Jacaranda (3 page)

Having finished their inspection of the dining hall, the padre and the nun were first to arrive in the community room for the evening meal. The next to appear was a lean older woman, who greeted the nun as she approached the table. “So nice to see you again, Sister Eileen.”

“And you as well. Father Rios, this is Constance Fields. She’s been here since Tuesday.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she mumbled toward the padre, as she drew up a chair next to the nun. Even while seated, she seemed quite tall—and the narrow fit of her pale yellow dress emphasized the long lines that made up her shape. She was perhaps seventy, with bright blue eyes and hair as gray as a nickel, twisted into a bun atop her head.

He raised an eyebrow. “Three whole days? You must find this place agreeable.”

“I’m waiting,” she replied—neither confirming nor denying anything. “My husband is returning to Texas, from Barbados.”

“Then I trust he has been delayed by the weather.”

“As likely as not.” She folded a napkin onto her lap, and lifted her eyes when a doe-eyed young man chose the seat next to hers. “William,” she said in acknowledgment.

Sister Eileen smiled. “Good afternoon, dear. I hope you’ve gotten a goodly amount of work done today.”

“Yes ma’am,” he answered. He was a soft lad, not quite fat but leaning toward heavy—and the roundness of his face made him seem young. A fine gold watch chain peeked out of his pocket in a pretty, glimmering arc. It cost easily more than the rest of his wardrobe, which was (in every stitch) the uniform of a very poor man dressing upward, aspiring toward respectability if not taste. The padre suspected an academic.

“Father Rios,” the nun offered, “this is William Brewer. He’s a botanist, researching the unique plant life on the island.”

“Good to meet you,” the young man replied with a wide, if uncertain, smile.

“Likewise, of course.” He was pleased to learn that his guess had been close, if not spot-on.

“William joined us last night,” Sister Eileen added.

“That’s right, I did. This is a beautiful hotel, isn’t it?”

“Lovely,” Rios agreed. Then it occurred to him to ask, “Sister Eileen, how long have
you
been here?”

“Not quite three weeks,” she said crisply, and a coal-haired serving girl with a tray full of glasses paused, closed her eyes, and mouthed a silent prayer in Spanish. If the nun noticed, she said nothing to call attention to it. “I believe that makes me the guest who’s been here longest.”

“By quite a bit,” William added quickly. “And what keeps you here, all this time? I’ve heard others sometimes complain of drafty rooms and rattling pipes. They gripe that there’s too much noise, even if the place
is
full of wonderful technology.” He waved a fork toward the ceiling, and the creeping fans that slipped back and forth, slowly circulating the damp air. “There’s always something clattering around, day and night.”

“I’ve come here to pray, that is all. This is a good place to pray.”

“The gas pipes, the fans, the little machines that pull the dumbwaiters and manage the bells…” Constance muttered. “Making a ruckus at all hours. It’s enough to stop a woman’s heart.”

“Well,
I’ve
scarcely noticed it,” William declared. “This place is a marvel, with all its advancements built right into its bones. I may specialize in living organisms, but I can appreciate the mechanical, too. And what of you, Father? How is your visit, thus far?”

“I’m pleased to say, so far I am quite happy with the accommodations—though I have only been here an hour or so.”

Constance glowered down at her plate, as a second serving girl delivered a serving of roasted potatoes and baked chicken. “Give this place another hour,” she said. “Maybe two.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Or less than that. It won’t take long. It never does.” She stabbed a bite of meat onto her fork, and pushed it into her mouth as if she was angry at it.

Though three tables were provided, the remaining guests all gathered together at the same one, for it was the largest. Even the most recent arrivals appeared to sense some unseen peril about the place…even in late afternoon, when the sun would not fully set for another sixty minutes and the sitting area was bright and comfortable. It didn’t matter. The Jacaranda still felt cold, empty, and unfriendly; so everyone ate elbow-to-elbow, around a centerpiece made of rich blue blossoms and fresh fruit. They huddled like it was a campfire, and it might keep the wolves at bay.

The remaining six hotel guests included a married couple on their honeymoon by the last name of Anderson; a traveling tool salesman, Frederick Vaughn; two McCoy brothers, passing through on their way to a funeral; and a pretty young schoolteacher called Emily Nowell. They had all arrived earlier that day, and had spent their time thus far exploring the island—and then the hotel grounds before the weather was wild enough to prohibit it. Now that the day was coming to a close and the final meal was served, they all planned to settle in for the night, enjoying the modern conveniences offered by the extraordinary hotel.

Though Constance Fields remained insistently dour, William Brewer stayed insistently cheerful—and while the nun made small talk, the padre observed each of his fellow guests in turn.

He did not have to look very hard to learn most of what he wished to know.

The lovely but cool-natured Mrs. Anderson was not as thrilled with her recent marriage as was Mr. Anderson, who had a great deal of money and a lesser measure of personality. Frederick Vaughn was a very good salesman, and a very quick talker—he and William Brewer struck up an immediate rapport, surprising the padre not in the slightest. David and George McCoy were not so much mourning their dearly departed grandfather, as much as they were wondering about the contents of his will. Emily Nowell was a woman of better means than she presented herself, but an education had given her ideas about securing the vote for women, and other dangerous thoughts that made her suspect to the men in the group—and to Constance Fields, too.

(Though in fairness, Rios would’ve admitted that the older woman viewed everyone through such an unfavorable lens…not merely young women with unladylike aspirations.)

In addition to the hotel guests, there were three servicewomen—a mother and two of her daughters—who cooked, managed the meals, and cleaned the rooms. When the desk worker Sarah stopped by to collect a cup of coffee, she referred to the mother as “Mrs. Alvarez,” and sent the girls on separate errands: one to tend the furnace, one to address the laundry. The oldest daughter, Violetta, was willowy and plain; the younger, Valeria, was shorter and plumper, and prettier as well. The Alvarez women spoke Spanish amongst themselves, but understood plenty of English.

Through the largest window, the padre spied an enormous straw-haired man with a wheel barrow, toting bricks from one place to another in the late-afternoon gloom. “And who is that?” he asked the nun.

“Ah. That is Tim,” she said softly. “He keeps the grounds, and performs assorted tasks indoors when needed. He is pleasant and quiet, though feeble-minded, as they say. Sarah has not told me as much, but I believe he’s some relation to her—a cousin, or half-brother. She keeps a kindly eye on him, making sure he’s housed and fed.”

He murmured, “That is good of her,” and he looked, listened, and didn’t really need to ask—but asked anyway: “And that’s everyone, isn’t it? There’s no one else staying here, or working here?”

“Not directly, no. Others come and go, but mostly stay away as they’re able. The postman and other couriers, deliverymen, farmers with produce from the mainland, and a dry-goods clerk who drops off supplies twice per week. Washing powders, flour and sugar, oats, and that sort of thing.”

“Where do Sarah and Tim live?”

“Sarah has a room here, or a suite, I should say. As for Tim, I’m not certain…but he doesn’t live here. There
is
a groundskeeper’s quarter around back, but Tim doesn’t sleep there, either. The Alvarez family likewise has a home elsewhere, despite Sarah’s repeated offers to give them a set of dedicated rooms. She’s on the verge of offering the space for free, I think.”

“How would the owners feel about it, if she were to offer room and board to the staff?”

Sister Eileen cocked her head in a little shrug. “I haven’t the faintest. The hotel is owned by an investment group. I’m not sure you could point to a single person, and call him the man in charge.”

“How strange,” the padre mused.

“Maybe, or maybe not. I don’t pretend to understand the inner workings of Texas financiers; but most of the Texans I’ve known are less afraid of ghosts, and more afraid of being penniless,” she said with a faint smile. “Therefore someone, somewhere, believes the hotel is profitable—or that it
can
be. The Jacaranda Hotel will stay open until the investors are convinced otherwise.”

The padre finished his supper, and lifted his napkin off his lap. He set it beside his plate. “We’ll see.”

By the time the meal had finished, and the last of the plates and cutlery collected, the sky had gone a very dark, ashy purple. It’d be black within another quarter hour, the padre thought as he stared past the curtains—and then stepped out of the way, when Mrs. Alvarez came to close them.

He begged her pardon in Spanish; she gave him a nod that said she didn’t really care.

One by one, she drew the long white panels across the tall panes of leaded glass. One by one, the gaslights were illuminated, and they filled the large meeting space with a warm, bright glow accompanied by the ever-present hiss of the fixtures, and the soft, never-ending clanks of the fans on the ceiling.

Mrs. Alvarez went to a control panel and opened it with a key. She adjusted some levers and the fans slowed, then stopped altogether. The night would be cooler, after all—and soon, there’d be no one left to enjoy the faint circulation in the sitting area.

One by one, the guests said their good-nights and left for their rooms.

Footstep by retreating footstep, the place fell quiet.

Then Sister Eileen turned to the padre, and regarded him with those strange gold eyes. “The…the
events
, which happen here—they do not always wait for evening.”

“There is no real reason for evil to resign itself to the darkness, though in my experience it often does.”

“This hotel is no different. No different at
all
. We should be on our guard. But not here,” she added, catching Mrs. Alvarez’s eye. “The ladies wish for us to move along, so they can finish their tasks and find their way home. Only those who pay for the privilege care to remain here after the sun has set.”

They left for the main lobby, where they found Sarah behind the desk, reading another newspaper, or perhaps the same one as before. She set it aside with a smile, happier by far to have customers than to be alone with the island’s daily reports.

The padre looked at the floor, and its sinister swirl of art; he looked at the young woman, ensconced behind the counter as if it were a barricade—as if it could somehow protect her from the thing beneath the floor. It was a sentinel’s post, more than a welcome desk.

He avoided the mosaic, stepping around it to the left.

Sister Eileen stepped to her right. Approaching the desk and the girl she asked, “No new missives?”

“Still none, I regret to say.” She regretted it enough that the workmanlike smile slipped, and her voice fell a few notes when she added, “I’m starting to worry. I know what you said, but we’ve been waiting for weeks. I just don’t think the Rangers will come.”

“They
will
,” the nun argued. “But they are few, and the miles are long across Texas. Don’t give up on them yet.”

Sarah pressed, “But if they
do
come, what would they do? Will they close the hotel, do you think?” The tremble of hope in that last word tugged at the padre’s heart.

Sister Eileen said, “The Jacaranda is a dangerous place, and the Rangers could document the goings-on here. They could take the facts to the shareholders, and spread the word to the newspapers, send it across the wires. They could tell the world more easily than we might, anyway—and that’s important. Whatever haunts these grounds may not be huntable by the likes of us, or the Rangers either. But we may starve it of its prey.”

“We try to spread the word,” Sarah whispered. “We try to make it known, but still they come.”

“And still you remain,” the padre said. It was not quite an accusation.

Sarah looked at Sister Eileen, seeking some kind of permission. The sister nodded, and Sarah asked the padre, “She’s told you about the deaths, is that why you’re here? Do you think you can help us?”

“I promise to try. So you should not treat me like a guest. You can tell me the truth: Why do you remain, if you know the danger—and if you are so afraid?”

Tears welled up in her eyes, but they did not fall and she did not wipe them away. “Whatever is here, running wouldn’t leave it behind. Not even if I went to New York or Africa or China. There’s nowhere far enough to run. So I stay. And I serve.”

“But what of Tim? Your brother?” he used the nun’s best guess.

“Tim is my cousin. He was orphaned as a child and raised by my father, alongside me. Tim…” she glanced toward the windows, as if she could see him out there, working. But here, too, the curtains were closed, and she saw no sign of him or anything else. “Tim is the only one, I think—the only one it doesn’t speak to. Maybe he can’t hear it.”

“An interesting thought,” the padre granted. “But you imply the hotel has spoken to you? How?”

She whispered, lest her voice’s volume shake the tears loose. “In dreams. The waking kind, when I’m not in bed but I’ve stared off at nothing, and lost my train of thought. It talks to me in those empty places, when I’ve nothing to read and no one to talk to.”

“What does the hotel sound like?” he asked.

She withdrew a handkerchief from a pocket, and dabbed her eyes in surrender. More tears rose to take the place of those she’d banished. “It sounds like my mother, sometimes. Other times, it sounds like my uncle, or my grandfather. It steals the voices of the dead, if it thinks we’ll listen best, that way. But it’s worse,” she took a deeper breath, and sniffled. “It’s always the worst when it sounds like nothing at all, and just shows me what it wants. I’m sorry, I don’t know how else to say it, but sometimes it has no sound, no shape of its own. It’s not even a ghost, not even some demon out of my father’s Holy Bible with the old family tree and my mother’s letters from France. It’s not even Pastor Williams, not even a creature from a penny dreadful.”

“I don’t understand,” he said quietly.

“That’s what I mean. Not understanding,
that’s
the worst.”

He didn’t agree. He’d known plenty of things that were worse in fact, than in theory. But then again, understanding a monster was usually the key to fighting it—and it wouldn’t do to argue with the poor girl. She didn’t want to fight anything.

She said, “I’m trapped here. Same as Mrs. Alvarez and her daughters. I don’t know what it says to them, or how it talks to them, but I know it
does
. They belong here, too. They belong to the hotel, just like me.”

“Such despair,” he said with sympathy, and as much kindness as he could offer. “It does not suit you. We will solve this yet. There is hope.”

“How do you know?”

“Because there is
always
hope. There is hope, and between myself and Sister Eileen, there may be answers. But you must trust us,” he told her. “And you must help us. You are in a fine position to observe all the guests, all the mysteries. You must watch, and tell us everything, no matter how awful. You must give us the truth—as much of it as you can. Any detail may prove to be the cornerstone of our defense.”

“Any detail,” she echoed, swallowing hard. “I’ll try. I’ll do my best.”

“I know you will.”

Very fast, almost so fast she surprised him, she seized his hands and gave them a heartfelt squeeze. “Thank you,” she said.

“But I haven’t done anything.”

“You came,” she said. “You and Sister Eileen, both. You came, even though you knew…”

He squeezed her hands back, and released them. “We came
because
we knew, and don’t forget that. Stay strong, and remember to pray. I’ve read your King James, and it holds many fine passages for strength. I’m fond of the one Psalm in particular—the twenty-third. Do you know it?”

Her voice quivered. “The valley of the shadow of death.”

“There’s more to it than that.”

“But it’s a song, isn’t it? Not a prayer.”

He shrugged. “Sing to your God…pray to Him. The cadence doesn’t matter. The message finds its way to Heaven, all the same.”

The padre and the nun wished Sarah good evening, and promised to visit with her again before they turned in for the night—but first, they would watch.

“Before we begin,” the padre said, “I should gather some things. If you’ll excuse me.”

“I understand. I have my own tools—rudimentary as they are, in the face of something like this. But I’d rather not fight empty-handed.”

“So long as the Mother holds our hands, they are never empty.”

She bowed her head. “You are right, of course.”

“I did not mean—”

“I only meant—”

They stopped, and regarded one another with a small measure of uncertainty. The nun’s peculiar eyes flickered and flashed, and then were ordinary once again; and the padre thought to himself that this woman may fight empty-handed, from time to time…but he doubted she was ever unarmed.

“I must excuse myself,” he tried again. “I will meet you again…here? Or have you some other preference? This appears to be the center, but it’s difficult to watch something while standing in the middle of it.”

She smiled, and said, “That is an excellent way to put it. Let us meet in the courtyard in half an hour. Is that long enough?”

“Yes, sister. Half an hour, and I’ll see you there.”

Up in his room, he sat on his bed and removed his hat. Then he removed his black cotton frock, and stood in a pair of canvas trousers and the boots he always wore when he might be called upon to walk, or fight.

He stretched, and yawned. It was only a bit of travel fatigue, but he was annoyed with himself all the same.

He wanted some water.

The hotel had indoor plumbing of the latest and highest standard, with one tap for hot and one tap for cold—a luxury scarcely to be believed. He turned them both to full blast and filled the sink’s ceramic bowl with warm, clean water that smelled faintly of metal and salt; he dipped his hands in it, splashed his face, and rubbed at his eyes. When he opened them again, he was staring above the small basin at the gilded mirror mounted on the wall, its silvering bright and new like everything else inside the Jacaranda Hotel (if not what lurked beneath it). The padre splashed his face again, then picked up the small towel that hung beside the mirror. He patted the last droplets from his cheeks while staring into his own reflection.

He would ask Sarah about coffee, when he returned downstairs. He didn’t much care for the flavor, but he always appreciated the results.

He checked the mirror again.

Yes, he was tired…but the years were chasing him, so he kept running. They closed in, all the same. Every crinkle around his eyes, each thread of gray at his temples, and all the old scars deepened with every passing season. He was not as strong and broad as he once had been, but he was still strong enough, broad enough. His chest was lean and sinewy, but not yet sunken. His skin was looser at the joints, but it mostly remained a smooth, tea-colored canvas for a dozen tattoos done in ages past—in another lifetime, or it might as well have been.

Not all of the images were expertly applied, and most of them held little meaning.

Some said only that he’d spent too much time in the company of bad men: a scorpion here, a coyote there. A cross on his right inner wrist, done with a needle during his first stay in prison. (It wasn’t a sign of devotion; it was a sign that he didn’t trust the artist with anything more complex.) A sun with wildly waving rays on his left forearm—the only piece with any color, though it was mostly faded now and the orange scarcely showed at all.

The only tattoo that mattered, was one he couldn’t see without a craned neck and a large mirror.

It ran across his back, from shoulder to shoulder in blocky, gothic script: his final tattoo. He’d bought it in Juarez, commissioned it by a professional with a steady hand—a man who’d decorated sailors, circus performers, and cowboys alike. The padre had sat down for five hours, leaning forward with his arms wrapped around a dirty horsehair pillow.

Deo, non Fortuna.

By God, not by chance.