Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [17]
Nevertheless, Gordon’s documents have brought me here, and it’s up to me to either disprove or corroborate his theories. My belief is that I will catch my return flight having done the former, and I’m not sure if I can even hope for the other outcome. It’s not the existence of the bones that I find troubling. Civilizations have been known to pass holy artifacts through the generations. Rather, what troubles me is the man’s faith in the bones. The supernatural power he longs to find is a figment, and maybe it’s the sympathetic part of me that thinks it would be better not to find the artifacts at all, rather than to deliver them to the man so that he can see his folly revealed.
My musings are interrupted when the plane’s jostling sends my neighbor sliding into my personal space. After a deep sigh, I serve to the Korean and then sit back, a small smile on my face as I wait for his next move.
Caracas sits in the oblong bowl of an open valley floor, lush green mountains rising up along the north and east. It is like an old friend. After a long separation, and after the initial awkward phase, I can slip with ease into its eddies. It’s a city teeming with industry and purpose, as well as a certain necessary aimlessness woven into the fabric of any place that lures throngs of people into close proximity. The feeling I have now, walking down Avenida Lecuña, is the same one I have when traversing Third Avenue in New York, or Beale Street in Memphis, or Merchant in Dublin. It’s individuals, with their small stories, producing something larger than the sum of their parts, something buzzing with expectant energy. It’s the cold fusion of urban life.
As the car-filled street grinds to a halt, save for the motorcycles that slip around and through the gridlock, I’m glad that I’m on foot. A half mile back I let the car go that Reese rented for me, so that I could beat the pavement and relearn the feel of the city. One thing I’d forgotten is how the streets rival those of San Francisco in their steepness. My calves start to burn as I make my way uphill.
I turn off Lecuña onto Bolivar, a street that reminds me of those accidental side streets in Europe, where a foreigner can eat and shop like a local and still remain steps away from streets designed to ease anxiety in the same manner a kindergarten hallway reassures children on the first day of school.
I pass three businesses that share a common weathered redbrick front. After the last doorway and before the long wall gives way to a narrow alley, followed by a similar arrangement of stores in off-white stucco, a darkened entrance appears, one absent of any identifying marks. A set of stone steps lead up to an unlighted corridor. I enter and start up the steps, trailed by the scent of wet rock and mold. Once I reach the top, the corridor forces me to the right, to a single windowless metal door coated with an old layer of thick brown paint. It’s hardly the sort of setup most business owners concerned with foot traffic would prefer. But Romero has never been interested in mass-marketing his wares. He caters to an exclusive clientele, the kind with a lot of money, and the refinement to understand the quality of his products. Me? I’m neither refined nor have I ever been loaded enough to fit Romero’s customer profile—at least until now, when I’m playing with someone