The Infinity Tattoo (22 page)

The time had come to retrieve Alex’s body. So once again, Jack arranged to meet Andres, whose cousin knew where to find Alex. Because the base was very strict about allowing entry by civilian vehicles, they had Mike pick them up in the capital and take them to Soto Cano.

When they arrived at the gate, Jack and Mike showed their military identification, and Meg showed them a temporary pass given to her by the embassy. As they drove onto the base in the light of day, Jack was struck anew by the barrenness of the place. Office buildings, barracks, and dorms sprawled over a relatively flat stretch of dry, dusty terrain which contrasted sharply with the surrounding mountains.

Soon they parked and entered an office where they were greeted by Major Walker, a man in his mid to late thirties with a blond crew cut. His sky blue eyes took the measure of them. Jack introduced the major to Meg, who shook his hand.

When they entered the office, they found two other men sitting quietly in the office.

Jack recognized one of them.

“Andres,” Jack said, grinning. “Good to see you, again. How are you?”

Andres offered his hand. “I am well, Jack. And how are the two of you?”

“We’re good.”

Then Andres turned towards the man accompanying him and said, “Jack, Meg, I’d like you to meet my cousin Jorge.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jack said

“Jorge has something he would like to tell you,” said Andres.

“With permission,” Jorge said. “I beg you to let me tell you my story.”

Jack looked at Meg questioningly. Meg glanced at the faces of the men in the room, then nodded.

Taking a seat, Jorge began:

“In my family, growing up, we were very poor. I have seven brothers and sisters and my father abandoned us when I was very little. One of my brothers, Carlos, he was five years older than me. He joined the army at the age of fourteen hoping to bring money home to his family. Even before that, he was working to support us, so he never got the chance to finish school. When he joined the army, he failed many of the army's basic training courses because he could not read or write. After several years, it became apparent that he would never climb through the ranks.

“Then one day his superiors offered him the opportunity to carry a gun and make eight thousand lempira per month. My brother took the job. It was right after the coup. He was working for Augusto and he travelled all around the country doing ‘special assignments.’ But he soon began to despise what he was doing. When he said he no longer wished to conduct these special assignments, they accused him of being leftist, a supporter of the resistance. A month later he was seized from his home and I never saw him again.

“Meanwhile, I had joined the police. Many times, I too had to make arrests. They didn’t always tell us why we were arresting someone. But I know that many of the people we arrested were suspected dissidents, protesters against the coup, that kind of thing. Knowing what had happened to my brother, I kept my mouth shut and did what I was told. That’s why I was there when Augusto’s men kidnapped Alex.

“I watched them torture him, trying to get information out of him. But Alex refused to tell them anything. Even when they told him they would stab him in the eyes and blind him.”

Meg shuddered. Jack reached for her hand.

Jorge looked at Meg with haunted eyes. “Alex was a brave and honorable man. I felt bad for what happened to him. I felt bad as a person. I felt bad as a man. I felt bad as a policeman. I felt like a violator of the law. I came home a sick man. I wouldn’t get out of bed except to drink. I cried like a baby. My wife, she shouted at me. But I didn’t care. Finally, she asked Andres to come talk to me.

“Andres reminded me that I had three children and a wife and if I didn’t straighten up, they would come after them. He also promised me that one day, he and I would get retribution. The next day, I went back to work.”

Andres gazed at the cuts and bruises on Jack’s face, which were now beginning to heal. Then he said, “I think it is very good that our colleague is no longer with us.”

“Yes,” Jack nodded. “Yes, it is.”

Walker cleared his throat to break the silence. “Well now, let’s get down to business. I understand that Sergeant Andres and Jorge will take you to find Alex’s body.”

“It would be our honor, sir,” said Andres.

Then Jorge spoke up. “I know that it is but a small thing, to take you to Alex’s body when I could not stop his murder. But I want to do this for his parents, for Honduras, for myself.”

“I understand there may be some risk involved,” said the major.

“Maybe some. But not a lot. The police, they will be happy to have the matter resolved,” Andres said.

“Right, then,” said the major “Tell me what you need to get this done.”

* * *

An unmarked four-wheel-drive vehicle drove up the winding road towards Valle de Angeles. Andres was at the wheel, with Jack, Mike, Meg, and Jorge as passengers.

At a bend in the road, Jorge told Andres to slow down. There was nothing particularly special about this section of the road. On one side the terrain rose steeply up the mountainside. On the other were a number of venders—
viveros
selling nursery plants and other gardening supplies to the residents of Tegucigalpa, a cafe with an assortment of plastic chairs arranged on a cement platform and enclosed with a fence, a furniture maker with dark, crudely constructed chairs and shelves.

“This is it,” Jorge said. “Pull over.”

The vehicle pulled onto the narrow dirt shoulder. They all got out.

Jorge led them to an area behind the roadside vendors and searched the terrain. He looked through a pair of binoculars briefly. “That way,” he said, pointing to a building so overgrown with the surrounding vegetation that it was barely discernible.

Then he walked along the roadside until he found a small, scarcely used two-wheel track. Jorge led the way and the others followed. There were no trees providing shade, and the early summer sun bore down on them. The insects buzzed and scurried across their path at the disturbance.

Twenty minutes later, they arrived at a small, dilapidated shed with crumbling walls nearly engulfed by bushes and vines. Jorge walked around to the entrance, a rotten wooden door hanging on one hinge. He lifted up the corner that touched the ground so that he could pull it open.

They followed him into the shed. Sunlight through various cracks in the wooden structure peeked into an otherwise gloomy interior. They left the door open, allowing the daylight to cast a rectangle of light into the earthen floor.

“Here,” he said pointing to where the dirt floor formed a mound.

Mike, Andres and Jack pulled their collapsible shovels from their packs and started scraping at the dry dirt. Dust rose as they worked, gently filling the air. As they slowly moved the earth to the side, Meg couldn’t stop the visions in her head of men coming to this place in the middle of the night doing their evil work. Or worse, of innocent men being forced at gunpoint to dig the deep trench, a corpse at their side awaiting this unceremonious burial where the body of a man would be forever lost to the people that loved him.

The three men labored until they had removed a couple of feet.

Jack stopped digging, “I think I found something.”

The other men halted, and Jack got down on his knees to dig with his hands. Andres and Mike and Jorge and Meg all joined him, pawing at the ground with their bare hands. Soon, a body became visible. Disconcertingly, it was dressed in police clothes.

“Don’t worry,” said Jorge. “It is the journalist. They dressed him like that so that he would be harder to identify.”

Solemnly, the little group continued to scrape the dirt and stones from the body until it was fully visible. Although it had been nearly a year since the body had been buried, it showed little sign of decay, having been preserved by the earth and dry climate. The hands and bare feet were nearly perfectly preserved, the skin darkened and dried taut against the bones.

Meg could see short dark hair, but the face was in such terrible condition, having been beaten to a pulp, that she couldn’t swear it was Alex.

“I wish we knew for sure that this is Alex,” she said.

“Maybe the tattoo is still there,” Jack said.

“After all this time?”

“We should look,” Jack said. He removed a small pen-knife from his pocket and cut away the sleeve of the uniform at the shoulder. As he pulled it down to reveal the upper arm, Meg cried out.

The tattoo was there. It was black against the darkened skin but it was clearly visible.

Meg sprang to her feet and ran from the shed. Outside in the glaring sunshine, she took deep breaths, in an attempt to rein in her emotions. But the wracking sobs came anyway; her shoulders shook violently and tears streamed down her face.

All this time she had known in her head that Alex was dead, but there was a piece of her heart that just hadn’t been able to believe it. Now she knew with certainty: her dear friend Alex was gone.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Jack. She turned and looked at his face, also streaked with tears. She wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her head in his shoulder.

“Oh, Jack, did you see his face? He must have suffered so much before he died.”

He held her close and they clung to each other in shared grief. “He died for what he believed in,” he murmured into her hair.

After some moments, Meg became aware of her surroundings and looked up. Mike, Jorge, and Alex stood near them in a dejected semi-circle.

“Well,” Meg said, wiping the tears on the sleeve of her shirt, “let’s take Alex home.”

They returned to the shed, and Meg handed Mike the black body bag she was carrying in her backpack. Gently they placed Alex’s body inside. The five of them carried him out of the shed.

“Please,” said Jorge, “if I could just say a few words.” They laid him gently on the ground and bowed their heads while Jorge said a simple prayer. Then they lifted him and carried him to their vehicle.

General James Ethan arrived in Phoenix and proceeded to at Luke Air Force base one day in early June. When he entered Colonel Richard Parker’s office, Richard stood, with a huge grin spread across his face. He had spent a lot of years working under the general’s command and he had great respect for him.

“General Ethan,” he said holding out his hand. “What a wonderful surprise. When did you get in? Are you here on official business?”

“I’m afraid so, Richard,” said the older man, his face etched with concern.

“Well, what is it, sir?” said Richard.

“Let’s take a walk, shall we?”

“Yes, sir,” said Richard. He escorted the general out of the building, with alarm bells sounding in his head. He tried to think if there had been anything online or in his emails that could be a cause for concern. But he couldn’t think of anything.

“God, is it hot out here,” said General Ethan.

“Yeah, it is. Phoenix in the summer can get pretty darn hot.’

“Is there somewhere we can go that’s private and cool?”

“Sure. We can go to the conference center, just up in the next block.”

The blast of air-conditioning that greeted them when they opened the door caused a shiver to run up Richard’s spine despite the sweat that had been pouring off of him just seconds before.

He guided the general to a small meeting room and flipped the sign over at the door indicating that it was occupied.

“Richard,” the general began, “a very grave matter has been brought to my attention.”

“Oh?” said Richard.

“Yes, I understand that you were in Honduras back in ’85 to ’87.”

“That’s right.”

“And at that time, you were acquainted with a man by the name of Augusto Garcia.”

“Yes,” Richard choked out. His face felt hot as blood suffused it, then turned ice cold as the blood drained away. This was it. His career was finished. And if the facts ever got out, he would lose everything. Not only his career. But his wife and his kids. They would never forgive him.

The general handed him a photograph, one that Richard had hoped never to see again. It showed him pawing a young woman held captive in a cell. Then the general handed him a piece of paper, but the blood thrumming in his ears made it impossible to make out the general’s words.

Richard took the paper. It was a photocopy of an old handwritten document. It was written in Spanish. As he looked at the incomprehensible words, he shook his head. Then the general handed him a typewritten piece of paper. It was a translation.

As Richard read the words, tears sprang to his eyes, and he gasped. When he finished, he wept like a tormented man, then like a baby.

“I’m sorry to be the one to bring this to you,” the general said.

“No, no. I thank you, sir,” Richard said.

“What?”

“I don’t think you can imagine carrying around that kind of guilt all these years.”

“But . . . it was one incident. You were a young man. Fondling a young woman is absolutely wrong. But you didn’t rape her”

“But that’s what I thought it was.”

“Richard, I’m confused.”

“Augusto told me I raped her. He said that he and I . . . took turns with her.”

“And he’s been blackmailing you with this knowledge for over twenty-five years?”

“Yes, sir” said Richard, then heaved another ragged sob, then another.

The general stood and poured Richard a cup of water from a dispenser. “Here, have a drink,” he said. Richard had calmed down, so the general moved on to another unpleasant topic.

“Richard, we need to know how often Garcia made contact with you over the years. What did he ask you to do?”

Slowly, with intermittent sobs, Richard told the general about his relationship with Garcia. The general grilled him about how and why Garcia had contacted him, taking meticulous notes.

* * *

Several hours later, General Ethan returned to his car. His heart was heavy. And he was angry. Angry at Richard Parker for getting himself into such a mess. But even angrier at this man, Augusto Garcia, for causing another man such mental anguish for twenty-five years. Garcia was, indeed, a cruel and evil man and the general was glad to know that he was gone from this earth.

However, at least some justice would be served. Parker had agreed to meet with the Drug Enforcement Agency to provide them with any and all knowledge he had concerning Garcia’s connections with the Sinaloa cartel. Over the past few years, the cartel had grown like a cancer, solidifying a vast network in Arizona, while at the same time establishing a stronghold in Honduras.