her tears and her memories. Quickly, she ripped a strip of fabric from the bottom of her skirt and used it as a belt to hold the rest of the skirt into place.
Keeping her eyes on the dog, she retreated to the other side of the rubbish heap. The dog watched her until Juanita was safely out of her territory, and then scrabbled into the heap in search of food.
Juanita turned and slipped into the brush. She had no idea where she would go. For the moment it was enough to be walking in the opposite direction of the pit and the holding cell.
Soon, she found a road. She followed it, half stumbling on bare feet. The sun rose higher in the sky as the morning wore on. Eventually she reached a small village, just a cluster of simple houses with roofs made of iron sheeting. Nestled among the houses were small gardens enclosed in crude fences to ward off wild predators. As she approached, a mangy dog rose from the ground where he lay sunning himself and ambled over to her.
She stood stock-still, waiting to see what kind of reception he had in mind.
“Pablo!” she heard a woman shout. The dog ducked his head and turned with his tail between his legs towards the woman. She was tiny with a wizened face and grey hair pulled back into a bun. She walked over to Juanita and regarded her, taking in her state of total dishevelment. “Are you all right,
querida
?” the woman asked her.
“Please, señora, can you help me?” Juanita said. Then she fainted.
* * *
The next time Juanita awoke, she found herself lying on a cot under a rough blanket. The smell of death was gone from her skin and her hair felt clean.
The old woman sat on a chair next to her.
“Good morning,” said the woman. “How are you feeling?”
Juanita lifted a hand to her chest. Under a clean nightshirt, she could feel a bandage.
“You were shot,” the woman explained. “The doctor removed the bullet. You were very lucky that it didn’t damage your heart or your lungs. Do you remember what happened?”
Juanita nodded mutely.
The woman seemed to understand her unwillingness to talk about it. “It’s okay, my love. You don’t have to say anything. All you need to know is that you’re safe now.”
Juanita reached her hand out to the woman, who took it tenderly in her own. Then she closed her eyes and let herself drift off. She had survived and that was enough for now. One day, she knew she would have to say what happened, but she wanted to tell the padre in her own village, whom she had known her whole life.
Arizona
May 2010
Jack awoke to excruciating pain emanating from his back and shooting throughout his body to the ends of his limbs. He lay prone. His hands were tied behind him. He could tell from the feel that the restraint wasn’t metal or rope, he guessed it was a zip tie, the favorite these days for criminal and law enforcement alike.
Groggily, he recalled what happened. A couple of guys had jumped him when he was walking to a restaurant to meet a friend. Judging by the pain he was in, he figured they must have hit him with a stun gun. And the bastards had gotten a bit over-zealous with the damn thing, hitting him long enough to make him pass out.
Now conscious, he could hear the rumbling of an engine and feel the movement of the vehicle. He gazed around. It was dark but he could tell that he was riding in the back of a truck. He could make out the wheel hubs, and the ribs of the metal floor dug uncomfortably into his body. It was enclosed with a canopy.
Judging by the lack of oncoming traffic, they were likely on a deserted road. And in Arizona’s Valley of the Sun, that meant desert.
As the pain from the stun gun started to recede, he quickly did a mental check of his entire body. His head hurt, but he was fully awake. His arms were tied behind him but zip ties could be broken. His legs were unfettered. And that was a very good thing.
He tucked his knees up to his chest and, pulling his arms down under his butt, maneuvered his body like a pretzel until his shackled arms were in front of him. He gripped the end of the zip tie with his teeth and pulled it to tighten it up. Then he raised his bound wrists up to his chest and with a quick downward snap across his rib cage, broke the tie.
Just like they taught you in the military defense classes, easy as pie.
Suddenly the truck started to slow down. Then it dipped and seemed to be turning off the road. Soon it was rolling over uneven ground. Around ten minutes’ later, it came to a complete stop.
When he heard the doors to the truck open and footsteps heading around to the back, he closed his eyes and went limp.
“I told you that you hit him too hard,” a man said. His voice was deep and scratchy.
“Don’t worry, he’ll wake up,” said another voice. This one was nasal. The two men spoke in Spanish.
“I hope so. If you killed him, we’re dead men.”
“Come on,” Jack heard the nasal man say as he grabbed Jack’s legs.
That’s when Jack made his move. He kicked the man in the face, knocking him to the ground. Before the other guy had a chance to react, Jack leaped from the truck and lunged with his forearm directed at the man’s throat. He followed through with an elbow to his stomach, and then slammed a knee into his groin. The man collapsed into a fetal position, groaning. Meanwhile, the nasal voiced guy started to rise, so Jack turned and chopped him on the neck. The man fell back to the ground with a thud.
With the element of surprise in his favor, the fight was over before it started. Both men were down for the count. Jack ran. The moon, just climbing into the sky, was nearly full so he had some light by which to see. He dodged around shadowy lumps of prickly pear and several saguaro cactuses that sprang from the earth like surreal monsters.
In the dead silence of the night, he heard the mumbling and shuffling of his assailants as they rallied. He needed to get out of sight before they could make out his form in the moonlight. Spotting an organ pipe cactus, he crouched down. Its multitude of spines springing from the core of the plant created a fan-like blind.
Jack listened to the men stumbling around the area.
“Where did he go?” asked the nasal voice.
“I don’t know, but he can’t have gotten too far away,” grumbled the scratchy voice. Then he said, “I’ll go this way. You try over there.”
“We’re never gonna find him,” the other man whined.
“Just shut up and have a look around.”
Jack heard the crunch of footsteps approach the cactus where he squatted. He tried to breath without making a sound. The man was only three feet away from him, gazing out across the horizon. Jack’s knees were killing him, but he didn’t dare move. Finally, after what seemed like minutes but was probably only seconds, the man walked away.
“I told you,” said the nasal voice. “We ain’t gonna find him.”
“Just keep looking. He’s gotta be out here somewhere.”
* * *
The men gave up the search after an agonizing half hour. They returned to the truck and made for the highway. Jack watched the direction they went in so that he could find the road.
When they disappeared into the distance, he rose in relief. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could have held that position. He stretched his tortured knees and then headed in the same direction that the truck had gone. When he reached the road, he continued walking along the side. He had no idea where he was or how far he was from Phoenix. Although he worried that the men would be looking for him on the road, it was a chance he had to take. He needed to get back to town.
He walked for a good fifteen minutes before he saw the headlights of a vehicle approaching him from behind. He turned and faced it, letting the driver see him. With his military haircut, chambray shirt, and jeans, he knew he looked respectable enough. The old Chevy truck slowed and pulled noisily over to the side of the road.
“Where you going?” asked the driver. He had uncombed gray hair and a good growth of stubble on his face.
“I’m heading into Phoenix. My car broke down and I need to find a tow truck and a mechanic. Any chance you can drop me near Luke Air Force Base?”
The driver nodded at the bed of the truck and Jack hopped in. It held a variety of equipment—shovels, an ax, a small ladder, a toolbox bolted to the floor, tarps, etc. Judging by the variety of tools, he figured the guy must be a general handyman. He moved some of the stuff to one side to make space directly behind the cab and hunkered down to cut the wind as they sped down the road. Then he plucked away at the vicious spines that had lodged into his socks and jeans on his run through the desert.
* * *
The driver dropped Jack off at an exit that was no more than a mile from Jack’s apartment. Jack thanked him and set off on foot. The temperature had plummeted since the sun had set from the mid eighties to the low sixties. He took off down the street at a brisk walk. He needed to clear his head.
What had just happened? The past few hours had been so crazy that he had to remind himself that he hadn’t imagined the whole thing. He had been abducted off the street while walking to a restaurant. His abductors had used a stun gun, zapping him so hard that he passed out. Then they’d tied his hands and hauled him out to the desert.
What were they planning to do to him? Interrogate him? Beat him up? Kill him? Did it have anything to do with the recent break-ins of both his office and apartment?
As Jack made his way to his apartment, letting the fresh air clear his head, he became convinced that the incidents were related, that someone thought he had something. But he was damned if he knew what it was. He thought back on the past few weeks.
The first incident happened on a Monday morning. He came into the office as usual and had settled down to work, when he noticed that things were not quite right—items in his in- and out-box were scrambled, files were out of place, his office supplies weren’t where he normally kept them. They were all just little things and if he weren’t so meticulous, he might never have noticed.
In the end, he decided to report what he found to his commanding officer, Colonel Parker. Parker asked him to show him what he was talking about, so Jack brought him to the office to point out the discrepancies. As he showed him misplaced items in the drawers and his in- and out-box, Jack began to feel foolish. Especially when he saw the expression on the colonel’s face.
“Cunningham,” said Parker. “Is anything missing as far as you know?”
“No, sir.”
“Just misplaced?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t you think it’s possible that you misplaced these things? Perhaps you were distracted by something.”
“I suppose so, sir.”
“And besides, other than your in- and out-box, don’t you lock everything before leaving each night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So how could anyone have gotten into the files or your desk drawers? This is, after all, a military base with secure access.”
“Yes, you’re right.”
Colonel Parker scrutinized him for a long moment. “I suggest we forget about this. What do you think?”
“Yes, sir. You’re right. I must have been distracted.”
“Okay, then. Let’s get back to work.”
As suggested, Jack put the incident from his mind. But not for long. A few days later, he’d caught the two guys ransacking his apartment. He had been working late at the office helping a junior officer with some critical engineering calculations. When they felt like they had made good headway, they agreed to call it a night and resume in the morning.
Jack had pulled into his parking spot and saw the beams of a couple of flashlights dancing around in his apartment. He barged in, catching the thieves red-handed. They ran for the door, but Jack managed to tackle one of them, bringing him down to the floor. He stood over the guy and was about to demand his name and what he thought he was looking for, when he felt the cold end of a pistol at his temple.
“Let him go, or I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
Jack raised his arms and slowly moved away from his quarry. The man on the ground scrambled away from him and sprang out the door. The other one continued to point the gun at Jack until he heard the engine of a car roar to life. Then he turned and ran.
Jack had called the police to report the incident. Nothing seemed to be missing, although it was hard to tell with the contents of the drawers, shelves, and bookcases dumped onto the floor. The police duly took down his details for their report and advised him to contact them if he discovered anything missing.
* * *
And then tonight, he was abducted.
As he walked, he was still having trouble wrapping his head around the whole incident. What was going on?
He turned the corner and now he was on the home stretch. His apartment was two blocks away. He surveyed the street as he approached. There was a car parked at the end of the block. Its windows were tinted, but the streetlight cast a shadow, revealing a silhouette of a head and shoulders. Jack reckoned it was well past midnight. People didn’t just hang out in their cars in the middle of the night in this neighborhood.
He ducked behind a bush, hoping the guy hadn’t spotted him. But there was no movement from the car. On the other end of the block he spotted another car. This one had two people in it, their heads barely peeking over the console.
He skirted around the back of one of the apartment buildings along the street where he lived. Staying in the shadows, he scanned the parking lot. None of the cars appeared to be occupied, but just to be on the safe side, he stayed close to the wall where he was all but invisible and made his way to the other end of the building.
His apartment was in the next block. Still keeping to the shadows, he ducked behind the dumpster between the two buildings and came up on the other side. Again, he searched the parking lot, looking for signs of someone sitting in a car, lying in wait. But it was simply too dark to see. Still, he would bet anything that someone was watching.
He crouched down and duck-walked behind a short hedge that lined the walkway until he reached the back wall of his apartment building. Again, he counted on the darkness to cover his movements as he scooted along the wall to his back door.
It was exposed. There was nothing to hide behind. There was no option but to hope that anyone watching wouldn’t have his eyes on the door for the second or two it took to enter. Pulling his key from his jeans pocket, he squatted at the door, slid the key in the lock, pulled the door open and slipped inside.
Closing the door softly behind him, he stood and listened for any sign of movement outside. Hearing nothing, he snuck into his bedroom and fumbled around in the dark until he found the items he wanted: his boots and some socks, a couple of shirts, a pen knife, a small flashlight, a hoodie. He snuck into the kitchen and grabbed a couple of water bottles and granola bars from the cupboard.
When he was satisfied that he had everything he needed, he gently opened a window in his living room. At least it wasn’t facing the street, but even so there would be a moment of exposure as he exited. Perching on the window sill, he jumped to the ground.
Some nearby bushes provided a screen, and he snuck out of his neighborhood the same way he’d come in, like a thief in the night. This was ridiculous, he thought. He should have just hopped in his car and driven away. But if he had tried that, sure as shooting, they would have followed him. No, he had to get away on foot.
He considered reporting to the base. But his gut told him that they could be the source of the trouble.
There’d been a disturbing incident after the break in at his apartment. He’d gotten a good look at the guy that he’d tackled and he knew that he would recognize him if he ever saw him again. Which was exactly what happened couple of days later, after the break in.
