Unknown 9 by Layton Green (e reader txt) 📗

who repeats his thoughts back to him? Are you sure this is what you desire?” Alvaro laughed and slapped a knee. “I will give you all three. As a psychiatrist for many decades, while I’ve witnessed quite a number of extraordinary phenomena, I would posit the left half of the human brain—the side that generates our sense of self-awareness, or the ego—is a self-limiting barrier to higher knowledge. Neuroscience will never answer the question of the soul. Nor should it try. As a curandero, I would tell you that my forebears have known since time immemorial that the seat of the soul and the world of dreams exist in a different place than the conscious world—and that all are intertwined in ways we do not understand. And as a man, I would urge you to look, really look, into the eyes of another human being, and decide this question for yourself.”

Dr. Corwin absorbed the answer as he reached for the door. “Thank you,” he murmured. “I wish we had more time to talk.”

“I’m retired and have plenty of coffee. You may stop by anytime.”

A broken bottle on the street was the only sign of a disturbance in front of Alvaro’s house. Dr. Corwin breathed a sigh of relief that Hans was not waiting for him. On the walk back to the hotel, as the onset of dusk brought swarms of mosquitoes as well as a modicum of relief from the stifling heat, the hypnotic pulse of salsa began to bubble out of bars and cafés. More people filled the street, and he caught someone slipping out of an alley to emerge right behind him. He wheeled and raised his cane, only to see the opportunistic porter from the hotel.

“Hey, boss, we took care of that business.”

Dr. Corwin noticed the skin on the knuckles on the porter’s right hand was torn and raw. “I appreciate that.”

“It was our pleasure,” Carlos said with a smirk. “Anything else you need today?”

After holding up a stack of bills that made the porter’s eyes pop, Dr. Corwin said, “I need you to stay out of sight for a week. Don’t go anywhere near that hotel.”

“Hey, primo, he put up a good fight, but I’m not scared of that gringo.”

“Out of sight, Carlos. That’s my request. He’s very dangerous.”

The porter shrugged, and Dr. Corwin handed him the money.

Dr. Corwin spent the remainder of the day in the main branch of the local library, which stayed open surprisingly late, looking for mention of a physicist named Nataja Tromereo in books, periodicals, and microfiche. He even called his best friend, Dr. Philip Rickman, a fellow physicist and LYS inductee, to help search university rosters and scientific journals.

Still no mention of the name.

Though disappointed, Dr. Corwin understood the search could take a few days. If the information was accurate, and Ms. Tromereo was truly a scientist, there should be a record of her somewhere.

Or had the old curandero lied for some reason?

Late that evening, with no sign of Hans, Dr. Corwin opted to stay at the hotel for dinner. Best to keep my enemies where I can see them.

As he replayed the conversation with Alvaro in his mind, he caught a leggy brunette at the bar glancing his way. She was about his age and a real fox, with olive skin and toned calves and long brown hair parted in the middle.

Long brown hair that looked very familiar.

He stared boldly back at her. A woman alone at a bar was unusual in Cartagena, and despite how natural she looked enjoying a glass of red wine in her silver gown, she also had an adventurous air about her, as if she could just as easily be traipsing through the jungle holding a rifle.

Before she looked away, something seemed to pass between them, a frisson of mutual attraction that seemed genuine—despite his suspicion of her true allegiance.

He had never had a problem attracting the opposite sex. While he considered himself a handsome enough chap in a suit, his secret weapons were flair and the art of conversation. Still: a woman this beautiful, who just happened to be alone at the bar, and just happened to let him catch her looking?

After dinner, he sidled up to the mahogany bar and ordered a drink. A thick-bladed ceiling fan circulated the rich smoke from a dozen cigars, scenting the air with spice and vanilla. The bartender finished a line of mojitos, crushing the mint leaves and lime juice with a mortar and pestle, then poured a twenty-year Dictador, two fingers neat, into a cut-glass tumbler. Dr. Corwin picked it up, summoned a rakish grin, and laid a hand on the back of a stool beside the woman. “Do you mind?” he asked in English.

She coolly met his gaze. “Not at all.”

“I’ve seen a lot of beautiful birds flying around this city,” he said as he took a seat, “but none quite as striking as you.”

An amused smile played at her lips. “Do you always begin conversations with a pickup line?”

“Life is short. I like to live it.”

“I appreciate a man with confidence.”

“You’re not afraid to stand out yourself. Cartagena’s a marvelous place, but we can’t deny that machismo is alive and well in South America.”

She smirked. “It’s doing just fine in the north too. As is racism.”

He raised his glass. “To knowledge, enlightenment, and progress.”

She met the toast. “And what do you think of forward women? Vulgar, or liberated?”

He took a swallow of rum, let the spice tickle his throat, and flicked his eyes suggestively toward the stairs. “I say onward and upward.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

He gave a seated bow. “James Corwin, though I doubt it’s news to you.”

“Whatever do you mean?” She offered a slender hand adorned with an emerald ring. “Pleased to meet you, James. I’m Anastasia Kostos. Ana.”

“I believe I caught a glance of your ethereal beauty in Asheville, North Carolina,” he said, taking her hand and giving it a lingering kiss.

“What an excellent imagination you have.