CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The intelligence agent Felix Arellano Francisco wanted Alexander to meet him at a tin-roof cinderblock cantina outside Mexico City. The sign out front forbade women and government officials in uniform from entering.

Alexander took a table in the back of the smoke-filled bar and ordered a beer. While he waited, he watched the topless dancers come and go on the central stage. Occasionally, one of the dancers would lead a customer through a curtain to some kind of back room. He watched one proposition a couple of elderly men playing dominoes, who waved her away.

Alexander bought a cigar from a waitress and puffed on it. Francisco was taking his time.

So far, he thought everything was going well. The plague-bringer was his again, letting her power flow freely into him. She remembered the many lives they'd spent together, remembered that she belonged with Alexander.

The zombie workers were productive, and money was pouring in thick and fast. Alexander couldn't ask for much more, beyond a few minor details that still needed attending.

A man in a suit entered the cantina, spotted Alexander, and took the chair across from him.

“You are El Brujo,” he said.

“How could you guess?”

“The only gringo in the bar.” Francisco ordered whiskey from a passing waitress and patted her ass when she delivered it. “Nice place, no? Good for discrete conversation, since no man wants to admit publicly he was here. See that girl onstage now, Carmen? She gives the best head in three states. Should I call her over?”

“No, thanks.”

“More for me.” Francisco sipped his drink. “Though I am suspicious of men who do not indulge in pleasures.”

“I indulge plenty,” Alexander said. “But I have a busy schedule today.”

“We should not be prisoners of our work.”

Alexander just nodded and puffed his cigar.

“All business, then,” Francisco said. “I have a few good friends up north who have asked for my help.”

“With what?”

“They need to open a line of communication with the man who is said to make the dead walk.”

“I don't know any such man,” Alexander said.

Francisco laughed, revealing several gold-capped teeth. “Then Ernesto must be punished for making a fool of me. It is said that Papa Calderon has a man who captured four of Pablo Toscano's men, killed three, and brought their corpses to life to bite and terrify the fourth Toscano man. They say that his message to Toscano was that any interference with Calderon business would be punished with terrifying black magic. They say he is a gringo who goes by the name El Brujo. Ernesto assured me he would send this man to meet me today. And here I am, with a gringo who pretends I do not know what I am talking about.”

“In that case, I guess you have the right person.”

“Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“You can made the dead walk? Is it a trick?”

“Of course it's a trick,” Alexander said. “But many people are superstitious and will believe such illusions.”

Francisco laughed again and started his second whiskey. “Psychological warfare.”

Alexander gave a small nod. “So who are these people? Not DEA, I hope?”

“Of course not. I am to keep such people away from Papa Calderon's business, not bring them into it. These are former associates of mine who now work in private industry.”

“Can you be slightly more specific?”

“Corporate intelligence. High net-worth individuals.”

“I suppose that's better.”

“They simply need a few minor questions answered. They say they are concerned about some American girl.”

“And you're certain they aren't working under government contract? Homeland Security, maybe?”

“These men have moved on from working for the state,” Francisco said. “From what they told me, I believe they are working for the girl's family.”

“What girl?”

“Her name is...Julia? No. Jennifer.” Francisco unfolded a sheet of paper. Jenny's high school yearbook picture was printed on it. “Jennifer Morton. Does she look familiar to you?”

Alexander studied the picture. “You say they're working for her family?”

“If the U. S. government were involved, I would not bring this to you. I would say I could not help them. It is her family looking for her.”

Alexander knew Jenny's father couldn't afford any such investigation. Jenny's boyfriend, though—the healer. The Barrett family had plenty of money, most of it from investments Alexander had made himself, when he wore a different body. He was curious how it had compounded over time. He wished to see the house he'd built, the family graveyard he'd ordered constructed when he was already half-senile.

That previous incarnation had lacked the clarity of this one, probably because Jonathan Barrett the First hadn't died under anesthesia as a child, and then gotten revived. Alexander Scipioni, son of a Beverly Hills entertainment lawyer and drunken plastic surgery addict, sure the hell had. Alexander had nearly gone insane, but he'd come back with his mind wide open, fully understanding the past-life glimpses and dreams he'd been having since he was born. With further research, he'd decided to use a more natural alternative for Jenny, and that had worked out just the way he wanted it to.

“Do you know where to find the girl?” Francisco asked.

“I have her,” Alexander said.

“Really?” Francisco waited for more, but Alexander volunteered nothing. “You have her?”

“Yes.”

“I see. In that case, my friends want me to ask about a ransom. A great deal of money is available to pay for her return.”

“There is no ransom,” Alexander told him. “The girl will not be returned.”

“I see.” Francisco downed his whiskey. “Can you give some evidence that she is with you of her own free will? Have her send us a note?”

“No.”

Francisco studied Alexander. A minute passed, while Alexander listened to the brassy horn music playing over the cantina's scratchy speakers.

“I do not know if this will satisfy my friends.” Francisco finally said. “They suspect kidnapping. They want assurance that she is willing to be where she currently is, and that she is not a prisoner.”

“I can offer no such assurance,” Alexander said. “And there will be no ransom.”

“You might make them angry with you. Should I deny the girl is with you? I don't want this to lead to trouble for Papa Calderon.”

“Do not deny it,” Alexander said. “Tell them you found me. Tell them I have the girl, and I do not desire a ransom, and I will not provide proof of her well-being.”

Francisco scratched his head and sat back in his chair. “I will tell them what you say. Anything else you want passed along?”

Alexander shook his head.

“Then our business is concluded.” Francisco whistled to the dancer he'd admired earlier, who was now over at the bar. “Carmen! Come and see us.”

Alexander stood up and left pesos on the table for the waitress.

“You don't want to miss this.” Francisco gave another gold-toothed grin while the girl approached the table.

“I'll pass,” Alexander said. “Busy schedule.” He stepped away from the table.

“Watch your ass, Brujo,” Francisco said as he left. “You don't want this to become trouble. Not for Papa Calderon, and not for me.”

“No trouble,” Alexander said. He put on his sunglasses and stepped into the hot, dusty afternoon outside the cantina.