Red Angel

Devlin thought-to where they were seated. He was naked to the waist, ballooning pants hanging from surprisingly narrow hips. From the waist up he was immense, with a wide chest, thick arms, and a protruding belly; well over six feet and easily two hundred and forty pounds. He was in his late sixties, or early seventies, but still gave off a sense of physical power. The only hair on his head was a closely cropped gray beard. He wore a necklace of green beads around his neck, and a length of rope surrounded his waist, from which hung a woven straw pouch.

Martinez leaned into Devlin and nodded toward the pouch. “His macuto,” he whispered. “Inside is his mpaca, the horn which contains all the elements of his nganga.”

“Including …?” Devlin whispered.

“Yes. Inside are small parts of the dead man.”

They all stood as Plante Firme stopped in front of them. His eyes were curious, but not in any way threatening. He extended a massive hand to each of them. He was the only man Devlin had ever met with hands even larger than those of Ollie Pitts.

“Npele nganga vamo cota. Npelo nganga ndele que cota.”

“He welcomes us to speak with and to consult his nganga,” Martinez said.

With that, Plante Firme turned and walked to the large chair opposite. He sat, placing his massive hands on his knees. Equally large feet, with gnarled, twisted toes protruded from well-worn shower sandals. Everything about the man looked impoverished. Everything except his demeanor, Devlin thought. There was an aura of power about the man, and it was reflected in his son’s eyes as he took a subservient position behind the palero‘s thronelike chair.

Plante Firme uttered a stream of Spanish in a low, soft, rumbling voice.

“He says he has consulted his nganga before we arrive,” Martinez said. “So he can know about us.”

Plante Firme’s eyes fixed on Adrianna. He shook his head as he spoke again. “No es amarillo. No es Oshun. Yemaya. Madre de la vida. Madre de todos los orishas. Es la duena de las aguas y representa el mar, fuente fundamental de la vida. Le gusta casar, chapear y manejar el machete. Es indomable y astuta. Sus castigos son duros y su colera es temible pero justiciera. Sus colores son azul y blanco.”

Adrianna turned to Devlin. “He says I’m wearing the wrong color. That I am not a daughter of Oshun. He says I must wear blue and white for Yemaya. He explained why, and who Yemaya is.”

Plante Firme turned to Devlin, and again his voice rumbled forth. “Oggun. Si, Oggun.” He continued rapidly, in what to Devlin became a jumble of words.

Martinez leaned in again. “He says you are a son of Oggun, which pleases him, because he is also Oggun’s son, and has dedicated his nganga to him. But he also says you are in conflict. Oggun is a warrior who fears nothing. He says you fear your own power, and wish to avoid violence. This, he says, is because you have been forced to kill, and this has caused peace to flee your heart. He says this is wrong for you, that you lose Oggun’s power by believing this way.” Martinez hesitated as Plante Firme spoke again, then quickly translated. “He also says you have a child who is very self-willed. That you must care for this child around water, which is a danger for her. He says Adrianna, a daughter of Yemaya, can help you in this.”

Devlin sat stunned as Plante Firme turned to Pitts. The palero‘s face hardened.

“Chango.” The word came from his mouth in a low growl. He shook his head and turned quickly away.

Martinez fought back a smile as he turned to Pitts. “I am afraid you will receive no help here,” he said. “The nganga, which is dedicated to Oggun, has identified you as a true son of Chango, the great enemy of Oggun. The nganga would not speak of you.”

“I’m fucking crushed,” Pitts said.

Devlin stared at the voodoo priest. He turned to Martinez. “How did he know those things about me? You have a dossier on me, Martinez?”

Martinez nodded. “I know much about you, my friend. It is part of my job. But I assure you I have not shared my knowledge. This is the first time I have met with Plante Firme. But, as I have told you, he is a great palero. Perhaps the greatest in all Cuba.”

Adrianna had ignored them, and was now speaking to Plante Firme in rapid Spanish. Martinez leaned in close again, his voice just above a whisper.

“The senorita is telling the palero about her aunt, and her need to find the Red Angel’s body so it can be buried and give peace to her family.”

Devlin heard Adrianna say the word “Abakua,” and saw Plante Firme’s body stiffen. The old witch doctor’s eyes became hard and he leaned farther forward as if preparing to leap from his thronelike chair. He began to speak, and Martinez translated again.

“Plante Firme says we must go to the cemetery where the Red Angel was to be buried, and look for earth taken from the four corners where her body was to rest. He says if Palo Monte is involved, it is the work of a palero he knows well, a man of great evil who has joined with the Abakua. He says if this is true, we must go to this man, for only through him will we find the bones of the dead one who was once Maria Mendez.”

Devlin listened to the rumble of Plante Firme’s voice. Standing beside him, the man’s son seemed to shiver uncontrollably. “What’s he saying now?” Devlin asked.

“He is warning us about the danger ahead,” Martinez said. “He says we must be cautious if parts of Maria Mendez’s body have already been placed in a nganga. We must not just try to take them back. He says we must now consult his nganga to see if we should abandon our efforts, or if seeking her body is the right path to follow.”

Plante Firme rose from his chair and started back toward the house. Martinez beckoned the others to follow. As they passed the pigsty, the animal began to snort and squeal. The palero stopped and snapped out a string of Spanish epithets, then reached down and removed one of his shower sandals and gave the pig several slaps on its snout.

Out of the corner of his eye, Devlin saw Ollie Pitts take an angry step forward, and he reached out and grabbed his arm. As brutal as Pitts could be to fellow humans, he had an inexplicable affection for dumb animals, to the point of keeping five stray cats in his three-room Manhattan apartment. Devlin’s second in command, Sharon Levy, claimed Pitts liked animals because they bit people.

“Leave it,” Devlin whispered. “We need the man’s help. And remember, this guy makes a living laying curses on people.”

Pitts started to say something, then stopped himself, and Devlin wondered if it was the threat of a voodoo curse that silenced him. He momentarily considered asking Plante Firme for some mojo that would keep Pitts under control for the remainder of his cop career.

They followed the palero into a small room. A cast-iron pot stood near its center, this one at least three feet in diameter, and rising from it was an aggregation of items so vast that the entire mass stood over six feet high.

“This is said to be the most powerful nganga in all Cuba,” Martinez whispered as they followed the palero‘s instructions and sat on four small stools placed before it.

Devlin couldn’t quite grasp what he was looking at. An assortment of small bones had been hung around the rim of the pot. They could be animal, or human-there was no way to be certain. Rising from within the pot and its necklace of bones was a collection of objects so eclectic it seemed overwhelming. Spears, swords, and axes mixed together with chains of various lengths and thicknesses, military medals, an old revolver, several religious crosses and medallions. There were numerous lengths of wood, and from deep within, Devlin could see the skull of what appeared to be a goat, horns still attached. Hanging beneath the skull, just barely visible, were the skeletal remains of what could only be human fingers, each joint held together by small wires. Sitting on top of the entire mass was a cloth, black-faced doll, dressed in a brightly patterned shirt and wearing a straw hat. An unlit candle in a long metal holder stood before the nganga, its base surrounded by small statues and vases, an ornate, cast-iron bell, and a large wooden bowl filled with water.

Hanging on a wall next to the nganga was a portrait depicting in profile a white-