The next day, Jutsiñamuy got up at 5:30 A.M. and did his morning exercises next to the bed: push-ups, running in place, sit-ups, stretching, head to the side and front, in circles, ear to shoulder, touch toes. When he finished each set, he looked in the mirror, flexing his muscles and turning to observe the silhouette of his torso. It wasn’t out of vanity. Even apart from the issue of health, as he saw it, allowing himself to get out of shape would constitute an act of moral negligence. The hotel had modern gym facilities, but it seemed undignified to perform such movements in front of other people.
Later, after showering and donning a casual warm-weather outfit—leather loafers, Lacoste polo shirt, sand-colored linen pants—he went up to the poolside terrace and served himself breakfast from the plentiful buffet: fresh fruit, especially pineapple and papaya (antioxidants), a bowl of cereal, unsweetened yogurt, green tea (he should have brought his own, since all the hotel had was a blend of green tea and mint).
As he sipped his drink, he pulled out the day’s edition of Cali’s El País newspaper. He flipped through, stopping on each news item and carefully reading the summary and the first three paragraphs. He finished the cereal, but a smell wafting from the platters on the buffet distracted him. Next to the scrambled eggs was another smaller platter with fried bacon, curly and dark with a paler vein down the middle. His mouth watered: Once a year can’t hurt, he thought.
He went back to the buffet—feeling defeated—and took a large plate, but thought, You can’t eat the stuff on its own, and served himself two large spoonfuls of scrambled eggs. The same platter also contained Santa Rosa sausages. He glanced over at the waiter, who was watching him, and moved down the table till he found the arepas. His mind conjured the image of an arepa with a sausage on top. No, no, he pleaded weakly, seeing his hand, acting of its own free will, place two arepas on his plate and crown them with the meaty zeppelins of chorizo. He told himself, without much conviction, that he could still set the plate down and leave it there, but he found himself carrying it to his table instead. He met the waiter’s eyes, who immediately said, “Enjoy your breakfast, sir. Would you like more juice?” Yes, fresh-squeezed orange juice. He kept flipping through the paper until he reached the regional section, on Valle del Cauca, and saw the photo of a young man named Enciso Yepes. His family had reported him missing. Mechanically, Jutsiñamuy began to read the article:
Enciso Yepes, 35, from Cartago (northern Valle del Cauca), disappeared three weeks ago, according to his wife, Mrs. Estéphanny Gómez, 41, who lives in Cartago. Mrs. Gómez notified the authorities that her husband, a private security professional with VigiValle, has not reported home for several days. VigiValle claims not to have heard from its employee since the beginning of the month, as a result of which it had rescinded his contract on the grounds of unauthorized absence. Mrs. Gómez declared she was taking legal action and said that her husband had not informed her of any change in his work, instead telling her that he would be traveling to another part of the country to provide security, which he had done on numerous occasions in previous months. Accompanied at the lower court in Cartago by her lawyer, Anselmo Yepes (the missing man’s brother), Mrs. Gómez stated that recently her husband had been providing security services throughout Valle and Cauca for the New Jerusalem evangelical church.
When he read this, the prosecutor almost spilled the tea he was holding. Oh, shit, he thought, this is getting good. He looked over at the waiter. Seeing that he was distracted, he ripped out the page.
Then he called Laiseca.
“Good morning, boss,” the agent said when he picked up. “At your orders.”
“That’s the spirit, Laiseca,” Jutsiñamuy said. “Good morning. I’ve got a present for you this morning. Have you read the local paper yet, El País?”
“Not yet, boss. I’m just finishing the New York Times.”
“Very funny. Get a copy and read page two of the regional section. There’s a report of a missing man that I think you’ll find interesting. They mention New Jerusalem Church. Read it, and we’ll talk. What did you learn about the Jamundí Inn?”
“I spoke with our legal office twice this morning, and they’re looking into it for me. The owner turns out to be an offshore company registered as R.I.N.T.R.I., based in Panama. It’s classified as three stars. No names yet. Are we going to Panama, boss?”
“Let me guess, Laiseca, you want a trip to the Panama City airport for some duty-free shopping,” Jutsiñamuy said. “Not for now. I’m heading to the Jamundí Inn later to take a look around. Is Cancino with you?”
“Yes, boss, right here next to me. He says hi. Do you want to talk to him?”
“No, no need,” Jutsiñamuy said, “but I think he’s going to end up taking a little jaunt to Cartago. Look at the paper—you’ll see why. Call me once you’ve read the article.”
His plate of eggs and bacon was empty. He felt profound guilt and, at the same time, an old hunger to sate. Glancing from side to side to check whether anyone was watching him, he got up and strode toward the buffet.
The entrance to the Jamundí Inn looked just like any other pretentious rural hotel in Colombia, but in a rococo Valle del Cauca style: flower-filled gardens, a fountain with three vertical jets falling in a parabola, two stone paths, birdcages hanging from the eaves, and bowls of sugar water for the hummingbirds. It was hotter there, south of the city, than in the neighborhood where he was staying, so Jutsiñamuy was glad he hadn’t brought a jacket. He would have looked very odd. He went into the reception area and asked to speak to the manager.
“Manager?” A young Afro-Colombian man looked at him with bloodshot eyes; it didn’t take a scientist to guess that he’d spent the morning smoking up.
The prosecutor looked at him sternly. “Yes, the manager. You understand the concept?”
“Yes, yes,” the young man said, somewhat befuddled. “I’ll call him.”
Jutsiñamuy sat down on the sofa in a rustic waiting room. At the far end, a city councilman was on TV giving an interview. Atop a heavy wooden table was a large carafe of water with slices of lemon. It had a spigot and little plastic cups next to it. Nice detail, Jutsiñamuy thought, rubbing his belly. He was assessing whether a glass of lemon water might help him digest his enormous breakfast when an athletic man in a guayabera shirt came over.
“Welcome to the Jamundí Inn, sir, how can we help you?”
Jutsiñamuy looked him up and down. He was the typical manager you saw these days: about thirty, sterile-looking, with close-cropped hair and tattoos on his arms.
“Good morning,” he said. “I’m looking for a venue for a family party and someone recommended this place.”
“Well, they know what they’re talking about. We specialize in family and business gatherings, clubs, and associations. Come on into my office. Coffee, soda, tea?”
The idea of consuming anything else made him gag.
“No thanks,” he said, “I went overboard at breakfast this morning. Buffets are trouble that way.”
“Are you staying at a hotel?”
“Yes,” Jutsiñamuy replied, then immediately regretted providing that involuntary information.
“Let me get you a bicarbonate of soda—that’ll have you feeling better in no time. And may I ask what hotel you’re staying at?”
The question was a consequence of his own mistake. Now they could track him. He needed to be cautious.
“Well, I was, anyway, but I’m leaving for Bogotá today. But I will take a bicarbonate of soda.” He looked out the office window at the garden.
“How many people are we talking about and what services would you like to include?” the manager continued.
“There would be four families, five people each.”
“Does this include lodging?”
“Absolutely, the idea would be to spend a weekend here.”
An employee came in carrying an aluminum tray. On it was a glass of water and a sachet of bicarbonate. Jutsiñamuy poured the medicine into the water and drank it down in one go. The effervescence did help.
“And a celebration on Saturday, with a special dinner,” he continued.
“Is it a birthday or other family occasion?”
“Yes,” Jutsiñamuy said. “My mother’s eightieth. We wanted to get the kids and grandkids together.”
“Lovely idea, the whole family together, as it should be. Well, listen, we can arrange everything here: a dinner with regional, international, or eclectic cuisine, traditional music, and we offer entertainment too if you want it. Lots of people love the dance performances. If you’d rather have a religious service, that’s no problem. You just tell me what you want, and we’ll make it happen. Come on, I’ll show you the facilities.”
They left the office and walked through a shady breezeway with arches over Doric and Ionic columns, all done in pink stucco, to find themselves back in the garden, where there was a full-on natural installation: wooden bridges over streams and waterfalls, a little treehouse in a mango tree, stone paths, pools stocked with goldfish and neon tetras, rose gardens, and, in the middle, the majestic central swimming pool, turquoise blue, a jewel amid the greenery and flowers, with two smaller round pools and two hot tubs under a thatched roof. Beyond that were the bungalows, which looked like huts made of brick and glass, each with its own deck furnished with seating and a grill.
This is three stars? Jutsiñamuy thought, and then, You can smell the bleach from here. They went in to see the bungalows. Pretty big, HD TV, fridge, cooktop, fully equipped with dishes and cutlery.
“We have bungalows for three, five, and seven people. They are Onyx, Diamond, or Sapphire, depending on the level of comfort you’re looking for. Sapphire is the best, very high standard. Guests book them for honeymoons and then never want to go out!”
“Who wants to go out on their honeymoon?” Jutsiñamuy asked.
The manager laughed.
They moved on to see the performance hall, the chapel, the gym, and the rooms for something the prosecutor had never seen before called thalassotherapy, which consisted of jets of hot, salty water and whirlpool baths. Good for the circulation.
“Wow,” Jutsiñamuy said, “this is something else.”
“It really is. Our establishment is among the finest in the country.”
They walked back to the office. Jutsiñamuy allowed himself to momentarily forget that he was on duty and drift off on the birdsong and the darting hummingbirds. The office walls were bare. Only a crucifix next to the desk, hanging in a frame, and another on one of the tables. The manager pulled out a notepad and began to write down the information for an estimate.
“Name?”
“Misael Borrego Daza,” Jutsiñamuy said.
“Phone number?”
He gave one of the open (but secure and monitored) numbers for his office in Bogotá.
“Email or WhatsApp?”
He gave his office contact once more.
“I’ll be sending you three separate estimates at different price points for three days with all meals, a celebration dinner, entertainment, and a religious service included. One question—does your family belong to a particular church, or are we talking about a traditional mass?”
“I have to admit I’m not much of a churchgoer. But I know my mother goes to one of those new churches in Bogotá. Let me ask her, and I’ll get back to you.”
Saying this clearly got the manager’s attention. Behind him, in a small built-in bookcase, there was something lying among some books that had toppled over. What was it?
“That’s perfect, Mr. Borrego. Is your family from Bogotá?”
“Yes, but only recently; earlier generations were from Cali. That’s why we want to bring my mom back here.”
As he spoke, he tried to get a better look. The object seemed like it had been hidden or disguised. He tried to distract the manager’s attention, but the young man was a perfect, efficient bureaucrat. What could he do? Then he was granted a miracle: the manager’s cell phone rang.
“Would you excuse me a moment?” the manager said. “It’s an international call.”
“Of course.”
The manager got up and paced in a circle as he spoke, then discreetly left the office, not wanting to be overheard.
Finding himself alone, Jutsiñamuy rushed to the bookcase and pulled down the books. He couldn’t believe it: a wooden hand with the inscription “We are healed”! He considered taking it with him, but he thought better of it, as there could be cameras. Instead, he picked up a couple of books as if his sudden curiosity had been provoked by one of the titles. He needed to do something, make a decision. He pulled out his cell phone and took several photos: front, back, top, bottom. He replaced the hand among the books.
A second later, the manager came back.
“I’m so sorry about that, Mr. Borrego, but it was an international call, some Americans who are planning to hold a company meeting here and call every five minutes asking for details.”
“No worries, I know what working with Americans is like. They pay well, and it’s worth it, but they’re a pain in the ass!”
“Exactly,” the manager laughed. “So, look, I’ll probably be calling you . . . When would the event take place?”
Jutsiñamuy quickly gave a date two months away.
“Oh, great, that’s plenty of time. I’ll call next week or email you a detailed estimate. Sound good?”
“Absolutely.”
The two men stood and headed to the door. The prosecutor sent a text from his phone, and the driver, who looked like he was from Uber but was actually from the prosecutor general’s office, came to pick him up at the entrance.
They said goodbye, and as soon as Jutsiñamuy got in the car he grabbed his cell phone to review the photos. He’d missed six calls from Laiseca, but he didn’t lose focus. Luckily, the images were fairly clear: the slogan “We are healed” engraved on the palm of the hand, where you could see the wound from the nail. The hand of Jesus. Then, in the photo of the bottom, another inscription: “Assembly of God, Belém do Pará, Brazil.” Fabinho Henriquez’s Brazilian church! The pastor that the dead men, Pedraza and Becerra, had worked for. The gold hunter. He opened WhatsApp and searched for Laiseca. He selected the photos and sent them, saying, “Look at the treasure I found at the JamInn.”
Five seconds later the phone rang. It was Laiseca.
“Impressive, boss,” the agent said. “We should give that place a thorough going-over, given all the information we’ve got, don’t you think?”
“Cool your jets, Laiseca. I’m the boss here, remember?”
“But I can read your mind,” Laiseca said. “Are you saying you weren’t thinking that?”
“We do need to investigate the goings-on at this hotel. Call Guillermina at the technical investigation unit, the one who used to be my secretary—remember her? Ask her to pull up the calls from the Jamundí Inn, especially international ones: where they’re coming in from and the ones going out too. This is getting good.”
Laiseca cleared his throat. “All right. I wanted to let you know Cancino left for Cartago two hours ago in an agency car to see what he can get out of Estéphanny Gómez, remember her? From the newspaper you sent me.”
“Great, Laiseca, this is great—you’re in my head, making decisions.”
“I’ve always said it’s better to act than to keep your head down.”
“That’s a good one, who said that?”
“I did, sir, though it’s similar to something Gandhi said.”
“I’d heard it before, but slightly different,” the prosecutor teased. “It’s better to act than to direct.”
“No, boss,” Laiseca said, “that one was Pepe Sánchez.”
“Enough with the stupid jokes. Call Guillermina and we’ll talk later. I’m going back to my hotel now to have lunch with the journalists. Report back as soon as you learn anything.”
Julieta got up after nine. She’d managed to sleep like a log thanks to her hangover-prevention cocktail, downed before she turned out the light, and now she felt great. She had night-owl tendencies, a holdover from her university days, and enjoyed working when the space around her was silent and every little thing seemed to resonate more. Ideas, in those quiet hours, are sharper and more precise, as if the mind, deprived of other stimuli, can focus its energy better. Solitude makes what we carry inside us stronger. She thought about the motorcycle spy: was he out there, waiting for her to emerge? It wasn’t the first time she’d been tailed, but it was the first time that might mean she was in danger. Shit, the kids! Heading down to the breakfast buffet, she texted her eldest: “Are you in class? All good? How’s your brother?” She looked at the checkmarks next to the message—white, and then blue. He’d read it. But no response. He must be in class, he’d reply later. As she pondered their safety, the image of her children came to mind—privileged and thoroughly spoiled by their dad, but hers.
She sat down at a table with an enormous cup of coffee and two croissants. These people are dangerous. She couldn’t get her mind away from the corpses by the side of the road. There was no telling what Jutsiñamuy would discover, but deep down she wanted the case to move away from Pastor Fritz. Though he was involved in a deeply ugly world, he was a victim of this country too.
Thinking about their conversation yesterday, she remembered a dream: she was scuba diving beside a coral reef that plunged into the darkest depths of the ocean. She descended rapidly, drawn by something, and the amazing wall of coral, as intricate as the façade of a Gothic cathedral, evoked for her the possibility of other worlds. She came to a huge tunnel and ventured in, and found a hallway with myriad passageways leading off from either side; entering one of them, she swam a hundred meters until it began to narrow; above her was an opening into a second tunnel, and she swam along it into a sort of vestibule with two large thresholds. Which way should she go? There was no turning back now. She didn’t have the strength to go back or remember how to get there, so she had to choose. In the dream, she knew that one of the openings would take her to the surface, to the air that was now growing scarce. And the other would lead her into the depths.
Which should she choose?
Her experience and knowledge couldn’t give her an answer. Feeling fragile, she decided to stay put, waiting for something. She had just one chance. A lobster appeared, and she spoke to it in her mind: Friend, can you tell me which way I should go? I’m in dire straits. The lobster lifted its antennae and waved them in gentle circles like a flamenco dancer, then moved toward one of the entrances. Thank you, dear friend. You are showing me something. But when she began to move the lobster scurried toward the other entrance. Its offspring must be there. Julieta chose the second entrance and swam through it, swirling the sand that had settled like a carpet on the floor. The temperature of the water changed: it was colder now and, ridiculous as it sounded, somehow wetter. Finally she saw a way out, but there was no light on the other side, and she felt far removed from the world—where had she ended up? She saw strange shapes that disappeared when she touched them, pieces of wood eternally falling. Bubbles floated before her eyes. On a rock she spotted the remains of a sunken aircraft carrier; the bombs had become mounds of lichen, covered with anemones. It was at once beautiful and horrifying, a testament to the destruction of the world: a place full of empty seashells, a basket of heads where there are no fish or light or warm currents, and the wreckage of a salt-corroded aircraft carrier, with sea monsters swimming in and out of its engine rooms.
That place was the subconscious of the world.
Johana’s hand shook her from her thoughts.
“How did it go last night, boss? Did you work late?”
“Yes, I was up writing till about three.”
Johana went to get a mug, poured herself some coffee, and returned to the table. “I’ve been reaching out to former comrades about Clara, the woman who might be Franklin’s mother, remember? I managed to track down Braulio in Bogotá, and he gave me the contact info for two FARC members from Bogotá who were medics and are now working in medical labs. Johnny and Ricardo, from the Manuel Cepeda Front. They both remembered her, but they hadn’t heard from her in more than five years. She may have gone back to Sumapaz or left the country. Lots of people went to Cuba or Venezuela. Johnny gave me the number for Berta, a comrade who managed the ammunition and was well connected. He says Berta stayed in Bogotá and is the person who knows the most about former comrades because she’s been in politics since the democracy. But whenever I call I just get her voicemail. Berta Noriega. She has records for everybody, at least from that area. As soon as we get back I’ll look her up; it’s hard to do it from here by telephone.”
Julieta took another sip of coffee. “Awesome. We’ll decide on our next steps after we talk with the prosecutor today. We’re having lunch with him at his hotel. I’d like to meet with someone from the families of the bodies on the roadside. We’ll see what comes up.”
At noon they took a stroll through El Peñón Park and studied the pre-Columbian designs on the fountain: warriors’ faces, maybe from San Agustín. A few children were playing nearby. Groups of elderly people were reading the paper or chatting on benches. And up ahead was La Sagrada Familia church, partially restored but then abandoned halfway through over some arcane dispute. They saw restaurants, clothing boutiques. At the appointed hour they headed for the Dann Carlton and went up to the rooftop. Jutsiñamuy was waiting for them at one of the tables.
“Wow, I’ve never seen you looking sporty before. It suits you,” Julieta said.
“Thanks! This city changes your spirit. The air is such a delicious temperature . . .”
They ordered three ice-cold beers, a caprese salad, and three pasta entrees.
Jutsiñamuy wasn’t one to beat around the bush. He immediately started telling them what he’d been up to: the two dead men’s families, Óscar Luis Pedraza’s gambling stories and the conversation with his girlfriend at Almacenes Sí, the article in El País reporting on the disappearance of a man from Cartago who’d worked with New Jerusalem Church, and the visit to the Jamundí Inn.
“Hang on a minute,” Julieta said. “Can you tell me the name of the Cartago man who’s missing?”
“His name is Enciso Yepes; it was in yesterday’s El País. His wife reported him missing, and apparently she’s going to sue the security firm, which says Yepes hadn’t shown up for weeks.”
Julieta pulled out a notebook and wrote down the name. “What was the church’s response?”
“No, the problem isn’t with the church, it’s with a company called VigiValle, which provides security services to the church.”
“It’s weird he’d disappear like that without telling his wife anything, right?” Julieta said. “He could be the other dead man from Tierradentro.”
Jutsiñamuy looked at her somewhat mischievously and said, “Remember, in this country, everything out of the ordinary turns out to be either a crime or a miracle.” He went on. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. For now, without knowing what happened to him, he’s just a guy who ditched his wife. Maybe he’s just gone on a bender.”
“I’m going to look into it with the church anyway,” Julieta said.
“Agent Cancino,” the prosecutor said, “one of my finest men, is currently with Estéphanny Gómez in Cartago, trying to find out what happened and what kind of information she can provide. But I can tell you it won’t be much. My professional experience has taught me that, at least around these parts, wives are the least likely to know what their husbands are up to.”
“There’s got to be a reason for that,” Julieta said. “Hey, I have something else for you. Remember that weird tattoo on the dead bodies by the side of the road? The photo you sent me?” She opened her purse and pulled out the little wooden hand with its inscription “We are healed.” She placed it in front of the prosecutor and said, “Here you go. I came across it in an antiques shop.”
Jutsiñamuy stared in shock. He picked it up to examine it more closely and saw it was identical to the one he’d seen at the Jamundí Inn. On its base was carved, “Assembly of God, Belém do Pará, Brazil.” It was the same size, the same wood. After turning it over in his hands, he asked, “An antiques shop around here?”
“Yes,” she said, “really close by. I have their card. Hang on, I’ll see if I can find it. And he offered to get me more things, said I should call back.”
She stuck her hand in her purse and rummaged around till she found the little card: “El Mesón de Judea Antiquities.”
“The shop owner seemed really knowledgeable,” she added. “He told me it’s a figurine of Jesus’s hand.”
Jutsiñamuy pulled out his cell phone and took a photo of the card. “All right, it’ll be added to the investigation. Just wait till I send the photo to Laiseca with a note—he’ll be floored!”
He pushed his cell phone into the middle of the table and showed them the images of the hand he’d seen at the Jamundí Inn. “See? It’s identical, right? What do you think? Coincidence? It’s amazing we both found the same thing in a city of three million people. That means we’re on the right trail.” Julieta and Johana studied the photos, stunned. “And it might mean the Jamundí Inn is involved.”
The prosecutor continued. “There’s another story we haven’t talked about yet. The two bodies that have been identified, Becerra and Pedraza, were working as bodyguards for a Brazilian evangelical pastor and gold hunter named Fabinho Henriquez. No accent. An eccentric guy who apparently comes to Colombia regularly. We don’t yet have a clear indication of what his relationship to all this is, but it caught our attention that he was a pastor too, like the other guy, and the founder of a Pentecostal church that’s part of the Assembly of God, which uses this hand of Christ as its symbol and this slogan. Agent Laiseca is working on the matter. The guy lives in Cayenne, the capital of French Guiana. He has a gold mine in the Amazon.”
Julieta grabbed her notebook, excited. Incredulous. “Brazilian?” she said. “Oh, shit.”
“Does that mean something to you?” Jutsiñamuy asked.
“It’s nothing, but one of the people working for Pastor Fritz is a Brazilian woman—I’ve got her name right here . . . Egiswanda Sanders. Quite a character, by the way.”
“How so?”
“A real hot mama, total stereotype of Brazilian women: incredible body, really fit, nice tits, tattoos, a hungry gaze, huge lips, maneater eyes.”
“Maneater eyes?” Jutsiñamuy exclaimed, laughing. “I’ve never heard that one before! My dear friend, if I didn’t know you, I’d say you sound a little . . . jealous?”
Julieta regretted having said anything. “Don’t be an ass.”
“Well, it may just be a coincidence,” he said. “I think Brazil’s got, what, more than two hundred million people? If we can assume fifty percent of each gender, that means there are a hundred million Brazilian girls and women wandering around.”
“You’re right, I only noticed, that’s all. Does this Pastor Fabinho have a criminal record? Is his gold-mining company legal?”
“Laiseca will tell us. His ears must be burning.”
“Sounds interesting. I’ll look into it too,” Julieta said. She set down her notebook and took a sip of coffee. “But let’s get back to the subject at hand. If the bodies on the side of the road worked security at a Brazilian evangelical church, and here we’ve got another church, Fritz’s, and we assume he’s the survivor, then the picture starts getting clearer, right?”
Jutsiñamuy scratched his chin again. “A religious war? Well, shit, if that’s the case it’ll be worse, and deadlier, than the clash between the Catholics and the Muslims.”
“What’s weird isn’t that they’re fighting, but that they have so many weapons, and that they’d carry out that kind of attack. Assuming they did,” Julieta said. “Of course, New Jerusalem does look like a bunker inside, with armed guards up in watchtowers. There are more security checkpoints than at the airport. The fact that they have so much money makes me sick, but maybe that’s why they have to protect themselves.”
“Money, always money,” the prosecutor said. “This may all be immoral, but until something concrete can be proven, it isn’t illegal. They’re protected by religious freedom, which is a civil right. Do you realize they don’t pay taxes or even have to present their accounts? In practice, if you look at their finances, they’re money-laundering operations. But if anyone calls them out, they say it’s religious persecution. They’re the most efficient mafia in the country. They’ve got senators and representatives defending them in Congress.”
“Of course, this case goes way beyond than that,” Julieta said. “Can we imagine two enemy churches attacking each other with assault rifles, rocket launchers, and helicopters?”
“Well,” Jutsiñamuy said, “it could be not the churches, but the pastors themselves. Maybe they’re enemies for some reason. Even with the peace accord signed, this is still a very violent country.”
With that, he made a note on his notepad and apologized before phoning Laiseca.
“Hello? Look, Laiseca, I’m giving you another task to keep you busy. Find out if there have been any disputes between the two churches in this investigation, New Jerusalem and the Assembly of God. Any particular problem with either one is helpful too. And see if Pastor Fabinho has a record. All right? OK. Oh, one more thing: find a contact for Fabinho—an email address, WhatsApp, Facebook. Whatever.”
Jutsiñamuy stifled a laugh. He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and told Julieta, “Laiseca’s asking if we want a mango lemonade while we’re at it.”
“Tell him I’m on a diet,” she said.
The prosecutor went back to his phone call. “She says thanks but she’s on a diet. What’s happening with the Jamundí Inn?”
The agent’s voice sounded faraway and muffled, as if it were behind a flock of carrion birds squabbling over a cow skull.
“Guillermina’s already on that, boss,” Laiseca said. “I’m here at the Chamber of Commerce to find out whether the property info and business name match what they sent from Bogotá.”
“Very good, excellent initiative. And have we heard anything from Cancino?”
“Not yet, but I’ll call him in a bit. It’s impossible to hear anything here, boss. There’s an air conditioner vibrating, and it’s really loud.”
Johana and Julieta finished their pasta and ordered two coffees. The prosecutor accompanied them with his usual tea.
“I’d like to know about this Fabinho guy,” Julieta said. “As I said on the phone, somebody’s been following us, and one possibility is he’s working for Fritz’s enemies.”
Jutsiñamuy’s eyes bugged out. “You’re right! Shit, I’d forgotten. Tell me more about that.”
“It’s a guy on a motorcycle. He’s been watching us since Tierradentro. We’ve already spotted him here in Cali. I thought he was one of Pastor Fritz’s men, but when I told Fritz about it, he got so jumpy I was convinced he was being straight with me.”
“So he thinks it’s his attacker who’s following you?”
“He didn’t say anything specific, but his attitude completely changed. All of a sudden he turned into a mafia don.”
The prosecutor looked across the terrace at the river. A group of women was crocheting on a bench in Gato Park. Further up, two little girls were playing with a lapdog, racing around the fountain. A pair of students were making out behind a bush. On the bridge, a group of Venezuelans held signs and wove among the cars. He saw several motorcycles, but nothing suspicious.
“What does the person following you look like?”
“He wears black, or at least dark clothing,” Julieta said. “And his helmet’s black. He’s skinny. I’ve always seen him from a distance sitting on his bike. No idea whether he’s tall or short.”
“And the motorcycle?”
“A Kawasaki 250,” Johana piped up. She’d been sending an endless stream of texts throughout lunch in an effort to track down her former comrade Berta Noriega.
“Oh, I thought the cat had your tongue,” Jutsiñamuy told her.
“Sorry, I’ve got all these texts going back and forth to Bogotá to see if anyone can help us find the kid’s mother.”
“Do you have any leads?”
“Yes,” Johana said. “There’s a former comrade of mine who’s a possibility. From San Juan del Sumapaz. I’m trying to track her down, but it isn’t easy, and this is from several years ago now.”
“Well, good luck with that, Johanita,” Jutsiñamuy said, “because I definitely can’t help you there. Anything to do with ex-guerrilla fighters sets off alarm bells at the prosecutor general’s office.”
“I figured,” Julieta said. “We’ll keep you posted.”
All at once Julieta slapped her forehead and pulled out her cell phone.
“Excuse me a moment. I forgot to make a quick call to Father Francisco, who works at the San Andrés de Pisimbalá church with the boy. In case he’s turned up.”
She dialed a number, and after a moment the priest answered. “My dear journalist friend, how’s it going?”
“Doing well, Francisco. Have we heard anything about the boy?”
“No, my friend, not a thing. I was in San Andrés on Sunday, and it was a disaster. The church covered in dust, filthy—it didn’t look like a house of the Lord. It was more like a pathetic little hovel. Franklin isn’t back. That’s the truth. I figured I’d wait another week and then find someone else. I can’t leave the church in that state.”
“And you haven’t talked to anybody?” Julieta asked.
“No—like who? Nobody knows the boy except here.”
“Like his grandparents, for instance.”
“I haven’t seen them. And to be honest—well, I don’t know if I feel like upsetting them. We should wait till we find out what happened, don’t you think?”
“Yes, you’re right. But when you hear anything, good or bad, please call me, OK?”
Where the hell was that kid? The church and Pastor Fritz had been kind, but there were things that didn’t fit. And one of them was the whereabouts of Franklin Vanegas.
Julieta sat down again. She was interested in this Pastor Fabinho business. There was something inscrutable there that matched up with Fritz’s personality.
“If your agent finds a way to contact the Brazilian pastor,” she said, “please pass it on to me. I’m going to look for him too. I’d like to talk to him.”
“That would be great,” Jutsiñamuy said. “But you’d have to go to Cayenne.”
“Couldn’t he be in Colombia?”
“If he really was the attacker,” the prosecutor said, “I doubt he stuck around. But it would be great to talk to him, of course—we could confirm what for now is still pure speculation. Laiseca will call to check in soon. Stay close.”
“How do you get to Cayenne?” Julieta said, more to herself than anything.
“No idea,” Jutsiñamuy said. “By plane, I assume, because there probably aren’t any roads.”
Julieta started getting excited. She told Johana, “Find out what the trip involves and how much—let’s see if I can get the magazine to cover it as an expense.”
“All right, boss. As soon as I’m back at the hotel, I’m on it.”
The check arrived, and the prosecutor, with a theatrical gesture, signed the slip. Julieta tried to give the waiter her credit card, but Jutsiñamuy rebuffed it.
“No way,” he said. “You two are essential to this investigation, and I’m treating you today. I’m paying personally, of course, not my office.”
“Thank you,” Julieta said. “You should run for president.”
“My only presidential run was at thirty, for a chess club. I lost.”
“They made a big mistake.”
“One more thing, Julieta,” Jutsiñamuy said. “What about that motorcycle? Do you want us to provide protection? I can’t offer an official escort, because it would have to fulfill no end of requirements, but I could informally ask an agent to stick close to you.”
“I don’t think it’s necessary,” she said. “So far he just stares at me from a distance. I think his job is to report on what I’m up to.”
“Maybe he’s out there right now,” the prosecutor said. “You don’t think it could be something else? I don’t know, your jealous ex-husband, maybe?
Julieta leaned back in her chair and laughed. “No way! He’s been following us since Tierradentro!”
The prosecutor scratched his head and kept gazing out at the square. “Well, apparently your tail clocks out at five, because there’s nobody around.”
“He could be watching from a hiding place.”
“You have to learn your enemy’s ways,” Jutsiñamuy said, “and this one doesn’t seem very professional. Sure your ex isn’t collecting dirt to sue for a divorce?”
“Don’t be an ass, damn it.”
They parted at the front door to the hotel.
Agent José Trinidad Cancino reported that when he arrived in the steamy city of Cartago, famous throughout the region for its linen shirts, he went straight to the local courthouse and identified himself as an agent from the prosecutor general’s office investigating the case of missing-person Enciso Yepes. He was given the contact information for Estéphanny Gómez, the wife who’d reported Yepes missing, and a short time later he was knocking on the door of a modest two-story house with a spiral staircase coiling up the exterior. When the door opened, the agent was momentarily confused (or startled) by the appearance of the woman in question, and even thought he might have the wrong address, having mistakenly arrived at a massage parlor or brothel, since Estéphanny, unlike the other wives of missing men he’d visited over the course of his career, was wearing denim short shorts with horizontal rips through which he could see her underwear—which was, he reported in meticulous detail, made of black and pink lace—and a bikini top that covered only a third of her enormous breasts, which had been augmented with silicone implants.
According to Cancino, Estéphanny, upon learning that he’d been sent by the prosecutor general’s office, took him into the living room and offered him a shot of liquor, which he rejected, opting for a glass of soda instead. The agent began asking questions about the missing Enciso Yepes, but Estéphanny, who even at barely two P.M. on a Tuesday was showing signs of inebriation, said that for that sort of thing, she’d need to call her lawyer, which she did immediately. While the lawyer was on his way over, Estéphanny excused herself to go to a bathroom located very close to the living room, thanks to which the agent was able to overhear two sharp nasal inhalations. The woman then returned to the living room, rubbing her gums with her index finger, and proceeded to play a reggaeton song on the stereo. “We don’t have to be boring while we wait for my lawyer,” she told Cancino. “You like this music? You like the bump and grind?” They almost didn’t hear the doorbell, but when Estéphanny answered, the agent saw that it was not the lawyer but someone from next door, a dentist’s office, complaining about the volume. The woman closed the door and said, “What drags!”
When the lawyer arrived, Cancino was finally able to inquire about the subject of interest. According to the lawyer, Enciso Yepes had received death threats for being a security guard and because of his political beliefs. The lawyer claimed that the threats had been from former guerrilla fighters or dissidents, and when asked what proof he had, he said all he had was cell phone conversations, since death threats don’t arrive by certified mail. Everybody was certain of what had happened, so he was considering suing the national government on behalf of the wife.
Cancino reported that when he asked the lawyer—who turned out to be Anselmo Yepes, the missing man’s brother and Estéphanny’s brother-in-law—what political beliefs had put Enciso Yepes in danger, he responded that Enciso had supported the Democratic Middle and participated in demonstrations against the peace accords and against the negotiations to hand the country over to the terrorists. Agent Cancino asked for more details, pointing out that if such beliefs led to death threats, half the country would be receiving them, whereupon the lawyer stated that he had witnesses who’d been with Enciso Yepes on two specific occasions on which he’d been approached by people on motorcycles who told him, quote: “If you keep opposing the peace accords, we’re going to break you, motherfucker.” Asked about the identities of those witnesses, the lawyer replied that they would be revealed at the appropriate time. According to the agent, when he asked if the people issuing the threats were known to anyone in Cartago, the lawyer said no, but that they were local to the area.
Regarding the nature of Mr. Enciso Yepes’s work, the lawyer said it consisted of providing security to the Pentecostal New Jerusalem Church, and that he’d been assigned to that post by the company VigiValle, which they were now suing, not just because VigiValle refused to accept its responsibility for Enciso Yepes but also because it had stopped paying his salary, claiming breach of contract and abandonment of duties, which was a violation of labor and human rights. This topic seemed to rouse Estéphanny, who’d come down from her high, and she said that he’d enjoyed the job at first because, like her, he was very religious, plus it paid well, so he liked it even though it required frequent travel to Cali and other cities, but that later, because of the threats and the dangerous atmosphere, he became more and more unhappy. When asked when Yepes had last been seen, the lawyer said three weeks ago.
Wrapping up his interview, Agent Cancino informed them that the prosecutor general’s office was investigating another case that might involve Enciso Yepes and asked them to remain available for further statements. The lawyer asked what kind of case but was told that for now that information was being withheld. Cancino also reported that before he left, Estéphanny gave him a loud kiss on the cheek and said, “It was a pleasure to meet you, detective, but next time you should accept the drink.”
Once outside, Agent Cancino reported that out of curiosity he looked in at the dentist’s office next door and that as soon as she saw him, the receptionist, a woman of indeterminate age—somewhere in her mid-forties to mid-fifties—invited him in and said, “Are you from the police?” He identified himself, and she unleashed the following: “That Estéphanny woman is a tramp. She’s sleeping with Anselmo, Enciso’s brother. Every time Enciso went to work in Cali, Anselmo would come visit her—the moaning was unbelievable! That woman isn’t right. When we neighbors complained, they started meeting at a motel, the Olafo, on the road to Pereira. I know because I saw them leaving there once in Anselmo’s car.” Cancino asked if she knew that Enciso Yepes was missing, and the receptionist said, “No way, I bet they killed him so they could get compensation from the government.”
Given these accusations, Agent Cancino decided to go to the Olafo to confirm what the dentist’s receptionist had said. It wasn’t hard to find, and when he arrived in reception with his badge from the prosecutor general’s office, the manager came out to speak with him. Before going in, Cancino had found two good photos of Estéphanny Gómez and her lawyer, Anselmo Yepes, on Facebook. When asked if those individuals had ever been in the establishment, the manager looked at his schedule and called the employees in. Of the eleven housekeepers, seven recognized the couple, since they were notorious among the staff, who’d dubbed them the macaws because of the raucous noise they made. When prodded for details, a young employee in a white apron and knockoff Crocs told the agent with a combination of shame and amusement that the last time the couple had stayed there, a few days earlier, she’d heard the woman shout things like “Pound me, honey, whip me good!” and “Harder, Papi, give it to me!” and “It’s so good to fuck stoned, baby.” At that, everybody started laughing and quoting things the couple had said: “Hurt me!” “Make it sting!”
The housekeepers said that when they made up the room they used to find empty bottles of aguardiente and rum, marijuana cigarettes in the ashtrays, and traces of cocaine. When asked about the last time, they said it had been two Wednesdays ago. An employee remembered because it had been her birthday. What time? In the afternoon. They’d arrived at noon and had stayed until nighttime. The manager looked it up in his records and confirmed that, in fact, on that date he had a payment of 408,000 pesos for a suite with a jacuzzi, two lunches, a guanabana smoothie, a tube of KY jelly, and a bottle of Viejo de Caldas rum, paid with a Bancolombia debit card in the name of Anselmo Yepes.
After this, Cancino decided to return to Cali.
On the drive, he called in to the central office and requested Anselmo Yepes’s rap sheet, but they told him they didn’t have anything. He was clean. It was clear, though, the agent said, these two were up to something and were looking to take advantage of the situation in some way. Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with our case, Cancino said, and instead Estéphanny and Anselmo have been planning to run away together, so Enciso’s disappearance is good news for them. He emphasized that the wife hadn’t displayed the least bit of sadness about her missing husband.
In sum, though the relationship with the Pentecostal church pointed to a link between Enciso Yepes’s disappearance and the bodies on the San Andrés de Pisimbalá road, his trip to Cartago to interview the wife did not turn up any information to back up that theory. In any event, even if the two things were later found to be unrelated, Agent José Cancino recommended keeping an eye on this case, the unusual aspects of which roused not just his desire to establish the facts and ensure justice but also (and especially) his interest.
Agent Cancino attached a log of expenses incurred on said mission (tolls, gasoline for the car provided by the Cali prosecutor’s office, coffee at Parador Rojo) and listed the mission end time as 10:32 P.M., when he arrived in Cali once more.
Upon returning to his room, Jutsiñamuy sent a message to Agent Laiseca: Get in touch as soon as you hear anything. I’m at the hotel. Or just come straight here, but let me know first. He then pulled out his HP Xperia laptop and connected to the wifi network and from there, using the security protocol, to his private account. He had a new report from Wendy.
Confidential Report #2
Agent KWK622
Place: Cali
Operation: Holy Spirit
Date: Date of email sent
Approaching the informant: Update on report #1, sent yesterday, on the informant Yeni Sepúlveda. This morning, when I attended the Tuesday morning service at the church, I ran into her again. She told me she’d just dropped off her son Jeison Maluma at the neighborhood daycare center and was there to provide support to the girls battling coca-paste addictions; first she pointed them out to me and then introduced me to them. The three were very young, though looking at them they seemed older because of their parched hair and blackened or missing teeth and their sunken eyes, with a sour expression, like they no longer believed in anything. Yeni said they were the most recent arrivals, who were currently being treated and monitored via daily meetings. Then she took me to see two other girls, who were church helpers. Both had been into drugs but got out about a year and a half ago, and in fact you could see the difference: their hair looked healthy again, their skin younger, they had good teeth (they may have gotten some dental treatments, I need to find that out), and basically they looked more or less normal—I say “more or less” because all the same they still have this harsh, rigid gaze, empty of all feeling, even perverse, to the point where it seems like at the least provocation they could fall back into old habits, their miraculous healing a mere thread that could break at any moment. There those poor miracle girls were, kneeling, eyes closed, at the pastor’s words, which, this morning, spoke of the goodness needed to believe in what seems unbelievable or not believable, and he said it several times: “Believing in the unbelievable, working out of an urge to give truth to all those things that lack it, but need it,” he said, “the way each of us is a mote of dust in the dense, infinite air of God, but one that has weight nonetheless, we are all important to him, we all have weight in his world, so we should give thanks, not just in words, but especially in deeds, in doing all we can: only through doing shall we enter the shining path, the only one that will lead us toward those stairs, which could be made of wood or plexiglass or even sturdy traditional fibers such as cabuya—in short, stairs that must be solid, because they’re taking us straight to where Jesus abides, where he is sitting quietly, waiting for us to arrive, and when I say stairs it’s because I imagine that place is up above us, in the sky, but remember that this is only a metaphor—above is a human measure: he is above us because he has thought and reflected and come to conclusions that our minds cannot yet contain, and because his intelligence is divine. He is above us because of that: not because he’s the son of God, which all of us are, but because he possesses a mental fury and intensity and contains life and memory and the sound of stiff, dry trees, even those that have been felled and reduced to firewood; he still hears them swaying in the wind, and so he is divine, a supreme poet, because words anchor us to the earth and allow us to scream and give meaning to our sufferings, but those are very few, very few . . .”
That’s what Pastor Fritz said that Tuesday morning as a light drizzle fell on the auditorium roof, and though hardly anyone understood what he was saying (including the author of this report), they all wept and looked up at the ceiling believing that they were gazing at heaven, as if something inside them had understood—an intelligence lodged in their bellies or in their sinews that had comprehended the meaning of the pastor’s words. And so, though the lecture was brief, the audience was left dazed, motionless in their seats, and when the junior pastors, the priestesses, and everybody else came out to continue the program, they remained in a trance, and then, little by little, they began to pull themselves together and after a while trickled out, some to the bathrooms and others to the exits, and I swear, boss, nobody was the same as when they’d entered; it was like they’d been recharged, as if they’d connected to the pastor’s current and their batteries were at full power.
Afterward I went with the informant Yeni Sepúlveda and saw that the young former addicts were smiling, but their smiles now corresponded to something real; they weren’t the halting or frozen smiles of people in an altered, semi-unconscious state. We went for coffee and cassava cheese bread, and I heard their other stories—they talked about their children and how healing it is to be with them, take care of them, because in the past they’d left them with their mothers.
This mission’s investigation will continue along these lines, since both Yeni and the other former addicts have a close, direct relationship with the pastor that seems worth pursuing.