Slipping Into Darkness Read online

  Mainly, I saw people who looked like me as I made my way to the Delta terminal to pick up my suitcase. It was the strangest feeling. On the one hand, I felt like a stranger, but on the other, I felt at home.

  I had looked Brazil up online on the flight down. Brazil had the largest Black population other than Africa. This was where the first slave ships stopped. However, the Blacks still had the least political power.

  First, I went through customs, which was a half-hour process. The time passed by quickly because I was mesmerized by the sights and the sounds. The smells of fried cassava and banana filled the airport from the street vendors. The unidentifiable smells of different foods from the shops insides the airport made me hungry and my stomach growled. The sounds of the language colored the air like an international Tower of Babel. I saw people of all races.

  After I got my suitcases, I panned the crowds looking for someone holding a sign for me. Finally, I saw an attractive woman who looked to be in her late forties holding a sign. “Zippora Saldano.” My name was spelled wrong; however, I’d been waiting for an hour, so I was relieved. I’d never been this far away from home, and I was a stranger in a strange new country. Unfortunately, this was no vacation either. I had no gun. All I had were my wits. I felt tensed up inside and tried to relax.

  “Here I am,” I said, flagging my hands and arms up and down. The lady put her sign down and came forth with a tentative smile. At the same time, I noticed a sadness tugging in the corner of her mouth.

  “Hello. Are you Zipporah? I’m Esmeralda, Appolonia’s grandmother.” She spoke a lilting English with a strong accent, but I understood her, so I was relieved.

  Did she say grandmother? She didn’t look old enough to be a grandmother. “Yes, I’m Zipporah. Call me Z, though. You look too young to be a grandmother.”

  “Actually, I’m a great-grandmother. We all had our children young. I’m fifty-four. My daughter is forty and Appolonia is twenty-eight. The sad thing is my daughter is dying.” Her face crumpled and I thought of Trayvon. “You never expect to bury your child before you.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  We looped our way in and out through the throngs of people, until we made it the curb. Esmeralda grabbed my small roller bag, hoisted it up, and put it in the back of her Volkswagen bug. She drove past the white sandy Ipanema beach, the sparkling ocean, the palm trees with their fronds flowing in the breeze. Acacia trees lined the streets, and I saw the famous baobab “bottle” trees. I saw exotic-looking birds with bright yellow, green, and blue feathers. I watched the waltzes of large birds of prey, the falcon and the eagles, in the clear emerald sky. The fragrance of nutmeg and cinnamon filled the surrounding markets where people haggled and bargained for prices.

  Finally Esmeralda turned into a city I learned was called Rocinha. Rocinha was a favelo (a slum) nestled in the foot of a mountain. In the distance, you could see the famous statue of Christ the Redeemer from the Corcovado mountain in the backdrop of Rio.

  The favelas appeared to be part of a maze of shantytowns. Appolonia’s abuela, Esmeralda, took me to her modest home. I was just amazed how close all the homes were together in the favelas.

  As soon as we rounded a narrow street on a hill, I heard the staccato rat-tat-tat of gunshots. The noise reminded me of an AK-47. A large army tank was nestled on one side of the hill, and return fire flashed from the other side of the hill. My ears went deaf and tingled from the blast.

  “What the–” I caught myself to keep from cussing. “What’s going on?” I asked, ducking for cover. That’s all I needed was to come this far and get killed in crossfire.

  “Z, keep your head down. The soldiers are fighting the drug traffickers. They’re trying to clean up the favelas before the 2014 World Cup and 2016 Olympics.”

  Out of nowhere, a man, who darted out in front of our car, was hit by a barrage of bullets in the back and dropped dead in front of my face. Thunderstruck, I was speechless for a moment. Esmeralda just speeded up, pulled around the body, and kept driving. She just acted like this was an everyday occurrence. My goodness! They were dropping bodies over here like in South Los Angeles.

  “What in the hell was that?” I couldn’t hold in my cussing a minute longer. My throat felt as dry as sandpaper. My lungs were wheezing from the shock.

  “That was a known drug trafficker. We don’t know nothing and we don’t see nothing here, if you know what’s good for you. Hurry up. Let’s get inside.” Esmeralda pulled up to a grey adobe-looking building that was connected to other houses.

  Once we made it safely inside her modest Spanish home with a glazed red tile roof, I was relieved. It was a shotgun house, with the rooms aligned in a phalanx. The quarters were small, but neat, clean, and orderly. A shrine, which held several candles and a crucifix, was seated in one corner. Two parakeets tweeted in a harmonic blithe song in an ivory cage by the window.

  A picture of an attractive teenage girl smiling shyly into the camera stood on a mantle. “Who is she?” I pointed to the picture.

  “Orchid. She’s my granddaughter. Appolonia’s sister.”

  “I thought you said you were a great-grandmother.”

  Esmeralda didn’t answer. She began cooking something which smelled heavenly. “We’re having feijoada.”

  “What is that?”

  “Stew.”

  When we sat down to eat, Esmeralda bowed her head in prayer and held my hand. As soon as I dipped the spoon in my mouth, I found this dish arguably to be the best stew I’d ever eaten. It was made with black turtle beans and various cuts of pork and beef, served with rice and collard greens and a deep-fried cassava and banana.

  Throughout the meal, I could hear bullets whizzing and exploding. If I thought L.A. was like a little war time Afghanistan, I was wrong. Rio had L.A. beat hands-down. I guess I’d come to Rio at the wrong time. At any given moment, gunfire erupted between the security forces or police blitzes and the drug traffickers. I heard gunshots all through the meal until I gratefully was able to tune it out.

  After our meal, Esmeralda sat down in the living room and she was ready to talk. She spoke in a hushed tone. “I thank you so much for coming to help us.”

  What did she just say? I thought. Who said I was going to be able to help them? And who was “them”?

  “You’re going to have to meet with Diablo and talk to him. Please help get my granddaughter back.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I stared at Esmeralda. “First of all, I came here to try to get my brother freed as a hostage. What is going on with Appolonia? Who is Diablo ?”

  “You don’t know of Diablo?”

  I remembered the words of the DEA agent, Richard Braggs. “No, but I just heard his name mentioned before I left the States. I heard he is a big fish.”

  Esmeralda blew air from one nostril in a gush of disgust. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “He’s a really big drug lord down here. He got out of prison last year and it’s like he didn’t miss a beat after being gone almost fifteen years. He ran his organization from the prison, and now he’s picked back up from where he left off.”

  “Why is he holding Appolonia? Does he want money?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  What happened to the money she had? I wondered. “First, can you tell me what you know about Appolonia?” I decided to try to get all the information I could.

  “She was a sweet girl.”

  “When was the last time she came home?”

  “She hasn’t been home in fourteen years.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t talk about it.”

  “Look, I’ve got to know what I’m up against. I’m putting my life on the line to help her and my brother. Otherwise, I will get on the plane and go on back to America.” I was adamant.

  Esmeralda hesitated before speaking. She cleared her throats several times, as if speaking out would put her granddaughter’s life in jeopardy. “Okay, as for Orchid, she’s not Appolonia’s sister. That�
�s her daughter. She had her when she was young. I’m Orchid’s great-grandmother. When she was thirteen, Appolonia had gotten involved with Diablo just when he was starting out. At that time, he was growing his cartel. He became a big drug lord and the police wanted him bad. He was living high. Big mansion. Swimming pool. Flaunting it before the poor.”

  “What happened?”

  “When Appolonia became pregnant with Orchid, she was arrested with Diablo. To keep from going to prison while pregnant and giving birth in prison, she turned state’s evidence on Diablo. My daughter, Axa, and I kept the baby when she delivered, and Appolonia went to stateside and was put in the witness protection program. Her real name is Samaria.”

  “So what made her come home now?”

  “Her mother is dying and she came home to see her on her death bed. She also wanted to see her daughter, whom she left with me when she was a week old. We acted as if Orchid was Samaria’s sister, and my grandchild to keep Diablo from coming after her. I helped my daughter Axa raise Orchid. Anyhow, Diablo went to prison for fifteen years, got out last year, and was determined to get revenge on my granddaughter. When he found out she was with Mayhem, he set up the deal so he could entrap her. He changed his name and now goes by Escobar.”

  No wonder I couldn’t find a long record of Appolonia in the States. She’d been given a new identity. “Didn’t she know it was dangerous to come here?”

  “She wanted to see her mother and her child,” Esmeralda said simply. I guessed because I didn’t have a close relationship with my birth mother and didn’t have any children, this was kind of unfathomable for me.

  “Well, she has money that belongs to the Feds, supposedly, and some Mexican cartel is holding my brother to kill him if they don’t get that money–soon.”

  “So her David has been kidnapped too?”

  “Yes. Are you sure they haven’t asked for money for Appolonia?”

  “No. I believe this is a case of ‘if I can’t have her, you can’t have her either.’ Although Diablo was hell bent on revenge, he hasn’t harmed her–so far. She’s still a beautiful woman. She’s already worked her charms on him because he’s given her permission to go to the Carnival this weekend.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She sent a message by one of Diablo’s men who befriended her. She will be in the Samba Parade. She is still as beautiful as Miss Universe. She is also to be at the ball.”

  I guessed she was trying to help her man, Mayhem, get back up on his feet too. She apparently stuck by Mayhem when he did some time the year before.

  We went to what I assumed was a hospice and visited Axa, Esmeralda’s dying daughter. There appeared to be three other patients in the house. We were met by an Amerindian, who wore a long single plait down her back. The house had a hushed tone to it.

  The woman didn’t appear to speak Portuguese or English. “This is Idina,” Esmeralda introduced her. “She is from the rainforest. She was brought here with some nuns when she was a young girl, but she has become like the village healer. She knows all the plants and herbs. The secrets of the jungle.”

  “What is wrong with Axa?”

  Her mother sighed. She put her hands together as if she was praying, looked up to the ceiling, and shook her head hopelessly. “Ovarian cancer.”

  “Has she seen a doctor?”

  “Yes. She has had the chemo and radiation at the big American hospital. It only weakened her more. The doctors sent her home to die. Idina’s been caring for her for the past couple of months. No one expected my child to make it this long. I believe she’s waiting for Samaria before she lets go.”

  “Has Appolonia–I mean Samaria been to see her yet?”

  “We were trying to get Samaria home so she could say her good-byes, and then she was abducted. She wasn’t at the airport when we arrived; we didn’t know where she was until she sent the note. We got information from David that he was sending you down to help free her. They say you’re a police.”

  “No, I’m not a policewoman anymore. I’m a PI–a private investigator.”

  “They say if anybody could help, it’s you.”

  We went inside a small room with only a dresser, a bed, and a pitcher of water. The shades were pulled and the room was dark. Strangely, there was a light that emanated around the patient’s face. “Axa, sweetheart, this is Zipporah Saldano. She’s from stateside. She is going to help us get our little Samaria back.”

  Axa’s eyes were sunken in. Dark quarter moons shadowed beneath each eye like a raccoon and her lips were chapped, parched looking. Her nose looked pinched. Her face contorted in pain. Her voice was so low, I could hardly hear her. “Does she know?” she mouthed.

  Esmeralda leaned in. “She knows. Don’t worry. She’s on our side. She’s David’s sister.”

  “What does she want to know if I know?” Shoot. There were so many secrets I didn’t know which one Axa was talking about. First, was she talking about knowing that Appolonia’s child was Orchid, or was she talking about the witness protection program?

  “Everything. I’ve told you everything now.”

  Later, I learned that Mayhem had helped Appolonia send money from an unnamed anonymous source throughout the years so they couldn’t trace it back to Samaria.

  Now I wondered if Mayhem knew about Appolonia’s past.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The first night I slept in Orchid’s room on her narrow bed with the mahogany headboard, Esmeralda gave me a plump round orange. “Put this under your pillow,” she instructed.

  I looked at her strangely. “Why?”

  “Because this is what the Santera told me you must do to cleanse yourself before going into battle.”

  I was too tired to argue, so I did as I was told, then I conked out and fell asleep. I had no idea what she was talking about.

  The next morning, Esmeralda shook me awake. I was met by the beautiful sound of the two parakeets whistling, twittering, and singing. Their songs decorated the air.

  “May I have the orange back?” Esmeralda asked.

  “What orange?” I asked groggily. I had to reorient myself to my surroundings. Then I remembered I was in Rio, and pulled the orange from under my pillow.

  I climbed out of bed, then took a quick bath. Esmeralda told me to hurry and dress and to bring one of my outfits I could afford to lose. I picked out a pair of torn jeans (I’d bought them that way) and a faded T-shirt.

  It was still dark as we drove toward the mountain that you could see from all over the city during the daytime. A full moon helped light the way. We finally stopped in front of a whitewashed house that looked like a small cathedral. Amid the rest of the hovels, the place looked like the Taj Mahal. We went inside a darkened room with candles lit all over the room. A strong smell of sage wafted throughout the room.

  “Z, this is the Santera. She is so powerful, we don’t even call her by name.”

  The woman, whose skin was ageless and who could have been any age from forty to seventy, was dressed like a gypsy and had a large mole in the middle of her head. This was called the third eye, Esmeralda later explained to me.

  I’d heard of the religion Santeria before, but I didn’t realize people still practiced it. The Santera spoke in Portuguese, but I understood some of her words because of the similarity to Spanish. Even so, Esmeralda translated for me to be sure I understood what this witch doctor was saying.

  “I’m glad to see you. I’ve got to cleanse your aura. I see a dark cloud surrounding you. You had something bad happen to you when you were a child. Someone you loved died.”

  I cringed and didn’t say anything.

  “His name was Butty, but you still have a close relationship. He says to tell you, you’re not to blame for his death. That you’ve always felt guilty, but you’re not at fault. It was just his destiny. He wants you to live and to carry on his legacy. He wants you to have children so his line will go on.”

  Now that’s when I became afraid. What kind of voodoo was this?
How did she know about my father?

  “Do you have the orange you were supposed to sleep with under your pillow last night?”

  I pulled out the orange and tried to hand it to the Santera. She didn’t touch it.

  “Put it on the floor and step on it.”

  Confused, I didn’t know what to think, but I complied. I smashed the orange with my foot; then the Santera picked it up and opened the mashed fruit.

  She showed it to me and turned to Esmeralda. I gasped out loud, hand over my heart. “Oh, my God! What is that?”

  A face the size of a beetle leered back out at me. It was the visage of an evil-looking man who looked like what I imagined the devil looked like, inside the orange pulp. How did that get in there? I wondered. I knew this orange had not been cracked. I shook my head in incredulity.

  “That’s Diablo!” Esmeralda hissed, her hand over her mouth.

  I felt the blood draining from my face. I grimaced in fear of the unknown. I knew there were things that couldn’t be explained scientifically, but I’d just witnessed some things I’d never learned in the Western world.

  The Santera’s voice continued in a hypnotic chant. “Well, this is something I can break. This is a curse Diablo put on Appolonia and indirectly on you, so this is from man. This is not a curse from God. I can break a curse from man.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Esmeralda held up her hand, beckoning for me to be quiet.

  The Santera’s eyes rolled back into her head and she started chanting as if she were in a trance. A weird feeling permeated the room and my skin prickled. I stood, frozen to the spot. The eerie howl of a dog in the distance broke my freeze frame. I shook my head, trying to see if I could get out of this nightmare, but I looked down, touched my hands, and saw this was real life. I was not dreaming. I was still alive.

  “I want you to bury these clothes in your backyard. Put dirt on them to break this curse. Bring back this box afterward and put as much money in it as you can. I will then bury the box in the graveyard.”