this was something they like to do: each morning great trucks drive through the streets and the men on them take away bags and baskets of food and other good things, perhaps to give to other people who did not have enough, or perhaps this is how the food gets into their machines. He does not spend much time considering these mysteries, however, but instead scrambles lightly up the stack of tires to the roof. There he walks toward a little house made of glass. He spits on his hand and wipes the dirt away from a pane and sees what he seeks lying below.
In the garage office, Dario Rascon awoke from a troubled dream to the sound of breaking glass. He rose lightly from the cracked leather couch on which he had been sleeping, drew his pistol, and, without bothering to wake the snoring Iglesias, went through the door to the garage bay. After waiting a few moments in the dark, ears straining at silence, he snapped on the lights. Of the eight fluorescent tubes in the pair of hanging fixtures only three came on, but there was enough light to see the Indian, a small brown man, nearly naked, with facial tattoos and a bowl haircut. He was standing under the dark skylight, with sparkling shards of glass all around him.
Rascon pointed his pistol and ordered the man to approach with his hands up, but the Indian, with a movement too swift for any response, vanished behind a workbench. It was dark at that end of the garage, but Rascon was not afraid of Indians. He had shot lots of Indians at home. He moved forward confidently. The Indian was not behind the workbench. Rascon moved farther into the darkness, pointing his pistol here and there like a snake striking.
Ararah. Ararararh.
He jumped at the sound and whirled. Some kind of motor starting up, he thought, the little pendejo must have tripped a switch. Then, amazingly, he was on his face on the concrete, the gun gone skittering across the floor. He felt, as his last earthly sensation, a hot breath on his neck.
Jenny was positioned in the right place to see the whole thing. She saw Moie go dark and vague and his form thicken and grow and then the thing was standing there lashing its tail. She saw what it did to the man. Then another man appeared in the garage and shouted out something, and she saw a speckled blur fly through the air and heard a thump, then a strangled human cry and, after a moment, liquid gnashing sounds. These stopped. Then came the slighter noise of claws clicking on concrete and the beast’s head was near her own, inches away. She looked into the golden merciless eyes. Through chattering teeth she managed to say, “Moie, don’t kill me.” Jaguar opened his mouth. She saw the red blood spattered on its muzzle, the long yellow fangs. A breath issued from its mouth, smelling of fresh meat, coppery and rank, and of something else, some sweeter scent, an overwhelming perfume. She gasped and took it into her body. Then she felt the aura, the familiar cool feeling in her center and slipped, rather gratefully this time, into the seizure.
When she awoke her bonds had been cut. She found a water spigot and took a drink and washed her face and her hands. Urine had dried on her legs, and she washed this off, too. It was perfectly quiet in the garage, save for the usual hum a city makes. She did not look at what was on the floor. A merciful amnesia had descended on her mind, which now resembled a vast dusty warehouse in which only a few motes of thought floated, the chief of which was LEAVE NOW. She obeyed this and walked out of the repair bay quite nude, pausing only to switch off the lights, having been firmly trained from an early age always to switch off the lights when leaving a room.
Even in Miami, a city void of dress codes, it is hard for a naked woman to go far on a major thoroughfare without someone noticing. Within a quarter mile of where she started, Jenny was fortunate enough to meet a couple of social workers coming home from a movie. Both of them were women and both of them had plenty of experience with drug intoxication among teenagers. They grabbed her, wrapped her in a blanket, and took her to the nearest emergency room, which was at South Miami Hospital.
Prudencio Rivera Martinez, after finishing his cigar, had walked a block to a taco joint and used the toilet. Returning to the garage office, he was surprised to see his two companions gone. He went into the repair bay and shouted their names several times. Hearing no reply, he took another few steps and slipped on something, landing painfully on his knee and hand. Standing again, he looked at his hand and found it covered with blood. After he turned the light on, he discovered that what he had slipped on was a piece of Santiago Iglesias’s liver. The donor of this morsel was lying a few yards away. In the distance, he could just make out a little mound in the center of a large dark pool, and he concluded that this was Rascon. The girl was gone. He took out his cell phone and was about to push the buttons, when a novel thought entered his mind. He placed the cell phone on a tool cabinet and considered his situation: he had several thousand in cash and a new van and a gun and a small personal stash of very pure cocaine. It was more than enough to make a start in New York. Hurtado might come looking for him, or El Silencio, but they would first have to deal with whatever had silently taken out two extremely experienced and tough Colombian gangsters, or three, counting Rafael in Calderon’s house, and he thought that they might have a difficult time doing that. In any case, he was himself no longer willing to participate in this fregada. He got into the van and, like so many of his countrymen, immigrated to America.
Paz’s boat was a locally made plywood craft, ugly as the devil and painted peeling pink. It had been called Marta, but one of the stick-on metallic letters had fallen into the sea and so it was Mata now, which Paz had liked as being suitable for a homicide dick and had left it so. It was damp and uncomfortable and ran like blazes on its planing hull in front of twin Mercury Optimax 200s. Just now it was anchored in Florida Bay over a hole Paz had been fishing for years. They had been out since just past dawn and caught two fat snook (Paz) and a small permit (Zwick) and now it was eleven and the fish had stopped biting. The only person still fishing seriously was Amelia, who was methodically feeding live shrimp to the crabs on the bottom with her hook.
The two men were sitting on a padded locker, working on their second six-pack. Zwick had been talking about his work, a subject he was never reluctant to pursue, but Paz had been encouraging. As a result he had learned a good deal about Penrose’s theory that consciousness was in some sense a quantum phenomenon lodged in the exquisitely fine microtubules of neurons, and Edelman’s theory that the brain is a set of maps, with sheets of neurons having systematic relationships to sheets of receptor cells wired to the whole sensorium. In this theory, sensory experience essentially constructs consciousness. It was Zwick’s idea that the real key lay in a concordance of the two theories: Edelman’s notion of reentry mapping explained the way the brain built a picture of the world and of the self within it; Penrose explained, as far as Paz could understand the jargon, why minds were not like machines, why human minds could think up new stuff, something no computer had ever done. Paz listened, asked questions, received detailed answers, some of which he even understood, and waited patiently for Zwick to get drunk enough to deal with Paz’s less orthodox queries. He thought it was a lot harder absorbing information from Zwick than from a naked woman in bed, which had been for many years Paz’s almost exclusive tutelary venue. Did sex make the neural sheets more receptive? Or did the spray of testosterone that Zwick emitted when making a point have the opposite effect? A good doctoral thesis, Paz thought, but one unlikely ever to be written.
“So what about hallucinations, Doctor?” he asked now. “It can’t be a mapping thing because by definition it doesn’t exist to be picked up by the senses. But it seems real.”
Zwick waved his hands dismissively. “It’s all bad connections, neurotransmitter imbalances in the midbrain. We can produce any type of hallucination we want by electrical stimulation, magnetic fields, chemicals…it’s not a particularly interesting field of study.”
“Unless you’re having them. What about a hallucination that leaves physical evidence behind it?”
“Then by definition it’s not a hallucination.”
“Unless the evidence is also hallucinatory. Where do you draw the line?”
“Through your dick. What are you talking about, Paz? More spooky shit?”
“Spooky indeed. Are you drunk enough to give me a scientific opinion?”
“Barely. Why isn’t this vessel equipped with daiquiris? Isn’t that a Coast Guard requirement?”
“Only in international waters. What do you think of shape-shifting? Speaking as a renowned physicist and drunk?”
“What do you mean, ‘shape-shifting’?”
“I mean that it’s universally accepted among shamanic peoples that certain highly trained people can turn themselves into animals.”
“Oh, that. I thought they only thought that the spirit of the great lion, or whatever, was taking them over and they growled and imagined they were chasing zebras.”
“Yeah, they have that, but I meant for real, assuming there’s such a thing as real. What it is, I was called in recently to consult on a Miami PD case. A couple of citizens got killed, and all the evidence says it was done by a
